freely floating

You're pretty sure Professor Crewel is out to get you.

Which would be a shame, really, because somewhere in between the unruly sparks and explosions that would leave you with half an eyebrow if you weren't too careful, you had actually come to like his class. History had been too much of a struggle to pick up---because, let's be honest, you're way overdue for a 'twisted wonderland history for dummies' crash course---and flying? Forget it.

Except maybe the class didn't seem to like you nearly as much.

Because with one casual flick of the wrist from your stupidly well-dressed professor, you were faced with the ONE thing that could dash your fragile, naively misplaced dreams of surviving until the weekend could take you into its loving arms.

Partner. Project.

Your forehead meets the cool surface of your desk just as the first collective shouts of protests echo through the classroom. Maybe it'll work out, you think, until you finally find the courage to pick your head up and scope out a potential partner and find that your choices are woefully limited.

Ace, the smug bastard, is halfway out of his chair and already linking his arm around Epel's with the lack of shame only someone like him could flaunt. You almost feel bad for the poor Pomefiore student, but you couldn't blame Ace for finding what looks to be the easy way out. Potions were kind of their thing.

And Deuce.. well, at least he has the decency to meet your gaze and shoot you an apologetic look while he's on his way out the door with Jack. Traitor.

Fine. That's cool, really. You need to branch out, anyway. It could be a good bonding opportunity, right? A chance for you to meet some new people, learn some new faces. Even if you really like the old ones. It's whatever.

The problem, you're starting to realize, is that everyone else seems to have already made their choice.

And you, squinting in barely concealed desperation through the sea of moving students, land on what looks like the one person you can see that isn't already paired up.

Oh, no.

There, sitting ram-rod straight with what looks to be like all of his muscles fully tensed in a way that cannot be natural, is Sebek Zigvolt.

Briefly, you consider just marching up to Professor Crewel and lying straight through your teeth. No, Professor, I really couldn't find a partner. Would your grade like it? Not in the slightest---you like the class, but that doesn't mean you're particularly good at it---BUT, your grade for your sanity? That alone might make it a worthy trade-off.

But all it takes is one second.

You glance back for one second while you're in the middle of shoving your textbook back into your bag to walk up to Crewel and do just that, when you catch the almost imperceptible flicker of his eye. And with a sudden lurch of pity you realize Sebek's waiting, with his hands clenched tight against his lap and a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips, for a partner.

Sebek Zigvolt is loud. He's boisterous, and critical, and always has something to say about the way you hold yourself, or dress, or speak, or even exist. In fact, you're pretty sure your eardrums are still ringing from the start of class, when Ace had unfortunately bumped into his shoulder on the way inside, and you don't think you've even heard Sebek refer to you as anything besides 'human'.

But the Sebek you're looking at now, silently nestled between the rows of people chattering excitedly, looks vaguely resigned. Like he knows the outcome already, and you know---oh, you know. It sounds stupid. It probably is, and if you ever voice the thought out loud you're pretty sure your friends would march you straight into the nurse's infirmary to check for potential head injuries, but you can't help but think he looks meek.

Apparently, it also only takes you one second to change your mind and march straight across the classroom with a vengeance, slamming your palms down flat on Sebek's desk with a little too much force than was necessary.

"Let's be partners," you insist, scrounging up as much willpower as you can to fix him with a glare so determined that you dare him to refuse. Because you know that if you don't, you'll crack with even the first hint of a refusal and resign yourself to twice the work just like that.

The quiet look of surprise that paints his face morphs into confusion, then, with a furrow of his brow, into offense. It looks a little too practiced to be natural, you think. Especially with the way he doesn't seem to even have a retort to back it up, mouth opening and closing and entirely uncooperative with the alarms you assume are going off inside his head at the thought of a mere, magic-less human making demands of him.

Then, after a few seconds, he sits up even straighter with resolve, and the smug, competitive smirk that spreads across his face is kind of maybe starting to make you regret this entire thing.

"Very well."

His response is surprisingly... cordial for what you were expecting. Maybe you'd just caught him off guard with the whole super loud proclamation in front of basically half the class thing. Or maybe this won't be so bad.

"Of course you would want to partner with someone as skilled with alchemy as I. But do not expect me to pull your weight for you, human."

Internally, you sigh and curse yourself and your stupid, bleeding heart.

"Are you stupid?" Is the first thing out of Ace's mouth when you see him the next day in the cafeteria. "Dude, he's gonna eat you alive. Do any of us look like we have premature funeral money?"

"Shut. Up." You hiss through gritted teeth, about two seconds from sinking as low as you could into your blazer in embarrassment. "I didn't have a choice, obviously!"

Deuce, looking like he'd much rather be anywhere but here, pats your shoulder in the most useless reassuring gesture you've ever seen.

"Well, at least he usually gets pretty high marks, right? Maybe it'll help your grade. That's a plus, right?"

"Oh, sure," Ace rolls his eyes, pointing his fork in your direction. "Is that before or after our oh-so-genius prefect gets roped into shining Malleus's boots--GAH!"

Thank god for Deuce and his inability to pull his punches.

With some time to finally think for yourself (you've long since learned to tune out the sounds of your friends' fighting), you couldn't deny they were kind of right. Sure, every encounter you've had thus-far with the fae first year had been civil at best, but at some point he had evolved into a tentative inclusion to your little group of ragtag mages. It wouldn't be that hard to get on his good side and snag a few extra points for yourself on the way, would it?

A loud slam against the table reverberates to your right, jolting you out of your thoughts with all the grace of a rather angry elephant. The thin blanket of surprise that falls over the table is enough to pause the two still-squabbling Heartslabyul students, and you swear there's an audible creak coming from your neck when you slowly turn to glance in the direction of the noise.

Ah. It's no surprise really, only one person could be responsible, but that doesn't mean it's not a shock to the three of you to see Sebek stiffly sliding into the chair next to you as if he was forced (the truth might've been closer than you expected, if that familiar snicker around the corner were anything to go off of). It wasn't the first time he'd hung around the edges of your lively bunch, but he was usually more of an exasperated observer than any real participant in your shenanigans.

He clears his throat, stiffly nodding in your direction in greeting before turning his focus back to his plate. Was that steak and yogurt? On second thought, maybe you didn't want to know. At least he doesn't notice the scathing glare you send across the table to Ace, who's not doing the best job at stifling a cackle behind his glove. Does he want to ruin your chances of finishing this project alive?

"Heyyyy, Sebek," is your awful attempt at making conversation, but the awkwardness that hangs in the air and the drawn out confusion that tinges your words isn't lost on you. Thank the seven that Grim is off pestering who-knows-who for their extra food, or he'd be writing checks that you couldn't cash and causing damages that you couldn't socially afford.

You practically rush out an invitation to Ramshackle in the poor man's direction, barely stopping for breath throughout and drooping closer and closer toward the table as your lungs deflated. Just bite the bullet and get it done.

He pauses, hunched over his plate with his fork half-way raised to his lips. It's all you can do to hope that he heard you the first time, because you really didn't have the dignity to repeat your blunder a second time in front of the prying eyes across from you.

"Hm."

Only a grunt of affirmation in response. But hey, that's all you needed, right? Bite the bullet. Survive.

Then, his lips parted as if he were busy mulling over something to add, you realize Ace's earlier words might have actually been a warning with some merit. He has fangs. How hadn't you noticed them before?

Bite the bullet? More like bite the human if you were unlucky. You'd never realized just how primed Sebek was built to rip you to shreds if he wanted, and now you were experiencing everything up close as if for the first time. Just sitting down next to you, he practically towered over the table, and even all of the regality the Diasomnia dorm uniform had---and buckles, why so many buckles?---seemed to stretch against the just-barely visible strain of corded muscle where his sleeve ended.

And then he leans closer.

This is it. You're going to die, right in front of your sad, half-eaten poor excuse of a sandwich. His mouth closes, then opens again, and it's like staring down the maw of a monster ready to swallow you whole. You've half a mind to just offer up your jugular and make things easy and quick when he finally speaks, entirely too loudly for being this close and looking like it's a physical pain not to say anything.

"Your uniform is buttoned up entirely wrong. It is utterly embarrassing."

This time, even Deuce can't contain his surprised bark of laughter.

Neither of them see it coming when you promptly throw your half-empty cup their way, either.

Sebek doesn't do group projects.

Why should he? It's much easier to handle things on his own, to glide through his courses without the added dead weight holding him down. He knows he's good, because he's worked to be good. Every moment that he'd studied until the brink of exhaustion, every hour spent ignoring the ever-increasing soreness spreading through his body like the plague as he leveraged swing against swing against the battered training dummy in the dorm that had seen much better centuries days.

So it's a surprise, even to him, when he finds himself staring down the magic-less prefect of Ramshackle on the opposite end of his desk, glaring at him with all the defiance of a baby fawn.

If things went his way, he was content to simply wait for his chance to be dismissed; Crewel had long-since given up on forcing him into assigned groups, especially after the last attempt had resulted in his largest cauldron cleanly broken in half in a scuffle that Sebek had not started but quickly put an end to. It would've been a much better usage of his time to take care of everything himself, without worrying about moving parts and lower intellect.

But pride is a traitorous, fickle thing.

He has to swallow down his own croak of surprise when he agrees, his tongue falling vice to his constant issue of speaking before he even has the chance to think. With two simple words of agreement, he's sealed his fate. Sebek was the source of many forms of irritation, he'd been informed of such, but he was never one to go back on his word. It would reflect oh-so-poorly on those that he aspired to rise to the height of.

He's not sure, even hours later when he's retreated back to the familiar stone walls of the dorm he called his home, why he said yes. Every possible explanation seems to float just out of reach in his mind no matter how desperately he reaches, like lily pads on water. He's self-aware enough to realize why it benefits him, of course, to show off the superior intellect of Briar Valley to the inferior. Ego boosts were something he coveted amidst the competitive sea of students around him regardless of whence it came.

For a fleeting moment, he considers that maybe it's because of your circumstances. That he'd taken pity on you. Clueless, confused, clumsy you and the benevolent knight who'd ignored your shortcomings and risen to the occasion to puff out his chest and prove himself.

It all begins to sound eerily like a fairytale he'd heard a few times in his youth.

The wood of the common-room table cracks under his clenched grip.

"---so nice that you're starting to make some friends, you know! Really, I'd been starting to worry about your reclusive habits. Constant stress isn't good for you."

Lilia's excited rambling brings him back to the situation at hand, and he can't help the exasperated sigh that pushes past his lips and the embarrassed fluster that begins to grow under his collar.

"It's just a project," Sebek mumbles, uncharacteristically quiet under the scrutiny of the older fae. Was it truly such a big deal?

"Oh, don't be so shy, young man!" He's not. "Have you thought about what you're going to bring? It's important to be a good guest, you know." He hasn't. "Don't worry, dear boy. I know the perfect treats to make." He's worrying. That's the worst idea he's ever heard.

It's a practical project in alchemy, yet it feels like he's about to be sent off as an ambassador with a peace offering to bridge the gap between two warring kingdoms.

Honestly, that would probably be less stressful than what he's doing now, which was desperately trying to thwart Lilia's assassination attempt in the form of scones.

Crewel would have a lot of questions for him if you died on him halfway through the project, that's all.

All things considered, you really thought things were going to be worse.

The first day was a little awkward, sure, but you hadn't quite expected to open the door and see Sebek dumping half of the contents of a picnic basket into your shrubbery (favors courtesy of Lilia, he'd explained, and added that he added some things that were actually edible.)

It turns out that for all of his bravado, Sebek was strangely palatable when you were alone.

He's still rigid in his own way, but he'd slowly been warming up to your presence the longer you'd worked. Like domesticating a wild animal, you'd noted to yourself one day in amusement. He didn't tense up anymore when you'd leaned over his shoulder to peer at his notes, and similarly, you'd stopped bracing for sudden death when he'd scoff and (rather gently) nudge you back with a firm finger to the forehead when you insisted on watching the portable cauldron up close.

At least, that's how it was most of the time.

The project called for two components: a demonstration, and a written portion explaining the historical evolution of the concoction you had chosen. You'd hoped to gain some brownie points with him when you'd suggested at the start that you cover something that involved a few ingredients from Briar Valley; to your credit, it had the intended effect, and you'd watched in a strangely endeared state as he rambled about your options for about fifteen minutes. It was a win-win situation for you, he'd probably end up doing most of the work in his eagerness and you'd get the chance to consult with some of the most seemingly-untouchable persons on campus when you finally convinced him to ask the heads of Diasomnia for their input.

But any progress you'd made with warming up to the half-fae seemed to backslide as soon as you'd end up anywhere near his dorm members. You distinctly remember waving to his housewarden, who you'd actually had quite a few pleasant conversations with around Ramshackle (unbeknownst to Sebek, of course, who would probably have burst more than a few blood vessels with the knowledge), and then being promptly picked up and moved so that Sebek could place himself in-between you two. Like you were someone to be wary of.

It kinda stung, if you were honest. You were no stranger, but you couldn't say that you didn't quite understand. The hierarchy in Diasomnia was much, much different than the rest of campus; even what they sought to emulate, the spirit of nobility, set a precedent even without the crown prince of Briar Valley's presence. He had expectations to meet, with or without you there, and it was a rough reminder of the fact that this whole thing, whatever you could even call it, was temporary.

He didn't seem to question it when you, voice strained, asked if you could work on the next few sessions at Ramshackle, instead.

"Wait, there's a difference between crushed and powdered? Seriously?"

Lord Malleus preserve him, you were even more hopeless than he thought.

Not that he truly minded in most cases. You were formidably skilled in the writing portion, he had to admit, and he wouldn't admit how he'd puff his chest out and basically preen when you'd look so impressed when he supplemented the most basic of arcane knowledge.

But when it came to the actual alchemical demonstration? It was all he could do to keep you from blowing up Ramshackle every time his back was turned.

"Yes," Sebek pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to sound too exasperated---he still couldn't get that kicked puppy look you gave him the first time out of his head. "Powdered is more potent in smaller quantities. Refined. Crushed is what we nee-"

He barely has time to react before he looks over from where he'd been so dutifully preparing the proper protective gear and sees an entire. vial. of powdered mugwort tip into the cauldron; he's bounding over with a shout of your name---not 'human', not 'prefect'----before either of you can even properly process what's about to happen, hands landing on your shoulders to whirl you around and press you firmly into the broad groove of his chest.

Just a single moment later, a loud pop echoes through your living room.

You're almost afraid to look up and see the damage, eyes squeezed shut and nestled so securely into his taller frame that you're starting to wonder, in the midst of your adrenaline, how you've ever felt safe anywhere else. But you need to breathe eventually, and the booming slam of Sebek's heart against his ribcage echoes so concerningly in your ears that you're expecting to pull back and see something you're not prepared for.

And you're right, you weren't. In a way that's so entirely unexpected and raw that even years of preparation wouldn't have mattered.

Because when you start to pull back, eyes wide and frantic and the ghost of a loud and worried exclamation on your tongue, Sebek is already looking at you.

The fallout didn't look too bad, leaving just a light sheen of pink powder covering his face from where he'd taken the brunt of the damage. An easy enough fix, with a wet rag or two and a much-needed lecture on ingredient safety.

But the lecture never comes. It's like a fragile moment suspended in time, and he looks just as worried as you do. Hunched over, so unlike his rigid and proud posture he's seemed to have perfected, round pupils searching every inch of you for even the slightest bit of injury--

Wait, round?

You exhale, heart fluttering halfway up your throat.

Sebek's pupils, usually narrowed into perceptive, slightly intimidating slits, are dilated.

You're still forcing your brain to restart and swallowing down the lump in your throat when he finally deems you unharmed, and his exhale of relief blows a small puff of powder onto your own nose. His grip on your shoulders finally relents, but his hands don't move from their perch as he all but deflates, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he attempts to match your stuttered breathing. That'll stain, you think, desperate to face anything but this moment, so intense that you think you'd much rather be choking on the powder than the uncertainty of it all.

"... Sebek, I'm sorr-"

"Don't."

That shuts you up real quickly.

It doesn't seem like he really knows what to say, either, because you wait and wait and yet.. nothing. Neither of you are really sure how to progress from here, so you find a moment in the silence to tilt your head and study him.

For the second time in his presence, you truly think you're dying.

But for some reason, dying feels much different this time around.

"Sebek," you whisper, and you realize that your fists are still clenched between you two, trembling. Was that from fear, or something else? You're not quite sure when the line started to blur this much. The huff he gives you in response isn't much help, either.

So you steel yourself, uncurling your shaky fingers and letting them find rest on the folded fabric of the front of his uniform, clutching him like a lifeline even after the imminent danger has come to pass.

"I think it really brings out your eyebrows."

A beat passes.

"What?"

And just like that, the moment eases, tension broken like a stone through the surface of a pond. He pulls back and rises, giving you an unobstructed view of the furrow between his brows and the utterly lost expression on his face. You don't offer him much in explanation, just that utterly infuriating grin that spreads across your face so easily that for once he doesn't object to his own wandering gaze down to your lips.

"The pink." You hum, and your eyes are flitting over his face like you're appraising him and sevens why is it so hot in here. All at once, all too quickly your hands are on him, gently brushing the excess powder off of his cheeks with a cupping motion that's entirely too intimate for his poor heart that's damn near bursting. "It goes well with green."

He tries, he really does, not to think about it. Not to think about how strangely affectionate your gaze is, not to think about the way you're the one cradling him so carefully as if he hadn't just proved to you just what he was capable of. If he doesn't think about that, then maybe he won't have to think about the way he's curled over you still, heaving adrenaline and labored breathing intermingling with yours in the pocket of space between your lips that's both too small and not small enough.

Sebek's one weakness is not thinking. It makes him rash, it rubs people the wrong way, it gets him into trouble. He knows that. He knows you've come to know that, along with the rest of him.

That's probably why neither of you are too surprised when he breathes your name out in a whisper, and in the next moment his lips are on yours.

He's wondering how he's lasted this long without it.

You're wondering if Malleus would smite you if he knew what you've made of his retainer.

Preparations for the project had continued, as life did, but there was something simmering under the surface. And it wasn't that cursed cauldron.

Sebek found himself tagging along with your group more, under the pretense of 'assessing your threat to Lord Malleus' (he'd dropped that excuse by the third time he'd fallen into step with you all in the hallway). Ace and Deuce were still sending you sympathetic looks when he wasn't looking, but even they could tell that apparently an unlikely partnership had blossomed there. Ace had even grumbled into your ear one day, a reddened welt in the shape of a palm barely visible under the painted heart on his face, asking how the hell your group was working out and his wasn't. He wasn't too satisfied when you laughed and rolled your eyes, flicking him in the forehead to earn your personal space back.

That truth was for you two alone.

But honestly? You weren't even sure what this 'truth' was.

The day of that little pink mishap had definitely opened some doors you didn't even know were there, but you never officially agreed to anything. And you certainly didn't let anything on in public.

Which is fine. You get it.

Sebek has his duties and expectations. In fact, it almost seems like he's doubled down on them since then, and you didn't miss the way his eyes seemed to silently search for yours in a room as if he couldn't rest until he'd found you. He wouldn't falter or move from his vigilant perch, but you could never miss the subtle upwards curve of his lip when your eyes would meet, one fang barely peeking through.

So yeah, you figured from the start that whatever you had would probably be better off if you didn't show it in public.

But did he really have to act like you couldn't even be friends?

If things looked awkward between the two of you in the beginning, they must look absolutely abhorrent now. At least you were both on equally floundering terms at the start; you had the excuse of time and unfamiliarity. Now, weeks later, he couldn't even sit next to you without seeming like he'd combust any second. It would be kind of endearing, if he had any shame about tracking you down in the hallway only thirty minutes later and dragging you into a hidden alcove behind a tapestry nearby.

You'd come to learn quite quickly that pretty much everything you'd thought about Sebek in the beginning was true, in a roundabout way. For one, you're worried he might actually swallow you whole one of these days.

That kiss you shared, all relief and trouble breathing and slightly tasting of herbs, was the first of many that night. And almost every day after. He was insatiable when it came to you, finding every opportunity to steal you away in the quiet moments and attack your lips with the same vigor he used in every inch of his training. It was a part of his training, he considered, to familiarize himself with every physical and emotional inch of you.

It wasn't the first time you'd found yourself in this specific situation, either, cornered up against the wall with smooth, cold stone on your back and the only-mildly-warmer press of Sebek's chest flat against yours to cage you in and shield you from view. Not that that had ever been a problem in the past; nobody quite seemed to know of this spot, and you're sure he probably had some elaborate fake argument ready to bark out at the slightest threat of discovery if someone found you two alone.

You didn't mind, you'd tell yourself. It was hard to, anyway, with how reverent he'd gaze down at you every time, pupils blown wide and a violent shudder jolting down his spine and arching him further into you when you'd so little as run your fingertips through his wildly styled hair.

You had him in the moments in-between, like the comfort of whistling air through the rickety window panes of your own dilapidated dorm. He would choose you each time he had a passing moment, and that was enough. You were sure of it.

Later, your hands accidentally brush together while you're all walking together to the school store. Sebek recoils like he's been burned, making a show of brushing off his gloves on the neatly ironed sleeves of his uniform. The heat that blooms through your face, this time, is from embarrassment.

"You want to.. set me up?" You squint, pointedly tilting your head from where you lay across the couch.

You'd been deep in thought, staring up at the ceiling beams, when you'd been interrupted by the very unceremonious entrance of Ace and Deuce; in itself this wasn't unusual, but you were pretty surprised to see that they'd even managed to drag Epel and Jack into whatever they were planning, too. Even Grim was there, although he didn't seem to be paying much attention to the situation at hand, busying himself with scooping out the last traces of tuna from the can he'd clearly been bribed with.

Deuce nods. Jack pretends he's not invested.

Ace and Epel practically yank you off the couch in their exasperation. You pretend not to notice the smidge of pink dust that flies into the air from the upholstery.

"Dude, it's getting embarrassing at this point," Ace groans, abruptly dropping your arm and sending you a none-too-sheepish grin when it thuds loudly against the floor. "It's clear you've got a thing for him, and it's making me super nauseous seeing it, so.."

"Waitwaitwait- What?" You don't even bother to move from the floor, flat on your back and glancing up at the group behind you. "For who?

Upside-down-Epel fixes you with a glare, leaning over you with such vigor it looks more like he's about to begrudgingly spill the secrets of the universe to you.

"Quit 'yer bellyachin', ain't it obvious? You're head over heels for the big croco-fuck, ain'tcha?"

You freeze, and although you must look like a limp, lifeless fish, you manage to flop yourself upright into a sitting position from the floor. They're going to help you confess... to Sebek? Awesome. Totally figured it out, way to go detective team.

"Guys," you start, an exasperated protest on the tip of your tongue, when Deuce crouches by your side, brows slotted together in concern.

"He looks at you a lot, you know. When you're not looking. I think he likes you too."

You're too wrapped up in wondering when the hell Deuce suddenly became a romance sap to dwell on the fact they think you're moping because of some silly, unspoken crush (even if it's technically partly true), and Deuce must see the absolute confusion on your face, because he awkwardly rubs the back of his head and nods towards the others.

"At least, that's what Jack says. I don't know."

The wolf beastman bristles at that, ignoring the embarrassed fluster of his face with a loud clear of his throat.

"There's a campus event coming up," he offers, clearly taking pity on you. "You probably wouldn't have heard of it yet, but it's an open festival that the school hosts. Very... popular with young couples."

Huh. That actually didn't sound like an awful idea.

"Plus, if it turns out your feelings are horribly misguided and he's absolutely repulsed by the thought of you liking him, you can just say you meant it in like a friend group way," Ace's words of support are anything but, and you throw your hands up in protest. "What? Just covering your bases, you know you were thinking it."

Running a hand down your face, you groan and lean back onto the couch. They had a point, as much as the risk of it buzzed through your nerves just thinking about it. It was a pretty solid plan; they could feel like they've put all the pieces of the puzzle together, and you could finally figure out what the hell was even going on between you two.

"Fine," you sigh, standing up for the first time since this impromptu meeting started.

Grim offers to help set the mood.

You make a deal with Ace the same night to keep Grim as far away as possible. He is not, as he claims, a 'true romance expert'.

In hindsight, you probably should have chosen a better time.

But you don't really do well under social pressure, and the four pairs of thumbs ups just barely hidden around the corner were enough to encourage you to just get this over with so you could go home and take a break for the first time in a week.

Morning classes had just let out for the day, which gave you about ten minutes of time to guarantee that you'd find him before he found you, and he'd pull you aside so desperately that you'd forget about this whole thing and just let him.

No. You wouldn't let that happen, not with how much energy you've spent worrying about the same thing over and over again. How you'd practically been brooding like a Victorian-era widow every night at the uncertainty of it all, pacing back and forth to the point you think you've worn down the floorboards in certain spots.

You've worked yourself up so much that as soon as you see that familiar envoy of black-and-green uniforms you don't even think before you spring into action. You march your way up, right up to the literal prince of the fae (Around the corner, Ace hesitantly has the headmage on speed dial, just in case) and tell him, very bluntly, that you need to borrow one of his retainers.

Malleus tilts his head in appraisal, eyes sparkling with amusement.

You wait one second. Three. You're not reduced to ash yet, so you guess that's permission enough. Sebek doesn't even have the time to blubber out the usual loud proclamation in the prince's defense before you've got his arm in a vice grip, dragging him a little ways away. Out of the corner of your eye, you can barely see Lilia ushering the two remaining students out of the area with a knowing grin.

"HUMAN! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF TH-" "WILLYOUGOTOTHEFESTIVALWITHME-"

You pause. Because now you're 'human', again. Of course you are. This isn't the privacy of your dorm, after all.

He pauses. Clearly, he hadn't expected that to be what was so urgently in need of attention. It looks like someone's frozen him in time, fist raised in indignation and only half-heartedly clenched in the air.

There's an awkward cough around the corner. You wince.

Just like that, it's like life is breathed into the air again, for better or worse.

"That silly festival," he starts off, slow and stilted, as if trying to regain his footing with the conversation, although it's hard to miss how he spits the word out with a venom that has you reeling back in shock. "Is nothing more than one of mankind's excuses to slack off."

Yet you push through, willing the ice currently forming in your veins to melt just enough that you didn't feel like you were actively decomposing. That's fine. With everything else that came with him, you understand---or maybe it's because you don't understand, that you try so hard to see his point of view. That lingering, festering feeling that even within your most personal of relationships you're still an outsider to this world who could never hope to understand something as silly as love.

"I just thought that if," you exhale, hoping he doesn't quite notice the shakiness of it, "if you end up going, that you might want to see some of it together."

You don't see the twitch of his gloved fingers itching to clasp yours. You don't notice the way his bottom lip pales with the pressure of his teeth, dangerously close to splitting skin with the pressure.

What you do end up seeing is the way his gaze falters, flickering behind you and back, where you know he knows that there's people waiting.

And ultimately, all he knows how to do is save face.

"As if I'd want anything to do with pointless human indulgence."

Anything to do with you. That's what you take away from this. That even now, he's posturing for an imaginary audience that may or may not be there.

Maybe it's the fact that it's in public. Or maybe you're done pretending that you understand. You don't know, but there's a lot of things these days that you're not quite sure of anymore.

Sebek, still standing rooted to the same spot he was when you'd silently turned heel and left mere minutes ago, is one of them.

"Honestly, Sebek. I really thought you were getting better at this friend thing." Lilia sighs, shaking his head as if this were as casual a disappointment as a vending machine getting stuck and stealing a favorite candy bar.

Somehow, that makes Sebek want to stand up even straighter, and he's already standing at precise attention in the middle of the Diasomnia common room. Although no one's quite looking directly at him---Malleus had wandered off not too shortly after their return, and Silver... well, Silver was asleep on the couch, like always---he still somehow feels like he's under extreme scrutiny. Perhaps it's the lingering sting of the hurt in your gaze earlier; it had settled into the backs of his eyelids like an insistent pain, as if his subconscious wasn't willing to let him forget.

"I am." He croaks, although his voice wavers even in his own defense. "The prefect and I are not friends." As if that admission makes it any better.

"You're not?" Lilia's response is oddly casual for the revelation, although the hum of consideration that soon follows reveals why---he'd assumed the opposite. "Did they not like the gifts you brought? I knew you'd need a little extra nudge, of course, but I didn't think I'd have to hold your hand the entire way!"

Sebek had grown used to the amused, vaguely condescending croon of Lilia's voice in moments like these, but that doesn't help the way it settles deep into his bones like poison eating away at him from the inside. How did he even begin to clear this up in a way that didn't make him sound like the worst person ever?

Sevens, what is he even thinking for? He knows he is, right now. He wouldn't allow himself the luxury of being vague, not when he'd been anything but in his very public rejection of you.

"You misunderstand," He pauses, his throat so dry that even swallowing seems to hurt in the moment. It's a struggle, to find a way to define it in a way that doesn't feel vile, to put a name to it so openly. He didn't have the right to do so, not now. "We are... courting?"

Sebek's defensive tone fizzles out.

The resounding SMACK that permeates the air brings it right back.

Sebek didn't even see him rise, but there in front of him stood Silver with a hand still raised, his long-time rival. The one person that he'd never been able to see eye-to-eye with. The fact that the very thing they're agreeing on right now is the fact that he's very much fucked things up scares him with the severity of it all.

He doesn't even find it in himself to retaliate, doesn't press the smooth coldness of his glove against his still-stinging cheek to soothe the pain. He just.. stares. For once, he's speechless.

"You should go fix that." Is all Silver loftily offers as explanation, and it's so oddly out of place and fitting for the situation at hand considering how much fire he'd met him with just a moment before that Sebek doesn't even have the words to argue, just turns and leaves the room in a daze to figure out how to do just that.

Silver's asleep on the couch again before Lilia can get a word in afterwards.

"Ah, young love is so fickle."

It's oddly peaceful at Ramshackle, if you don't count the endless stream of notifications blowing up your phone. Or the howling wind and rain outside. Or Grim's loud snoring drifting down the stairs.

You hadn't looked back when you'd given up and went home just a few hours earlier. Hadn't spared a word to your friends, the masterminds of it all, despite how desperately they had clamored over each other to ask you a million questions and assure you, probably, that they thought it would've gone so much better than it had.

You weren't mad. At least, not at them. You just couldn't find the energy to do much else except wrap yourself up on the couch and stare blankly into the fireplace, so you hadn't quite opened up any of their text messages yet. Maybe that's a tomorrow morning thing.

That is, if you've made sense of anything at all by then. You kind of expected to cry, or scream, or throw things, or lash out. Anything that manifested as physical proof of the aching hurt that spread throughout your rib cage and settled against your lungs with constricting fury. And yet? Nothing. You were exhausted, crushed by the weight of being proven right.

It'll probably hit you like a truck later, you're vaguely aware. But nothing quite feels real at the moment, something you're willing to take advantage of for the time being until you inevitably blow all your thaumarks on ice cream and chips tomorrow.

Then, barely audible through the sounds of the storm just past your door, you hear a knock. Unobtrusive and strangely patient for this weather at first, but quickly ramping up with a frantic intensity that has you sighing and getting up from your current love (the couch) to go begrudgingly answer the door, still wrapped up in the biggest and least-scratchiest blanket you have.

You don't really know who you're expecting to see when you open the door. Maybe Ace, who'd never met a social cue in his life that he couldn't ignore, or Jack, who'd given you the idea of the festival in the first place and probably felt responsible for how sideways it went.

Certainly not a very disheveled, soaked down to the bone Sebek Zigvolt, fist still raised in the air and somehow looking very, very surprised and relieved to see that you are, in fact, still here at Ramshackle. That you hadn't magically found a way to return home out of sheer retaliation against his utter stupidity.

You don't even have the time to retreat further into the blanket still wrapped around you before he's practically launching himself at your feet. It's nothing like what you're used to, nothing like the usual selfish sprawl of his fingers against the warmth of your skin. He's firm, unrelenting in his grip as if to prove you're actually in front of him, you're real, even as you squirm in his hold.

"Sebek, you're freezing!" And it really wasn't an exaggeration. He's dripping water all over your floor, all over you, yet he seems to be preoccupied with little more than smushing his face as far into the side of your neck as he can go before he's able to merge with you entirely. You start to backtrack, leading him with you and closer to the fire little by little. Still, he does little to help you out in the transport, and it's a struggle to all but drag the man.

"I'm sorry." He hisses through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut, but you know the exact moment he opens them; you can feel the damp flutter of his eyelashes against your neck before he pulls away and looks at you with the most pleading look you've ever seen on him. Like he's waiting for you to tell him to leave, to never return, and he'd do it in a heartbeat if it made you happy. Even if he had to claw his own fingers raw through the dirt to follow through with what his mind couldn't bear to.

This is not the look of the rigid knight with something to prove. This, it hits you like a stake to the heart, is the face of a desperate man with something, finally, in his life that he risks losing before he's even had it.

Once again, it's his eyes that clue you in to a very important realization.

Sebek, you realize, the man who just marched his way over to your dorm in the middle of a thunderstorm without so much as thinking of casting a wind-blocking spell, the one currently sapping all your warmth from you in his insistence to be close to you, the one that stood outside your door in the rain for who knows how long,

is a crocodilic fae.

At the time, you'd been vaguely aware of the similarities. Taken by the novelty of the little things, like the way the only accessible stripe of skin peeking out from his glove was always just-barely cooler in temperature when you'd wrap your fingers around his wrist. Laughter bubbling up through your chest when he'd seem to nuzzle his cheek against yours like he hadn't realized he'd been leaning into your warmth, or the coy smile pulled taut against your lips with each gentle scrape of his fangs over your skin.

Now, it takes all you have not to succumb to your weak knees when you realize just how cold the rain had left him, and how he hadn't spared it so much as a thought in his effort to get to you. Even now, when it looks like it's taking all of his willpower just to keep his arms wrapped firmly around you, he powers through it in silence like there's no question of it being any other way.

There's a soft mutter of protest from him when you finally managed to wrestle him in front of the fire, but he doesn't fight you on the way you wrap your now-slightly-damp blanket around the two of you and guide him to his knees next to you.

"You hurt me," you whisper, smoothing a hand over his forehead to properly see him through the wet strands plastered flush against his skin. With his hair like this, he looked younger. Boyish and walking into this just as blind as you were.

"I know." Sebek croaks, leaning into your touch like it could give him all the answers, like it was the only thing that could help him think clearly.

"I don't expect to be first," and maybe the bitter cold seeping into your bones is finally starting to get to you, mixing with the deep pit of dread in your stomach that had been crashing over you in waves all night, because when you speak you can't even begin to slow the quiet sobs that trickle out after. "I just wanted to be an option."

Somehow, something inside of him is still barely held together enough to break at the tremor in your voice.

"You," he gasps for air, cradling the back of your head with icy fingertips that shake just enough to match how you sound, "are the only option."

You're not quite sure where the sobs racking your chest end and his begin, and you're definitely not sure of just when you'd somehow fallen asleep leaning against each other on a heap in the floor, all tangled limbs and fabric and desperate hearts.

When you wake in the morning, you've somehow made it onto the couch; you're pressed between him and the cushions, Sebek's back turned toward the direction of the door as if he had taken it upon himself to be your only line of defense while you slept.

The next day, you're deep in a heated discussion with your friends about the ethics of bribing ancient spirits to write essays for you when two powerful hands land firm against your shoulders. You don't even need to crane your head up to see who it is, posture relaxing with ease and leaning readily back into the touch.

There's a brief flash of light green on the edge of your vision, and a slightly stiff, but lingering kiss pressed just underneath your ear.

Ace shrieks. You're pretty sure you hear glass shattering.

Yeah, you'd definitely have to thank Professor Crewel later.

Maybe a gift basket.