Ray Can you please answer?

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

When Damian still has to be born, your mother brings you to meet him. 

You’re a little over eight years old during this time, but the grotesque sight of a fetus being lab-grown doesn’t even make you flinch. Instead, you tap softly on the glass and murmur, “Hi, Damian, I’m your sister. You’ll learn everything you’ll know from me.” 

And so it goes — when he’s finally ready to get out of the tube where they were growing him, unlike the many other failed attempts before him, you’re the first one your mother passes him to. You stare down at him blankly, wondering what exactly the warmth you feel in your chest is and if you should call for the doctor, but every doubt you have is completely forgotten about when he makes an undistinguished noise and wraps his hand around your index finger. 

You stare at his chubby digits, then back at his face, still crumpled with sleep. “You’re so ugly, Damian,” you mutter to him. “I like you.” 

You’re there when he takes his first steps — ready to teach him which traps will ensure his death and which ones are simply a dishonor to fall into. The first syllable of your name is the first actually understandable thing he manages to say, and he does so while tugging a strand of your hair violently against his chest. As it is your duty as an older sister, you smack his hand and tell him you’ll cut it off if he does it again. 

He does so anyway. His hand stays attached to his arm.

Damian grows up to be at least twice as spiteful as you are. While your mother is sure that he’ll be the perfect heir, your grandfather still stands by his resolve to make the eldest bear this role, and makes sure his decision is taken seriously by bringing you to every function where the matter of a successor might be talked about. 

You and your brother still love each other very dearly. It’s you he takes his mannerism from, even if he multiplies it to the max, as well as your predilection for sharp blades and stubbornness regarding everything you want. He learns to be just as spoiled as you, because in Nanda Parbat there’s nothing to ask for, and everything to be demanded — at least from someone your ranking, anyways. 

Damian, convinced by your mother, fights you day and night. The sibling love the two of you share is nothing in comparison to the throne either of you will have to inherit, and Talia knows that well. She constantly turns him against you for the smallest of things, but as he’s still a child and you are older than him, his attacks look like playdates. Unfortunately, you’re well aware that he won’t stay a kid forever. 

Talia’s love is not won by bravery, nor achievements — it’s much more than that. It’s won by resemblance — resemblance towards a man you’ve met once in your whole life, and who has never been involved in raising you. You know everything about Bruce Wayne, about Batman, but no matter how much you study footage about him or listen intently to your grandfather’s stories about ‘The Detective’, you can’t seem to get anything right the way he does. 

During this same period, Ra’s pays Lady Shiva to become your instructor regarding your Year of Blood, which you’ll have to pass in a year. At eleven, the perspective sounds exciting. At thirteen, after surviving the Year of Blood thanks to a dive in the Lazarus Pit, the scary thought of not wanting to kill anymore crosses your mind for the first time. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW.

“Stop, Damian!” 

At ten years old, he’s more of a psychopath than he ever was at six — when you had last seen him — and he doesn’t even hesitate to lunge at you with everything he’s got. When you’re slowed by the rubble behind you, he manages to slice your jacket before Conner lasers both of his katanas into flaming puddles on the ground and gives you time to escape. 

You take a few steps back, hurrying your torn fur coat off your shoulders, your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother stares at the molten swords and the sheathes still in his hands, dropping them down, then at Kon, then back at you. “You’ve gotten yourself an alien dog now?” 

“Asshole,” Tim manages to wheeze. 

Damian lunges again, but this time you’re prepared — and you dodge without a struggle every time. You know those moves he’s making, because your mother taught you those, too; and if the way he’s trying to strike for your pressure points says anything, it’s that he’s positively trying to kill you, and in the best case, he means to only injure you permanently. 

He’s grown for sure; that is clear in your eyes, and in his every movement. You can read your mother’s influence in the way he attacks, in the nerves he targets first and in and in the way he has absolutely no defense mechanism ready — he’s presumptuous, and probably figured a long time ago that people never dared try to strike him unless they were paid for it. Clearly, he has not listened to your grandfather’s lessons about how some people simply don’t care about rank. 

When he tries to strike again, you strike back — just to remind him who’s still in charge — dodging his palm to the side with one hand and slapping him across the face with the back of the other. It’s nothing too harsh — you know for sure you’ve hit him harder in the past — but he looks dumbfounded, nonetheless. Tim, delirious at this point, giggles a bit from the echo of the hit. Damian’s eye twitches, his cheek probably still stinging. “Oh, I’m gonna kill you now.” 

He can try all he wants — you’ve got seven, almost eight years of experience over him, which in the assassin world means a whole lot of a difference. It’s the difference between your mother and Shiva, or the latter and Deathstroke — so to say, it’s a lot. 

He lets out a frustrated yell when you keep on dodging and avoid attacking, “Just let me kill you if you have no intentions of fighting back, coward!” 

A knife emerges from under his sleeve, but before he can try anything Conner is between the two of you — eyes glowing red and ready to fire, Tim slung over his shoulder — and Damian’s knife is slapped out of his hand, his wrist in Superboy’s tight hold. “Calm your hoots, pipsqueak,” he holds him up by his wrist, ignoring his protests, “to get to her, you’ll have to pass through me.” 

The glare your brother sends him could wipe out whole mountains, “Ah, so you’re her whore.” 

Kon gasps dramatically, “If you think that’s an insult, I’ll have you know, kid, I take pride in being her–”

“He’s a friend of mine, Damian,” you interrupt him, “could you please stop insulting him?”

Superboy turns to look at you, a grimace on his face, “Damn, girl, try to avoid friendzoning a guy for once, will ya?” 

You’re as confused as one can be. “Friendwhat?” 

“I think you should just give up,” comes Drake’s very helpful advice, “she’ll never get it anyways– ow!” 

Damian kicks and punches Conner, hitting Timothy in the process. “Let me go, monkey!”

“No,” Kon chastises, “you’re in air jail now. Get used to it.” 

“I am Damian Al Ghul!” Your brother screeches, “I am the son of the Bat and the Heir of the Demon, and I will not tolerate such disrespect from a measly clone–” 

You scoff, “He was made in the same exact way you were, Dami.” maybe not the same exact way, but the concept of merging two DNAs to create a human out of them is still the same. They were both raised in a test tube, anyway. 

He turns purple, “Don’t call me that!” his scream is shrill, “And don’t compare me to this… this specimen!” He says it like a slur, which added to the fact that he’s three apples and a penny tall and is currently being held up in the air like a feral cat just makes him look like a gnome very pressed about who enters his yard. 

“Help,” Tim groans from over Conner’s shoulder. You blink — you totally hadn’t forgotten about him, no, no. He was your priority, sure. Right after fighting Damian. And slapping him just to remind him who the older sibling is. And picking on him just because– “He did something to Alfred.” 

You snap back into attention. “Alfred?” you press — you hadn’t even thought about him, or his absence. You had just guessed he had gone to look for Bruce, or had already gone to sleep. He is getting a bit old, after all. “Where is he?” A look over to your brother, “Damian, what did you do?” The phrase feels awfully familiar, but you don’t have time to worry about that. The glare he sends your way is everything you need to know. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

You don’t remember dying, nor being submerged into the Pit. You don’t remember the week of madness your grandfather talks to you about, and don’t recognize the great honors he says you have accomplished. All you see are your hands, dirty with blood, and what waited for you — what’s still waiting, maybe — beyond the wall between life and death. 

You don’t even recognize your body anymore, nor the way the servants carefully move around you like you’re a twig moments away from snapping. You’ve always had scars, but these just don’t feel like yours — they’re not ugly and protruding anymore; the Pit has transformed them into something kinder on the eyes: thin, pale scratches that decorate your skin like they’re not the result of innumerous atrocities and attacks to your own life. 

But out of all the scars, there’s one you don’t recognise at all — the one over your thigh. It’s the only one that’s still a bit ugly, and considering the fact that it’s right above the femoral vein, you know that nobody could have ever gotten even remotely close to it. It’s a vital spot in the body, and a bullet there could cause you to die due to blood loss in a few minutes; it’s always either covered by armor or by your impenetrable defense. 

The glances of the servants, their hushed whispers, your mother’s blank stare when she looks at you, Damian’s sudden softness  — it soon dawns upon you that the only person who could’ve gotten close to injuring that part of your body was you. And if you did, then maybe there’s a reason why you don’t remember how you died. 

Ra’s knows the look in your eyes too well — it’s the same look he’s seen many times in the mirror over the course of centuries, that of doubt and forlorn. The one saying, am I doing the right thing? Is this really for the best for humanity? Why do I have to do it? Can’t anyone else worry about it?

It’s why he takes you aside one evening after dinner, and holds his hands over your shoulder in that way that doesn’t mean for rebuttals to be heard. “We have a duty,” he tells you, “and we owe it to the world — just think about what you could build.”

He gestures to the dark mountains you can see outside the window, “There’s a whole planet out there that’s just waiting for you to emerge from my shadow. You excelled in the Year of Blood — that little slip up you had on the last day? Midnight had already struck. The Year of Blood was already over when you died; hear my words, and see this as your rebirth, rather than defeat.” 

You stare blankly at the mountains, and then the most dangerous of thoughts escapes your mind. “Grandfather,” you say, your tone flat and lost. “What if I… I don’t want any of this?” 

You’d thought a lot about it. You grew up looking at photos — happy-looking ones — of your father, pictures that your mother had forbidden for you to look at. You’re sure that all those smiles he gives the cameras are fake, but some of those — the ones he shares with Richard Grayson and Jason Todd — look sincere. You can’t help but think that he stares at them with no expectations, and you wonder if he ever compares them to someone he wants them to be so badly. 

(You know your mother always looks for your father in you. Maybe that’s why she could never bring herself to properly love you, like she did for Damian. You’ve always been told you look astonishingly like her; it’s no surprise that when your brother, who had your father’s same exact nose and lineaments, was born, she immediately claimed him as her favourite between her children. 

Theoretically, you shouldn’t know that. Practically, Shiva told you that in the year before the Year of Blood. It is known she has eyes and ears in the whole League, and while you normally wouldn’t believe an assassin and eventual teacher for hire, you’re fully aware that your mother would be able to say something like that.)

Ra’s blinks, like what you just said is simply madness. “But why wouldn’t you?” he presses, “Think of it– the whole world, at your mercy. Doesn’t it sound beautiful?”

You fight back a grimace — how do you tell a man who’s spent the last eight-hundred years building an empire that you don’t want to rule it after his death? “…It does,” you end up replying, “maybe I’m just… just under the weather, grandfather. I’m sure I will be feeling better in a matter of days.” 

You never really start feeling better, and pretty much everyone notices.

Even Damian stops listening to your mother and slows his relentless attacks down — actually, completely forgets them. He turns into your most relentless bodyguard, assuring himself that you’re eating and training properly, making sure to nag you about it continuously if you don’t. This gives you the opportunity to remember the sweet boy you had almost forgotten about — the chronic waddler who always snatched flowers from your mother’s greenhouse for you to press into your books and wrote your name on every piece of paper he could get his hands on as soon as he learned how to write. 

(Before your mother turned you two against each other, sure that coexistence between two heirs couldn’t be possible. Sure that one of you would have had to, inevitably, overturn the other, and that settling for the male heir surely would have meant victory, because that’s how things had worked for her.) 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

Alfred has a bruised wrist and is a bit disoriented, but overall, even Damian must know to treat old people with at least a bit of kindness. He blinks when you slap him on the face repeatedly — not too hard, just to understand if he was still alive or not — and groans when you say, “Alfred– Alfred, can you hear me?”

”My hearing is still in perfect condition, Miss,” he hisses, a hand going to hod his head in utter pain, then gasps, “young master Damian–”

”Is down in the Batcave,” you nod to the broken grandfather clock in your father’s study, and the hacked panel behind it. “I let Conner handle him. Tim’s in bad shape, though– any chance I can fix you up, and then you fix him up?” 

He scoffs a little — clearly, the fact that you hadn’t told him about Damian has ruffled his feathers, to say the least, but he’s still Alfred, so manners come first. “No thank you, Miss,” he waves your hands away, “I tended to your father in far worse conditions than these.” 

He struggles a bit to get up, but stubbornly refuses your help. He goes through the broken entryway and you sigh, putting your hand over your forehead, wondering how the hell you’re going to get through this. 

“Tim’s been hit by the grenade with full force,” Kon tells you when you finally come back down to the Cave, the slow beep coming from the operating table a painful reminder of what your brother did — of what he has become. If Superboy’s offended by the fact that you haven’t told him about Damian, he doesn’t show it. “And let’s not forget, the glass of the display case was thick. He must’ve been thrown around pretty badly.”

You’re listening, but you’re not even looking at him — your eyes are locked in the confinement glass cage on the other side of the Cave, where your brother is sitting, brooding. Kon puts a hand over your bicep, “You don’t have to keep an eye on him,” he whispers, “the cage should be enough, until your dad comes back.”

You shake your head, “You don’t know him like I do — he’d be fully capable of escaping as soon as he gets an opportunity to.” 

He has to fight back a grimace. “Listen, I know you haven’t had a very happy childhood — growing up with assassins and all of that — but don’t you think you’re… exaggerating a little? He’s just a kid.”

”He just tried to murder your best friend.”

A scoff, “Please, who hasn’t tried to kill Tim at least once in their entire life?”

His hand, still over your arm, is warm. You miss when just an hour ago you were at the fair, and you had no problem in holding his hand — your heart squeezes, because you know that with Damian here, you’ll probably never allow yourself to feel that normal anymore. God knows what Talia or Ra’s would be able to do if they found out you actually proved any kind of affection towards Superboy. 

Not unkindly, you try to shake his hold off. “You’ve been really helpful, Conner,” you start, “but maybe it’s best if you go back home now. We can take it from here.” 

You still haven’t looked at him, and he’s clearly troubled by that. “Hey,” he murmurs, gently, “I know we have never talked about what you went through with the League, but you know you can trust me, right?” 

No response — you’re still looking at your brother. “Hey,” he presses, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him, “you know you can tell me anything, yes? C’mon, at least look at me when I talk to you.”

His eyes bore into yours for a blissful moment, but your gaze soon drops down to the floor. “We’ll take things from here on. I’ll make sure to tell Tim to let you know when he wakes up.”

Conner sighs. “You’re never going to tell me anything, are you?” 

The scar over your thigh burns. You start scratching your hand nervously — how is it that you can handle hours of torture, but staring into his eyes feels too difficult? “You wouldn't want to know,” you tell him in the end. “You… you’d never look at me the same way.” 

That dumb, unworried stare he always gives you — like you’re just a teenage girl serving no danger whatsoever, even if you definitely do — would be gone, and you’d spend the rest of your life missing it. And as he looks at you — unable to raise your eyes at him, fiddling with your hands even if it’s usually you who makes others uncomfortable — he understands that right now, nothing he can say will ever make you budge. He could tell you how much he doesn’t care about what you did or what they made you do all he wants; the truth is that you’ll never believe him. Not now, at least.

“Okay,” he relents. You hate the way your face feels cold as soon as he pulls his hands away, and hate that you feel this way — the last thing Conner needs is to be dragged into your family’s madness, both sides of it. 

He hesitates a bit before going home. He tries to press a kiss over your cheek — something that feels appropriate enough for friends and considering that you’re in the freaking Batcave — but abandons the mission when you jump at his closeness, surprised, finally looking at him like you have no idea what he was about to do. Fair, honestly. He isn’t one for self reflection, but he guesses that yeah, this is not the time for a nice kiss, even if it’s just a peck on the cheek. 

(Were you even ever kissed on the cheek? Or kissed at all?)

Defeated, he turns back towards the landing platform — ready to sulk and whine to Ma Kent, who even at this hour of the night will hopefully make one of those blueberry pies he likes so much just to help his morale. God knows how many she has made in the last months, just to try not to have a brooding teenager around the house once again–

“Conner?” 

He stops, his feet coming back down to the floor, turning to look at you — a bit hopeful, but he can’t help that. “Yeah?”

Your arms are crossed over your chest, but it looks like you’re hugging yourself more than anything. All the tough facade you always flaunt seems gone. “Thank you,” you murmur, coming close to him, “for… tonight. I had fun.”

Kon scoffs, amused. “You puked three times and accused a random guy of cooking dogs.” 

You shrug, “You have no idea of what fun entails for me.” 

Your hand comes to the collar of his jacket, tugging him down, and he feels himself pale a bit. He wonders if you’ll be nicer and avoid throwing him against the batarangs stock, or if you’ll be crueler and push him down into the water just below the landing platform, and what exactly did he say this time to make you snap. He was nice, he’s sure of it, even respectful–

A fleeting contact over his cheek — your lips against his face. It’s barely there, something that tells him that if you have ever received kisses then they weren’t enough, and the fact that you let go of your hold over his jacket and straighten it like it’s nothing just makes him even more dumbfounded — barely a peck, and you’ve already got him drunk off you. He’s ruined for life. 

“What?” you say defensively when he keeps staring at you, acting like your cheeks aren’t on fire — they absolutely are, by the way. “Don’t look at me like you didn’t want to do that earlier.” a slap over his shoulder — ah, there she is; good, old, violent you. He was almost getting used to your softer version. “Now, go home, Conner.” 

It’s weird having Damian in the Batcave —by now, you’d figured he enjoyed the Al Ghul ways at least as much as you did at his age, and since he’d never had to experience the Year of Blood, you doubt he’ll ever develop the same questions about your family's methods like you did. 

“Damian.” 

He’s still small for his age, but you bet he’ll have a growth spurt in a few years. Crouching in front of the confinement cage, you tap on the glass and lean your head. “Why did you come here?” 

He crosses his arms and spits over your general direction. “I don’t speak to traitors.” 

Deadpanning, you sigh. “Do you want me to come over there and show you who’s the oldest again? We both know you’re safest in there — I’d beat you to a pulp without Conner around to protect you.” 

A scoff, “He was protecting you. Besides, father wouldn’t allow such treatment of me.” 

You hum, as calm as ever, “Father isn’t like Talia. I highly doubt you’ll get to play favorites around here. Besides, do you see father around here?”

He glares, and you despise how he looks so much like your mother in doing so — it’s not the warning glare you and Bruce by now share; it’s the one full of hatred she had passed down to you before you met your father. What makes you hate it is probably the fact that, as much as Talia likes to deny it, you and Damian look a lot alike, and it’s like seeing you at his age. “Then the same goes for you, sister.” 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

After the Year of Blood, it became established that you’d be the Heir of the Demon — even if the truth is that the deed was already done after you were born. Ra’s never cared for Damian or Talia as much as he did about you, and by now, he’s spent thirteen years making sure you’re cut out for the role he’ll eventually pass down onto you. 

When Talia was born, her mother insisted on raising her with love, and somewhat normally — considering how you and your brother have been raised, anyway. He had expectations of her, but those were quickly broken by your father’s entrance in their lives, and thus her wobbling trust for the League’s cause. 

He began hoping for a child from them — someone he could raise without anyone to meddle into his affairs; someone with the same blood as the Detective’s and his, who would surely prove to be a prodigy. So when he found out that Talia was pregnant following her and your father’s wedding, he was ecstatic. Much less so when he learned that she had already told Bruce the news. 

The League was already in a bad position at the time — he could’ve managed to raise back up their standing, but doing so without both a daughter and an heir would’ve been nearly useless. And as the Detective had already expressed his disinterest over the matter of the Al Ghul family affairs, he had no choice but to convince your mother to first tell Bruce that she had tragically lost the baby, and then leave him. 

She cries and begs him not to do this — she tells him that she’ll convince your father to become the heir he wants so desperately, that the baby that she’ll give birth to will surely be the son he’s always wanted — but she still has to accept that this isn’t a matter about sons. It’s about who’s fit to be heir, and she — always torn between Batman and your father — isn’t. 

In the end, Talia follows his plan, and she never really forgives him for it. 

If you were born a son, maybe she would’ve tried harder to be proud of you — to imagine your father’s features instead of hers over your face. But the hard truth is, you look like her. And she hates how she can see herself in everything you do, because as soon as you’re born, you take the place that should’ve been hers by birthright. 

Ra’s holds you with a care he’d never spared for her. He presents you to the troops as his successor even if you’re nothing more than a newborn that does nothing but eat, shit and cry, and soon, when she looks at you, she can only see what she should’ve had. 

Talia knows Bruce was hoping for a girl — he’d given her Martha’s diamond necklace when she found out she was pregnant because of that. And as much as the nursemaids try to convince her that it’s just the effect the birth has had on her — that sometimes women after pregnancy develop some kind of aversion to the baby — she can’t help but feel like you’re getting the life she deserved to have. 

You don’t know your father, but he would’ve loved you without you ever needing to prove yourself. Even Ra’s — the same man who screwed her life more than once under the pretense of having her best in his mind — has preferred you, a brat, over her, who’s been loyal to him even after he took her happiness away. 

As you grow up, she starts seeing you as a parasite. Sure — there are moments where she suddenly feels some sort of affection towards you, like she should protect you instead of despising you, but you don’t look enough like him for her to find it in herself to fully appreciate you. Your face is the same she sees everyday in the mirror, and thus, she takes it upon herself to bring justice, and let you have the same treatment she did.

(Otherwise, what would it all have been for? All those years of pain, and she just wasn’t enough? It’s much more simple to believe that it’s something she can’t control, like being a woman, and Ra’s getting older and desperate. She thinks that he had wanted her to be a son, and to make things even between the two of you, she will deliver him a son.) 

Having Damian was a decision — one taken without your father knowing, obviously. They had just gotten married — by your traditions’ standards, anyways — when she got pregnant with you, but things had changed since then. Bruce was hesitant to even get too close to her, let alone be happy for a whole baby. 

So she takes the matters into her own hands, and just creates a son — in that unnatural way that no normal mother would ever think of creating one. Damian Al Ghul is carefully crafted in a lab, the product of many other failed attempts that she pretends never existed, nurtured in a test tube like some kind of alchemy-made humunculus — and even after this, Ra’s pretends that nothing’s changed. 

Damian enters your lives when grandfather’s already started training you as his heir, and when his training can finally start, your Year of Blood has already been announced. And it’s known to all that the Year of Blood is a once in a generation occurrence preserved only for the heir. 

Talia starts openly resenting you — she tries to make your life harder, because in her mind, that place isn’t yours; if it is, then it should be hers, and if it isn’t, then it should be Damian’s. And training, even after the Year of Blood, becomes hell. 

You lost count of how many times you ended up on the ground, vomiting or spitting blood from all the hits she made sure you took, and how many of the scars you have have her name on them. As a kid, you took it really bad — you couldn’t understand why mother, who was always so careful with Damian, had started treating you like that. At thirteen, you see her spite for what it is — a temper tantrum because neither her nor her favourite child got the throne she had dreamed about since she could remember. 

You should probably feel worse about it than how you actually feel, but the truth is, she’s not the only one with favourites in the Al Ghul household. And Ra’s, as much as he’s never tried to pit you and your brother against one another, has never hidden his predilection for you. 

It’s always, ‘Granddaughter this, granddaughter that’, and never, ‘Grandson’. And while you suffer for your mother’s favouritism, Damian suffers for your grandfather’s, because Talia has promised him greatness and a leading role in the future of humanity, but no matter how good he is, Ra’s seems to only have eyes for you. 

And while you love your brother — as does he you — love never seems to be enough for anything, or anyone, in Nanda Parbat. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

When your father steps out of the Batmobile, the Batcave starts feeling even more cold than it did before. 

Tim’s stable now — a few scratches, burns and a mild concussion, but he’s had worse. Alfred still refuses to look or talk to you as he carefully sets everything back into place in the med bay, Drake under heavy sedatives on the cot sitting in the middle of the room. The silence starts feeling deafening as Bruce removes his cowl, then looks at Jason’s costume's broken display case, then to Tim lying unconscious in the bed, then to Damian in his cage. 

In the end, his eyes land on you, his face full of anger and something you can’t quite pinpoint. He gestures to a more secluded area of the cave, “A word?” 

You prepare for the worst. You prepare for yelling, screaming, maybe even a slap — God knows what Talia would’ve done in his place — but none of it comes. His voice is eerily quiet and his brows are furrowed when he asks, dully: “Why?”

You realise then that anger’s not the dominant emotion as of now — it’s disappointment. You’ve spent the last four years dedicating your life to his mission, following his stupid rules and compromises, and he’s got the nerve to be disappointed because of one single thing. Maybe it’s just how Wayne brains work, but you feel anger start bubbling in your chest. “Why?” you repeat, voice trembling with restraint. “Why, father? Have you seen him? He tried to kill Tim — with a grenade. He fought Alfred.” You tap your temple, “Talia got into his head in a way she never managed with me. He’s as sick as her.” you don’t really mean it, but you’ve never managed to handle disappointing someone well. 

“Don’t call her Talia,” your father hisses, “she’s your mother, and I won’t stand you disrespecting her.” 

Clearly, his resolution to stay calm isn’t working, because of course the two of you are far too similar for it to work. The smallest raise in his voice and you get riled up, and vice versa. “What do you even know about her?” you ask him, “For all you know, she hid two of your kids from you — and you still defend her?” 

“I don’t trust her,” his index finger points at your chest accusingly, “but I trusted you. I’ve kept you under my wing for the last four years and taught you everything I know — only for you to hide the fact that you had a brother this whole time. Talia told me you knew about him — and I didn’t believe her because I trusted you, but the look you had on your face? It told me everything I needed to know before I could even ask you about it.”

You glare at him, “You don’t know Damian — you have no idea what he’s capable of.” It's not about what he can do — it’s about not having a sprinkle of loyalty in his blood, if not for himself and your mother. Ravi surely knows a lot about it. 

“He’s a kid,” Bruce is trying not to yell, and it’s easy to tell. “He’s a kid — like you were when you came to me — and he’s surely no better than what you were then. You had no right to hide him from me — I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

That’s what makes you snap. “Oh, raised me, daddy dearest?” his eyes flicker — he’s said the wrong thing, and he knows it, but nothing in his stance says he’s going to back down. His glare stays firm. “And tell me, how exactly did you raise me? And when? Because I don’t remember you being there when we were born, or when I was growing, or when I killed for the first time. Where were you when mother beat me to a pulp everyday until I vomited blood, huh, Bruce?”

“I wasn’t even aware of your existence,” he grits out. 

“But you were!” you scream. “Talia made sure of it! You knew of me, and you still decided I wasn’t worth saving until I came to you!” 

“It wasn’t my decision–”

“It was! I’ve watched you find kids in less than thirty minutes after they were declared missing, and you couldn’t find me in more than five years!” you hate the way your voice breaks, and the way your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I tried everything to make you find me! I left clues, signs of my passing and every single fucking thing that came to my mind in every mission of the League I participated in because I knew that once I came back home, you’d be on the scene to investigate and try to dismantle the Shadows’ operations, but you never came!”

Now nothing more than a puddle of anger, you try to shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t even budge — like for everything else. He stands on that untouchable pedestal your mom put him in, immortal, the Detective, unreachable in abilities and everything else, even after all these years away from her. “And I waited, Bruce! I waited five years for you to come and save me — only for you to never show your face to me again!”

“I was looking for you,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before as he tries to intercept, “At first I wasn’t sure if you were mine, but I looked for you. Between cases, every free moment — more than you’ll ever know.”

The chuckle that comes out of your mouth sounds maniacal. “So I wasn’t a priority, huh? Looking for me between cases, ‘cause you weren’t sure I was yours?”

“That’s not true,” 

“Oh, yeah? Judging from how you never let a case go cold, to me it looks like you never even took the time to look at my case properly.” The glare you’re giving him is one he’s never seen — one full of pure, unadulterated hatred. It’s not a thing that builds up in the moment; these are years of resentment, and seeing them in the same eyes that his mother had makes him die a little on the inside. “And what do you want to know about how I was raised, now?” you spit on his feet. “You don’t even know me. How could you know just how I was raised, huh?”

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

“How’s father?” Damian asks you one late night, cleaning his sword on your bedside as you read a book. You hum, “I wouldn’t really be able to tell you anything. Grandfather and mother are the ones you should ask about these things.”

He snorts, “They are biased. You, however, are not.”

You lean your head, pausing. In the end, you opt to say, “When mother told him I was his daughter, he didn’t believe it. Everything in his body said so. But then he understood that she wasn’t lying, and he turned desperate.” 

You had just celebrated your eighth birthday when you met him for the first and only time. A common espionage operation turned into something more, and before you knew it, your mother was ripping your mask away from your face and shoving you into an empty hallway with her, telling you to keep quiet and avoid any kind of confrontation. You had followed her, and eventually, the Bat himself showed up. 

Even years after the fact, you still remember that first encounter as clear as day. He had looked between you and your mother, the movement evident even through the white lenses over his eyes, and then, “I never thought you’d bring a kid into all of this.” 

Your mother had huffed, calling out for you. She had set you in front of her, her hands holding you by the shoulders as you stared at your father so deeply one might think you were looking right into his soul. “You did, didn’t you?” Neither of you misses the way he flinches — Jason Todd is probably in the Batcave right now, waiting for him to come home. “She’s yours, by the way.” 

Bruce stares at her, then at you, then back at her. “I’m not falling for it. What, did you kill this kid’s parents? Just to come here and make this sick joke, hoping to get a reaction out of me?” 

Talia’s hum is one of pure scorn. “No, no,” she chuckles, taking your chin in her hand and raising your face toward the light — making sure he can see every single one of your features and engrave every detail in that mind of his. “See those eyes? Aren’t they familiar? I had hoped for a son that would have looked like you, but I wasn’t so lucky, and all she got from your side of the family were those. A shame — they don’t even look like yours, Beloved.”

As his eyes bore into yours, you can see the exact moment everything snaps into place for him. “No,” he whispers. 

“Yes,” your mother sing-songs. 

“You’re sick,” he hisses, “right into the head.” But his arms open wide, as if inviting you into them, “Give me the kid. I’ll make sure she’s raised right– she’ll be free from your father, I swear it.” The way his voice turns pleading right after is almost pathetic, “Talia, please. I know he’s forcing you to do this. Just– hand me the girl, and I’ll close an eye on this operation. Act like nothing ever happened.”

“Please,” Talia leans her head, “we both know you’ll never do that. Besides, who told you that my father made me do this? She’s here as nothing but a token of our love — the proof that it existed, and it still does. And why would I ever trust her in your hands? You’re always so doubtful about our connection.”

One of her palms comes up to your hair, brushing them in a way that feels almost loving, “Don’t worry, Bruce, I’m already making sure she’s raised right. And trust me, she’ll grow up to be the one who finally kills you.” 

Back to the present, Damian snorts. “Desperate?” The disdain in his voice is as clear as day, “The Batman, desperate? You must’ve gotten it twisted, sister. There’s no other explanation.” 

You shrug, “Believe what you want. I know what I saw.” He had followed you and Talia until his body rendered it impossible for him to, and even then, he kept screaming from behind you about how you didn’t have to do this and he just wanted the best for you. And as you got on the helicopter supposed to bring you home, you were surprised not to find any trace of smugness in your mother’s face. “I thought it would have been funnier,” she muttered, “he got all desperate instead. Such a shame.” 

And even if you don’t know whether he was looking for you or not, leaving behind something from you in every mission you participated in became the norm — knowing that he’d eventually come around to where you were stationed, looking for any kind of clues he might find, and maybe guessed that you’d been there. You made mistakes that even a toddler wouldn’t do — left a strand of your hair on the scene, a number indicating the years since he’d last seen you, or the age you were now. You tried anything to make him find you, and when he didn’t, you understood that you had to take matters into your own hands, because as much as your father loved to spend all his free time saving others, maybe his daughter just wasn’t a priority.

The breaking point comes when Damian has just turned six. 

You know he did not mean to break that vase — and if you were in a normal household, it would probably be a most unremarkable thing, something your parents reprimand you about and proceed to forget in the next week. But in Nanda Parbat, where every step is carefully calculated and every error a mark of shame, a broken vase, as measly as it sounds, could become the difference between life and a fate worse than death. Especially for an original, 600-year-old Ming Dynasty vase. 

Damian knows this — he also knows that his status grants him a far more lenient punishment than the one reserved for servants and common soldiers. He still chooses to blame Ravi — the servant appointed for his care between lessons — for the broken vase. 

You get a word of what’s happening too late — you had seen your brother’s guilty look as he stared down at the ceramic pieces laying on the ground, patted his shoulder while saying, “I’m sure mother will be as understanding as she can be,” and then went your way, figuring that if you were still alive with all the vases you broke at his age, he wouldn’t be punished too harshly. And when you reach the room where this is happening, your mother’s standing as stoic as ever with Damian by her side, watching silently as Ravi lays on the floor, his hands over his eyes, thrashing around he holds back screams of pain.

“Damian,” comes your frantic call, “what did you do?” 

“What did he do?” your mother repeats, “He did nothing but his duty. Ravi knew punishment would have come for his error.” 

“Damian,” you ignore her, looking at your brother, “I asked, what did you do?” he won’t meet your eyes, and that tells you everything you need to know.  

“Your brother chose the punishment he thought to be best,” Talia hisses, pushing you back, “it is not your place to judge whether it is appropriate or not.” 

You look at Ravi — kind, loyal Ravi, who taught you every poem you know and hid sweets for you to eat when you were a kid. The same Ravi who kept being nice to your brother despite his constant insults and rudeness, and made sure his art supplies were always stocked even when your grandfather kept snarling at his paintings. Ravi, who is now lying on the ground, blind. 

You kneel down at his side, taking him by the arms and trying to get him back onto his feet. “Ravi– Ravi, can you hear me?” 

His voice is trembling and broken when he finds the strength to answer, “My lady? Is… is that you?” 

“It’s me, Ravi. Come on — I’m taking you to the infirmary, get up.” 

“Too nice,” he utters, barely coherent, his hands finally leaving his face to get up; the sight of his injured eyes makes you want to throw up. “You’re too nice, m’lady.” You cast one last glance at your brother, staring blankly at you and the servant, before disappearing into the hallway while helping the man on his footing.

It’s when the healer tells you that Ravi will never see again that you understand that you can’t stay in Nanda Parbat anymore. Damian may still be your little brother, but his need to always be better than you is causing harm to not only himself but others, too. And for what? For a throne you didn’t want in the first place? You need to leave, and you need to make sure he doesn’t follow you, because God knows what he would be able to unleash out there in the world if he just had the chance. 

That night, Damian startles awake to find a blade pressed tight against his neck. When his hand goes for the dagger hidden under his pillow, he finds nothing there. “Don’t even try to scream,” you hiss, crouched over him in his bed. He looks at your stance — the same one he’s never managed to overthrow — and knows that if you truly want to kill him, there would be no escape. Slowly, scaredly, he nods. “I will go far away from here,” you whisper, your eyes cold as they stare into his eyes — those same eyes he got from your mother. “You will never look for me. You won’t follow me, because if you do, I will kill you. You will stay here and become the heir our mother wants. Understood?”

His breath catches. “Sister–”

“I said, understood?” 

Frightened, he nods again, but your hold on the blade doesn’t falter — if anything, you just press more against his neck, enough to draw blood. Up until now, he’d never thought you’d be able to kill him — Talia had always told him you were too soft on him. Guess she doesn’t really know to which extents you’d go just to keep your peace. “You stay here,” you hiss at him one last time, your nose crinkling in disdain in that same way mother’s always does, “and don’t you dare try to ever see me again.”

TITANS TOWER — NOW. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” 

By no means are you a member of the Titans — but that doesn’t mean you don’t have access to the Tower. And considering that you really didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to Dick, nor Barbara, it was the only place you could think of going to; your father’s probably raiding all your safehouses, anyway — if he’s not too engrossed over your brother or is even giving two fucks about you going away from the Manor, that is. 

Right after the fight you two had, coming here looked like a smart idea, since none of the Titans stay here during the Christmas holidays. Now, it looks like a death sentence by annoyance. 

“I faid, avh you gonna eaf dat?” Bart Allen, out of all the members of the team, has to be the dumbest one. He’s also the only one who could be found in the communal kitchen at two am in the morning, cooking six packs of Buldak ramen in a far too small pot. 

You grimace as he spits out bits of sauce as he asks again, then look down at your measly sandwich, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He ate six packs of ramen in under twenty seconds, the vacuum. “Have it,” you push your plate towards him, but before it even comes to his reach, the toast is gone, and he’s downed it in two bites. You’re half disgusted and half impressed, but you try to keep a stern face as you look at his stained mouth and the crumbs all over his shirt. “That’s disgusting. How do you even do that?”

“Super speed,” he’s back in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, taking out of the pantry some bread. “That sandwich was great. I think I’ll make a dozen more — I feel like having a snack.” 

Deadpanning, you stare at him as he moves quickly between the bread slices, mayo spoonfuls and six cans of tuna. “And you manage to hold that down into your stomach well enough?”

He’s already scarfing down on the first two sandwiches, “Why, can’t you?”

Well, most people don’t have his metabolism, nor the storage capacity of his stomach. Frustrated, you sigh, “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be asleep?”

He shrugs, his meal already finished, and goes for the fridge for the umpteenth time. “I was hungry, and Max has started locking up the kitchen after dinner after that one time when I ate the whole Thanksgiving menu.” 

You blink. Is this guy well? What exactly is his problem? “‘Sides, I should be asking you why you’re here. It’s two am for everyone.” 

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to know about how I hid my brother from my father for four years?”

For the first time in half an hour, Bart pauses. Then he’s on the seat in front of you, legs crossed and a pack of pre-made popcorns on his lap, sitting like the most undistinguished gentleman ever. “I’m allllll ears, sweetcheeks.” 

You’re not really sure how trash-talking your family with Impulse ended up with the both of you falling asleep on the communal couch with Cars 2 playing on the television, but here you are. 

Bart’s snorting so loudly beside you that you wonder how you managed to sleep throughout the whole night, but he’s not your concern right now. Your concern is who woke you up– 

“You guys had a movie night and didn’t invite me?!” 

Conner sounds more jealous than betrayed, and you look at him, still half-asleep but not surprised by his dramatics at all. “Shut up,” you croak, tugging him down on the couch by his sleeve, “it’s early.” 

Dumbfounded, he sits beside you and tries not to burst into a million particles as you curl up beside him, cheek on his shoulder, warm and almost purring. He surely didn’t think this would happen when he first thought about doing a check-in at the Tower this morning. “So…” he mumbles, trying not to sound too awkward, “how’d things with your father go?” 

The memories of last night dawn on you, and blissful sleepiness turns into the dread of waking up immediately. You grumble, turning on your side and giving him the cold shoulder, muttering something about men not understanding any cue. He blinks, “…Not good?” 

“Bad,” you agree. You don’t care about what Bart thinks about you, but you do care about what Kon thinks, and you really don’t feel like explaining everything to him. Impulse probably already forgot, anyway. 

Conner fiddles with his fingers anxiously, “What about Christmas?”

You perk up — you had completely forgotten that it was in… what, four days? It wasn’t something you were raised celebrating, and even at the Manor, you never really felt what Tim called ‘the Christmas spirit’. You shrug, “Who cares? I’ll spend it here and wait for my mother to get Damian back to Nanda Parbat. She never did well when she knew him to be far away.” 

Talia Al Ghul with separation anxiety was not an image Conner was ready for. He looks over to his side, to Bart still dead asleep, and finds his heart squeezing at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. “You could come with me to Smallville,” he mumbles quietly — Martha Kent has always accepted strays in her house. “Ma wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of someone spending Christmas alone — and besides, Clark’s already coming from Metropolis. The farm’ll be cramped anyways.” 

You think about it for a moment, then turn your head to look at him for a moment. “…You want to bring me home. With your family. For Christmas.” 

His foot is tapping nervously on the ground. “Yeah. Think of it as… I don’t know, a vacation away from all your problems. The farm is really different from the chaos of Gotham City.” 

And the truth is, you couldn’t even imagine how right he was. 

That same evening you park your car — Tim’s, technically, but just because it was the only one available at the Tower, and it was bought with your father’s money anyways —  in front of the Kent’s farm, the little spare clothes you kept at the Tower in the backseat and Conner buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat. You raise an eyebrow at him, “Thank the Founding Fathers or whatever you guys born here believe in that Smallville and Jump City aren’t that far from each other.” You had reached the Tower via Zeta-Tube, but unfortunately, the Kents have vehemently refused to have one in their home — no brainer, if they were to ask you. Having an inter-dimensional door in your house sometimes is a bit scary. 

Snow crunches under your soles as you exit the Mercedes, staring at the dimly lit porch of the farm and all the Christmas ornaments hanging on it. There’s a wonky garland hanging over the door, probably handmade, and multicolored lights over the railing and roof. Conner — hypno-glasses and civilian attire on — swings your bag over his shoulder and pokes your side, “C’mon, Ma’s waiting for us.” 

You blink, “You’re telling me, this is where Superman grew up?” 

The farm is not shabby by any means, but it looks well-lived, and very different from any place you’ve ever stayed at. For a guy who will be remembered in every millennia to come, Clark Kent surely grew up in the most unremarkable place ever. 

Kon doesn’t knock — he just swings the door open (and for a moment, you wonder how could an elderly couple just leave their door open when it’s dark out with such carelessness) and yells, loudly, “Hi Ma, hi Pa,”

You shuffle awkwardly behind him, dragging your feet, wondering if this was a good idea — you literally don’t know these people, and as much as Conner said that they didn’t mind and had already prepared a bed for you to sleep. That is until Ma Kent — a plump, kind-looking woman in her late 60s that smells like pie and nice things — comes to view. 

“There you are!” Conner bows down a little as she engulfs him in a hug, and you stare at her up and down with worry — she doesn’t look like the old people you’re used to. You can’t find similarities between her and Ra’s’ faint wrinkles, her back is slightly more curved than Alfred’s, and the sides of her mouth crinkle in a way Aunt Harriet’s never did. She looks like she actually has her age, and somehow fragile, like getting old didn’t do her no good like it did to Ra’s or just made her more stern like Alfred. This woman looks like it has made her softer. “Pa’s in the living room — you know him, nothing will ever make him miss a freshly baked pie, and I bet that he’s getting his fill now… oh, and there she is!”

Her hug is a surprise, mostly because one, you don’t know this woman, and two, it actually feels nice. She’s soft, and warm, smells like pastries and somehow feels like you’ve always imagined your mother would if she was kinder. “It’s so nice to have you here, dear,” you can feel the barely contained excitement in her voice, “Conner talks about you a lot,” 

“Ma!” the guy scolds, blushing, “Come on!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” she chuckles, her arms still around you, and you find yourself not wanting the hug to end. “It’s just so nice to have one of Connie’s friends here — he never brings anyone home for us to meet.” 

“Connie?” you repeat — this is so going in your blackmail folder. Martha nods, oblivious to your machinations, “Yes, yes– isn’t he such a sweet boy?” she links her arm in yours, “Please, make yourself at home — would you like a slice of pie? I just took it out of the oven. You must be starving, so I’m sure it won’t affect your appetite when dinner’s ready.” 

Pa Kent is a quiet contrast to his wife, and just gives you a grunt of acknowledgment before shaking your hand. Martha scolds him a bit for his rudeness — does she know your father’s the epitome of antisocial behavior when he wants to be? — but you shrug it off, mostly because it’s his home, and he’s right to presume that you know his name. It’s not like you’re the most extrovert person ever, either. 

The Kents’ house is weird. The atmosphere doesn’t feel tense, and the sense of peace in the air doesn’t seem temporary — like it always is at the Manor, where every moment spent in civilian clothes is one robbed from your vigilante identities. Martha Kent doesn’t properly measure ingredients for dinner like Alfred does, but rather considers the quantity of each ingredient by pure instinct and practice. They speak of pleasantries rather than ongoing and cold cases, and you still don’t understand if you like it or not. 

“Clark and Lois’ll come tomorrow after lunch,” she hums while stirring a pot over the stove, “Lois said that they were supposed to come in two days, but Jonno was getting too restless about not seeing his grandpa,” 

Pa Kent puffs his chest with pride. “‘Course he is,” he huffs, “I bet he can’t wait to spend some time with us.”

It feels mundane. Like their first adopted son isn’t an alien from a faraway planet that exploded, and their second adopted son isn’t his clone, or their guest isn’t an ex-assassin with a humongous  kill count. You wonder how they manage. Martha fills your plate with definitely too much food while Jonathan asks you about your studies, and you guess that’s how dinner goes. 

Later that night, as you’re standing in Conner’s room, you look around and think that it feels very much like him. Music posters scattered all over the walls — with some blank spaces suggesting that he definitely had some other things hanging up that he didn’t want you to see — a couple of football trophies from his old school and some photos with the Kents or the Titans here and there. 

“This was Clark’s old room,” he says a bit awkwardly, “um– Ma’s changed the sheets on my bed for you to sleep in, since Clark and Lois will take up the guest room. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” A cheesy grin, “Unless someone doesn’t mind sharing the bed–”

You flick his forehead, making him let out a little ow. “Don’t get weird ideas in your head, habibi,” you yawn, “keep the floor. That bed’s mine.” 

He gasps, “Don’t tell me you’re insulting me — under my own roof! — in a language I can’t even understand!” 

A raised eyebrow, “Why, haven’t I done that before?” God, he’s so stupid you could just eat him up. 

Kon whines, arms going slack over his sides, “You’re mean,” 

“And you’re being unreasonable. Go grab your pillowsack or whatever, scout boy, and make yourself at home on the floor.” 

His shoulders slump. “Yes, ma’–”

The door swings open. Ma Kent stares at the two of you, bewildered, then smiles like nothing happened, patting the handle. “The door stays open,” she says, glancing menacingly at Conner — in a way that says ‘no girls will be deflowered under my roof’. “Just in case. Goodnight!” 

She leaves; amused, you side-eye Kon, whose ears are flaming red. “Just what exactly did you tell her about me?” 

“I’ll quote you on this one,” he grumbles, “‘you don’t want to know’.” 

You don’t have many clothes with you, so shorts and tee it is for sleeping for now. You brush your teeth in the bathroom as Conner stares, gaping, and you gurgle, “What?”

“It’s freezing,” he hisses, “aren’t you cold?” 

Well, it is December, and it is snowing, but you’ve survived worse. After rinsing your mouth, you shrug, “You should see how cold it is in the Himalayas — that’s where Nanda Parbat is, by the way.” 

He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s checking your legs out with a lot of interest. He points at your upper thigh, “How’d you get that scar?” 

“I fell,” you grumble, tugging the hem of your pants down to hide it.

Conner’s bed is soft — a little too much so, even. You stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars over your head — surely one of Clark’s last standing pieces of decor — and hold onto the hem of the blanket a little tighter. “Your parents are nice,” you mutter into the silence. Are they his parents, or does he see them more like grandparents? Caregivers? Trusted adults? You wouldn’t know. 

From his place at the foot of the bed, Kon yawns in agreement. “They’re awesome. I mean, they act a little old sometimes, but I guess that’s fair.” 

You knit your eyebrows, still staring at the plastic stars. “My grandfather isn’t as nice. I would’ve preferred he acted a little old rather than be how he is.” 

A pause. Then, “What about your mom?” 

You sigh. “Talia never really felt like a mom,” you whisper, “she felt more like a jealous sister than anything. She had her moments of softness, but… I think either having me or Damian just broke something in her. It’s like she can’t see anything beside what she wanted for herself and was denied.” 

He doesn’t know the full story, but he still hums in understanding like he does. “Well, that sounds pretty bad. If it helps, my dad had me grow up in a test tube and then tried to use me as his personal one man army.” 

You scoff, “Man, just how do we get in these types of situations?” 

He sighs, a little defeated, “Bad luck and pure spite from the universe. Good thing we ended up meeting each other, huh?” he holds a hand up, making sure you can see it from the bed, “Wanna hold hands?”

You stare at his hand for a moment, and then — a little reluctantly, but only on the outside — you take his palm into yours. The moment is quickly broken by his girlish scream, and it takes every single ounce of self control you have in your system not to snatch your hand back. “…Never do that again.”

“Yes, sorry,”

A moment of silence passes. “Conner?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Is that offer about being able to tell you anything still up?”

Softly, he replies, “Always.” 

You go on by telling him about your brother, and how you were raised — even if you do spare him the more gruesome details, such as the Year of Blood. Even after being told the watered down story, his hand doesn’t leave yours for the entirety of the night.

“Move it, Conner, we still have to find a gift for Lois–”

“I'm trying — can’t you see how these bags slow me down?”

Late Christmas gifts shopping is a terrifying concept. In your four years of living in America, you’ve never had the chance to see it for yourself because in the Wayne household gifts are bought and wrapped a month before Christmas, but now, you’re living the nightmare. 

The mall is packed. There’s a long-ass queue for taking a picture next to Santa, and you’ve already had to distract Kon five times to avoid him seeing it and begging you to take one together. Everywhere you turn, people are arguing — wives to their husbands when they dare to say that their arms are hurting from all the shopping bags, kids screaming at the playground because they don’t want to go home yet, old people complaining about how back in their days, everyone had their gifts ready by Thanksgiving.

This feels like the farthest thing ever from the supposed Christmas Spirit everyone talks about during this time of the year. However, it does feel astonishingly close to Nanda Parbat on a good day, so you’re not that phased. 

By now, you’ve bought a Chanel coat for Martha Kent, new tractor tires for her husband — Conner insists that tractors are his passion; you don’t even know how you found tractor tires in a fucking mall, all the while — and a tailored Armani suit for Clark. You’re missing a gift for Lois and Jon, and trinkets for the multitude of the Kents’ other relatives coming just for Christmas. 

(Technically, you still have to buy Conner a gift, but you need to get him off your tail first — guess Santa and the long-ass queue to take a picture with him will come in handy.)

The guy in question is following you blindly around the mall, shopping bags — he’s lucky the tractor wheels will be sent directly to the farm, because otherwise, he’d have to carry those around, too. And let’s not forget about the real heavy lifting — all the clothes you’ve just bought for yourself, with the excuse that you didn’t have enough spare changes to survive Christmas. How many times you change outfits in one day, Superboy doesn’t want to know.

He also doesn’t want to know just what is your budget for people you don’t know — you don’t even look at the price tags as you shop, you just bother to swipe your black card at the checkout and that’s it. He’s never even seen as many zeroes as he’s done today. If this is what your shopping looks like, then he can only wonder what your father’s shopping must be like. 

All the bags barely even fit inside of your car, and he’s never seen so many designer bags in one place. He’s happy enough with his Santa picture not to think too hard about it, and he snickers at the thought of Jon reacting to all the toys you’ve bought for him. 

The latter, Clark and Lois arrive right after lunch, just like they said they would, and now there’s no way not to feel like an outsider. They’re all Kents, after all, while you’re just the latest addition to the party — one that some of them don’t even know. 

Lois shakes your hand with a small smile while Jon, shy, hides behind her legs. Clark just pats you on your shoulder and whispers, “I’ve talked to your father. He says it’s okay if you stay here for a while.” 

Not that it would’ve changed anything if he wasn’t okay with it — you wouldn’t have come home to the Manor anyways, and his judgement is clouded by the thought of your loyalty to him if he thinks so. 

You’re loyal to your father, but you’re most loyal to your sanity. And if being a little awkward at the Kents’ farm is the price to pay to avoid Damian, then so be it. 

Jon is a shy kid, all bashful smiles and big hugs. The reason behind his timidness towards you is quickly revealed when he comes up to where you and Conner are talking to Lois on the couch, and offers you a flower that was clearly stolen from the vase on his grandma’s kitchen counter. “Why, thank you,” you’re not good with smiles, but you try to offer him one, and he swoons. 

By the time the sky outside becomes dark and card games are taken out of their cupboard, little Jonathan is ù basically sprawled on top of you, cheek smushed to your shoulder as he plays a little with your hair and babbles. “And– and then Lucy tried to take it from me but I told her no, that’s my pen, and– and she called the teacher like I did something wrong. But it was my pen–”

He’s got a bit of a stutter, but honestly, you find it cute. He kinda reminds you of Damian when he was younger — and nicer. He should be about two or three years younger than him, but considering the fact that he was raised normally, he acts like a normal kid. 

Wanna know who else is acting like a kid? Yeah, Conner. 

He’s been visibly sulking ever since Jon climbed beside you on the couch, and now that his — cousin? Nephew? Half-brother?  — is that close to you he doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy anymore. “Manners, Jonno,” he hisses at the literal seven-year-old, “I’m sure she doesn’t like you bugging her — why don’t you go play with Krypto?”

Jon looks at you with his big, big eyes, and you nudge Conner. “He’s not bothering me. It’s pretty cute, actually.” It almost feels like holding Damian in your arms again.

Satisfied, the boy settles back on your shoulder, poking his tongue out at him. Kon crosses his arms, glaring at you, “Why does he get cuddles when I barely get to hold your hand?” 

“He’s seven,” you empathise, patting Jon’s back as the Kents bicker while playing Uno. “And he’s cute. You’re barely decent and stink.”

He sighs, “Still better than that weird insult you threw at me yesterday,”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean habibi?”

“What’s that mean?” Jon asks sleepily. 

Conner nods profusely. “Yeah!”

You deadpan, looking down to Jon. “I almost forgot — he’s also dumb.” 

When it’s time to go to bed, Jon almost throws a tantrum — apparently, he’s used to sharing Clark’s old room with Conner when he visits, but since you’re sleeping there, he’ll have to share the guest room with his parents. That means, sleeping on the same bed as them — like a kid, he says. 

“I’m not a kid!” he insists, “I’m a grown up! I can handle a sleepover!” 

You’re sure that Clark and Lois’ concern is not the sleepover, but rather, that you and Conner will be sharing a room, and knowing the guy, they don’t want their kid traumatised even if by accident. You sigh and pat Jon on the shoulder — nothing’s going to happen with the door open, anyways. “C’mon, Jonno– we can share the bed, but you have to be nice and let me sleep through the night.” 

He lets out a loud yahoo!, already going upstairs to change into his pajamas, while Kon lets out a little gasp. “What?” you ask, unbothered. 

Clark slaps him on the back of the head before he can say anything incriminating. “I’m sure he just didn’t expect it from you,” he improvises, “as you’re, well…”

He trails off, leaving it all in the air. Raised by assassins? A little violent during missions? Evidently emotionally unavailable? Possibly all three and more. You shrug, not really offended. “When we were little, my brother and I used to share a bed all the time. It was fine, I guess. I can handle it. I can always tumble him down to sleep with Conner on the floor.” 

Clark and Lois share a worried look, but eventually agree, just to keep the peace. And as you step up the stairs, Conner continues to mutter, “Incredible, you told no to me but yes to the kid… he literally still eats his boogers…”

You hum, “Ah, so you don’t?”

You can tell he probably still does by the way he immediately gets riled up. “That’s not the point!” In the end, he crosses his arms, looking all offended. “Never ask me to hold your hand ever again!” 

You roll your eyes — is he forgetting he was the one begging for your hand just last night? “Whatever you say, big guy.” 

The coward ends up still asking you to hold your hand as soon as you and Jon are tucked in bed. You comply just because you feel particularly nice while the gremlin you agreed to share the bed with starts yapping again, plushie held tight in his arms like it’s going to escape, going on and on about some comic book guy named Science Dog.

You try not to think about how his presence next to yours feels a lot like Damian’s once did. You fail miserably. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

“Sister.” 

Four year olds are weird. They’re loud, demanding and are in that stage where they’re not fully coherent yet but somehow understand everything better than adults. Unfortunately, this four-year-old is your brother, and he’s since learned how to pick on the lock of your door even if he can’t even reach the handle. At the moment, he’s also the biggest threat to your life, considering how many times your mother has convinced him to try to kill you. 

You muffle a tired groan into your pillow. A glance at the clock on your bedside — three in the morning. Huh — the hour of the witch. Does mother have some curse planned out for me or something? “What is it, Damian?”

He sounds smaller than he usually does when he says, “I had a nightmare.” 

You huff — you love him, you really do, but if this is one of your mother’s schemes to let him get near you voluntarily to then stab you in the back it’s not going to work. “Go whine to mother, Damian. Or just find the nursemaid. That’s what grandfather pays her to do, y’know — to take care of you.”

Quieter than before, “Fatima’s dead.” You perk up. “Mother killed her. Said she was dampening our relationship.” 

Now, it’s not uncommon for servants to be killed in the Al Ghul household, but nannies? You remember Fatima. She’s been alongside Damian ever since he was born, keeping an eye on you when it was your time to play with him — for God’s sake, she’s the one who taught him how to write. And she’s dead. 

Even in the darkness, you look into your brother’s eyes and find nothing. It’s the look of someone too young, forced to do things he doesn’t want to and to see atrocities he can’t stop. He’ll learn to live through it — just like you did — but for now, your brother’s four years old. He barely reaches your waist. He had a nightmare, and he’s scared to tell the woman he has to call mother because she just killed someone he loved. 

Sighing, you hold up the blanket and motion for him to hop on the bed, just hoping he has no knife hidden in his clothes. “Just… come here, Dami.” 

Nobody ever asked you to be a big sister, much less taught you how. The only thing you know is that there’s this kid that’s smaller and weaker than you in an environment that was never meant to be neither particularly happy nor safe, and you feel like you want to protect him. 

So, just for tonight, you wrap your arms around him and let him whisper his nightmare into the dark, hoping that he won’t grow up as messed up as you did with his big sister around. 

SMALLVILLE — NOW.

“So, what is it between you and Conner?”

You’ve never had a Christmas eve quite like this. It’s pure chaos — kids running around the living room, followed by Clark and Kon playing the bad guys as most of the other adults sit comfortably on the couch, laughing and chatting. Apparently, the Kents went all out this year, even inviting some relatives from Midvale; that’s how you and Lois ended up in the kitchen alone after clearing the table, as she washes the dishes and you dry them trying not to break anything. 

(You have never in your entire life helped wash the dishes before. You guess that’s the price to pay to give Ma Kent a little peace after a morning spent cooking.)

You grow a little, “What do you mean?”

She shuffles, maybe a little awkwardly. “I mean… you guys seem close. He surely looks at you in… you know,” she trails off, “that dumb stare men sometimes make.” 

Blinking, you stare at the blue roses painted on Martha’s good ceramic. “Dunno,” you mumble in the end, “he’s great and all, but I don’t think I’d be any good for him.” You sure like to pretend that you are, though. Calling him habibi is a little risky, but he really is dumber than you thought he was, and still hasn’t figured out the real meaning. You don’t even know why you’re telling that to Lois in the first place, considering you had never met her before this trip. 

The smile she gives you is a little sad. “Clark told me about your mother. He didn’t exactly go over the details, but for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.” 

You shrug. “It happened a long time ago.” The scar over your thigh itches. “I’ve gotten over it.” 

She pauses her sponge over a glass, “You know, Clark also told me that you look like her.” 

No reaction from you — must be true, then. “When I first saw you, I thought so, too. You don’t really look like Bruce at first glance, so it’s only fair that you look like your mother. But I think you’re more similar to your dad than any of you realise.” 

You bite your tongue to hold back a very rude retort — just who does she think she is? She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know your mother, and maybe has met your father a few times. You’ve been told your whole life you look like Talia, and now Miss Empathetic comes here to tell you what she thinks you want to hear– “I mean, I don’t know your mother, but by now I think I know Bruce pretty well. And considering what Clark told me about how you grew up, I doubt Talia Al Ghul would bond with a random kid that isn’t hers in the span of ten minutes. But I know Bruce Wayne would.” 

You click your tongue — you’re so used to everyone telling you how much you look like Talia that any similarity between you and Bruce feels crafted. “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

She hums, “Do you know you carry yourself like he does? Guarded, even if you’re trying to soften up a bit?” You blink, “Those dry responses you give Conner sometimes — you look like Bruce stuck in a bad interview. That glare of yours? Totally his. The way you pretend to be though but always relent at Jon’s requests to play? I’ve already seen that — with your father and Jason Todd. I met him right after he adopted him, and trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.”

You never asked your father about him — you already knew everything you needed to know from the League’s files. From the Narrows. Adopted by your father point-blank. Eventually died thanks to the Joker. The only Robin your mother apparently tolerated. Your father never really came back from the grief, and sometimes, you still catch him staring at Jason’s display case with that blank stare he gets when he’s being haunted by the past. 

“And you hid your brother from him,” she murmurs, quiet like she’s afraid to anger you. “And you know what? That’s actually a very Bruce thing to do. He always asks for complete honesty, but never gives it himself. Clark told me he found out about Dick months after your dad took him in.”

“Talia has her secrets, too,” you mutter, eyebrows knotted. “I wouldn’t say that’s specifically a quality of his.” 

Lois passes you another mug, “Can I ask you why you didn’t tell your father about Damian?”

You keep your eyes fixated on the rag you’re using to dry the dishes, quiet. “He could be a nice kid, when he wanted to,” you start — you don’t even know why you’re opening up to her in the first place. “Damian, he… we grew up in similar ways, but not identical. He had our mother constantly sprouting nonsense about his claim over the League, and how I was stealing something that should’ve been his. He knew no loyalty to anyone besides Talia. I figured I was doing the both of us a favor by running away — he could have his throne, and I didn’t have to constantly watch my back. Because I knew that if I had let myself get killed, then he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life torn between his guilt for doing so and Talia telling him he had done what he had to. And if our father knew about him, then he would’ve never let him go on to become the Demon Head.” It now seems futile, because Talia brought him to Bruce, anyways — for no plausible reason aside from stressing you out, probably. 

The woman nudges you softly with her shoulder, “So, you did it because you thought that was the best for him.”

You pause. “I mean… I figured he wouldn’t have had to go through all the things I did, considering Talia’s favouritism and the fact that I had completed most of the tasks the heir usually has to worry about." That being, the Year of Blood. Ra’s had once told you explicitly that either you or Damian had to take a part in it, and you figured that as you already finished it, your brother could go on and become heir without any of the fuss you had to make. 

She smiles. “See? You’ve got your father’s big heart under that tough facade you keep.”

You narrow your eyes at her — she’s known you for what, two, three days? “How did you do this… this psychoanalysis thing? You don’t even know me.”

She sends you a wink, “I’m a journalist. I need to be really good at understanding people at a first glance.” 

Lois’ words sink deep in your chest. When not even five minutes later Jon shows up in the kitchen with a drawing of the two of you, you feel like you could burst. 

You’re not content — because this might just be the closest thing to happiness you’ve ever felt. 

The kids insist on seeing you do a somersault when Conner tells them you’re some kind of acrobat, and you comply — multiple times. They’re lucky your training taught you how not to be dizzy a long time ago. At some point the girls somehow manage to convince you to participate in their princess tea party and paint your nails with glitter pink nail polish — to which you make sure to let them know that the colour choice was exquisite. They tackle you to the ground in response. 

You don’t know how you make it to dinner. You just know that you, Clark and Conner are barely awake, while the other adults are clearly very relaxed, and the kids are unfortunately still very lively. “Where do they even find the energy?” you mutter to Kon, head lolling to the side, “I led war campaigns less exhausting than this afternoon.”

“Thank God they’re going away as soon as dinner ends,” he croaks, head falling over your shoulder. “Another hour of this, and I would’ve melted to a stain on the floor.”

Thankfully, the kids and their not-very-helpful parents go home before midnight — when it’s time to open up the presents, Conner says. You narrow your eyebrows at him, as you’ve always opened presents on the morning of the 25th, but he grins. “You’d really say no to opening the gifts earlier?”

You sigh, “I should’ve known it was just because of your non-existent discipline.” 

The one who has more presents out of everyone is, of course, Jon. Not knowing what he liked, you just bought everything you thought to be appropriate for a kid his age, and he ended up with a dozen presents just from you. Clark insists he didn’t need so many things and begs you to return at least a couple of the presents, but you shrug. “Really, man, it’s nothing. I’ve eaten dishes more expensive than all his gifts combined.” 

Jon Sr. nearly cries at the sight of the new tractor wheels — who up until now were hiding in the barn — saying something about ‘limited edition tires’. You know nothing of the tractors fandom, but if he reacts like this, then he must’ve liked it. 

Your gifts are more for circumstance than anything — you’re not bummed about it, because for people like you, Christmas gifts are mostly useless aside from the thought being put into them. You’ve already got everything you want, and when you don’t, you just buy it; so you thank the Kents for their gifts, put on Martha’s handmade, way-too-big wool sweater even if it has a Superman symbol on the back of it, and — for once in a while — smile. You don’t budge when Ma Kent sees the brand label on her coat and complains about it being too expensive, nor when Conner takes the last one of his gifts with your name on it. 

“I thought the Santa picture was your present,” he jokes, hinting at the 20 bucks you had slipped him that day at the mall to take a photo with the Santa impersonator. You narrow your eyes at him, “When have I ever been stingy, habibi?” 

The present ends up being a new leather jacket — one he has complained for months that was too expensive for him to buy. Considering that the one he has now is kept together by mere shreds and dreams, you thought the splurge worthy — after all, your job has always been the one to buy, never to look at the price tag. 

Kon looks weirdly struck by the gifts. He laughs anxiously, even if you know he’s wanted it for months, then slings an arm around your shoulders and pats your arm nervously. The Kents are still opening their gifts in the background. “It’s beautiful, thank you– it’s just, um… I didn’t get you anything.”

That’s weird — he’s been making hints at your present for weeks. Still, you shrug, “Don’t worry about it, habibi.” you shuffle a little closer to him, curling under his arm as Jon rips open another LEGO set, “I’ve already got pretty much everything.” 

By the time everyone decides to go to bed, it’s past one am. 

Jon’s passed out on the carpet, both Pa Kent and Lois are wine drunk and you and Conner are definitely too sleepy and warm not to pass out any moment now. Uno is long forgotten on the coffee table, and it’s only when Jonathan almost falls down on the way to the bathroom that Ma Kent makes the right decision to call it a night. 

Clark takes Jon in his arms, careful not to wake him up, and pats you and Conner over your shoulders, “This bugger can sleep with me and Lois tonight — the two of you have had enough babysitting for one day.” 

Kon nods appreciatively, but you’re way too tired to even make a sound. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so mushy — you’re completely slumped over his side, legs over his, chin hidden in your jumper. He pats your knee as Ma helps Pa to their room, and Lois starts snoring on the other couch. “C’mon– let’s get you to bed.” 

You let out a non-committal noise, arms slinging around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder. He flushes at the feeling of your hot breath against his ear. “Okay,” he squeaks, “okay.”

He slings an arm under your thighs and hoists you up in his arms, trying not to focus too much on the way you completely melt in his hold. On the way upstairs, he catches Clark as he goes back down to the living room to get Lois, and he sends him a very pointed look. “The door stays open,” he reminds him. 

Conner groans a little, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, dad.”

Clark grins, patting him on the back as he disappears down the hallway. “Nighty night.” 

Somewhere along the stairs, you lightly protest against his neck. “My present,” you murmur, “where is it?”

He freezes. “I told you, I– I don't have one.”

“That’s a lie.” you yawn, “You talked about it for weeks. Said you were makin’ something.” 

Kon stutters, “I– you wouldn’t like it. I’ll just find you something else when the stores open again.” 

“What’s wrong with it?”

With the way you’re talking so low into his ear, and you’re pressed so close to him, he not only has to focus not to tumble down, but also to suppress the actually embarrassing boner he’s no doubt about to pop. “I– um– well– it didn’t really turn out like I wanted it to.” Truthfully, it did, he just didn’t expect you to get him something so expensive, and now feels obligated to look for something you may actually want. 

Your hum is one of pure aversion. “I want it, though,” you’re whining — he’s never heard you whine before; how could he deny you the gift, if you’re talking like this? “I told you, I’ve already got pretty much everything one could buy. I don’t really care about the gifts — I like the thought behind them.” 

He sighs, “Okay,” he relents, “just… try not to look too disappointed when you see it, yeah?” 

You get under the covers and onto the bed as he rummages through his wardrobe, only to take out a box roughly wrapped with bright red paper, with little snowflakes on it. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I don’t really know how to wrap gifts.” 

Honestly, you didn’t even notice it. You unwrap the thing and open the box, and are met with… well, nothing could’ve really prepared you for this. 

In the box, there’s two teddy bears — one is wearing a little black jacket and the Superboy suit, the stitches unsure and a bit uneven, and even has little round sunglasses glued onto his head. The other is wearing what you suppose to be your Batgirl suit, clad of the black cowl and even two inclined stitches in black thread over the forehead to indicate a frown. Given that the teddy has a smile on its face, it looks like an evil smile more than anything. 

The cutest thing? They each have a magnet on the inside of their paws. Meaning? They can hold hands. 

You stare at the plushies, their hands attached, as Conner rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Listen, I– I know they kinda suck– I asked Ma to teach me how to sew, but clearly, not even she knows how to make miracles happen– I just figured that a plushie was probably the only thing you never had growing up and– and I couldn’t find plushies of us that I actually liked, and none of them held hands, and–”

“Conner,” you interrupt him, setting the plushies aside.  

He stutters. “I– um– yes?”

You take him by the collar — by the way, you should really stop doing that — and throw him on the bed. He lands with a soft huff, and immediately blushes when he notices your face above his. “Thank you.”

The kiss you leave on his lips is soft, warm, and absolutely everything he’s ever dreamt about and more. It feels like it lasts hours and at the same time not enough, and when you part to cuddle against his side, he thinks he could die a happy man here and there.

He’s right. You’ve never had a plushie — not as a kid, nor growing up, as Bruce had figured you were already too old for them. His are the first teddy bears you’ve ever owned. He just did the unthinkable — bought you something you didn’t even know you were missing. “Conner?”

He startles — he always plays a big game, but you know that this is probably the first time he’s ever shared a bed with a girl before by the way he went rigid as a tree trunk. “Do you want to know what habibi means?”

His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “Yeah.” 

“My beloved.”

Yes. He could totally die happy just now. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Call me when you have a free moment, I miss you :( met Damian yesterday and I must say, he’s kinda an asshole, but he also kinda reminds me of you. Ugh, I miss when you were so little. Bruce is being Bruce. Tim’s grouchy and Alfred’s barely talking to B. I’m slowly losing my sanity. PLEASE call me!! XOXOXO💋

Dick Grayson is the only guy who could put a kiss emoji after an ‘xoxo’ after spending hours teaching you texting etiquette. He's the only one who talks about your thirteen-year-old self like you were five. He’s also the only one who has reached out from your family after Damian’s arrival and your leave. Cassandra, who’s in the Alps with her girlfriend as of now, probably doesn’t even know about Damian.

Beside you, Conner’s still snoring, sprawled over both his and your side of the bed. He’s holding in an iron grip the plushie of you, who instead looks like she’s plotting his murder, while her Superboy companion sits politely on your bedside table. It’s still early in the morning, around eight am, but no matter how late you go to sleep, the clock that your body has by now assimilated will never let you sleep in. 

You stare at your brother’s message until it’s burned in your retinas, the brightness of your phone screen way too high for the dim darkness of the room, wondering just how they spent Christmas Eve. Last year, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Falcone’s operations; the year before, it was the Court of the Owls, and so on. Something always comes up to keep you entertained during the holidays, and from the way you left your father knee-deep in the Black Glove thing, you’re sure that this year was no better. The only difference was… well, Damian. 

The worst part of the message is that you know that Dick would love the Damian you once knew. The nicer one, who sometimes complained about having to eat vegetables and missed his nanny, and hadn’t hardened under the League’s training. 

Having to leave hurt — because you knew that that side of him would have disappeared in a matter of years, but you had no choice. It was either that, or eventually having him murder you and live the rest of his life in grief and guilt. Unsurprisingly, Dick’s message goes unresponded, but he keeps the texts coming as he notices that you’ve read it. 

Good morning!!  Is it a good moment to talk now? No pressure tho Just wanted to know how things were going over there  I had gotten you a present but I’ll wait for you to come back to give it to you It’s safely stored in my apartment for now!!! No demon gremlin hands can reach it :D

“What time is it?” Kon groans beside you, woken by the sound of the notifications. He yawns, rolling over and lazily draping an arm around your waist, still high off of sleep. “Too early. That’s what time it is.” His hand gently goes over your eyes, and he whispers, conspiring, “Go back to sleep…” 

He falls asleep right after, but you can’t find it in yourself. You pry his hand and arm off of you, phone still in hand, and make way for downstairs. 

It’s freezing outside. You put on Conner’s jacket just because it was the first coat over the hanger, and end up slouching over the beaten up bench that sits in the Kents’ backyard. Dick’s voice is chippy but anxious when he replies, not even letting the first ring go through completely. 

“Hiii!” 

You sigh, “Hi, Dick. Merry Christmas, I guess.” 

He reciprocates with the same glee of before, not letting your tired tone tune out his happiness. “So, how’s it going over to the Kents? Rumor has it that Martha’s cooking might just be better than Alfred’s.”

Conversation flows easily with him — it’s a gift he has, really, to somehow put everyone at ease with a chuckle and the flash of a grin. Sometimes you envy how simple it is for him to make friends, or be appreciated by everyone without having to prove anything. What makes him stand out from you, Tim or Damian, is that Bruce openly chose him. He didn’t just sneak into his life like Drake, and wasn’t with him just because they happened to be biologically related. 

In theory, you should hate him — God knows how much your mother does — just for this ability of his to attract everyone and anything at any given moment. In reality, you’re not spared from the Grayson pull. 

“I met your brother,” he says casually, like he’s trying not to break a really thin line that he sees between the two of you. “He’s… surely something else.”

You hum. “He’s always been like that.” Sure, he had his moments of kindness, but your mother’s influence has always been far too condemning for him. Who knows — maybe your father will be able to do some miracle and at least make him refrain from killing. 

The silence on the other end is deafening. “Um, I… Tim asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. He said he kinda blamed you for Damian’s attack — and he also understands why you wouldn’t tell Bruce about him.” 

“It’s okay.” You're being as honest as possible, “I tried to kill him once or twice too. It’s only fair that he thought I had put Damian up to this.” 

You can hear the nervous taps he’s giving the back of his phone. “Okay. Cool, cool– um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but B kinda gave Damian an ultimatum. He said he won’t be permitted to wear the Robin suit until he learns to calibrate his violent instincts and you come back.” 

Now, that’s surprising. Your father, taking just a step back from his own words? Pigs must’ve learnt how to fly by now. “Did he?” you don’t sound like the usual you — more like a softer, kinder version that just needs some reassurance. Dick asks himself just what is being put into Martha’s food to make you so open to dialogue, and how much she’d want to spill the secret — just to him or Alfred would do. 

“He did,” he muses, “he also said that if you want to come home today — even if just for lunch or dinner — Alfred will be adding a plate.” 

The backdoor opens with a creak. Ma Kent steps out in the snow, bundled up to the notch, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees you. “Oh, dear,” she mutters, “is that your father on the phone?”

She’s got this weird expression on her face, like she wants to beat him up or something. When you tell her it’s actually your brother, her mood brightens up significantly. “Oh, golly, that’s so nice of him. May I have a word with him?” 

A bit weirded out since you don’t know what she could possibly want to say to him, you just pass her the phone, and are surprised to find out that Martha Kent and Dick Grayson actually know each other — at least, from the way they speak like they’re old friends. Thirty minutes and three shared cake recipes later, suddenly the Waynes are invited over for both lunch and dinner, and you have to hold in the biggest scream ever from leaving your mouth. God, she had looked like such a nice old lady — you couldn’t have known that in reality, she was plotting your downfall right in front of your eyes. 

You can’t tell her anything, because Alfred still taught you manners, and guests don’t fight with the people that host them. So you just let out a long sigh and don’t even say goodbye to Dick when the phone’s finally passed back to you and his chirping voice comes out the speaker. Why, Martha, why? You thought she liked you. 

She doesn’t seem to notice your turmoil, because she still smiles sweetly at you in that way she’s done the last few days and says, “I’m going to feed the stray cats down the street — would you like to come with me?” 

Just because she’s an old lady that you thought was nice up until now, and the cat food looks way too heavy for her feeble arms, you say yes. 

You’re still in your pajamas and Conner’s coat, but anyways, who’s going to judge you? The stray cats that live in a chicken house and probably are covered in fleas? 

There’s snow still falling — little flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin — and when you say there’s no one around, you mean nothing. No horns blaring, no police sirens, no scuffles. For all you know, Smallville could be Gotham City’s rural, polite reflection. 

“How are you liking the farm so far?” Martha asks you, her nose red from the cold. You get reminded again of how much different she is from the other old people you know — you’ve got this strange feeling of protectiveness towards her, mainly because she looks like she could break anytime by falling off the stairs. (Which, in total fairness, she probably would.)

“It’s quiet,” you reply, for a loss of a better word. You look around, noticing the lack of houses and buildings, and wonder just how it is possible that this old lady spent God knows how many years walking down his path and still came out of it unscathed. Were this Gotham, she would’ve had her purse snatched as soon as she got out of the house. 

The woman hums, “Sometimes they bring the kids from the town to see the cats that live around here, to see if any of them likes them enough to be taken home. I still haven’t had any luck, but I’m sure that some little fella is going to take a liking to you.” The corners of her mouth crinkle when she smiles, “You’re a really nice young lady, you know? No wonder why my Connie likes you so much. The two of you like to look though, but under all that act are two really big hearts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come with me.” 

The tips of your ears turn red, and it’s not because of the cold. You have decided — you don’t like the way the Kent women see right through you. It makes you feel like a kid who doesn’t know anything about life. 

The cats meow happily when they see her coming, exiting their chicken house to rub against her legs, despite the snow around her boots. “My, my,” Martha laughs, “calm down– she’s got enough food for every single one of you, no reason to be so needy.” 

The cats may be strays, but by no means do they look cold or underfed — quite the opposite, actually; some of them are positively chonky. Martha and the old ladies of the neighborhood — which in Smallville means everyone living in a five-mile-radius — must take great care of them. They rub against your boots as you refill their bowls, purring loudly, immediately attacking the cat food placed there. 

You watch, amused, as they devour their portions, until one little kitten stumbles out from the group, belly full, and tries to climb up your leg. You let her because honestly, she’s so full of food that she’s funny, all wobbly and unsure with her claws. Only when she falls down and meows angrily do you pick her up and scratch the back of her ear, cooing at the way she purrs loudly. 

Martha smiles warmly. “That’s Muffin. We found her on the other side of the road, and the other cats adopted her instantly.” 

You look Muffin in the eye, and think that it’s a stupid name for a cat. She blinks back and tries to lick the tip of your nose. Ma Kent laughs, her gaze going to some place behind you. “You know,” she mumbles quietly, pointing to the open field behind you, “that’s where we first found Clark.” 

You turn to look behind you as Muffin tries to climb up Conner’s coat, and you think that if you try hard enough, you can see a crater covered in snow. Martha’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, he was such a sweet kid. When we found him, he barely reached my knee — he didn’t even know how to properly walk, and didn’t know how to speak our language.”

Oh, God. You know where this is going. If the Kents didn’t have a farm, and Lois didn’t like writing, you think that Martha and her would've gone off to study psychology. “I…” her voice breaks a little, and you think that while you may have thought of her as a fragile being, she had done nothing to prove to you so. She’s done nothing but be up and about these days, and waking up at eight am on Christmas morning just proves your point. This is the first time you hear her sound so unsure. “Parents aren’t necessarily always right. Me and Jon had the luck to raise him almost completely, with all our wrongs and rights. And we have made mistakes, but I like to think that in the end, we raised a good kid.” 

Of course they did — that kid ended up being Superman. “It takes a lot to take in a kid who has already been raised — and in a way that some would consider wrong, at that.” She holds her scarf just a little closer as Muffin falls into the hood of your jacket, “I haven’t known you for long, but in the little time I have, I can say that I think your dad did a wonderful job. Parents… we often make mistakes. And I’m sure that like every one of us, yours did many. But I think that where there’s good will, no harm is ever meant.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I know you’re probably angry at your dad, but Clark told me that he loves you — and a lot, at that. But– would you be willing to give him a chance? If not for yours or his, for the sake of this old lady who hates seeing parents and their own children fighting? If you do, I promise I will give him a long lecture about his treatment of you in your place, so that he doesn’t have any more reasons to get mad at you.” 

Muffin licks the back of your neck. You sigh. “Well, I guess I can’t be mad at him forever, can I?” 

Martha comes up to strangle you in a hug before you can even think it though. “I knew you were a good kid,” she whispers. 

You pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, “I– okay, okay, Martha, careful with the hugging now–” 

Muffin ends up attaching her claws to Conner’s coat when it’s time for you to leave, meowing unhappily at your attempts of pulling her away. Ma Kent just laughs, “Maybe you should take her with us,” she says, “we usually leave the cats here unless they really want to go home with us. Sometimes they go back here, other times they stay. That’s mostly how we find them homes.” she raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Think you can handle a kitty?”

You look at her dead in the eye. “I have an alligator back at home.” 

She pauses, then blinks. “An… alligator?”

You nod. “I found him in the sewers a couple of years ago. Fed him raw chicken until he got too fat and started clogging the water tubes. He now lives in a pond in our backyard and is probably waiting for a moment of distraction from my father to eat him.” You trail off. “Um, his name is Alsimna. It means obese. I just thought it would be funny since, you know… he’s kinda fat. No hate though.” Now that you think of it, you kinda miss him. He started brumating just last month. 

Martha purses her lips. “Muffin is very lucky she already had a name before you came around.”

When Conner wakes up, it’s because of weird cries coming from downstairs. Noticing your absence on the other side of the bed — and feeling like a virgin left alone the night after the deed, even if said deed was just a little peck — he shuffles down the stairs, hair a mess over his head and Batgirl plushie still in his hands, and gapes at the sight of you — elbow-deep in soap water over the sink — and Ma Kent, giving instructions and whatnot. 

The sink meows. Kon sputters, finally catching your attention. “Um– what you got there?” 

You hold up a drenched black kitty, who protests loudly in your hold. “Muffin.” 

“She had a couple of fleas,” Martha explains to him, “we had to wash her.” 

He gasps in utter betrayal. “You never let me keep any of the strays I brought home!” 

“Because they all escaped as soon as you were out of the room. This one followed her all the way here.” 

Muffin snuggles in the warm blanket you wrap her in, purring in your hold. Kon glances at her warily, “You… adopted a cat?”

“Well, she’s cute,” you grumble. 

“Don’t you have an alligator?” 

“I do.” 

He blinks. He stares at the kitten. “Muffin, you’re gonna get eaten really soon.” The latter meows like she has already accepted her fate. 

Your father arrives a few hours later — and in a typical show of Wayne dramatics, he's chosen to use the private helicopter instead of the more reserved Zeta-Tubes. Jon gapes at the sight of the aircraft as Clark deadpans, “Did he really have to take out the company helicopter?” he mutters to you. 

You shrug, “He does it for longer distances. Be happy he didn’t take the private jet.” 

Under Jon’s constant nagging to go see the helicopter from up close, it’s Clark that puts his jacket on to go greet your family, his son bundled in warm clothes just behind him. Muffin stares at you from the kitchen counter like she’s reevaluating all her life’s decisions, and you can’t help but agree with her. Conner pats your arm encouragingly, “C’mon, it can’t be that bad, can it?” he whispers. 

He’s wrong, because your father has taken Dick’s invitation like a family reunion — even Alfred is here. And Damian is standing behind him, glaring at Bruce’s back, dressed like a little lord coming straight from Hell. He doesn’t say anything to anyone — just gives you a pointed look and bites the inside of his cheek, looking downright tired of you. In response, you just stare back until he decides to go bother Alfred instead. 

Tim has a black eye and a cast. You notice after Dick pulls away from hugging you, and you raise a brow at his injuries. “The grenade didn’t hit you that hard, did it?” 

“He tried to kill me two more times,” he grumbles, “I was asleep both times.” 

You pat his shoulder, “Get used to it. He does that a lot.” Tim is undoubtedly his obstacle in achieving your father’s complete and undivided attention. He’s also Robin as of now and, well… you grew up with the myth of Batman. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian wanted to be Robin so badly he was ready to kill Tim for it.

Dick leans his head to the side, looking amusedly at Damian, brooding in weird quietness. You can’t help but think that such silence is not typical of him — normally, he would already have insulted the house three times and the carpet at least six. Instead he’s standing there like a selectively mute kid who has decided that farmers out of all people are not worthy of hearing his voice. 

At your inquiring gaze, Dick coughs into his fist. “Bruce apparently told him he’ll let him have a week as Robin if he doesn’t speak unless he has something nice to say for the whole day,” he whispers, barely containing a laugh. “He bargained two.” 

“Incredible,” you utter, “he bargained with father?” you can’t help the tiniest bit of pride from seeping into your chest. 

“Bruce was at his wit’s end,” Tim grunts, “he didn’t even know which way to turn anymore.” 

Dick grimaces. “Yeah, uh… it’s been a rough few days. First, he had to figure out what to do with Damian, then you fled the Manor, then Tim wouldn’t talk to him, then it was Alfred who didn’t talk to him…”

He blinks at the way you and Drake look at him. “What?” he asks innocently, crossing his arms. 

“Well, you’re the only one who isn’t angry at him, cowboy,” Tim explains, tapping his hip with his good hand. 

“Yeah, what happened to ‘sibling solidarity’ and all that crap you always talk about?” you inquire. 

Grayson chuckles nervously. “Look, guys, I– he looked so sad.” 

Your eye twitches. “You know what else looked sad, Dick? The Discowing outfit.”

At his outraged gasp, Drake nods. This might just be the first thing you two have agreed on since the dawn of time. “Yeah, dude, it was horrendous. I think you don’t wanna pick sides just because you know that fighting with Bruce will get you into that suit again.” 

“I can’t believe you guys are ganging up on me!” Dick shrieks, not getting everybody’s attention on the three of you just because the Kents are particularly sensitive to the awkward tension in the room, even as they speak quietly with Bruce — who still has to say a word to you. He had tried to smile when he got inside the house, but once he saw Dick come hug you, he had preferred to stay in the living room than the kitchen, letting you three have a moment. 

Muffin meows loudly as she falls from the countertop to the padded chair near it, and you hush her by taking her in your arms. Tim gives you a look, “Did you get bored of Alsimna? I’m sure he’ll be so heartbroken he’ll try to eat you for the tenth time.” 

The kitten tries to scratch him as she hisses, and his shoulders slump. “Why do you all want to kill me? I’m a nice dude!”

“Bro.” 

Conner comes from behind him, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, man? You look rough.”

He’s coming from upstairs — where he just changed — and as soon as he sees him, Jon sprints towards him, shy but so eager to meet your other brothers since Damian didn’t look too appeasing. Kon pats his head, “Jonno, um– these are Tim and Dick.” he gestures to you, “They’re her brothers.”

“Adopted,” you and Drake remind him simultaneously. 

Jonathan nods, blushing as Dick excitedly greets him, then decides to just switch one shelter for another and goes to hide behind your legs, holding tightly onto your sweater. Considering you and Conner are the most prone to playing with him, he’s gotten pretty attached to you these past few days, so much so that you’re wondering just where you’ll find the space to hang all the drawings he’s made you. Grayson squeals, “OhmyGod, you got adopted!” he takes his phone out and snaps countless pictures as Jon tries to disappear behind the back of your thighs and holds onto your pinky for safety, “Babs’ never going to believe this–”

You don’t miss the way Damian glares at you from the other side of the room, where Bruce’s still talking to Clark. He continues glaring nonetheless. 

Lunch is awkward at best. Martha and Alfred try their best to attenuate the tension, but considering that Damian still refuses to utter a single word and both Lois and Pa Kent are still nursing a hangover, there’s not much to say. The silence is mostly filled in by your father and Clark discussing League matters, or by Jon blabbering to you and Conner. The only ones who look fully comfortable are, in fact, your butler and Ma Kent, who have been discussing the best recipe for casserole as soon as they saw each other. 

You’re not sure how you ended up sandwiched between the only two kids in the farm, but here you are. If looks could kill, little Jon would probably lie six feet under the ground dismembered and with a stone with THIS WAS DAMIAN AL GHUL’S DOING written over it. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice his staring, as he’s far too immersed in stuffing his face with food to care. 

At some point, Damian mutters, his voice so low that you’re the only one who is able to hear it, “Kan taeam 'umiy 'afdal,” mother’s cooking was better. 

You spare a look at him. “'Ant taelam 'anaha lam tatbakh tilk al'atbaq abdaan, 'alays kadhalika?“ You know she never really cooked those dishes, right? 

It’s true. You’ve seen your grandfather cook a few times during campaigns, mostly dishes from the times of his upbringing, but Talia usually reserved that duty to servants, only to pass the plates full of food as hers. It’s not about thinking you’re above it  — it’s about skills, because your mother truly sucks at cooking. Damian should feel lucky that he’s never had to experience her cuisine. 

Bruce watches the interaction quietly — he’s yet to see Damian speak so softly. He can’t hear what you guys are saying, but as long as no fight breaks out, he’s not going to intervene — he wouldn’t want to shatter the already feeble peace that is in the air. 

Still in Arabic, Damian grumbles, “You left me.” 

“It was either that or having them let you kill me,” you answer earnestly, your mother tongue slipping easily from your lips even after so many years of disuse. “I made sure to leave the road to being heir paved just for you. I would’ve never left you alone in that place without being sure that you wouldn’t have had to suffer what I went through.” He had mother at his beck and call. Surely, she would’ve never let what happened to you happen to him. 

Your brother stays silent at that, his eyes downturned to his untouched plate. It’s only when you’ve finished eating, and the table’s cleared, and everyone’s outside playing with the snow that he approaches you, his ridiculously big coat on. 

You’re going back to the strays’ chicken house, having begged Martha to please rest a bit after promising you would’ve gone to feed them in her place. Muffin is toddling around your feet as you tie your boots and ask, “And where do you think you’re going?” 

“With you,” he grumbles, avoiding your eyes. 

You hum, “I’m sure Jon would be happy to have someone his age to play with.” 

He scoffs the same way you do, you notice. In fact, you’ve noticed he looks like you more than he ever did, like the distance and the resentment did nothing but convince him to take your mannerism and make it his. “I’m not a kid,” 

“Sure you aren’t,” you pat Muffin’s head and take the cans of wet food Ma Kent left out for you. “Come if you want, but don’t try anything.” 

“Father doesn’t even let me use kitchen knives,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “and even if he did, you wouldn’t let me do anything.” He probably already knows that he was able to hurt Tim just because of the surprise factor and the literal grenade he blew up in his face. 

Bruce frowns when he sees you and Damian walking away on a path alone, but he doesn’t say anything nor tries to stop you. You two probably have a lot to talk about, he figures. Maybe even more than what he has to tell you.

Your brother is silent as he follows you down the road, his mouth leaving puffs of warm breath in the air. Then, “You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come with you. You just assumed I wouldn’t have.” 

He hasn’t sounded this small ever since he still cried about Fatima’s death, but you haven’t seen him in years, you think. You might not know this Damian at all. “Mother had great things planned for you,” you tell him. “Considering you never backed down from any of her plans, I just thought you liked the idea of becoming the Head of the Demon.” 

The chicken house isn’t far — a couple of cats have already spotted you, and carefully throttle in the snow to greet the two of you. “After all, you came here just because Talia wanted you to, no?” 

Dumbstruck, Damian blinks, “Is she not our mother anymore?” 

He says our like it’s an absurdity to ever think that the two of you don’t share the same parents, even if figuratively. Like he’s ready to start calling her Talia just because you do. You shake your head, “Call her what you want. You don’t have to stop doing anything. Just give father’s way a chance, will you?” Now that he’s here, you know that Bruce won’t let him go anywhere — and who knows, maybe it’s for the best. 

The cats all get around the bowls as you pour the wet food in, but Damian seems to barely see them. “You tried to kill me.” 

You snort. “I didn’t try to kill you — I threatened you, it’s different. I talked big, Damian, but I would never hurt you.” You relent, “Well, not in a beyond recovery manner. Do you still breathe funny from when I broke your nose?”

He pinches it. “I do.” a dry sniffle, “You have replaced me.” 

At this, you pause — turning to look at him, weirded out. “What do you mean? You’re the only little brother I have.” 

His arms cross, and his eyebrows twitch. “Back there with that dimwit — John or whatever. Even with Grayson and the other guy. You came here to forget about me — you didn’t even tell father I existed.” his voice breaks a little, but he fixes it before you can address it, “I thought you would’ve. I didn’t know I embarrassed you.” 

“Damian,” you breathe out. “You have to understand, you don’t embarrass me. I love you, and nothing changed when I moved to Gotham. Hell– I tried contacting you. I sent you birthday presents even when you didn’t want them.” 

He shuffles his feet. “Mother said it was best not to see you. That you weren’t a good influence, and that you probably were looking for me out of obligation.” 

You purse your lips, rising to your feet and holding a hand over his shoulder. “I wasn’t,” you whisper softly, “Damian, you’re my brother. My name was the first ever thing you said. I… I didn’t want to leave you there, but after what you did to Ravi, I… I just thought that I needed some time for myself, and that you’d do great with the League — it’s what Talia had you for. I believed you wanted it, too.”

“I didn’t want it,” his reply is so little that suddenly you’re eleven again, and he’s four, and he keeps seeing the limp body of his favourite nanny in his sleep. “Not if you weren’t there for me.” 

A silence follows. And just when you start wondering what you should do — hug him? Offer some comfort? You haven’t been a big sister in ages — he speaks again. “I, um… mother convinced grandfather to have me participate in the Year of Blood.” 

Your blood runs cold. “…What?” The ringing in your ears is so loud that you’re barely able to hear your own words. This can’t be an ugly joke, and you know it, because nothing in his body tells you that this is a lie. And not even Damian knows how to hide a lie this good — you don’t even know how to, hell. 

He swallows the knot in his throat. “Yes, mother had suggested not to tell you. Said you… would’ve reacted badly.” 

You don’t know if you kneel because your legs are too trembly to keep staying upright or to look him in the eyes. “The Year of Blood is a once in a generation thing. They… they had no right to– to make you…”

“Mother told grandfather that since you ran away, yours wasn’t valid anymore– that I was heir, and I had to do it to prove that I was at or above your level. Grandfather was sure that you’d be back one day, but told mother to do as she wished — that as soon as you were back home, you’d fight me for your rightful place.” His eyes are teary, and you open your arms so that he can fall into your embrace as you both try not to cry your eyes out. “I… they had me slaughter hundreds, sister. I couldn’t even see clearly when I got to the end of it.” 

You hold him tight by the back of his neck as he smothers his cries in your shoulders — you wonder if the last time he cried openly like this was when you were still with the League. In less than a month he’ll be ten, but he’s almost smaller than Jon, and you are once again reminded of how much Talia and Ra’s have failed the both of you. 

In a nicer world, maybe you would’ve been brought up by your father and a nicer Talia, and instead of constantly trying to fight each other to death you’d have common squabbles about whose turn it was to watch the TV. In this world, he had to suffer through the same thing that had you killed by your own hands. 

The Year of Blood will always be the longest year of your lives — one spent in blood, violence and tyranny, all in the name of Al Ghul. You lost count of how many temples you destroyed, how many armies you ruined, how many profanities for the sake of your place in the family — a place your grandfather had always insisted was given. And Damian — who’s still so short the top of his head barely reaches your bellybutton — had to go through all of that, presumably not long ago. 

The way goes from here. You know it’ll be hard — Damian will still have to learn how to refrain from killing those who deserve it — but you can work with this. You can learn how to be a big sister again. 

When you come back to the farm, both you and Damian’s eyes are swollen and red from all the crying, and even if he tries to hide it, you know Bruce just took a sigh of relief to see that you both still have all your limbs attached. Your brother’s holding onto the hem of your coat like he’s scared you’ll leave him again, and the tension in the air lightens up when Damian starts talking almost normally — that is, avoiding saying insults by biting his tongue when they threaten to slip out. 

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Dick whispers to Tim. The latter facepalms. “Or just communication, bro.” 

It’s just later in the afternoon when Damian’s too busy petting Muffin — purring all over his lap — that your father finally takes you aside to talk. 

He looks a bit embarrassed, and it’s what tells you that Martha’s already had a talk with him. “I didn’t know you resented me for not finding you,” he murmurs quietly. He doesn’t say sorry, and he never does, but you guess that it’s fair, since you never say it either. 

You shrug, crossing your arms. “Well, when your father can find a random kid perfectly fine on a common Tuesday but couldn’t find you for six years, that’s what could happen.” 

“But I looked for you,” he presses, “I really did.” You drum your fingers on the countertop of the kitchen. “You have to believe me.” 

After a moment, you say, “I do,” because maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you just overestimated his abilities with the League and undermined the Shadows’. 

Your father presses his lips into a thin line. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened when you were with the League — I never pressed for that. But when it comes to things like Damian’s existence, you still can't feel like you have to lie to me. I’m your father. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”

He opens his arms, gesturing for a hug much like you did earlier with Damian, and even if a bit reluctantly, you still let him pull you in. He’s as warm as you remembered him to be, and his heart is thrumming underneath your cheek. You should probably tell him everything — about how you and Damian were raised to be against each other, the Year of Blood, Ravi — but you can’t help but think that this is neither the time nor the place. He still loves your mother. After you tell him, he will never see her in the same light again, even after all the times he’s forgiven her. But your father deserves a quiet Christmas like this one.

“We should do this more often,” he hums, kissing the crown of your head. “I don’t even remember the last time we hugged.” 

You do. It was after a particularly rough run-in with the League about a year after you’d moved to Gotham, which had left you with a broken arm. You’d always refused his hugs before, but even now, you think that you really needed one at that moment. 

He brushes your hair carefully, like he’s scared to run over knots and annoy you. “And I know I always tell you how much you look like your mother, but sometimes I forget that for you it might not be a compliment.” he kisses your forehead tenderly, “But I do it because for me, it’s a big compliment, because you’ve always looked like what I had dreamt for her and me — for us. And with you here, it’s like we almost got it.” 

That night as they leave to go back to Gotham, Bruce presses an USB in your hands. “I should’ve given you this a long time ago,” he mutters, “I didn’t because I figured you didn’t need to see your father being emotional. But maybe you do.” 

You spend hours on Kon’s beaten up computer that night, earphones on as the latter begs you to just go to sleep, but you really can’t find it in yourself — because this feels like a chapter closing. Because there’s a file log for every day your father has spent looking for you.

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 01 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce looks uncomfortable in front of the camera — cowl off, but Batman costume still on. He’s got scratches on his face and his eyes are bloodshot; he looks as distraught as possible. “Um,” he starts. “Alfred suggested I start these video logs to show the kid after… if we find her. He says it would be good for… establishing a bond, even if I’m not quite sure.” 

He coughs into his palm, and goes off to explain. “It’s… March 23rd, five am.” you know that date — this was taken the day after you met him for the first time, years ago. “Talia could be lying, but even if she did, there’s a kid out there that possibly thinks I’m her father, and could be wondering why I’m not there to protect her.” 

He sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows. “Alfred agreed that she had my mother’s eyes after looking at the bodycam footage. I can’t tell if he’s biased — it’s been so many years since she’s been gone that I almost forgot how they looked, and neither the portraits nor the photos ever got them right.” 

He tries to straighten his shoulders, maybe trying to look a bit respectable again. “But we’re looking for the kid, that’s it.” His lips purse, and he nods towards the camera. “And that’s all for today.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 16 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“April 7th. A robbery downtown happened this morning — everyone got out safely, but the Mad Hatter seems to be involved.” 

Bruce already looks done with this video log thing and it shows — more than two weeks of nothing, when he usually has these types of cases closed in a matter of days at worst. He’s not even sitting on the chair, too nervous to properly stay put. “The kid’s still nowhere to be seen. The Shadows know how to do their jobs, but we already knew that. We’ll keep looking for her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 45 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“Oooh, you're still doing these things?” 

Robin — Jason — pops into the frame, waving his hands frantically. A board with the few pictures your father had managed to cut out from the body footage are spread out with mostly incoherent clues and traces, now. “Hi, lil’ sis! I think Martha’s a nice name!” 

“Yes, yes,” Bruce, a bit embarrassed, tries to shoo him away. “Um– Jay suggested we give the kid a name, because calling her ‘the kid’ was apparently getting exhausting for him. But…” his eyes drift off to the distance, “naming her Jane Doe felt a little too impersonal, and like we already believed her to be dead.” 

His shrug is one of someone who doesn’t want to admit that he’s still thinking about the past. “And, well, since me and Talia once talked about eventual baby names — I figured, Martha it is.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 105 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce’s slouched on the chair in front of the monitor, looking as rough as they make them. “July 6th. We found nothing — like always.” He moves to shut the camera off. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 273 LOCATION: BATPLANE, MALAYSIA USER ID: B01

“A hair follicle.” 

Bruce is holding up a ziplock bag like it’s his ticket to heaven. “The paternity test came back positive — and considering the cameras that depict Martha as part of the leading group for this operation, it’s a given that it’s hers.”

He sighs in despair, his head dropping in his hands. “…We just have to find her. Like we’ve tried for the last…” a peek at the screen, “273 days.” Jason sticks out his tongue to the camera from behind him. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 365 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“It’s been a year.”

He’s gotten far more desperate as the days go on — because this time, it’s not only his detective abilities that are being put to the test, but also his fatherly ones. He purses his lips, “We’ve got nothing. Sometimes a hideout gets leaked, but when we get to the coordinates, Martha’s never there — they’ve already moved her on to another base, and it keeps on going like this.”

He conjoins his hands. “She’s the living proof that if the League doesn’t want me to know something, then I won’t.” a moment of hesitation, “This also means that Talia made me aware of her existence just to mess with my brain, probably.”

He looks dead into the camera. “But the search goes on, I promise. I won’t have a moment of rest until I find her.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 559 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B04

The video opens with Jason. “Um,” he mutters awkwardly, leaning to look at something out of frame. “Bruce got hit with Fear Gas.” 

A scream echoes in the distance — your father, no doubt. He winces. “Dick and Alfred are holding him down. But I, uh, know how much he cares about these logs, so I’m making today’s entry for him.” he looks over to the date signaled on the computer’s screen, “September 23rd. Still no Martha. Still looking for her.”

He tries to smile at the camera, even if it comes out a bit wobbly. “And if you’re watching this– hi, Martha.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 785 LOCATION: BATPLANE, ETHIOPIA USER ID: B01

“Jason’s dead.” 

You knew this was coming — the short video logs before this one, talking about how he was looking for Jason and the Joker had told you everything you needed to know. Bruce’s eyes can’t be described as anything if not completely empty. A few long minutes of silence pass before he does anything, and when he does, it’s just moving to shut the camera off. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 786 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B00

“Master Bruce is grieving. We all are.” 

Alfred stands poised like he always does, eyes a little red. Behind him, the Batcave looks like a mess. “I’m doing the video log because he’s refusing to take a break from looking for the Joker. I fear I’ll be filling in for him for quite some time.” 

He looks behind him to the broken board with MARTHA written on it with bold, red ink, all the evidence that your father had accumulated in two years scattered all over the ground. “I know how much this matters to him. I’ll clean the mess up later. I wanted to make a new entry first.”

He stares at the calendar. “May 18th. Still looking. No new evidence.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 834 LOCATION: BLUDHAVEN USER ID: B02

Grayson is a nice change of scenery from Alfred, but he looks even more awkward than Jason had. He’s sitting in front of the camera, but the angle is different, like he just sat the computer on his coffee table and called it a day. He’s not even in his Nightwing suit. “A kid just guessed Batman’s identity,” he says, looking completely lost. “Anyways, I’m just filling in for Alfred since he sprained his ankle yesterday and is on bed rest.”

He tries to fix the camera angle, and instead makes it even worse — you now have a perfect visual to his knees, and he has to lean onto them with his elbows to be properly seen. “It’s, uh, July 5th.” he bites the inside of his cheek, “Not sure if B’s got any new evidence, but I know he’s still looking.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 857 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“I’m sorry for disappearing.”

Bruce looks thinner — unhealthier than he is usually, somehow. “I– uh– didn’t stop looking. But no new evidence.” he leans his head to the side, resting it on his knuckles. “I saw Talia the other day. She said her father had forced her to lie to me — to tell me that she had lost the baby ten years ago.” 

His eyes flicker. “I’m not sure I believe her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 976 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B05

“My name’s Tim Drake.” 

Drake looks far too small and scrawny for the Robin suit he’s wearing. He does so with pride anyways. “I’m the new Robin. Bruce got shot and Alfred’s too busy operating him, so I’m doing this. November 24th. Still looking. New evidence: Ra’s said that Lady Shiva’s training her.”

The fact that he’s reading this from his notepad confirms your suspicions — he has written his whole log in like it’s a presentation. “Bruce’s determined to find out what for. I think the answer’s a bit too obvious.” 

There’s 1105 more video logs — one for every day you weren’t there. It takes you days to get to the last one. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 2081 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“This will be the last video log.”

Bruce’s smile is happiness tinged with something like deep, deep shame. “September 4th. We have stopped looking.”

He sighs, hands on his sides. “Her name’s not Martha. It feels a bit weird not to call her that now, but I’m just relieved we found her.” his eye twitches. “Well, she came to me. I didn’t find her. I couldn’t.” 

He bites his lip. “I’ll have to retrain her. Teach her not to kill and tell her not to use long-term damage techniques. But at least we found her.” 

When his eyes look into the camera, they’re shimmering with tears, and his voice is shaky. “I’m just happy she’s safe now.”

GOTHAM CITY — A FEW MONTHS LATER.

Bruce decides to open Wayne Manor’s pool for the first time since Jason’s death in the summer. 

It’s July and Gotham’s sweltering. You can’t even get out of the house without ending up with all your clothes drenched with sweat — hell, even Muffin, who loves the Manor’s gardens more than anything else, is refusing to go outside. Henceforth the decision to have the pool cleaned out and ready for use once again. 

Damian looks at the water gun Bruce has handed to him. “Father, I didn’t expect this from you, of all people. Aren’t we not supposed to kill?”

“It’s not for killing,” you snort from beside him, stretched out on your belly on a sunbed with your new bikini already on. “It’s for throwing water at people.” You point towards the guy carefully putting sunscreen over your back, “Feel free to use Conner as a test drive. He’s not going to get hurt anyways.” 

“Hey!” he protests, pouting, “I thought you liked me!” 

“I do,” you muse, “but Damian’s thirst for murder has to be contained in some way, habibi. Right, Dami?”

His gun’s already loaded with water when he points it straight in your boyfriend’s face and shoots. When he doesn’t even blink at the spray of liquid, your brother tsks and goes back to Bruce. “Father, I’ll need a more appropriate model of this device. The kryptonian isn’t hurt in any way, and we need to fix that.” 

“Why’s he always so intent on murdering me?” Kon grumbles, spreading some more sunscreen over the back of your thighs. “I didn’t do anything to him.” 

“That’s common around here,” Tim calls out from his own sunbed. “You’ll get used to it.”

Beside him, Cassandra nods. “He starts respecting you after the fifth failed attempt, don’t worry.”

“Fifth?” Conner repeats. “He’s tried at least eleven times by now!” 

She shrugs. “Skill issue, if you ask me.” 

Dick swims up to the corner of the pool in his unicorn inflatable donut. “Are you guys sure you don’t want to take a swim? Come onnn. How is it that we’re always whining about the weather and then refuse to take a dip?” 

You all jump on him out of pure spite — his poor unicorn soon emerging from the water, unlike his owner, who’s now being held under the surface by Cassandra. “You really need to learn when to shut up, Dick.” 

Overall, it’s a nice day. It’s your first time at a pool for fun rather than training, and you end up finding it quite relaxing. Bruce lights up the barbecue for lunch, and Alfred — still in his suit and with somehow no trace of sweat on his body — makes sure the lot of you have enough water and drinks for the whole day. 

At some point after eating Alfred’s snacks, you lie beside Conner with a book, resting your head over his chest as you read. Damian — who has spent the entire day trying to find a water gun with a different caliber, not even knowing that they don’t make water guns with calibers — whistles innocently and goes to take a seat on the sunbed beside yours. 

“So, Kent,” he starts, “has my sister told you that the woman’s consent is the only thing needed for marriage in our culture?”

Conner blinks at him, then down at you. “Is that supposed to scare me off?” he whispers, trying not to have Damian hear. You pat his chest, “Don’t worry, I’d never force you into marriage.”

Your brother grumbles, “Well, did she tell you that they carve the man’s eyes out if he looks at another woman?” 

Now a bit worried, your boyfriend looks down to you again. Your hum is a non-committal one. “Oh, yeah, that I’d do. I’ve already got the Kryptonite spoon ready.” you glance up at him — a warning. “Just in case, of course.”

Conner gulps. “Just in case,” he repeats, blanching. 

Dick grimaces at the conversation. He turns to Tim and whispers, “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… help him?” 

He bursts out laughing. “Help him?” he hisses. “Dick, look at him– that guy’s right where he wants to be.” 

Grayson deadpans. “I fear our sister and her mother have the same taste in men.” 

Cassandra nods. “Guys who let them bully them into a relationship. We understood that years ago, Dick. Welcome to the club.”

congratulations! you've reached the end of the fic :) have some memes:

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When you raise your drink, he latches on to the straw before you could even react, the reaction time and instincts of a superhero being something you could never dream of overpowering. All you can do is let out a cry of defeat as he finishes the last of it without remorse.

"Phai! You meanie."

His smile is anything but apologetic. If anything, seems like the bastard is quite happy with himself.

"I thought your job was to save people, so why are you tormenting me?"

A muscular arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the white-haired's side, personal space completely eliminated as he rubs his face against yours. "You're the only one I can torment, and I love it."

"Whatever. You owe me."

"I'll make it up to you, sunshine."

You pout but forgive his transgression regardless. Conversation flows, topics jumping around quite a bit, you mentioning something you wanted to read, recommended by your coworkers, Phainon talking about how he's going to meet with Mydei soon to train for an upcoming marathon; all mundane little things.

However, tranquility is a luxury when you're dating a Chrysos Heir, because the morning is cut through with an invasive buzzing on his watch. A sound that indicates he needed to be urgently summoned, despite how inconspicuous it was.

A flash of annoyance crosses his face, eyeing the watch like it was a minor inconvenience.

Well, to him it was. To you, it was a signal of distress.

"You should probably get going," you say, and there's a small pout on his face when he looks up at you.

"I should. I'm sorry for having to leave like this."

"It's fine, just another day being a hero. Text me when you're done, okay?"

He nods, handing you his card from his wallet. "Get yourself another drink before you go."

"Phainon, I can pay for it-"

"I was planning on buying it myself, but I'll probably be busy."

You press a fleeting kiss to his lips as a farewell, one that he burns into memory. "Stay safe, Phai."

"Please," he scoffs, "the bad guys are going to regret it when they see me."

You roll your eyes and swat away the kisses he blows at you.

Keeping his promise, you return to the café to buy the exact same drink he had stolen, browsing the pastry catalogue mundanely while pretending like your larger-than-life boyfriend's presence wasn't dearly missed. Maybe you should buy something sweet for him to enjoy when he comes home.

That afternoon, the news report of another successful Chrysos Heirs mission in the city of Janusopolis. The anxiety you've been nursing all afternoon is only quelled when you receive a text from Phainon, the notification ceasing the uneasiness in your gut.

My Hero <3: I'm okay. I'm on my way home now. My Hero <3: I love you.

~ TWO:

Your eyes scan the passing crowds every so often, keen on the lookout for a certain white-haired and his blond friend, both of whom are quite hard to miss, yet you can't find them, each face as unfamiliar as the last. Until-

"Boo!"

Hands slam down on the back of the wooden bench you were sitting on, and you jolt in surprise, a small yelp slipping from your lips.

"You-" you guffaw, turning around to see the entertained grin of your boyfriend.

He even has the nerve to laugh at you.

"Phainon!"

"I'm sorry, sunshine, I didn't expect you to be so scared!"

You rise from the bench with crossed arms. "Can't blame me to be scared when you slapped my seat so hard, you should hold back your strength sometimes."

"And you can't blame a man who is just excited to see the love of his life." He rounds to embrace you in a tight hug, pressing you right into his warm, sweaty body that had just ran the distance of a marathon. You complain about his grossness into his skin, hitting his shoulder, but he doesn't relent, not even as Mydei approaches him with an unimpressed expression.

"Let me go before Mydei thinks you're a clingy leech."

"He already thinks I am a clingy leech," Phainon murmurs, but lets you go reluctantly, allowing you to take a step back and turn to the tattooed man.

"Hey, Mydei. How was your run?"

"It was good. We both set a new personal best."

"Mine was faster."

"By one second. You just pressed the 'end run' button sooner than I did, you cheat."

Phainon gasps, but you cut the bickering short. For a pair of superheroes who are powerful enough to destroy a city with one punch, their mentality regresses into that of schoolboys when they're around each other.

"Save the accusations for later. Still good to come over for dinner, Mydei?" You ask.

"If the invitations still up for grabs, then I'd love to."

The white-haired hero butts in. "As long as you admit that I was faster than you!"

You gently flick Phainon's forehead and he cowers at the sudden pain, pouting at you like you had done something worse. "Stop instigating fights, Phai, or I'll make you fend for yourself while Mydei and I enjoy some nice warm meals."

"Fine," he wraps a tight- almost possessive, arm around your waist. "I'm starved, lets go home."

An annoying buzz slices through the atmosphere, coming from the wrist of both men.

Another call.

Phainon glances down at you like a kicked puppy, an apology already brewing in his eyes.

"It's fine," you say before either of them could say anything. "I understand completely."

"Sorry, Y/n, this couldn't have come at any worse of a time." The blond mumbles, eyes down at his watch.

You glance up at your lover, your hand coming to hold the one thats around your waist. "I'll still cook. As soon as you're done, come home and eat, okay? You too, Mydei, and if Castorice is available too, invite her as well."

"What if it's really late?" Phainon asks, voice quiet and guilty.

"I don't care what time, just come home," you rise up to place a quick kiss against his lips before gently urging him to leave.

What you expected to be a night filled with company is spent alone, with nothing but the sound of food cooking and music occupying the empty space. You worriedly wait for any sort of message from Phainon, glancing every so often at your phone as you plate, as you eat, as you clean, as you wrap the leftovers.

Nothing ever comes. Not until near midnight, after you have spent the whole night trying not to tug your hair out.

My Hero <3: Coming home now, sunshine. My Hero <3: Are you still awake?

You: yeah, i'll wait up for you guys.

My Hero <3: We'll be there in 20! My Hero <3: Castorice says she'd love to come too.

You: perfect! what about hyacine?

My Hero <3: She needs to go home :(

You: that's fine, i'll see you soon.

My Hero <3: Thank you, my love.

True to their word, twenty minutes later, there are superheroes sitting on your dining table with heated up meals in front of them. Fatigue clings to your eyes, and you're actively battling sleep as you listen to the three chat, but you try to absorb the moment as much as you can, conversing with Mydei about the ingredients you used and the new grocery store that just opened nearby, talking to Castorice about Pollux and everything she might be up to.

They leave a few minutes after their plates are cleared, thanking you sincerely as Phainon walks them down and out of the apartment complex.

"I'll do the dishes," he murmurs softly, engulfing you in a hug from behind when he returns.

"Are you sure?"

"You've had a long day, babe, go sleep."

"Not as long as yours."

He scoffs. "Sunshine, please, I know you're any moment from crashing."

You laugh, deciding to relent. "Alright. Come to bed soon, okay?"

A pair of lips press against your forehead, his arms squeezing you tightly for a moment before letting you slip away.

~ THREE:

There's a low whistle behind you. Phainon's appreciative gaze is what greets you when you turn toward the source of the sound, and like a magnet drawn to metal, his hands snake around your waist. His touch is gentle, reverent, treating you like delicate china and your breath hitches when his fingers graze over a sensitive spot.

His smirk only grows when you shudder against him.

"I almost don't want to leave now," he murmurs before pressing dainty kisses along the shell of your ear. "I mean, it'll be fine if we cancel now, right?"

You stop his hand from going snaking down any lower, giving him a weak glare through the mirror. "You wanna cancel our anniversary dinner because you can't keep it in your pants?"

"My sunshine looks so beautiful, I wanna show you how you make me feel."

"After," you scold, going back to adjusting your hair in the mirror.

"Fine," he doesn't detach from you, glued to your back like a koala, except he towers over you and keeps admiring your reflection with hearts in his eyes. Every so often, he places a kiss somewhere he can reach, and you placate him with a ruffle of his hair before going back to getting ready.

Music plays softly from your phone, and he hums along intermittently, vibrations thrumming along your back.

"You good there, babe?" You ask after a completing your final touchups.

He blinks slowly, "yeah, just admiring the view."

"Ready to go?"

"Ready whenever you are, sunshine."

You shiver at the feather-light kisses he presses along your jaw, giggling at the ticklish sensation while trying to create some distance between you.

"I can't help it, just can't believe you're mine."

He's throwing hearts with his eyes right now, and if you turned your head to the left slightly, you would have seen the tenderness brewing behind those blues.

The walk out is surprisingly peaceful. Phainon keeps his hands to himself like a respectful gentleman, save for the touch on the small of your back, and the way he knelt down to help put your shoes on. You don't comment on the small kiss he places on the side of your knee just before he stands to his full height.

The night is going seamless, but what goes up must come down, because only a few minutes after you place your orders, a buzzing from his wrist interrupts the warm ambience.

Both of you fall silent, and the candle flickers vividly as his face contorts into a series of emotions. It looked like it physically pained him to leave you.

"Go," you urge. "Before it's too late."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

He can't leave you, not when you look so perfect and you've both been looking forward to this night for a long time. That's awful, you don't deserve that at all.

His watch still buzzes frantically as his heart fights with his brain.

"The night was only just beginning-"

"Phainon." You say decisively. "Go."

Reluctantly, he pushes out of his chair with a look that says he clearly does not condone this, even as he places a farewell kiss on the back of your hand, even as he powerwalks out of the restaurant, already unbuttoning his suit. Still, his gaze lingers at you, savouring the sight before he goes and punishes whoever has stolen him away from you.

You lean back into your chair with a disappointed sigh. Once again, Phainon was whisked away away from you, and now it was just you in this vast, bustling restaurant, a candlelit dinner with no one but yourself.

How sad.

When the waiter came to check up on you, pointed look in the direction of Phainon's chair, you told him something important came up. You hated the way humiliation creeped in your ribs as you tried to save face, defending your lover with no hesitation, even if the empty spot on the other side of the table told another tale.

You really did try to insist that it was important, the fate-of-a-city-hangs-in-the-balance kind of importance, but the waiter murmurs a conflicted 'alright' before coming back with your food and an extra glass of refreshments with more side dishes- on the house.

The night ends far earlier than you expected, walking out of the restaurant with his dish packed away securely in your hands.

You wait for him when you get home, methodically getting unready with soft music in the background, fitting the big bouquet he got you that morning into the largest vase you could find, killing time with mundane activities that you were not anticipating for your anniversary.

When sleep tugs at your eyes, and he still hasn't come home, you bite your cheek nervously. Him working so late was not a rare occurrence, but the ache has never been easy to quell, not when the only remedy is blindly trusting that Phainon will come home in one piece and he'll be beside you in the morning when you wake.

You: going to bed now, text me when you see this You: love you, stay safe

It's 3am, nearing 4 when Tribbie's portal sends him back to his living room, Khaslana form cramped in the coziness of your shared space, the outermost feathers of his wings just narrowly missing the delicate decorations you've placed around the space. Weeping golden cracks close, jagged edges soften, halo and weapon disappearing into nothingness, it's Phainon who turns off the nightlight you set for him.

It's Phainon's tired footsteps that trudge against hardwood floors as he makes a beeline for your shared bedroom, kicking his clothes off layer by layer on the way, discarding tailored fabrics in the hallway as his heavy heart aches.

It's Phainon who breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you, lying peacefully asleep on the bed.

Your back is facing him, body snug under the covers as he quietly crawls over to you, hands reaching for whatever he can grab as he lays behind you, wrapping you up in his embrace.

He feels the way your chest slowly expands against his, how warm your hands are from being nestled under the covers, how adoration thrums through his veins, even as he does something as simple as holding you.

Despite his drowsiness and the way his body begs for sleep after such a demanding mission, his heart is restless.

Se sits up and leans over you, admires what he can of your expresion through the little light that filters through the windows.

The love of his life that he has to, devastatingly, let down more often than he'd like.

He lowers his lips to your cheekbones and places a lingering kiss on your skin. He presses more, and more, and more, hoping to engrain his love into you, to let it seep through your pores and into your veins so you know the magnitude of his devotion.

Titans, he adores you, what would he do without you?

It's unfair that life has to take him away from you. Vaguely, his mind rewinds to the night, how quickly you masked your disappointment when he was being summoned, how you tried to reassure him with that unsure smile of yours, how he never wanted to leave you at a table alone again, even if you are the one pushing him away.

You really are just too selfless.

Isn't that what he loves about you, though?

"Phainon?" You rustle, whining softly. He freezes, face hovering mere centimetres from yours as you turn to him, "is that you?"

He gulps, guilt settling in his gut at disturbing you. Yet, he can't bring himself to feel completely bad about it, especially not when its your voice he gets to hear, raspy from sleep or not. "Yeah, sunshine, it's me."

"What time is it?"

"Late. I'm sorry for waking you."

Your hand comes to his face, awkwardly patting around before they find his cheek; the exact spot you love cradling, and he sinks into you like sand. "It's okay," you murmur, "I'm glad you're safe and sound."

"Yeah," he whispers, "I'm glad, too."

"How was the mission?"

"Went off without a hitch. But our date-"

"Right, your food is in the fridge, got takeaway."

"That's not what I was trying to say. I'll plan another one soon to make up for it, I promise. No distractions this time."

"Rest first, Phai," you scrunch your nose, "and wash."

"Do I smell?"

"Like a superhero. Yeah."

He smiles, and he's sure you can hear it in his words. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"No, I don't like it," you murmur bluntly before retreating back under the covers, tucking them up to your chin.

"I'll go clean up then."

"M'kay."

With one last, very long kiss to your temple, he pushes off you.

~ FOUR:

Phainon is already awake when you open your eyes, the vacant bed beside you already made, but the low hum of the coffee machine whirring tempts you away from your cozy spot. Bare feet hitting wooden floors, he greets you with a warm, loving smile, exercise shirt hugging the planes of his chest and arms.

"Good morning!"

You mumble back the pleasantry, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. "Where are you headed?"

"I've been called to HQ, incident reports… something like that. Thought I might as well make a morning run from it."

"What'd you do?"

He makes this guilty looking face. "Might have accidentally destroyed a few top floors."

"Phai!"

"It's fine! No one was hurt because evacuation went smoothly, besides, it was for the bigger picture- don't give me that look! Nevermind, I made you coffee." He sets the steaming cup before you with a kiss to your forehead. "Oh, also, I'll reschedule our anniversary date at another place, maybe a rooftop restuarant this time?"

"Are you sure you'll make it this time?"

The hand that was playing with your hair stills, and you feel the atsmosphere shift. You feign ignorance as you take a sip of your homemade drink that was exactly to your liking, the method perfected years ago by Phainon.

"Sunshine?" He begins, voice abnormally sweet.

"Hm?"

"Is there something you want to say to me?"

"What do you think I have to say?"

His cheek twitches. "If you're upset at me, you can say it outright."

Phainon watches you set down your cup, turn to face him, and throw your arms around his neck, standing up on your toes to reach his height. He looks you right in your tired eyes, momentarily glancing down at your lips that are jutted out in a small pout.

"Do I look mad?" You ask.

"You look like the love of my life," he's about to lean in until you push at his chest, stopping him.

"Don't try appease me by flirting. If you're going to book an anniversary dinner, make sure it will go uninterrupted. I understand emergencies are inevitable, but I just want to have you to myself at least once."

He nods, snowy hair bouncing enthusiastically. Of course, he promises, but you're getting tired of over-exercised promises and redundant oaths.

Still, you love him too much. You'll always love Phainon.

"You're forgiven, you should probably get going now," you straighten his collar and pat down his broad shoulders.

"I should but… can I get a goodbye kiss first?" His blue eyes shine with want and his hands firmly hold your hips, pulling you to his chest. He cranes his head to your height, chasing after your lips for something you won't grant.

"Don't, I've got morning breath," you warn.

"I don't care," he murmurs, mouth slotting against yours, drinking the air from your lungs.

When you try to make space, he simply follows, selfish and heedless when it comes to you. He'll keep taking everything you give until he's satisfied, and even then, Phainon is no better than a bottomless pit of greed, trying to press himself closer to try and mould your atoms together.

When he parts, your heavy breaths circulate between you, head beginning to spin.

He leaves a few minutes later, with a promise of a date and catching up on all the kisses he's missed.

Goodness, was he serious.

The coolness of the sheets beneath you are a stark contrast to the buzzing beneath your skin, the heat above you completely encompassing and wild as Phainon's mouth is everywhere. From your left, you hear the rustle of sheets, his hand bunching the fabric into a tight ball as his other hand runs up your leg, folding your thigh to sit snug against his hip. The delicate fabric of your outfit falls with the action, and when he parts, a string of saliva connects your tongue with his.

When you joked about a second round of dessert, you were not expecting him to drag you out of the restauarant, speed down empty streets so fast that you were holding on to the car door for dear life, and begin slobbering all over you in the elevator. Pressing you up against the mirrors, he began before the doors could even slide shut, hands all over your face, waist, hips, ass- anything he could grab.

Between kisses, hot licks, and bites, are confessions are love being etched into your skin. As you unbutton his suit, hands snaking underneath his lapels, he glues his mouth to your neck, panting.

When you sit up, he follows, obedient when you sit him on the mattress instead. His eyes unsubtly glance down at your half-exposed chest as you crawl over his muscular body, drinking up the view of his sky blue eyes that are now cloudy with desire. Gone was the heated beast who wanted nothing more but to devour your skin, replacing it was a compliant lover who shuddered with every sinful touch.

You lower yourself over his crotch and he rolls his head back, grunting.

"My hero is so handsome," you coo, brushing strands of his hair aside, revealing more of the flush that's crawled to his face.

"Ha- calling me that now ? Does it delight you?" He chuckles, hiding his flusteredness behind light jokes, but a drag of your finger along his sternum and abdominals has his muscles clenching.

You hum. "It does delight me to see you so susceptible, because I'm the only one who can have you like this. Right?"

"Yes, the only one," he whines.

"What about Khaslana?"

"What about him?"

"Is he mine too?"

He moans when you lick a stripe up his neck, helping you take off his shirt as he nods desperately. "Yours, I'm all yours, Khaslana too, all of me has been yours and will always be yours."

You smile. "Good boy-"

His hands tangle into your hair, pulling your mouth right to his. His tongue is quick to dart out and brush against your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.

A shrill buzz cuts through the air.

Phainon loudly sighs as he glares at the watch on his wrist. You fix the neckline of your clothes and roll off him, watching him violently tap some buttons on the screen to silence it. Then, he leans over you once again, arms on either side of you as you're lying against the sheets, giggling at the featherlight kisses he places along your mandible.

"Ph-Phai, you should probably leave now."

He grumbles. "One more kiss."

One kiss turns to several more, until you're pushing him by the shoulders, urging him to leave. Which he does so very reluctantly, grumbling under his breath the whole time.

You go to bed alone that night, an unsettling premonition stewing in your gut as you tuck the covers over your chin and try to ignore the heavy void beside you. When you wake, Phainon's side of the bed is completely unblemished, cold to the touch, no indication that he had ever been here. A call of his name is met with silence and any indication of life beside you is nonexistent, not even a message on your phone from him.

Maybe the mission ran longer than expected.

You refresh your messages and news constantly, obsessing over any update or new notification like it'd be the salvation you were hoping for, an indication that you were approaching the light at the end of the tunnel. You pick at your skin and bite at your nails and run your hands through your hair, but nothing gets him home faster, nothing grants you the sight you truly wish to see.

Even as you stare out at the Okheman horizon on the balcony, mentally praying to the stars for him to come home.

Stillness is something that does not exist while living with Phainon, so in his absence, silence beats louder, time moves slower, and stagnation exists in the periphery, slowly closing in.

After two nights of missing his warmth and buzzing around the apartment with anxiety, there's a heavy knock on the front door. Your heart spikes, head spinning to the source of the sound. In the haven of your apartment, living room walls coated by cold sun rays, atmosphere occupied by the thrum of your running dishwasher and the video playing from your laptop, the voice you've been waiting to hear slices through it all.

"Sunshine? It's me."

The journey from the couch to the front door is completed in a blink, finally remembering how to breathe when you see him.

"Phainon," you whisper.

He's completely worn-down, eyebags prominent, shoulders slumped, but affection still gleams on his face and he's not beyond a gentle smile of reassurance.

"You're home."

He slumps into your open arms, finding no issue leaning all his weight against you. His snowy hair brushes against the side of your neck as his arms bring you as close as humanly possible, the fatigue weighing him down like iron.

"Let's get you to bed, superhero."

Unceremoniously, he collapses onto the mattress with a grunt, sprawled over the covers.

"Do you need water? Some snacks, maybe?"

He shakes his head and simply reaches for your waist.

"I just need you," he grumbles, pulling you down to him.

When your body is flush against his, head underneath his chin and legs intertwined, he sighs in relief and a ghost of a smile makes its way to his face. For the first time in two days, the silence is peaceful, and not a stark reminder of who is not here with you, of who cannot stay by your side all the time.

You press your face closer to his neck and listen to his heartbeat

~ FIVE:

It's almost ridiculous how the universe goes out of its way to spite you.

While you sat pretty and patient outside the Okheman Archives Museum, waiting for your artifact-enthusiast of a boyfriend to show up, your excitement for the date was stomped out before it could even begin. Especially after how hard you tried to get tickets to this highly rated 'Amphorean History in Ceramics' exhibition, which you would have never attended if it weren't for him and his passion in appraisal.

You even put more consideration into your work outfit today so it'd be gallery-appropriate, and you had been looking forward to this tradition of sorts for the whole day… only for a call from the man himself to dimish it.

"Don't cook tonight, okay baby?" He yells over the phone, wind whipping through the speakers. "I'll be home before dinner, we can get takeout- your favourite, and watch that movie you've been meaning to see, okay?"

"Okay."

"Sunshine… what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, Phai, just-" you pinch your nosebridge and swing your bag over your shoulder. "Be safe out there."

"You know I will. I gotta go now, I love you."

"Bye."

"Wait, you can't leave without saying-"

You disconnect the call and shut off your phone… though not without a follow-up message.

You: i love you

Tucking the device into your bag, you begin the trip back home with the setting Okheman sun beaming into your eyes, and the wind blowing hair out of your face quite violently; just what you need after your superhero of a boyfriend cancels on you for the nth time.

When you found out about Phainon and Khaslana being one person, you were understanding and accomodating at first, and obviously freaked out that the nerdy, innocent-looking, puppy of a man you called your boyfriend had the ability to move planets. Despite how surreal it was, you knew what you were staying for. Missing nights, waking up to him not being there in the morning, sudden calls- none of these were foreign nor out of your expectations.

You kick a stray pebble in the road with a little too much force, and wonder if you were being too childish.

Can you even justify being upset with him when lives were at stake?

But how can you be second to the whole world in your own relationship?

Phainon barges through the front door at 8:30pm with bags of takeout, dumped haplessly on the kitchen counter in favour of clinging to you, wailing, acting nothing like his stoic, superhero counterpart.

"Don't ever hang up without saying 'I love you' back!" He whines loudly, rocking you back and forth in his arms while you took the food out from their containers. "A message won't suffice, and I don't care if you're upset at me, you have to say it every time, or I'll call you until you pick up!"

"And if I don't?"

"I'll call you over and over again, until it's your voice I hear and not your voicemail that tricks me every time."

"Won't the other heirs get mad at you if you pull that stunt? Especially Lady Aglaea?" The white-haired falls silent.

A quick raise of your eyebrow declares victory, but he's not satisfied at all, so he tugs you into his chest, keeping you there while demanding him to stop suffocating you in his pecs. It wasn't until he made you promise him that you'd never hang up on him again without an 'I love you' that you were finally set free from his iron grip, gasping for air.

Immediately, he's by your side again, big, blue eyes shining down at you. "Can you say you love me?"

"Right now?"

"Well, in my humble opinion, you should always love me."

Good grief. You roll your eyes and grab a plate. Unfortunately for you, he is the man that has your heart in a merciless headlock.

"I love you, Phainon."

~ SIX:

The Titans were testing the bounds of your strength.

After all this pent-up frustration that had nowhere to go, who knew that disaster striking in your own home city would become the be-all-end-all?

The day began with a long stroll to start the morning when all of a sudden, a bang to your right was heard, followed by the crumbling sound of concrete. Phainon had shielded you immediately, tugging you into the safety of his chest until it all went quiet.

Chaos erupted a split second after.

Cars beeping, people screaming, pushing others on the pavement, all running away from the settling debris and smoke that drifted into the clear Okheman skies. Your own heart began racing, but through it all, you could still make out the sound of Phainon's watch urgently beeping.

With the disaster right before him, you wondered why he wasn't making an immediate break for it.

Until you realised it was you he still tethered to, hands on either side of your shoulders, trying to guide you to safety by urging you to follow him. What on Amphoreus was he doing?

"Phainon! Stop worrying about me!" You exclaim, prying his hands off you. "Go! Go now!"

"But I need to make sure you're safe!" He insists.

"I'm fine, but there are people who aren't. They need you!"

"I also need to be with you!"

"How are we having this conversation right now- go!"

His eyebrows furrow even deeper, "at least let me escort you out of the block. The other Heirs can manage without me, c'mon."

"No, Phainon!" You shriek, heart dropping to your feet when you see a civillian free-falling from the top of the high-rise; mere seconds away from a gruesome end while everyone's beloved superhero was still standing in front of you as stubborn as a mule.

Khaslana wouldn't get to him in time, even with his inhumane abilities, it was a losing fight, and you could possibly be the reason someone's life couldn't get saved in time-

A flash of glowing red catches the victim, snatching him from the air. Following suit, a trio of superheroes on a rocket, soaring through the sky and destroying larger pieces of debris.

You heave a sigh of relief, thanking Mydeimos, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon mentally.

"Deliverer!" Mydei bellows, his roar echoing through the streets and effortlessly reaching where you and the man he was calling for stood.

Finally, finally, Phainon makes a move in the right direction, turning around with a sour expression on his face.

"Go," you push at his back. "Go!"

When you get home, you slump against the door and sink, exhausted. The security guard downstairs asked about your safety before informing you that the Chrysos Heirs already subdued most of the chaos, now left to chase down the organisation that started this.

'Thanks to them, we sleep better at night' he cheered with a dip of his hat before the elevator doors closed.

Your throat is still sore from how hard you had to yell at Phainon. The itch at the back of your throat persists, forcing you to think back to how unmoving Phainon was. Even while within distance of the incident, it took a fearsome cry from Mydei to finally get Khaslana moving.

Has this… ever happened before? Have you ever been the reason Khaslana was too late to save someone?

All the times his watch buzzed yet he didn't move a muscle, eyes shining so brightly with guilt as they bore into you as if you were the one physically affected, like the time after the café visit, at your anniversary dinners, just then- you slam your empty cup into the sink.

Are you hindering his duties?

Khaslana enters your apartment through Tribbie's Infinity Gate.

The portal whooshing open in the middle of your living room, and out from the frame, steps the magnificent hero; a melting pot of gold, divinity, and terror. To you, he is none of those things; you look at him and see the love of your life who reserves his softest of smiles for you.

He hovers his way over to you.

"You okay? Not hurt anywhere?"

You shake your head. "What about you? How did the mission go?"

"Good. Fast."

"Phai, you know I love you, right?"

"Of course I do, sunshine."

You bite your lower lip and cast your gaze down at your lap, a whirlwind of emotions swirling behind your eyes. His clawed hand gently prompts you to look at him, sharp fingers curled around your cheek, your smooth skin a humane contrast to the ragged edges that make Khaslana Khaslana.

Khaslana isn't exactly human- no, he's half-beast and half-demigod, but still, his heart aches at how sad you seem.

"Baby," he croaks, "what's wrong?"

"Do you think it's better if we parted ways?" You ask meekly.

He freezes, silence stretching tensibly. For one moment.

Two.

Three.

He scrambles to his knees, bones hitting the floor with a dull thud as his hands cling to your thighs. "Y/n, if this is a joke then it's not funny. Is this how you're punishing me? You know I'm-"

"It's not a joke."

He makes a sound akin to a wounded animal, superhero form crowding the space around the coffee table as his wings flutter wildly; a mirror of his frantic emotions, the ones he can't show as the stone-faced Khaslana. The grip he has on your thigh is very telling, the way he digs into your skin like an anchor onto a seabed.

"Why?"

"With the most recent call, the casualties that were just narrowly avoided…" you inhale deeply before exhaling shakily. "It's best that I don't interfere with what you do, maybe… there's just no space where we can work on top of your duties."

"Don't say that," he pleads, "you couldn't be more wrong, don't say things like that."

"It's true though."

"It's not, I need you. I don't care if there's no 'space' for us, I'll carve it out, I'll make it happen, I'll do anything as long as you're here with me."

"It's not just that, though. I-" you falter, tearing your gaze away to look past him. "I overestimated how strong I am, but all the time I've spent worrying over you has worn me down. I don't know how much longer I can go wondering if you're okay or not, this isn't healthy."

"Y/n," he whispers your name like it's sacred, "please tell me you don't mean that, please."

"I do mean it. I love you, but this is killing me slowly."

"Then- then I'll fix it, I'll do anything, just wait a little longer, please. I'll talk to the other heirs, they'll understand! Especially Teacher Tribios and Lady Aglaea, they'll find a solution-"

Your fingers curl around his. "There's no permanent fix, Phai. I'll just always be here, anxiously waiting to find out if you're still breathing or not, but Amphoreus needs you. These two things will never change, you can't fix one to save the other."

"So you're already giving up without giving me a chance?"

"I can't love both Phainon and Khaslana."

You're not happy with him.

He's heaving at this point, hands shaking where they hold onto you so tight, doubling over his own hiccups and sobs as his heart breaks at the idea of you not being in his life. Of not making coffee the exact way you like it. Of not turning off a light that you leave on so he doesn't have to stumble through the darkness when he comes home at awful hours of the night. Of not coming home to you after a successful mission, of never having his safe haven and comfort place again.

Your absence, an emptiness he'd have to shoulder for the rest of his life, grieving over what he could have done to stop you from leaving.

That's not acceptable to him. He doesn't want that reality.

"Please," Khaslana begs into your skin, head pressed into your lap like a beggar. "Stay with me. You're the one that matters to me most. I can't do this if you're not here."

"I'm making it easier for the both of us."

"You're being stubborn. You think losing you makes things easier for me? No way," he shakes his head aggressively, "not in this lifetime, or any other."

"But you're a hero. Everyone loves you."

"I don't care what I am to everyone else, I care about being yourhero."

"You are my hero, Phai, but- but maybe it's better to be one at arms length."

He jolts up, blazing eyes holding your gaze. "No, never at arms length, please. Not with you. I'll do anything."

Suddenly, his weapon manifests from glowing light. A smaller version of the claymore he iconically wields, but it still holds the ability to slice through Amphoreus' crust with little effort… and he holds it dangerously close to his right wing.

"W-What are you doing?" you ask anxiously.

"If it wasn't for Khaslana, would you stay with me?"

"I'm not asking you to choose between Phainon or Khaslana, please, put your sword away!"

"You're asking me to choose between Khaslana or you, and if Khaslana is the problem" his golden eyes darken, "then I'd kill him without hesitation."

Your breath hitches when he raises the weapon above his head. One swing and it'd slice the feathers smooth off.

Frantically, you encase his warm fist with your colder hands, a pathetic attempt at stopping him that he obeys nonetheless, keeping his hand raised and frozen while staring up at you, at your mercy.

As if you had the strength to overpower him.

"Phainon, stop, don't do this."

"I'm going to lose you otherwise," he whispers.

"Don't dismember yourself for me!"

"Then how else will you stay?"

"But Khaslana is your-"

"I don't care," he hisses, his fury beginning to bubble, threatening to spill over. It's not directed at you though, Titans, it could never be because of you. "If Khaslana is the reason you want to leave me, I'll destroy him."

"Don't do that!"

"What other choice do I have?"

You bite your lip. "I won't go. I'll stay."

His wings flutter. "Really?"

"Really."

"But what about your-"

"I'll stay, Phainon."

The sword in his hand disappears and he all but collapses on you, torso thrown over your thighs as he sobs, the ache of almost losing you slowly dissipating as you play with his hair.

Every coax of your hand running along his back has him slowly transforming back into his regular form; wings shrinking back, hair turning back into a brilliant shade of white, the blues returning to his eyes only emphasising his sadness as he looks at you like you're the most precious thing he has.

"Never leave me," he whispers, voice raw while rubbing circles on your calf. "Please, I could never survive that heartbreak."

You don't say anything, just let him cry while slowly watching him turn back into the Phainon you know; the man that is yours and yours alone, but is draining your will to have.

His now-human hands wrap around your wrist tightly, bringing it up to his face as he desperately nuzzles into your palm, clinging onto whatever warmth you will spare. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

He chokes over his own sobs, tears falling onto your skin as your thumb collects some of the crystals, but his cries only worsen when you bring your other hand up to his cheek as well, cradling his face as Phainon holds onto your wrists with a vice grip, terrified you might slip away.

You:where are you!! >:( You: don't tell me you got swept away by another mission

You huff at your phone, obviously displeased as you shove the device into your pocket with more aggression than necessary. The nerve of this man! What happened to being punctual?

He has the tickets, after all, if he doesn't show up (again), you wouldn't even be able to get in!

"There you are!" You jump out of your seat and take long strides toward your white-haired boyfriend, arms crossed and eyebrows slightly furrowed, beyond hiding your annoyance. He's breathing heavily, and sweat coagulates at his hairline, covering his forehead in a slight sheen.

"Ow, ow, ow!" He yelps when your fingers pinch his ear. "I got really caught up at the bank, they were being so slow! Mercy on me, sunshine, please!"

You sigh, letting him go. "Alright."

Phainon smiles softly when you let him wrap an arm around your waist, bringing you flush to his side. "I'm sorry, are you mad at me?"

"It's fine. I was just afraid you wouldn't show up… again."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Don't say that. Remember what I said about false hope?"

"Sunshine," he frowns, that familiar ache in his chest persisting when you refused to even glance up at him. "Y/n, you know that I-"

"It's fine, Phai."

He would honestly rather you just stab him, a wound from Dawnmaker would be easier to mend compared to all the metaphorical ones you've been throwing at his heart recently.

You grab his hand, wrapping your fingers tightly around his. "C'mon, lets not waste any more time standing around."

Inside the museum, you keenly listen to every fact Phainon conjures as he points at random artifacts, humming deep in thought as he reads the engraved plaques near them. Even as you pass by exhibition after exhibition, he keeps spewing facts that even tour guides spontaneously join in and begin discussing with him.

All the while, you hold onto his arm tightly, nodding and humming thoughtfully with not much else to contribute, just thankful to finally spend time with him.

Phainon's just grateful you haven't ran away yet, putting extra effort into making sure you're entertained and not bored by some historic relics that you only came to see because of him. He had to do some of his own research beforehand, scrolling endlessly through wikipages, his poor teleslate beginning to overheat with how many tabs he had open.

But… anything for you, he surmises.

Every so often, his fingers ghost over the pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the ring is still there.

Truthfully, he hadn't gone to the bank, he went to the finest jeweller in town (per Aglaea's recommendation) and spent hours inside, navigating through dozens of rings just to find the one for you, and it had to be no less than perfect.

To say he got a little caught up was an understatement. By the time the velvet box was in his hands, he realised he only had fifteen minutes to dash halfway across downtown.

Could you really blame a man in love for trying? Especially after a recent scare, and how close he was to losing you, he was not going to repeat that mistake. The world may love Khaslana, but Khaslana loves only you, and Phainon will happily devote the rest of his life proving it to you.

she chuckles, "you should give plushienon a kiss to cheer him up!"

"don't call him plushienon, and i'm not kissing a toy!"

"aww, c'mon, it's just the deliverer boy, what's wrong with that?"

"it's embarrassing and juvenile!" you murmur, hiding behind the tufts of white hair.

"it's embarrassing to show the love of your life some affection?" she pouts, dramatising a pout. "this isn't even him, what will you do when it is the real deal?"

"fine!" you huff. "i'll kiss him!"

she giggles, satisfied. you press a fleeting kiss to his covered forehead, the fabric soft underneath your lips. you don't linger long, getting ready to sass cipher with a quip, but the words die on your tongue when you notice something unbelievable.

the small frown and teary blues that plushienon previously had have morphed into a beaming smile and bright eyes, the sudden change catching you off guard.

what is this elation magic- you swear he was crying before!

"little y/n, you look like you've seen a ghost! what's wrong?" cipher asks as she studies your expression with great amusement. "surely kissing him can't be that unenjoyable-"

you turn him around, "why is he happy all of a sudden?"

she begins cackling, her tail whipping. "oh my! i didn't know this thing was going to be true to life!"

"did you do something to him? you didn't use your trickery powers, did you?" you ask wildly, looking at him again to make sure that he was still smiling- and indeed he was. in fact, it seems as though he's grinning wider.

"this is brilliant! wow, i didn't think the deliverer's obnoxiously obvious affection for you would transcend into inanimate versions of himself as well!" the demigod is beside herself now, holding her stomach with tangible glee.

"hey! what do you mean affection? and obvious?"

"you'd find out if you just show him!"

"no!" you shriek, holding the big plushie to your chest now as your flustered cries get hidden by the bustling nature of okhema's markets. "i'm not showing phainon anything!"

an all-too-familiar voice pipes up from beside you. "why not?"

this is the worst day of your life. phainon absolutely can not see you holding a large plushie of him, and he can not know that you discovered it had the ability to change expressions as soon as you kissed its fabric-covered forehead.

cipher, however, had other plans.

"deliverer boy," she greets, "you have many fans outside amphoreus, did you know that? while i was in planarcadia, i found this!"

she gestures to the plushie that you have pressed against your chest. for a moment, the two stare at you expectedly. it is with great embarrassment that you reveal the item in your arms, unable to make eye contact with the white-haired before you.

"is that me?" he questions, "am i… crying?"

"isn't it so cute? wouldn't you agree, y/n?" cipher prods.

"i don't think it's cute because it's crying!" you murmur, trying to defend what is left of your dignity.

"so you think it's cute because it's lord phainon?"

"cipher!" you wish the ground could swallow you whole.

"anyways, what's more important is that y/n has found an interesting discovery by kissing plushie-you's forehead. why don't you show the great hero of amphoreus?"

you frown, the heat in your cheeks now unbearable. with a grumble, you turn around so that your back was towards the pair, not allowing either of them to see you peck the plushie's forehead. turning around, its frown has now transformed into a beaming smile, delight completely painting over its previously-woeful expression.

phainon is quiet for a moment and you brace for the worst, your heart thumping wildly in your ears as you wait for him to be offended or disgusted by your discovery.

instead, it is him who completely rips the carpet from underneath your feet.

"interesting, they've captured me scarily accurately…"

You are seven years old when you first hear this story and you do not think about it much. Seven-year-olds do not worry about death or love or the mysteries written on skin that has not yet appeared.

You think about apple orchards instead.

The imperial palace has extensive grounds, and your father's position as a high-ranking lord means your family has chambers here, close to the court. You have the run of the gardens when your tutors release you from your lessons. The apple orchard is your favorite place, the rows and rows of trees heavy with fruit in autumn, branches perfect for climbing in summer, blossoms like snow in spring.

Caleb is always there.

He is a prince, the third son of the Emperor, which means he has more freedom than his older brothers. He does not have to sit through as many state functions or memorize as many treaties. He spends his afternoons in the orchard, reading under the trees or playing with his wooden practice sword.

You are shy around him at first. He is older, ten to your seven, and he is a prince, but he has kind eyes and a patient manner, and when you climb too high and cannot get down, he laughs and helps you, boosting you onto his shoulders to reach the ground.

"You are brave," He sets you down gently. "Most children would cry."

You flush with pride and do not tell him you wanted to cry very much.

Mei comes into your life when you are eight.

Her family are retainers to your household, lower in rank but trusted.  Her mother serves your mother, her father serves your father, and now she is assigned to serve you. 

Mei is exactly one year older than you, nine years old with serious eyes and a protective streak that runs deeper than the rivers surrounding the capital. She finds you in the orchard one afternoon, crying under an apple tree because one of the palace children, a duke's daughter with a cruel tongue, called you a country bumpkin and plain.

"Who said that?" Mei's voice is fierce. "Tell me who said that."

You shake your head, hiccuping.

"It does not matter. She is stupid and her eyes are bad." Mei sits beside you, pulling you against her side. "You are not plain. You are my lady. Mine to serve, mine to protect, and anyone who says different is a liar."

You rest your head on her shoulder and feel the tears dry. There is something about Mei that makes you feel safe. Something about the way her arm wraps around you, solid and certain.

"Will you stay with me?" you ask, and your voice is small.

"Always," Mei promises and reaches for your hand. "Where you go, I go."

Caleb finds you both there an hour later, and that is how it begins. 

The three of you in the orchard, Mei's hand always finding yours first, Caleb's laugh bright as lantern lights, and you in the middle, not yet understanding what you are building.

You turn nine, then ten. Caleb turns thirteen, then fourteen. Mei turns ten then eleven, and she grows tall and graceful, her childhood roundness replaced by elegant lines.

You notice the way Caleb looks at her.

It starts small. He stumbles over his words when she speaks to him. He watches her when he thinks no one is looking. He brings her gifts, ribbons for her hair, a hairpin carved from jade, a book of poetry he claims he found in the market but you suspect he bought specifically for her.

Mei accepts these gifts politely, but there is distance in her manner. She does not blush nor simper. She does not gaze at him the way the court ladies gaze at princes.

She looks at you instead.

You are too young to understand what that means.

The years continue to pass. You turn twelve, then thirteen. Caleb is sixteen now, nearly a man, his shoulders broadening, his voice deepening. He has begun training with the imperial guard, learning strategy and swordcraft. He is good at it. Everyone says so.

Mei is fifteen now, and she is beautiful. You are not blind to it. The court notices her now, despite her lower rank. Men watch her when she walks through the palace gardens. Marriage offers have begun arriving for her family to consider.

She dismisses them all.

"I am not interested," she tells you one evening while she is brushing your hair in your chambers. "My place is here, with you."

"But you could marry well," you protest. "You could have your own household, your own…"

"I could." Her hands are gentle, working through a tangle. "But I do not want to. I want to stay here with you. Is that so strange?"

You do not know how to answer that.

Caleb's feelings for Mei are no longer a secret, at least not to you. He is obvious about it now, seeking her out in the gardens, asking her to walk with him, writing poetry that he does not give her but leaves where you might find it.

You read one once. 

It compared her eyes to lotus pools and her grace to a heron taking flight.

You fold it carefully and return it to its hiding place. You do not tell anyone about it. You certainly do not tell Mei. Watching Caleb fall in love with her is both painful and beautiful. Painful because you…

You do not let yourself finish that thought.

The apple pies start when you are thirteen.

The cook in your father's kitchens makes them perfectly, sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the filling rich with cinnamon. She makes them for the household, small luxuries to brighten the long summer days.

Mei steals the first one.

"Come on," she whispers, catching your hand and pulling you toward the back stairs. "While everyone is at court."

You follow because you always follow her. 

You sneak through the servants' corridors, giggling, the stolen pie warm in Mei's hands. You eat it in the orchard under your favorite tree, passing it back and forth, licking cinnamon from your fingers.

"We will get in trouble," you complain, but you are laughing.

"We will not. I will take the blame if anyone asks." Mei grins at you, her face smudged with apple filling. "Worth it though, was it not worth it?"

It was. It is. Every stolen moment with her is worth it.

You steal pies together all that summer. 

It becomes your secret, your private rebellion. 

Sometimes Caleb joins you, and then it is the three of you again, laughing, eating too fast, lying in the grass and watching clouds drift across the sky. Those are the good days. The golden days. The ones you will remember later when everything has gone wrong.

You turn fourteen. Your childhood is ending, sliding away like silk through your fingers. You begin attending more formal functions, your education intensifying. You learn household management and history, poetry and music. You learn how to smile and curtsy and all other things that daughters of noble houses do.

You learn how to watch Caleb watch Mei and pretend your heart is not breaking. You are old enough to name the feeling that has been growing in your chest for years now.

You are in love with Caleb.

You have been in love with him since you were seven years old and he lifted you down from a tree. You have been in love with him through every afternoon in the orchard, every stolen pie, every moment of laughter and lightness. Every time he shared his cloak when it rained, every time he noticed you were sad before you said anything, every kindness you took for granted.

But he does not see you, not the way you want him to.

He sees only Mei.

You cannot blame him. 

Mei is extraordinary. She is everything you are not, confident where you are hesitant, bold where you are careful, beautiful that sometimes people stop and stare. 

She is your dearest friend. Your protector. Your companion.

How can you resent her when you love her almost as much as you love him?

You tell no one about your feelings for Caleb. Not Mei, the person you trust the most, not your mother, not even your diary. You bury them deep, pressing them down like stones at the bottom of a river. You smile when he talks about Mei. You nod sympathetically when he confides his fears that she will never return his affection.

You are a good friend. A very good companion.

II

Your mark appears on the morning of your fifteenth birthday.

You wake to find two names written on your inner left wrist in ink that seems to shimmer when you move your arm.

Caleb

Mei

You sit on your bed for a long time, staring at your wrist. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

Two names. 

One is your great love. One is your companion.

You know with certainty that it feels like destiny that Caleb is your great love. He has to be. You have loved him for eight years. He is written in your bones, carved into your heart. The mark is simply confirming what you have always felt.

And Mei…

Mei is your companion. Your truest friend. The person who has walked beside you through childhood, who has held your hand promised to never leave.

It makes perfect sense.

You should feel happy. You should feel hopeful. Instead, you feel strange, as if the world has shifted and nothing is quite where it should be.

You dress quickly and go to find Mei.

She is in her family's chambers, and when she opens the door, you see immediately that her mark has appeared as well. She is wearing longer sleeves, but you can see the edge of ink peeking out at her wrist.

"It happened," you say, and your voice sounds breathless.

Mei nods. 

She does not look happy. Her expression is unreadable.

"Mine too," she replies, her voice quiet and almost reluctant. 

You enter her room and close the door behind you. 

"Will you show me?"

For a moment, you think she will refuse, then she pushes back her sleeve.

Two names. 

Your name and Caleb.

The same names as yours. The same two people.

You do not know what to say, you just stand there, staring at her wrist.

"We have the same marks," you say, and it is not a question.

"Yes."

"That means..." You trail off.

Mei pulls her sleeve back down, hiding the names. 

"It means we are both connected to each other and to him. That is all."

But it cannot be all. The marks mean something, they have to mean something.

"Do you think..." You wet your lips. "Do you think you know which is which? For you, I mean?"

Mei looks at you for a long moment. There is an emotion in her eyes you cannot name, it makes your chest tight.

"I think," she starts slowly, "that the marks do not tell us. We have to live and discover the truth ourselves."

"But you must have a sense. You must feel…"

"I feel many things." Mei cuts you off gently. "But I do not think it is wise to make assumptions. Not yet."

You want to demand she tell you what she is thinking, but Mei has always been private, and you have learned not to press when she closes herself off.

"Will you tell me?" you ask instead. "When you know for certain?"

"Yes." She takes your hand, squeezes once. "I will tell you everything. I promise."

You leave her chambers feeling unsettled. The conversation felt wrong, but you cannot put your finger on what.

Caleb's mark appears three days later.

He comes to the orchard in the afternoon, face flushed with excitement, and shows you and Mei his wrist without preamble.

Your name

Mei

The same names. All three of you connected in a triangle, bound by invisible threads of fate.

"This is it," Caleb looks at Mei with such naked hope that you have to look away. "This is proof. You are one of my soulmates, Mei. I knew it. I have always known it."

Mei says nothing. Her face is very still.

"Mei?" Caleb's smile falters. "Are you not happy?"

"I am..." She pauses. "I am surprised. I had not thought…"

"You have my name, do you not?" He reaches for her wrist, pushes back her sleeve before she can stop him. You see the flicker of emotion cross his face when he sees your name alongside his. "We all have each other's names. We are all bound together."

"Yes," Mei says quietly. "We are."

"Then this is fate." Caleb is still smiling. "You see? The gods have decided for us. You cannot refuse me now. You cannot say we are not meant to be together."

Mei gently pulls her arm free. 

"The marks tell us we are connected. They do not tell us how."

"One of us is the great love. One of us is the companion." Caleb's voice is earnest. "I know which you are, Mei. I have known since I was thirteen years old."

You stand there, watching this exchange, and you feel as if you are disappearing. Neither of them is looking at you. Neither of them is acknowledging that your name is there too, that you are part of this triangle as well.

"Caleb," Mei says, and her voice is gentle but firm. "This is not the time for such declarations."

"When is the time?" He is pleading. "I have waited years, Mei. Years. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will stop. Tell me I am wrong."

Mei does not answer. She is looking at you instead, her expression unreadable.

"I think," you speak instead, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, "that we should not make assumptions. The marks have only just appeared. We have time to understand what they mean."

Caleb finally looks at you. You see the moment he remembers you are there, standing beside him, your wrist bearing the same names as theirs.

"You are right," he says, and he sounds chastened. "I am sorry. I got carried away. This is…this affects all of us. Not just me."

"Yes." You manage a smile. "It affects all of us."

But you already know that Caleb's mind is already made up. He has decided Mei is his great love. He has decided the story of his marks before he has lived it.

And you are the companion. The friend, the third point to fate’s triangle.

Later that night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist with one finger.

Caleb. Mei.

You know which is which, you have always known.

Caleb is your great love. He is the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you when you lose him.

Mei is your companion. Your steadiest friend. The one who walks beside you.

The marks have simply confirmed what your heart already knew.

III

The summons comes three months after the marks appear.

Your father's household is to meet with the imperial court to discuss a formal arrangement. You, Mei, and your families are to attend. Caleb will be there as well, representing the royal family's interests.

You know what this is before you arrive. You have heard your mother and father discussing it in low voices, arguing behind closed doors. You have seen the way the court ladies watch Caleb now, whispering behind their fans, calculating his worth as a potential match.

You know what is coming, and you feel numb about it.

The meeting takes place in one of the smaller audience halls. Your father and mother sit on cushions across from the Emperor's representative, an elderly minister with shrewd eyes and a neutral expression. Mei's parents are there as well, seated slightly behind, their faces tense.

Caleb stands to one side in formal court robes. He looks older than his eighteen years, solemn and princely. He does not look at you or Mei. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw tight.

The minister speaks first. His voice is dry and formal, reciting the terms like he is reading from a ledger.

The arrangement is this:

You will be betrothed to Caleb as his primary wife. Your rank demands it. You are the daughter of a high-ranking lord, a princess in all but name. The match is appropriate, politically advantageous, entirely proper.

Mei will be given to Caleb as his concubine. Her family's status as retainers, servants, three generations of faithful service but no title, no land, no name of consequence, makes her ineligible for the role of wife, but the marks have spoken. The gods have written both of your names on his wrist, and to ignore the marks entirely would be to insult heaven.

Any child that Mei bears will be recorded as yours. The lineage will be clean. On paper, you will be the mother of all his children, whether they come from your body or hers, ensuring the imperial bloodline remains unbroken.

Everyone in the room remains very still while the minister speaks. You focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, because if you focus on that, you do not have to think about what is being said.

When the minister finishes, your father speaks. "This arrangement is acceptable to our house."

Mei's father speaks next, his voice tight. "It is acceptable to ours as well."

They do not ask you. They do not ask Mei. Women do not get asked in matters like these.

Caleb finally looks at you, but you cannot understand his expression. It is blank, the face he has learned to perfect for courtly functions. Then he looks at Mei, and his face changes and softens.

The minister continues with more details. 

The formal ceremony will take place in three years. There will be a betrothal period where you and Caleb will be expected to spend time together, to learn each other, to prepare for married life.

Mei will move into Caleb's household two weeks after the wedding. That is the tradition, the wife is installed first, before the concubine is brought in.

You find this detail particularly bitter. Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending to be a new wife before your dearest friend, your companion, is moved into the same house, into your husband's bed.

The meeting ends. You stand and bow. Everyone bows. You are dismissed.

In the courtyard outside, Mei catches your arm, her grip is tight enough to hurt.

"I do not want this," she whispers. "I do not want him. You know that, do you not? You know I have never wanted him."

"Then why did your parents agree?" You cannot keep the hurt from your voice.

"They had no choice. When the imperial court makes a request, it is not truly a request." Mei's eyes are bright with anger. "But I am telling you now, I do not want this. I will not pretend I am happy about it."

"Neither am I." The words come out sharper than you intend.

Mei flinches. 

"You are angry with me."

"I am not angry with you. I am angry with…" You gesture helplessly at the palace around you, at the whole structure of it, the system that decides women's lives without consulting them. "I am angry with everything."

"Then we are in agreement." Mei's voice softens. "We are both trapped."

You look at her and see the exhaustion in her face. She looks older than her sixteen years. There are shadows under her eyes, and her usual confidence is stripped away.

"I need you to do something for me," you hear yourself say.

Mei straightens. 

"Anything."

"I need you to..." You stop before forcing yourself to continue. "I need you to go along with this. Be what Caleb wants. Be what Caleb needs."

"What?" Mei's voice is sharp. "Why would I do that?"

"Because if you do not, he will be miserable, and if he is miserable, this whole arrangement falls apart, and then what happens? They send you to a different household? Marry you off to some stranger? I will lose you entirely." You are speaking too fast now, the words tumbling out. "But if you do this, if you accept your position in his household, then we stay together. You and I. That is all I care about. Staying together."

"You cannot ask this of me."

"I am asking. I am begging." Your voice breaks. "Please, Mei. Please do this, if not for him, then do it for me."

Mei stares at you for a long moment. You see her throat work, see her blink rapidly as if fighting tears.

"You do not understand what you are asking."

"I do."

"You do not." Her voice is cold. "But I will do it. If this is what you truly want, I will do it. I will be what he wants. I will be what he needs."

The words sound like a vow and a curse all at once.

You reach for her hand.

"Thank you."

Mei does not answer. She pulls away from you and walks across the courtyard, her back straight. You watch her go and feel something inside you breaks.

Later, when you are alone in your chambers, you will wonder why you did that. Why you asked her to sacrifice herself. Why you thought that was the solution, but in this moment, you tell yourself it makes sense. You tell yourself you are keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her yours in the only way the world will allow.

You tell yourself many lies that evening.

IV

The betrothal period passes in a blur.

Three years is a long time to pretend. 

You spend time with Caleb as required. You take walks in the gardens, attend court functions together, sit across from each other at formal dinners and make polite conversation. You learn his preferences, how he likes poetry but cannot stand most music, how he has a sweet tooth he tries to hide, how he is terrible at strategy games but too proud to admit it.

He is kind to you. He treats you with the respect due a future wife, but his eyes are always searching the room for Mei. You pretend not to notice.

Mei, true to her word, allows Caleb's courtship. She accepts his gifts. She walks with him when he asks. She smiles politely when he attempts poetry. She does everything a concubine-to-be is expected to do.

But there is a distance in her manner. There is a wall she has built between herself and him, invisible but unmistakable. She goes through everything without being truly present.

You wonder if Caleb notices. You suspect he does not.

There are moments, though. Moments when it feels almost like before.

One afternoon in the second year of your betrothal, the three of you find yourselves in the orchard together. It is autumn, the trees heavy with fruit, the air crisp and clean. Caleb plucks an apple from a low-hanging branch and tosses it to you. 

"Remember when we used to steal pies from the kitchen?"

You catch the apple, surprised by the sudden nostalgia in his voice. 

"Of course. Mei was always the one who got us into trouble."

"I was the one who got us out of it," Mei retorts, but she is smiling. 

It is a real smile, not the polite mask she wears at court.

"You were both terrible influences." Caleb's voice is warm, teasing, he sounds like the boy you knew at ten. "I was a perfect prince before I met you."

"You were boring," Mei counters.

"I was dignified."

"Boring," you and Mei say in unison, and then all three of you are laughing.

You sit in the grass, passing the apple back and forth, and for a moment, it is like nothing has changed, like you are still children without complications, still friends who steal pies and climb trees and watch clouds.

"I wish it could stay like this," Caleb admits quietly.

The words hang in the air. You want to agree, want to reach for that feeling and hold it tight, but Mei's smile fades.

"It cannot," she says. "It never could."

Caleb's face closes off. You look away. The three of you sit in silence for a while longer, and then Caleb makes an excuse and leaves. Mei watches him go, her expression unreadable. 

"Someone will always be unhappy," she murmurs so softly you almost miss it.

You do not know who she means, perhaps all of you.

The wedding ceremony is elaborate and exhausting.

You are eighteen now, no longer a child. 

You wear red silk embroidered with phoenixes in gold thread. Your hair is arranged in an intricate style that takes hours and hurts your scalp. Your face is painted and your lips stained crimson. You look like a doll. A beautiful, expensive doll.

Caleb wears matching red, his robes heavy with embroidery. At twenty one, he has grown into his features, handsome and princely and entirely unlike the boy you used to steal pies with in the orchard.

You exchange vows in front of the entire court. You drink from the same cup. You bow to his ancestors and to the Emperor. You become his wife in the eyes of the gods and the empire. Through it all, you smile and say the right words and do not let yourself feel anything.

After the ceremony, there is a feast. Hundreds of guests, endless courses, music and dancing. You sit beside Caleb at the head table and accept congratulations. People toast your health, your happiness, your future children.

Mei is somewhere in the crowd. You catch glimpses of her throughout the evening, always at a distance, never meeting your eyes. She is wearing pale pink, a concubine's color, and she looks beautiful and sad and so very alone.

The ceremony for taking Mei as concubine happens a week later. It is quieter, more private. Only close family and a few court officials attend.

Mei wears crimson as well, though a simpler style than your wedding robes. She kneels before Caleb and you, you, his wife, granting permission for her to enter the household. She bows three times. She pledges her loyalty to you first, then to him.

When she rises, her eyes are dry, but you see the strain in the set of her shoulders.

That evening, Caleb comes to your chambers.

It is your wedding night, delayed by a week to accommodate the concubine ceremony. Custom demands he spend this night with you, his wife, before he is allowed to turn his attention elsewhere.

You are ready or as ready as you can be. Your maidservant has prepared you, dressed you in a thin sleeping robe, arranged your hair. You sit on the edge of the bed and try to calm your racing heart.

Caleb enters. He looks nervous. He is still in his formal robes, though he has removed the outer layers.

"You look lovely," he says, and it sounds reflexive, the thing he was supposed to say.

"Thank you." Your voice is steady.

He sits beside you on the bed and the mattress dips under his weight. You can smell the incense that was burned during the ceremony earlier, still clinging to his clothes.

"I…" He stops."You understand, do you not?"

The question hangs in the air. You could pretend you do not know what he means. You could make him say it outright, but what would be the point? You are not cruel enough to make him spell out what you already know.

"Yes," you reply quietly. "I understand."

"I do not want to hurt you." His voice is earnest. He sounds young suddenly, younger than his twenty one years. "You are my wife. I will always respect you. I will always honor you, but my heart…"

"Is elsewhere." You finish the sentence for him. "I know, Caleb. I have always known."

He looks at you and you see guilt flicker across his face. 

"Forgive me."

"Do not be sorry. The arrangement was not your choice any more than it was mine."

"Still. You deserve better than this. Better than a husband who…" He cannot finish the sentence.

You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from sword practice. 

"Shall I tell you what I think?"

"Please."

"I think we can build a good life together. Perhaps not the life you dreamed of, or the one I dreamed of, but a good life nonetheless. We have been friends since childhood. That is more than most married couples can claim."

"Friends." He sounds sad. "Yes. We have been that."

"So let us continue to be that. Friends who share a household. Friends who support each other, and who fulfill our duties with grace." You squeeze his hand once. "We do not have to pretend to have great passion when we both know the truth."

"You are generous," Caleb says.

"I am practical."

"No. You are generous, and I do not deserve your kindness."

He leans forward and kisses you. It is gentle, chaste, a kiss between friends rather than lovers, then he stands.

"I should go," he says. "I should let you rest."

You nod. You do not point out that this is your wedding night, that custom demands more than a single kiss. You do not mention that the servants will notice, will gossip, will speculate about what it means that he is leaving so quickly. You let him go.

When the door closes behind him, you sit very still for a long time. You do not cry. You simply sit and breathe and accept that this is your life now.

Your marriage. Your role. Your future.

The next morning, you learn that Caleb spent the night in Mei's chambers.

V

The first months of marriage settle into a rhythm.

You wake early, attend to your duties as Caleb's wife. You manage the household, oversee the servants, handle correspondence. You are good at this, the careful navigation of social hierarchies, the endless small decisions that keep a prince’s estate running smoothly. Your mother trained you well.

Caleb is often away during the day, attending court functions or military training. When he is home, he is pleasant. He asks about your day. He ensures you have everything you need. He is a model husband in every way except the one that matters.

Mei lives in the chambers adjacent to yours, and you see her every day. You take your meals together when Caleb is absent. You walk in the gardens, sit in the pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, sometimes you steal away to the kitchens late at night to share rice cakes and talk about the rumors you hear at court.

In those moments, it almost feels like before, like you are still children, but then Caleb comes home, and everything shifts.

He seeks Mei out immediately. He brings her gifts, bolts of silk, jade ornaments, books of poetry. He writes her letters even though they live in the same household. He requests her company for meals, for evening walks, for viewing the moon.

Mei accepts these attentions with polite grace. She never refuses him. She never encourages him either. She exists in a strange middle ground, neither welcoming nor cold, simply present.

You watch this courtship from the sidelines and try to pretend it does not hurt.

The court notices, of course. The servants gossip. The other noble wives watch your household with speculation and poorly-concealed pity. Everyone can see that your husband prefers his concubine to his wife.

You hold your head high and refuse to acknowledge their whispers.

One evening, during a court banquet, one of the Empress' ladies makes a comment just loud enough for you to hear. 

"How gracious Her Highness is, to allow her husband such obvious devotion to the concubine. Most wives would be beside themselves."

You smile serenely. 

"Why should I object? Mei has served my family since childhood. She is dear to me. My husband's affection for her brings me joy, not sorrow."

The lie comes easily, you have had months of practice. The woman looks disappointed. She was clearly hoping for drama, for tears, for some crack in your composure. You give her nothing.

Later, Mei finds you in a quiet corner of the garden. 

"You do not have to do that," she says.

"Do what?"

"Lie for me. Defend me. Pretend you are happy with this situation."

"I am not lying. You are dear to me."

"But you are not happy." Mei's voice is soft. "I can see it, even if no one else can."

You look away, focusing on the lotus flowers blooming in the pond. 

"Happiness was never part of the arrangement."

"It should have been." There is anger in her tone now. "You should have been cherished. You should have been…"

"Please do not." You cut her off gently. "I do not want your pity any more than I want theirs."

"This is not pity. This is…" She stops. When you glance at her, her expression looks pained. "I wish things were different. That is all."

"So do I, but wishing changes nothing."

Mei moves closer, takes your hand. Her fingers are cool against yours. 

"I would give this up in a heartbeat if I could. I would leave this household, go anywhere, if it would make you happy."

"You cannot leave. Where would you go? Back to your family? They have no wealth to support you. To another household as a servant? That would be a worse fate than this." You squeeze her hand. "We are bound together now, you and I. We must make the best of it."

"Then let me make it easier for you," Mei replies. "Give me leave to refuse his attentions. I do not want them. I have never wanted them."

You have noticed this. The way she holds herself distant when Caleb visits her chambers. The way her smiles never quite reach her eyes. The careful way she accepts his poetry without reading it aloud.

"If you refuse him outright, it will cause scandal. He is a prince. His pride…"

"His pride is not my concern."

"It is mine." You pull your hand free. "He is my husband. His honor is my honor. I will not have the court saying he was rejected by his own concubine."

Mei's expression closes.

"As you wish."

She turns to leave, but you catch her sleeve. 

"Mei, wait. I did not mean…"

"You meant exactly what you said." Her voice is cutting. "You want me to continue this charade. To let him court me, to accept his gifts, to pretend I might care for him someday. All so you can save face at court."

"That is not fair."

"Fair?" Mei laughs bitterly. "What about any of this is fair? You married a man who loves me. I am forced to live with him and accept his attention when I…" She stops abruptly.

"When you what?"

"When I would rather be anywhere else." She finishes the sentence carefully.

You study her face, trying to understand what she is not saying, but Mei has always been good at keeping secrets. She has been keeping them your entire lives.

"I will not ask you to leave," you say finally. "But I will not give you permission to publicly reject him either. Find some middle path. Please. For me."

Mei nods once, then she walks away, leaving you standing alone beside the lotus pond.

The Moon Festival arrives in the eighth month of your marriage.

The court celebrates with lanterns and music, feasting and poetry. 

You sit beside Caleb at the festivities, smiling and nodding as officials and nobles pay their respects. The celebration goes late. When you finally return to your chambers, exhausted, you do not expect Caleb to follow, but he does.

"May I come in?" he asks from the doorway.

You are surprised enough that you simply nod. He enters, closing the door behind him. He is still in his formal robes, though he has loosened them slightly. His face is flushed, from wine, perhaps, or from something else.

"Mei turned me away," he says, his voice raw…"She said she was tired. She said…" He stops. "It does not matter what she said."

Ah. So that is why he is here.

Not because he wants you, but because she refused him.

You should send him away. You should tell him you will not be a substitute for the woman he really wants, but you are tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of everything.

"You can stay," you hear yourself say. "If you wish."

Caleb looks at you for a long moment, then he nods.

He is gentler than you expected, almost tender. He undresses you slowly, his hands careful, and when he lies beside you, he takes his time. There is a loneliness in the way he touches you, as if he is seeking comfort rather than passion.

You let yourself sink into it. You let yourself pretend, just for these few hours, that he is here because he wants you, that his hands on your skin mean something beyond duty or disappointment.

Afterward, he does not leave immediately. He lies beside you in the darkness, his breathing slowly evening out. You think he has fallen asleep, then his arm slides around your waist.

It is unconscious, you think. A reflex. He pulls you back against him, his body curving around yours, his face buried in your hair. He holds you like he does not want to let go.

You go very still and barely breathe. You do not want to break this moment, this unexpected gentleness. Slowly, carefully, you place your hand over his where it rests on your stomach. His fingers tighten slightly, then relax. His breathing deepens. He is asleep.

You lie there in the darkness, held in your husband's arms, and let yourself pretend. Just for tonight. Just for these few stolen hours.

You pretend he came to you because he wanted to. You pretend the tenderness was real. You pretend that when morning comes, he will wake and smile at you, kiss you, and choose to stay.

You know better. You have always known better, but for tonight, in the darkness, you let yourself hope.

In the morning, he is gone.

The pillow beside you still holds the shape of his head. The blankets are tangled where he slept, but Caleb himself is nowhere to be found. You press your hand to the pillow, feeling the lingering warmth, and your heart breaks a little more.

A few weeks later, you have dinner with Caleb and Mei together, a rare occurrence now that the household has settled. 

The meal is pleasant enough. 

Caleb discusses trade negotiations with the northern provinces. Mei asks about a new shipment of silk from the south. You contribute everything that you have observed from the outer court.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. Three friends sharing a meal, the conversation flowing easily.

"Do you remember," Caleb says suddenly, "the year we stole pies every week for an entire summer?"

"The cook never did figure out who was taking them," Mei smiles. 

"Because you were clever about it," you add. "You always took them when she stepped away, and you replaced the covering so it looked untouched."

"We were terrible," Caleb says, but he is laughing.

"We were children," Mei corrects.

The three of you reminisce for a while, trading stories and memories. For a while, the complications of your arrangement fall away. But then the meal ends, Caleb reaches for Mei's hand as they stand. 

"Walk with me?" he asks her.

Mei glances at you. You see the regret and apology in her eyes. 

"Of course," she tells him.

They leave together. You sit alone at the table, surrounded by empty dishes and fading laughter.

Someone will always be unhappy, Mei said once. You are beginning to understand what she meant.

The months continue, and the pattern repeats. 

Caleb pursues, Mei deflects, you observe. The court whispers grow louder. Some say Caleb is bewitched by his concubine. Others say you are too patient, too forgiving, that you should assert your position as primary wife more forcefully.

A few, a very few, say quiet things about Mei's loyalty. About how she seems to spend more time with you than with Caleb. About the way her gaze follows you across rooms.

You do not listen to those whispers. You cannot afford to. Instead, you focus on your duties. You embroider. You manage the household. You write letters to your family. You sit through endless court functions with a smile painted on your face.

And at night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist and remind yourself which is which.

Caleb, your great love, your husband, the man who will never love you back.

Mei, your companion, your truest friend, the one who walks beside you through all of this.

You repeat this until you believe it. You have to believe it. What else is there?

VI

The discovery comes on an ordinary morning.

You wake feeling nauseous. 

At first, you assume it is something you ate at the banquet the night before, the fish had tasted strange, but the nausea persists through the morning, worsening when you try to take tea. Your maidservant takes one look at your face and goes very still.

"Your highness," she speaks carefully. "Have your monthly courses come?"

You open your mouth to say yes, then stop. When was the last time?  You have been so consumed with household matters, with court functions, with carefully not thinking about your marriage, that you have lost track.

"No," you say slowly. "Not for... not for six weeks at least."

The maidservant's face brightens. 

"Your highness,  you may be with child."

The words do not feel real. They hang in the air, impossible. You and Caleb have barely touched since the wedding night. While he comes to your chambers perhaps once a month, he only stays as long as necessary to maintain appearances. Your couplings are brief, done for duty rather than the passion of newlyweds.

Except for the Moon Festival, that night had been different. 

"Send for the physician," you instruct her. "Quietly. I want no announcement until we are certain."

The physician confirms it that afternoon. You are pregnant, and the child should arrive in early spring. After he leaves, you sit in your chambers and try to understand what this means.

A child. Your child. Caleb's child.

Word travels faster than you anticipated. You are still in your dressing gown when Caleb appears at your door. His face is flushed, as if he has been running.

"Are you sick?" The words come out rushed. "The servants said you called for the physician. Are you ill? Is something wrong?"

You stare at him, surprised by the urgency in his voice. 

"I am not sick."

"Then why…" He stops, looking at you more closely, at the way your hand unconsciously rests on your stomach. Understanding dawns on his face. "Are you…"

"I am with child." The words come out quieter than you intended. "The physician just confirmed it."

For a moment, Caleb simply stands there, then he crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms. The embrace is fierce and desperate. His hands shake where they press against your back. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, feel the tremor that runs through his whole body.

"Are you safe?" he asks, his voice muffled against your hair. "Are you well? Does anything hurt? Do you need…"

"I am fine," you say, bewildered. "Caleb, I am fine."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face. His eyes are bright, searching. 

"You are certain? You are not in pain? The physician said everything is well?"

"Yes. Everything is well."

"An heir," he breathes, but there is something else in his voice. Something beyond political satisfaction. "You are carrying my child."

He pulls you close again, and this time you feel it, the fear beneath the relief. He is trembling, actually trembling, his breath uneven.

"I heard about your mother’s pregnancies," he states gently. "After we married, I asked some servants in your household, I know she had difficulties and I…" His voice breaks. "I cannot lose you. Do you understand? I cannot."

The words stun you. You stand rigid in his arms, trying to understand what you are hearing.

"Caleb…"

He kisses your forehead. It is tender, lingering, more intimate than any kiss he has given you before. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.

"Forgive me," he says. "I am being foolish. This is good news. This is very good news."

He steps away, composing himself, but you can still see the tremor in his hands, the brightness in his eyes.

"I should let you rest," he starts. "You need rest. The baby needs…" He stops himself. "I will make sure you have everything you need. Anything you want, just tell me."

Then he is gone, leaving you standing in your chambers, trying to understand what just happened.

Mei finds you an hour later, staring at nothing.

"I heard," She starts as soon as she enters your chambers "The whole household has heard by now."

You turn to look at her. 

"Did you know Caleb asked the servants about my mother’s pregnancies?"

Mei pauses. 

"No, but it does not surprise me."

"Why not?"

"He cares for you." Mei states it simply, as if it is obvious. "More than you think, more than he knows how to show."

"He only cares about his heir."

"No." Mei's voice is firm. "He cares about you. I have seen it in the small things he does"

"Those are just…"

"They are not just anything." Mei takes your hands. "He may love the idea of me, but he cares for you. There is a difference."

You want to argue. You want to insist she is wrong, but the memory of Caleb's embrace, his trembling hands, his fear, it sits heavy in your chest.

"He told me he cannot lose me," you whisper.

"Because he cannot." Mei reaches for your hand. "You are his wife. The mother of his child now. Someone he has known since childhood. Whether he understands it or not, you matter to him."

"But he loves you."

"He thinks he does." Mei's smile is sad. "But love is more than longing, more than pursuit. Sometimes it is in the quiet things. The unconscious gestures. The fears we cannot name."

You do not know what to say to that.

The weeks pass. Your body changes. Your stomach begins to round. You feel the first fluttering movements, strange and wondrous.

The court is told. Congratulations pour in. The Emperor himself sends a letter expressing his pleasure at the news of his grandchild. Your parents visit, your mother hovering anxiously, your father looking pleased in his austere way. Everyone is happy for you.

Caleb becomes more present. Not in the way you once hoped for, he still spends his evenings with Mei, but in smaller ways. He insists you sit during lengthy court functions. When you attend audiences, he cuts them shorter than usual. He checks that your chambers are warm enough without you asking. 

Once, when you grow dizzy in the garden, he appears at your side before you can call for help, his hand steadying you, his voice tight with worry as he walks you back inside. You do not know how he knew you were there. You do not ask.

When you are five months along, Mei arranges an afternoon tea in your chambers. It is just the three of you. You, Mei, and Caleb. The conversation starts awkwardly. 

Caleb discusses updates about the military. You share things about the household. Mei adds the preparations for the coming winter. Then Caleb says something about your lack of rest, and Mei's eyes flash.

"Perhaps if you visited more often as a husband rather than as an official checking on imperial property, she would feel less alone," Mei says, her voice sharp.

Caleb goes very still. 

"I visit regularly."

"You visit to ensure your heir is well, not to ensure she is well."

"That is not…" Caleb stops. "That is not fair."

"Is it not?" Mei turns to you. "When was the last time he asked about your wellbeing that was not related to the child?"

You open your mouth to defend him, but you cannot think of an instance. Caleb's face has gone pale. 

"I…"

"She is your wife," Mei continues, relentless. "She carries your child. The least you could do is see her as more than a vessel for your heir."

The silence that follows is heavy, painful. Then the baby kicks. It is strong enough that you gasp, your hand flying to your stomach. Both Caleb and Mei turn to you immediately.

"What is wrong?" Caleb asks, alarmed.

"Nothing. The baby just…" You place your hand over the spot. "The baby is moving."

Caleb stares at your hand on your stomach. 

"May I…" He stops. "Would you mind if I…"

You take his hand and place it where you felt the movement. For a moment, nothing happens, then the baby kicks again, directly against Caleb's palm. His face transforms, wonder replaces the tension from moments before. 

"I felt it," he breathes. "I felt…"

"Let me feel too," Mei says softly. 

You take her hand and place it beside Caleb's. The three of you wait, silent, until the baby kicks again.

"Strong," Mei gasps, and there are tears in her eyes. "Your child is strong."

"Ours," you say instinctively. "You said you would help me raise them, that makes them ours."

Mei's fingers curl against your stomach. The baby kicks again, and for this one fragile moment, the three of you are connected. All of you feeling this new life, this small person who exists because of all your complicated relationships.

"I will do better," Caleb states, he is looking at you now, not at your stomach. "You are right, Mei. I have been seeing her as the mother of my heir, not as…" He stops. "I will do better."

Mei pulls her hand back. 

"See that you do."

The moment breaks. Caleb stands and excuses himself. Mei begins clearing the table, but something has shifted. You sit there, your hands on your stomach, and let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope.

Then one afternoon, you find Mei alone and preparing herbs in the kitchen.

You watch her work for a moment before you recognize the plants she is crushing. You grew up in a lord's household. You know what tansy and pennyroyal look like when they are ground together. You know what they are used for.

The realization strikes you. Abortifacients.

"Mei?” You call her name before you can stop yourself.

She turns, sees you, sees the herbs. Her face goes pale.

"How long?" you ask.

"Since the beginning." She replies without shame. "I will not bear his children. I will not give him that."

"But why? A child would…"

"Would what? Tie me to him forever? Make this pretense real?" Mei's voice is sharp. "I am not you. I do not accept this quietly. I do not make the best of my cage."

The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. You take a step back as if struck.

"That was cruel.”

"Yes." Mei looks away. "Forgive me, that was cruel."

"If you hate this so much, why do you stay?"

"Because you asked me to." Her response comes quickly. "You asked me to be what he wants. To go along with this. To stay here, with you. So I stay."

"I did not know you were this miserable."

"Of course you did not know. You are too busy being miserable yourself to notice anyone else."

The observation is so accurate it steals your breath. You stand there in the kitchen, staring at each other, and for the first time, you see the full weight of what you have asked of her. The sacrifices she has made. The pain she has endured, all because you begged her to stay.

"I am sorry," you tell her, but the words feel inadequate. "Mei, I am so sorry."

"Do not apologize. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault." Mei turns back to her herbs, crushing them with renewed force. "But do not ask me to pretend I am content. Do not ask me to pretend I want him, because I do not. I never have."

"Then who do you want?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

Mei goes very still. 

For a long moment, she does not answer. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Someone I cannot have."

She does not elaborate. She finishes preparing her herbs in silence, and you do not ask again.

That night, you lie in bed with your hands on your growing stomach and take in everything you have asked of Mei.

You asked her to stay. She stayed. You asked her to accept Caleb's courtship. She accepted. You asked her to smile at court. She smiled.

And beneath all of it, in the privacy of the kitchen when no one was watching, she ground bitter herbs into tea and drank them so that the one boundary she had left would hold.

You think about what it must have been like. Month after month. The taste of tansy and pennyroyal, the cramping, the pain because of her refusal to let her body become one more thing that belonged to him.

She did that ever since she became Caleb’s concubine.

She did that while brushing your hair, while smiling at you, while reassuring you, while staying with you, and laughing with you in the gardens as if nothing were wrong.

You roll onto your side and press your face into the pillow, and you do not sleep for a very long time.

VII

The banquet is in honor of the Emperor's birthday.

All of the court is required to attend.

You are six months pregnant now, your stomach round and obvious beneath your formal robes. You move slowly, carefully, one hand always resting on your belly as if to reassure the child within.

Mei walks beside you, her presence a comfort in the overwhelming crowd. Caleb is somewhere ahead, fulfilling his ceremonial duties as a prince of the blood. You will join him at the high table once the formal presentations are complete.

The Emperor sits on his throne, receiving tributes and well-wishes. The hall is filled with nobles, officials, foreign dignitaries. Everyone who matters in the empire is here. Including the Emperor's concubines.

There are four of them. 

You know their faces, their names, their positions in the complex hierarchy of the inner court. The eldest, Lady Qi, is kind and has always treated you with courtesy. The second, Lady Qin, is ambitious but intelligent, someone you respect if not quite trust.

The third is Lady Xue.

She is the youngest of the Emperor's concubines, only recently elevated to her position. She is beautiful, clever, and hungry for power. Her family is wealthy but not particularly well-connected. Her position depends entirely on the Emperor's favor, and that favor is slipping.

You have heard the whispers. The Emperor has lost interest in her. He visits her chambers less frequently. He has been seen courting a new woman, a merchant's daughter with a sharp wit and considerable political connections.

Lady Xue is desperate.

She needs to do something dramatic, something that will remind the Emperor why he favored her in the first place. She needs to prove her value, her indispensability.

She needs a victory.

You do not know that Lady Xue has been watching your household, noting the Emperor's pleasure at the news of his grandchild. You do not know that she has decided removing Caleb's heir would destabilize his position, would create chaos that she could exploit. You do not know that she has already bribed one of the servants to poison your wine.

The banquet proceeds. 

Courses arrive in endless succession, delicate soups, roasted meats, fish cooked in wine and spices, steamed dumplings, sweet rice cakes. You eat sparingly, mindful of your pregnancy and the rich food.

Mei sits beside you, as is proper for a concubine. She barely touches her food. She has been tense all evening, her gaze constantly scanning the crowd.

"Are you well?" you ask quietly.

"I do not like this." Mei's voice is low. "Too many people. Too much attention on you."

"It is the Emperor's birthday. We cannot avoid attending."

"I know, but I do not like it."

You squeeze her hand briefly to reassure her.

"You think too much. Nothing will happen. I am perfectly safe."

Mei does not look convinced.

The wine arrives. It is a special vintage, brought out only for imperial celebrations. The servant fills your cup, then Mei's, then moves down the table.

You raise your cup to drink. Mei's hand closes around your wrist.

"Wait." Her voice is low, urgent.

"What—"

"The servant." Mei's eyes are fixed on the man retreating down the table. "He poured yours differently. He tilted the bottle at the end. Everyone else received a straight pour."

You glance at your cup. The wine looks the same as everyone else's, dark red and sweet smelling.

"Mei, you are being…"

"And he looked at someone when he set your cup down, across the hall. I saw his eyes move." Mei's grip tightens on your wrist. Her knuckles are white. "Do not drink it."

"It is the Emperor's wine. No one would dare…"

"Someone already has." Mei's voice is steady, but her hand is trembling. She is not guessing. She is reading the room the way she always does, with the sharp, relentless attention of someone who has spent her entire life watching for threats against you.

You set the cup down.

Mei stares at it. Then at you. Then at your rounded stomach.

You see the decision form behind her eyes a half-second before she moves.

"Mei, no…"

She snatches up your cup and drinks the wine in three quick swallows.

The hall goes very quiet. People are staring, someone laughs uncertainly, thinking this is some kind of joke. Then Mei's face contorts. She doubles over, gasping. The cup falls from her hands, shattering on the stone floor.

"Mei!" You lunge for her, but she is already collapsing. You catch her as best you can, supporting her weight, lowering her to the ground.

"Get the physician!" someone shouts. 

Caleb is there suddenly, shoving people aside. He kneels beside you, staring at Mei's face. She is convulsing, foam flecking her lips, her skin turning an awful grey.

"What happened?" Caleb demands. "What did she drink?"

"My wine." You are shaking. "She drank my wine."

Understanding and horror dawns on Caleb's face. The wine was meant for you. For the child you carry.

Mei would have known that. She would have known the poison was meant for you. She drank it anyway.

The physician arrives, but it is clear almost immediately that there is nothing he can do. The poison is too strong, too fast-acting. It is burning through Mei's body, shutting down her organs one by one.

She is dying.

You pull her into your lap, heedless of propriety, of the watching court. You cradle her head against your chest, your tears falling onto her face.

"Stay with me," you beg. "Please, Mei. Please stay."

Her eyes flutter open. She looks at you, and despite the pain, despite everything, she smiles.

"I love you," she whispers.

The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare down at her, and in that moment, you understand. 

You finally understand everything. Not Caleb. Never Caleb. You.

Mei has always loved you.

Caleb is there beside you, holding Mei's hand, weeping openly. He leans close, his face twisted with grief.

"I love you too," he sobs. "Mei, I love you. Please do not leave. Please."

He thinks she is talking to him. He thinks her final words are for him, but Mei is not looking at Caleb. She is looking at you. Only at you.

Her lips move again. You lean closer, and you hear her breathe three more words. 

"Protect the child."

Then her eyes close and her body goes still.

Mei is gone.

The hall erupts. Guards are summoned. The physician declares her dead. The Emperor demands to know who poisoned the wine. Servants are questioned, dragged away. Lady Xue’s face is pale with shock, she did not expect her plan to fail. 

She did not expect Mei to intercept the poison.

You hear none of it. You sit on the cold stone floor, holding Mei's body, and you cannot breathe. You cannot do anything except stare at her lifeless face and try to understand that she is truly gone.

She loved you. She has always loved you. And now she is dead.

Caleb tries to pull Mei from your arms. You resist, clutching her tighter, but eventually he succeeds. He lifts her body, his face streaming with tears, and carries her from the hall.

You sit there, alone, blood and wine staining your formal robes. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking. Someone, your maidservant, perhaps, helps you to your feet. Someone leads you from the hall. You move like a ghost. When you reach your chambers, you collapse, and finally, finally, you let yourself scream.

VIII

The funeral is held three days later.

Mei's body is prepared with the traditional rites, washed, dressed in burial silks, laid in a lacquered coffin. Incense burns at the four corners. Mourners file past to pay their respects.

You attend because you are required to. You are Caleb's wife, and Mei was part of your household, but you feel absent from yourself, as if you are watching from a great distance.

Caleb is devastated. He weeps openly during the ceremony. He talks about how he loved her, how he will always love her, how her death has left a hole in his heart that can never be filled.

Every word is a knife, because he is wrong. He is wrong about everything. Mei did not love him. She never loved him. 

She loved you, and he will never know that. 

He will spend the rest of his life believing she died loving him, that her last words were meant for him. The truth will die with her.

After the ceremony, after Mei's coffin is carried to the burial ground, after the earth is mounded over her and the final prayers are spoken, you return to the palace.

The investigation into the poisoning has concluded. 

Lady Xue’s involvement has been proven beyond doubt, servants have testified, silver has been traced, the poison itself has been identified.  She has been arrested, stripped of her position, sent to face imperial justice, but that is not enough for the court gossip.

The court needs someone to blame, and Lady Xue's arrest is not dramatic enough for them. A concubine's failed plot is politics. A jealous wife's poisoning is tragedy, and tragedy sells.

So the rumor takes root, you did it. You, the patient wife, the dignified presence at every function, finally cracked under the weight of your husband's obvious preference for his concubine and killed the woman he loved.

It does not matter that Lady Xue confessed. It does not matter that the poison was traced, the servants questioned, the evidence laid bare. The court has chosen its story, and your innocence is not part of it.

Caleb does not correct them. That is what breaks you, not the whispers, not the sidelong glances, not the women who draw back when you approach. 

His silence. His refusal to stand beside you and say my wife did not do this. He is too deep in his own grief to notice yours, and the court takes his silence as confirmation.

Three weeks after the funeral, he comes to your chambers.

You are in bed, still in your sleeping robe even though it is midday. You have not bathed in days. You have not cared enough to bother. Caleb stands in the doorway, looking at you with an expression you cannot read.

"We need to speak," he starts.

You sit up slowly. You do not ask him to come in. You simply wait.

"The court is talking," he continues. "The rumors about you and Mei, about the poisoning, they are damaging my reputation and the imperial family."

"I did not poison her." Your voice is hoarse from disuse.

"I know that."

"Then why do you not say so? Why do you not defend me?"

Caleb looks away. 

"Because I cannot bear to look at you."

"What?" you whisper.

"Every time I see you, I think of her. I think of Mei, lying dead on the floor. I think of how she is gone and you are still here. And I…" His voice breaks. "I wish it had been you."

The room tilts. You clutch at the sheets to keep from falling.

"I wish you had been the one who died instead of her. I wish…" Caleb cannot finish. He is weeping now, his shoulders shaking. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot live in this house with you. I cannot look at you and not see what I have lost."

"Where would you have me go?" Your voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking.

"I have a summer estate. Three days' journey north. I am sending you there. You will stay until the child is born. After that… we will decide what happens after."

He is exiling you.

"And if I refuse?"

"You will not refuse. You will go. You will leave this palace, and you will not return until I send for you."

He turns and walks away, leaving you alone in your chambers. You sit very still for a long time after he leaves. Then, carefully, you look down at your wrist.

The names are still there. Caleb and Mei, written in the same shimmering ink. Mei's name has not changed. It is still the same as it was the day the marks appeared. You trace it with one finger, and finally you let yourself cry.

Not for Caleb. Not for your marriage or your position or your reputation. For Mei. For the friend who protected you. For the woman who loved you back and never told you. For everything you could have had if you had only understood sooner.

IX

The retinue assigned to escort you to the summer estate is small but capable. 

Two guards, a driver, and your maidservant. They load your belongings into the carriage. You watch from the window of your chambers, already feeling like a ghost haunting your own life.

Your mother comes to see you before you leave. She looks older, worn down by the scandal. She does not embrace you. She does not say she believes in your innocence.

"Try to stay out of sight," she tells you. "Let the rumors die down. Perhaps in a year or two, people will forget."

"Perhaps," you echo, because what else is there to say?

Your father does not come. You are not surprised. To him, you were always a tool for power. A disgraced daughter is worse than no daughter at all.

The carriage journey begins. You sit in silence, watching the palace disappear behind you. The capital fades into countryside, rice paddies, small villages, rivers winding through green hills. It should be beautiful, you cannot bring yourself to care.

On the second day of travel, you notice something strange. The driver has taken a wrong turn. You lean forward. 

"Where are we going?"

"To your destination, my lady." His voice is calm, steady.

"This is not the road to the summer estate."

"No, your highness. It is not."

Your maidservant reaches over and takes your hand.

"We are taking you somewhere safe," she says gently. "Somewhere you will be welcome."

"I do not understand."

"The summer estate is not safe for you. The other servants in the prince's household do not believe you are innocent. They believe the rumors. If you go there, you will be alone, unprotected, and when the child is born…" She stops. "We do not trust what might happen."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To Lady Mei's family."

You stare at her, confused.

"How…who arranged this?"

"Lady Mei did." Your maidservant's voice is gentle. "Some time before the Emperor's birthday banquet, she told us that if anything happened to her, we were to bring you to her family instead of the summer estate."

"Mei did?"

"Yes, my lady. She knew something was going to happen. She did not know what, exactly, but she sensed danger. She wanted to ensure you would be protected."

"She planned this." You cannot breathe. "She planned all of this."

Your maidservant squeezes your hand. 

"She wanted you safe, so she made arrangements."

You sit back, stunned. Even in death, Mei was still taking care of you.

The journey takes five days instead of three. The roads grow rougher, the villages smaller. You are traveling west now, toward the mountains, away from the luxuries of the capital and into harder country. By the time you arrive, you are fevered and exhausted.

Mei's family home is modest, a compound built around a central courtyard, simple but well-maintained. As the carriage stops, you see an older woman emerge from the main building, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with years of work.

She looks like Mei. The same eyes, the same determined set to her jaw. Mei’s mother, whom you have not seen since the announcement of your betrothal to Caleb.

You try to stand, to exit the carriage properly, but your legs buckle. The world tilts, going dark at the edges. You hear voices, feel hands catching you, but it all seems very far away. The last thing you remember is the smell of rain and the feeling of being lifted, carried inside.

When you wake, it is night. You are in a small, clean room. A single lantern burns in the corner. You are tucked into a bed that smells of herbs and soap.

A woman sits beside you, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Mei's mother.

"You are awake," she says softly. "Good. You have been fevered for three days."

Three days. You have lost three days.

"Where am I?"

"My home. My husband and I brought you inside when you collapsed. We have been caring for you."

You try to sit up, but she pushes you back gently. 

"Rest. You need rest. The baby needs rest."

"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out sharper than you intend. "I am the one…they say I am the one who…"

"You did not kill my daughter." Mei's mother's voice is firm. "I know that as surely as I know my own name."

"How can you know?"

"Mei wrote to me." Her voice breaks slightly. "Several weeks before the Emperor's birthday, she sent a letter. She believed that you and your child were in danger. She told me she had made arrangements for your safety, that she had paid your servants to bring you here if anything happened to her. She told me…" Mei's mother stops to compose herself. “She told me that if you arrived at my door, it would mean she was gone, and that I should care for you as I would have cared for her."

"She knew something would happen."

"She knew danger was circling. She did not know the specific form it would take, but she knew, and she chose to protect you rather than herself." Mei's mother strokes your hair, the gesture so like her daughter's that it makes your chest ache. "That is who my daughter was. That is what her love looked like."

You cannot speak. You can only weep.

"She wrote to me every week since she entered your household," Mei's mother continues quietly. "She told me everything. About the tea she was taking. About how she would never bear that prince's child. About how her only happiness was you."

"She told you she loved me?"

"She told me she had always loved you, since you were children. Since the day you cried under that apple tree and she swore to protect you." Mei's mother's own eyes fill with tears. "She told me about the soulmarks. She knew that you were her great love, but you did not know, and that you believed the prince was yours."

"I do not understand." Your voice is shaking. "If she loved me, why did she never say anything? Why did she…"

"Because you asked her not to. You begged her to be what the prince wanted, to go along with the arrangement, to stay in that household for your sake." Her  voice is gentle but unyielding. "My daughter would have done anything for you even if it meant giving up her life for you.."

The truth of it crashes over you. Mei sacrificed everything. Her happiness, her future, her very life. All because you asked her to. All because she loved you.

"I did not know," you whisper. "I did not know she loved me that way until…. I thought…I thought she was my companion. My friend. I thought Caleb was…"

"Caleb was her great love?" Mei's mother makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No, child. You had it backwards.”

"What do you mean?"

"My daughter knew the truth of all three marks. She knew which name was which for each of you."

I love you. Not to Caleb. To you.

"She also knew," Mei's mother continues, "that Caleb's great love was you. Not her. You. You were his great love, just as he was yours, but both of you were too blind to see it, too convinced of your own assumptions."

You stare at her. 

"That cannot be right. Caleb loved Mei. He pursued her. He mourned her. He…"

"He loved the idea of her. The unattainable woman. The one who would not love him back." Her voice is sad. "But his great love was always you. My daughter knew that. She knew she was the companion to both of you. That her purpose was to walk beside you, to support you, to help you find each other."

"Then why did she drink the poison?" Your voice breaks. "If she was only the companion…if her death would not destroy him the way a great love's death would…why did she do it?"

"You were carrying his child. She knew that poison was meant for you, and if you died, you would both lose everything. She could not let that happen." Mei's mother wipes her eyes. "She removed herself from the situation. She knew that with her gone, you and the prince would have to face each other without her in the middle. She hoped…I think she hoped…that her death would force you both to see the truth."

You cannot speak. Everything you thought you knew is wrong. Every assumption, every certainty, all of it built on misunderstandings and blind hope and the failure to simply ask the right questions.

Caleb is your great love. You are his. And Mei knew that. 

She always knew. She loved you anyway, with the quiet devotion of a companion who puts her great love's happiness above her own.

"I would have chosen her," you whisper. "If I had known. If she had told me, I would have…"

But the words falter before you can finish them. Would you have? Truly? If Mei had come to you at fifteen and confessed everything,  if she had taken your hands and looked you in the eye and told you that she was your great love, not Caleb, would you have believed her? 

Would you have turned away from eight years of longing, from the boy who lifted you out of apple trees, from the ache in your chest every time he entered a room? Or would you have held Mei's hands and felt sorry for her and gently explained that she was confused?

You do not know the answer. That is the worst part. You want desperately to say you would have chosen her, that you would have defied the court and your family and every expectation placed on you, but you are no longer certain of anything you once believed about your own heart.

"I would like to think I would have chosen her," you amend, and your voice is very small.

Mei's mother strokes your hair and does not argue. Perhaps she knows the truth. Perhaps she is kind enough not to say it.

"I know." Mei's mother pulls you into an embrace, and you sob against her shoulder. "I know, child, but she could not ask you to make that choice. She could not ask you to give up your position, your family, your future. She loved you too much for that."

You cry until you have no tears left. You cry for Mei, for yourself, for Caleb and the tragedy of three people who could not see what was written on their own skin. When you finally pull back, exhausted and hollow, Mei's mother smooths your hair.

"You will stay here," she says. "You and the child. You are safe here. You are welcome here."

"But what about…"

"No one knows you are here except those who brought you. Your servants…they are loyal to you, not to the prince. They will not betray your location." Her voice is firm. "You will stay. You will have this baby, and then we will decide what comes next."

You are too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but nod and let yourself be cared for.

That night, lying in a small room in Mei's childhood home, you dream of apple orchards and stolen pies and a girl with fierce eyes who promised to always protect you.

You wake crying, but this time, someone is there to hold you through it.

X

The months pass slowly in Mei's family home.

Your pregnancy progresses. 

Your stomach swells more, the baby moving constantly now, pressing against your ribs, making you breathless. The discomforts of late pregnancy are compounded by grief that never fully leaves, that sits like a stone in your chest.

Mei's mother attends you with quiet care. 

She brings you ginger tea for nausea, rubs salve into your aching back, sits with you during the long afternoons when you cannot sleep.

She tells you stories about Mei as a child. 

How stubborn she was, how fierce, how she once punched a boy who made fun of her younger brother. How she learned to sew because she wanted to make you a dress. How she wrote in her diary about you constantly, pages and pages of memories and hopes and quiet, desperate love.

You listen to these stories and feel yourself break a little more each time.

You also grow weaker.

At first, you attribute it to the pregnancy. 

Late pregnancy is exhausting, everyone says so, but as the weeks pass, you notice things that worry you. You are tired all the time, sleeping twelve, fourteen hours a day. You have no appetite. Your hands shake.

The local healer examines you and shakes her head. 

"The baby is fine. Strong heartbeat, good position. But you… You are not well."

"What is wrong with me?"

"Your body is giving up. Grief sometimes does that. Takes root in the bones, drains the life away."

"Can you treat it?"

"I can give you herbs to strengthen your blood. But the real medicine…" She pauses. "The real medicine is wanting to live, and I am not certain you do."

She is right. 

You are not certain you do.

You go through day by day. 

You eat when Mei's mother insists. You walk in the small garden behind the house, placing your hand on the rough bark of the apple tree that grows there. You sit in the sun and try to feel warmth.

But everything is distant, muted, you are a ghost drifting through someone else's life.

Seven months pregnant. Eight. The baby will come soon.

You wonder if you will survive the birth, part of you hopes you will not.

Mei's mother seems to sense your thoughts. 

One evening, she sits beside you and takes your hand.

"You must live," she says. "For the child. For my daughter's memory. For yourself."

"I am trying."

"Try harder." Her voice is fierce, so much like Mei's that it hurts. "You have a choice, here. You can give up, let grief swallow you, or you can fight. You can live. You can raise this child and give them the love you never got to give my daughter."

"What if I cannot?" Your voice is small. "What if I am not strong enough?"

"You are. You have always been strong. You survived a marriage you did not want, a household that did not value you, the loss of your dearest friend. You can survive this too."

You want to believe her. You want to find that strength within yourself.

But as the weeks pass, as your body grows heavier and your spirit lighter, you feel yourself slipping away.

You think about the orchard often now. 

Those golden afternoons with Caleb and Mei. 

The three of you together, before everything went wrong.

You think about Mei's hands always finding yours first. The way she used to brush your hair. How she looked at you when she thought you were not watching.

You think about Caleb's laugh, bright and careless. How he used to help you down from trees. How his eyes would light up when he saw Mei, not realizing the person he was truly seeking was standing right beside him.

You think about the baby growing inside you. 

Caleb's child. 

The heir he wanted. The person who will carry both your grief and your hope into the future.

You hope the baby looks like Caleb. You hope they have his laugh, his kindness, his capacity for joy.

You hope they never make the mistakes you made. Never assume, never fail to ask, never let pride keep them from admitting what their heart already knows.

The contractions begin on a spring morning.

The sky is clear, the air warm. Cherry blossoms are blooming in the garden, pink and delicate.

You labor through the day and into the night. 

It is long and difficult. Your body is exhausted before you even begin. Mei's mother stays with you, holding your hand, murmuring encouragement.

"You can do this," she says. "You are almost there."

But you already know that this is the end for you.

You have enough strength to bring the child into the world, but not enough to remain in it yourself.

The baby arrives just before dawn. 

A girl, small but healthy, with a powerful cry and perfect tiny fingers.

They place her in your arms, and you look down at her face and see Caleb. 

She has his eyes, that distinctive purple that marks her as imperial blood. She has his nose, his chin, his delicate features.

She is beautiful.

"What will you name her?" Mei's mother asks.

You do not hesitate. 

"Mei."

Mei's mother's eyes fill with tears. 

"Are you certain?"

"She is named for the only person who truly loved me." Your voice is weak, fading. "Let her carry that name. Let her carry that legacy."

You hold your daughter for a long time, memorizing her face, the weight of her in your arms, the sound of her breathing.

Then you look at Mei's mother and speak the words you have been preparing.

"Take care of her. Raise her here, away from the capital, away from the court. Do not tell Caleb where she is unless…" You pause. "Unless he comes looking. If he never comes, let her grow up here, in peace."

"And if he does come?"

"Tell him I forgive him." The words are important. They need to be said. "Tell him I understand. Tell him it was not his fault, any of it. We were all blind."

"I will tell him."

"And tell Mei…" You look down at the baby. "Tell her she was loved. Tell her she was wanted. Tell her…"

But you cannot finish, your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges.

Mei's mother takes the baby gently from your arms. 

"I will tell her everything. I promise."

You smile, or try to. You are not certain if your face is moving anymore.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For everything. For taking me in. For…"

"Hush now. Rest. You have done well."

You close your eyes. The last thing you feel is warmth, sunlight streaming through the window, or perhaps just the memory of warmth, of spring afternoons and stolen moments and a hand that always found yours first.

You slip away thinking of apple orchards.

XI

The weeks after he sends you away are quiet.

Caleb returns to his duties. He attends the court. He trains with the imperial guard. He sits through the imperial council meetings and says the right things at the right times.

He visits Mei's grave every third day, kneeling in the dirt, speaking to her headstone as if she might answer.

He does not visit your chambers. There is no reason to, they are empty now, but sometimes he finds himself walking that corridor anyway, his feet carrying him there out of habit before his mind catches up. He stops outside your door, hand half-raised, and stands there for a moment before turning away. He does not examine why.

Your maidservants have been dismissed or reassigned. The rooms are being cleaned and closed. A servant asks whether your personal effects should be packed and sent to the summer estate, and Caleb opens his mouth to say yes, then stops.

"Leave them," he orders. "Leave everything as it is."

He does not examine that either.

At night, he reaches across the bed in his sleep. His hand finds empty space where a body should be, and he wakes confused and grasping, unsure who he was reaching for.

He assumes it is Mei. It has always been Mei.

After her funeral, Caleb checks his wrist obsessively. Waiting for the sign, for the darkening that would tell him his great love had passed, but both names remained unchanged, clear, vibrant, exactly as they had been since he received them.

He did not understand. How could Mei be dead and his mark remain the same? He convinced himself it was a delay. That fate took time to register death, that eventually, the change would come and he would finally have confirmation that Mei was his great love.

Then, three months after Mei's death and your exile, he wakes one morning and sees it.

Mei's name has changed. It did not darken as he expected, it faded. The characters have turned grey.

Grey. The mark of a companion.

He stares at his wrist, and the world tilts beneath him. No. That cannot be right. 

Mei was his great love. She had to be. He loved her for years, pursued her, mourned her… But the marks do not lie.

If Mei's name is grey and she was his companion. Then that means…

He looks at your name. Still there. Still unchanged. Still shimmering.

The realization crashes over him. You. You were always the great love.

And suddenly, everything that felt wrong about Mei makes sense. The way his longing for her was always tinged with frustration, never peace.  The way she never quite fit into the space in his heart he tried to force her into. The way loving her felt like chasing something perpetually out of reach. Because she was not meant to be caught, she was the companion. The friend. The bridge.

And you.. He remembers the last words he said to you. I wish it had been you.

The memory hits him. He told you he wished you had died instead of Mei. He looked at you, pregnant with his child, grieving your closest friend, accused of murder by the entire court, and he told you he wished you were dead.

He sent you away while heavily pregnant with his child. He had known about your mother's difficult pregnancies. He had known, and he had sent you away regardless.

And Mei died protecting you. Protecting you and the child. That was her last act of love for you, drinking poison meant for you, sacrificing herself to save you both. And he repaid that sacrifice by exiling you. By telling you he wished you were dead. By sending you away when you needed protection most. When Mei would have wanted him to protect you.

"No." The word tears out of him. "No, no, no…"

He is running before he realizes it, shouting for servants, for guards, for horses.

"The summer estate," he gasps. "Ready a retinue. Now. We leave immediately."

"Your Highness, it is barely dawn…"

"Now!"

The ride takes three days. Three days of riding hard, stopping only when the horses must rest. Three days of Caleb checking his wrist obsessively, looking at your name, praying it does not darken. Praying he is not too late.

He will apologize. He will beg for forgiveness. He will tell you he was blind, that he was wrong, that he convinced himself Mei was his great love when you were standing beside him the entire time.

He will make this right. He has to make this right.

When he arrives at the summer estate, he dismounts before his horse has fully stopped. He strides through the entrance, calling your name.

Servants appear, looking confused. The head of the household, a middle-aged woman with stern features, bows low.

"Your Highness. We did not expect…"

"Where is she?" Caleb demands. "Where is my wife?"

The woman's confusion deepens. 

"Your Highness, she is not here."

The world stops.

"What do you mean she is not here? She was sent here several months ago. Where is she?"

"We received no such person, Your Highness. We received word that Her Highness would be coming, yes, but she never arrived."

Caleb's blood runs cold. 

"That is impossible. She was sent here. With guards. With servants. They were to deliver her safely…"

"We have seen no one, Your Highness."

He tears through the estate like a madman. He checks every room, every chamber, every corner. He finds nothing. No belongings. No sign you were ever there. He returns to the capital and summons the servants who escorted you. They kneel before him, trembling.

"Where is she?" His voice is deadly quiet. "Where is my wife?"

"We delivered her to the summer estate, Your Highness," the driver says. "We saw her enter…"

"Liar." Caleb's hand goes to his sword. "The estate says she never arrived. Where did you take her?"

"Your Highness, we…"

"WHERE IS SHE?"

The servants exchange glances. Fear is written on their faces, but beneath it, something else. Defiance. Loyalty to someone who is not him.

"You told us you would come when the child was born," one of the servants he brought from the estate finally speaks up. "You made it clear you did not wish to see her until then. We thought, when she did not arrive at the estate, we thought you had changed your mind. That you had made other arrangements."

"What other arrangements? Where is she?"

Silence.

"ANSWER ME!"

But the servants from the retinue he assigned you do not break. They kneel there, silent and stubborn, protecting your location even under threat of death.

Caleb wants to execute them all. He wants to torture the truth from them, but a part of him, the part that remembers Mei's sacrifice, that understands these servants cared for you more than he did, that part stops him.

"Get out," he says finally. "All of you. Get out of my sight."

They leave, and Caleb is alone.

He sends men to every province, every village, every corner of the empire. He offers rewards for information. He follows every rumor, every possible lead.

Every morning, he checks his wrist. Your name remains unchanged. This gives him hope, irrational, desperate hope. If you were dead, the mark would darken. It has to darken. That is how it works. So you must be alive. Somewhere. Hidden, angry with him, but alive.

He will find you. He will make this right.

Seven years pass. Seven years of searching. Seven years of checking his wrist every morning, seeing your name unchanged, telling himself you are still out there. Seven years of guilt and desperation and the faint, foolish hope that maybe, when he finds you, you will forgive him.

Then he sees her.

A little girl in a market by the countryside, six or seven years old, who looks exactly like you the first time he saw you in the orchards. She has your smile, your features, the way you tilt your head, but her eyes, her eyes are his, that distinctive imperial purple, and standing beside her is a woman who looks like an older Mei.

Caleb stops dead in the middle of the market. People flow around him, annoyed at the obstruction, but he cannot move. 

It is your daughter. Your daughter and his. The child you were carrying when he sent you away.

The woman holding the girl's hand looks up, and her face goes still when she sees him. She knows who he is, everyone knows the third prince by sight.

"You," Caleb says, and his voice is rough. "I need to speak with you."

The woman, Mei's mother, pulls the girl closer. 

"We have nothing to say to you, Your Highness."

"That child…"

"Is not your concern."

"She has my eyes. She is… she is mine." The words break. "Please. Please tell me where her mother is. I have been searching…"

"Her mother is dead." The woman's voice is flat. "She died giving birth."

Seven years. You have been dead for seven years, and his mark never changed. Your name is still there on his wrist, unchanged, as if you are still alive. But you are not alive. 

You have been dead for years, and the marks gave him no sign. No darkening. No confirmation. He checks his wrist again desperately. Your name is still there, still shimmering, still unchanged.

The marks are punishing him. They told him the truth about Mei but they refuse to tell him the truth about you.They leave your name unchanged, eternal uncertainty, no closure, no confirmation that you were his great love even though he knows, he knows you were.

"No," he whispers. "No, she cannot be... The mark is unchanged…" He sobs. "She cannot be…"

"She died in my home, far from you, far from the court that destroyed her and my daughter." The woman's eyes are hard. "She spent her last months in the same room my daughter grew up in. She named her baby after my Mei, and then she died, content that the child would be cared for."

"I tried to find her. Her servants would not tell me where they took her…"

"My daughter paid for them before she died. She made arrangements to keep your wife safe, to bring her here instead of your summer estate." Mei's mother's voice is sharp. "My Mei knew you would not protect her, so she did."

The words are a knife. Caleb stumbles, has to catch himself on a nearby stall.

"I need to see her." He reaches out, desperate. "Our daughter. Please let me…"

"You have no daughter." The woman pulls the girl behind her, shielding her. "You have an heir you never wanted, a wife you drove to death, and a legacy of cruelty. That is all you have."

The child, little Mei, peers around her grandmother's skirts, studying Caleb with curious eyes. 

"Who is he, Grandma?"

"No one important, darling. Come. We need to go home."

"Wait!" Caleb takes a step forward. "Please. I know I have no right to ask…but please. Let me know her. Let me… I can provide for her. I can give her everything. Education, a title, a place at court…"

"She has everything she needs here." The woman's voice is final. "She has a home, a family who loves her, a quiet life away from politics and from the court. Why would I give that up to send her to you?"

"Because I am her father."

"You are the man who got her mother pregnant and then cast her out while she was heavy with child. That is not a father. That is a stranger who shares her blood and nothing more." Mei’s mother softens slightly, pity flickering across her face. "Go home, Your Highness. Go back to your palace. We do not need you. We never needed you."

She takes the child's hand and walks away, disappearing into the market crowd. Caleb stands frozen for a long time. Then he makes his way to the nearest inn and requests a room.

That evening, a messenger arrives. He carries two letters, one from Mei, one from you.

Mei's letter is long, detailed. She explains everything, the marks, the truth about who loved whom and what she hoped would happen after she was gone. She apologizes for not telling him sooner, for letting him believe she might love him someday, for not having the courage to simply say no.

You and my lady were always meant to be together, she wrote. I was merely the bridge. I pray that my death will help you see what was always written on your skin.

Your letter is shorter, simpler. I forgive you. That is all. No recriminations, no anger, no long explanations, just forgiveness, simple and complete.

Caleb reads both letters three times, then he folds them carefully and places them in his robes, over his heart.

That night, he dreams of apple orchards. He sees you as a child, seven years old, stuck in a tree, afraid to come down. He lifts you onto his shoulders. You laugh. He sees Mei, nine years old, fierce and protective, swearing to always guard you. He sees himself, blind and foolish, chasing the wrong person while the right one stood beside him the entire time.

When he wakes, his face is wet with tears.

He sends letters to Mei's family. He sends money, gifts, offers of support. Everything is returned, unopened. He tries three more times to visit. Each time, he is politely but firmly turned away.

He will never see his daughter again. This is his punishment, and he accepts it.

The marks on his wrist remain unchanged, Mei's name in grey, your name still shimmering as if you live. 

He sees them every morning when he wakes, every evening when he undresses. They are a constant reminder of everything he failed to understand.

The absence of darkness on your name torments him more than any blackened mark could. It is a punishment worse than confirmation. It is eternal uncertainty, eternal hope that maybe, somehow, the marks are wrong and you are still alive somewhere. But you are not alive. 

You were his great love, and you are gone.

He never remarries. He never takes another concubine. He lives alone in his household, performing his duties, serving the empire, but never truly living again.

Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he takes out your letter and reads it again. I forgive you.

He does not forgive himself. He will carry that weight until the day he dies.

XII

The orchard is exactly as you remember.

Apple trees heavy with fruit, grass soft beneath your feet, sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. The air smells of summer, earth and apple blossoms and something indefinably sweet.

You are wearing a simple robe, the kind you wore as a child. Your feet are bare and your hair is loose, unbound by pins or ornaments. You feel light, as if a great weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Hello."

You turn.

Mei is standing beneath an apple tree, smiling at you. She looks exactly as she did at sixteen, before the marks appeared, before the arrangement, before everything went wrong.

"Mei."

"Hello, my love." She holds out her hand. "I have been waiting for you."

You run to her. You do not walk nor do you maintain dignity or decorum. You simply run, and she catches you, and you bury your face in her shoulder and sob.

"I am sorry," you gasp between tears. "I am so sorry. I did not know…"

"Hush." Mei strokes your hair, her touch gentle. "There is nothing to apologize for."

"I asked you to stay with him. I made you..."

"You made me nothing." She pulls back, cupping your face in her hands. "I chose to stay. I chose to drink that poison. I chose everything, knowing what it would cost, because I loved you."

You stare at her, and finally, you let yourself understand.

"You were my great love."

"No." Mei's smile is sad as she shakes her head. "You were mine, but I was not yours."

"The marks…"

"Do not match perfectly. They never had to." Mei traces a finger down your cheek. "My great love was you. My companion was Caleb. Your great love was Caleb. Your companion was me. Each of us loving different people, bound together by fate but not identically."

"He was my great love." You say it aloud, testing the words. "Truly?"

"Yes, and you were his. You were both too busy looking elsewhere to see it."

You look at your wrists. The marks are gone. Your skin is bare.

"They fade after death," Mei explains. "They no longer matter here. What matters is what we carry in our hearts."

You take both her hands.

"I love you, Mei. Maybe not the same way you loved me, but I loved you. I love you still."

"I know." Mei's smile is infinitely tender. "And that is enough. It has always been enough."

You stand there in silence, holding hands beneath the apple tree. The question rises in your throat before you can stop it.

"Do you think we would have been happy? If I had chosen you instead?"

Mei is quiet for a long moment.

"I think we were happy together in this life, in our own way. We loved each other, supported each other, shared moments of joy even in the midst of sorrow." She squeezes your hands. "What we had was real. Messy and painful at times, but real. I would not trade that for some imagined perfect version."

"But I could have loved you better. If I had known…"

"You loved me as well as you could with the understanding you had. That is all anyone can do." Mei guides you to the base of the apple tree. You settle into the grass together, shoulders touching. "We are here now. Together. As we were always meant to be, in some way."

"Will we see Caleb again?"

"Eventually, when his time comes." Mei glances at you. "Do you want to?"

You consider this. 

Part of you wants to see him, to understand what he felt, what he wishes he had done differently, but part of you is afraid it will hurt all over again.

"I do not know," you admit.

"You have time to decide." Mei's voice is gentle. "This place is patient."

You sit in silence for a while, shoulders touching, listening to the wind move through the orchard. You think about Caleb, about the years he spent chasing Mei while you stood beside him, and you wonder if Mei ever resented being caught in the middle as much as you did.

Then Mei speaks, and her voice is different. Smaller and less certain.

"I was not always graceful about it. Loving you."

You turn to look at her.

"There were nights I hated you for not seeing me." She does not meet your eyes. "After he came to your chambers and you let him stay, after the Moon Festival, I lay in my room and thought terrible things. I thought, she knows. She has to know how I feel, and she simply does not care. I told myself you were selfish and blind and that I was a fool for staying."

Her hands are clasped tight in her lap.

"It passed. It always passed. By morning I would see you at breakfast, tired and sad and trying so hard to hold everything together, and the anger would dissolve, and all that remained was the wanting." She exhales. "But the resentment was there. I carried it alongside the love, and some nights, the resentment was louder."

You reach over and take her hands, uncurling her fingers.

"You are allowed to have been angry with me."

"I know, but I wanted you to hear it from me, not imagine me as someone who never struggled. I struggled. I raged. I wept into my pillow and cursed the marks and wished I had been born loving anyone else." Mei finally looks at you. Her eyes are bright. "And then morning would come, and you would smile at me, and I would think, oh, there you are, and it would start all over again."

You pull her close and hold her, and she lets you, and neither of you speaks for a long time. Then something shifts, a thought that has been circling the edges of your mind for longer than you want to admit finally settles where you can see it clearly.

"I did to you what he did to me."

Mei goes still beside you.

"Caleb kept me close but never truly saw me. He valued my presence but not my heart. He decided what I was to him before he ever asked." Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. "And I did the same thing to you. Every day. For years."

"That is not…”

"It is." You do not let her soften this. "You tried to tell me. In the kitchen with the herbs, you were telling me in the only way you had left, and I walked away. When you asked me for permission to refuse him, I said no, not because it was the right thing, but because it was easier for me. I made you carry his attention so I would not have to watch my marriage fall apart. I used you, Mei. The same way the arrangement used all of us, I used you."

Mei is quiet for a long time.

"You did not mean to."

"Neither did Caleb. He did not mean to overlook me. He was not cruel on purpose. He simply never questioned what he assumed." You turn to face her. "I never questioned either. I decided you were my companion and I stopped looking. I stopped asking what you needed, what you wanted, whether you were happy. I saw what was convenient and I never looked deeper."

"You were suffering too. You were trying to survive."

"So was he. That did not make it hurt less when he looked through me." You take her hands. "I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to let me say this, because you deserve to hear someone name what was done to you instead of dressing it up as fate or duty or sacrifice."

Mei's composure fractures. It is small, a tremor in her jaw, the unshed in her eyes, but it is the most unguarded you have ever seen her.

"I waited a very long time," she whispers, "for someone to say that."

"I know. I am sorry it took me dying to get here."

A sound escapes her that is half laugh, half sob. She presses her forehead against your joined hands.

"You insufferable woman," she breathes. "Even now, you find a way to break my heart."

"I think that is what we do to each other. It seems to be our particular talent."

Mei finally laughs, wet and raw and real. You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the trembling to stop. Long enough for the orchard to settle around you again.

When you finally pull apart, Mei wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and the gesture is so ordinary, so human, that it makes your chest ache

"Tell me about my daughter," you say softly.

"She has a wonderful life. Bright and curious and loved. She grows up with her grandmother, learning to sew and tend the garden. She laughs often. She is happy."

Relief floods through you.

"Good. That is good."

"She looks like you, except for the eyes. Those are all Caleb."

You close your eyes. The orchard is peaceful, and safe, you could stay here forever.

"Mei?"

"Yes?"

"I am glad you are here. I am glad we have this."

"So am I.”

"Even when the marks fade?"

"Especially then. Because when the marks are gone, we know the love was never about what was written on our skin. It was about what we chose to give each other, day after day, even when it cost us everything."

Mei leans in and presses her lips to your forehead, soft and lingering.

"Rest now. You have been tired for so long. Rest."

So you do.

You rest in the orchard, in the place where your childhood lived, where your memories are sweetest.

You rest beside the girl who loved you more than you ever knew, who gave everything for you and never asked for anything in return.

And for the first time in forever, you sleep without grief.

The End

⚜ an: writing let the light in part two frustrated me so much because i can't get the angst right that i ended up focusing on this fic instead. this is also my first attempt writing an f/f fic so please be kind to me. as always your likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

⚜ tags: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world,@kingraspberry12-blog

Caleb didn’t notice at first besides your absence after school (which is usually the time you ask him for help at your home) and thought you were just playing with kids at the playground. But as soon as you came home a few days after you asked Zayne for help, Caleb’s attitude changed. 

As Caleb was washing dishes, he heard the front door open. Caleb immediately recognized who it was by the sound of the pattering footsteps and the rustle of your backpack being hooked onto the wall. Following that was the sound of your backpack opening and a paper. 

Running into the kitchen, you approached Caleb with your math paper behind your back. He looked back, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hey pipsqueak, what’s with the good mood?”

“I had a math test earlier this week!” You began. “I just got the test results back!”

Caleb smiled. “Oh yeah? How’d you do?” You revealed your paper in a rather dramatic way and thrusted it in front of you for Caleb to see. 

“I got a 95! And a smiley face sticker too.” You beamed, shaking the paper in front of him.

“That’s great!” Caleb exclaimed, patting your head and giving you a toothy smile. “Turns out you got math now!” You give a smile and hummed, admiring the smiley sticker on the top of your paper.

You gave Caleb a hug before saying, “Oh yeah, Zayne is a great tutor! He explains math so well! No wonder he’s so smart…” 

Caleb’s arms around you stiffened, his hands making his way to the sides of your shoulder to look at you.

“You asked Zayne for help?” Caleb asked, his face still looking bright, but inside he felt like his gut was taken out. “Pipsqueak, I’m here. I helped you those other times, didn’t I?”

You nod, clutching onto the hem of Caleb’s shirt. “Yeah, but to be honest, I didn’t get it.” 

Caleb asked again. “Why didn’t you tell me? Y’know I can adapt to how you learn…” 

You looked down at your feet. “Yeah, but…”

Caleb tilted his head before getting on one knee and smoothing out the top of your hair. “You can tell me.”

The hands holding onto the paper became crumpled. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. You looked at Caleb, his eyebrows slightly knitted, but his kind eyes assured you. Alas, you ended up running to your room and shutting it. 

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Caleb felt horrible for making you feel this way. His act of handiness only made you insecure. Recalling how you went to Zayne’s house for help, his hand clenched before he let out a sigh. No wonder you weren’t coming home hungry. Zayne was probably feeding you. 

The Second Time

One day after school, Caleb was walking home with you. It was rather hot and the sound of cicadas never seemed to cease. After some time, you both sat down at a nearby park to cool under the trees, enjoying the occasional breeze that passed by. 

As Caleb rummaged through his backpack, he began to ask, “What should we have for dinner tonight?” 

You thought about it, pulling out the popsicle in your mouth. “Maybe something light?”

Caleb raised an eyebrow at your supposed answer before grabbing out a tissue packet to wipe your mouth. “Something light? Is there something going on that I should know about?”

His finger brushed your lips as you responded. “Just hanging out with some friends.” 

Caleb’s gaze fixed onto yours. “I see, then I’ll make beef stir fry.” He firmly said. You nod awkwardly before taking the tissue in his hand to wipe the mess on your fingers.

“Great! Your stir fry always tastes amazing.”

Caleb leaned back on his hands, thinking for a moment. Something was up and you didn’t want to tell him. He obviously knew that you were excessively praising him to win his favor. After all, he grew up with you so your small glances and utterances were always noticed. 

Once you were back home, you got ready to hangout with your “friends”. Putting on your nicest clothes, applying some makeup (subtle, but not too much), and a spritz of perfume, you walked out to smell the aroma of your favorite stir fried dish. 

As you walked into the living room, you spotted Caleb in an apron, holding a plate of beef stir fry and placing it on the table. He glanced at you, paused, and smiled. 

“You look good.” Caleb finally said. You suddenly felt tense, your shoulders shrugging. 

“Thanks!” You smiled, heading towards your designated spot and taking a seat. Caleb goes into the kitchen and comes out with your bowl of rice and utensils and places it in front of you. You give him another small thanks before digging in. Only then do you realize that Caleb sat across from you and not beside you.

As you ate, you felt Caleb's eyes on you. A little uncomfortable, but you could manage. You were about to leave after all.

When you stepped out in your nicest clothes with a hint of perfume wafting in the air, Caleb forgot he had cooked anything at all. He could only look and swallow. Wanting to look at you a little longer, he opted to sit across from you. 

“Is it good?” Caleb asked, leaning his head against his palm.

Nodding, you replied. “Yup!”  After eating half of your rice, you placed your utensils down and looked up at Caleb. “I’m going to brush my teeth and head out now.”

Caleb paused at your half empty bowl of rice before he responded. “Alright, have fun. Stay safe.” 

As soon as you closed the door, Caleb sprinted to his room to change into a discreet outfit and grabbed a hat. Internally, he knew this was wrong. Mentally, Caleb knew this was for your safety and he just wanted to check if you were okay. That’s all there was to it.

Grabbing a hat, he quickly put on his shoes to follow you. But just as he heard the gate open, an unfamiliar voice greeted you and complimented your outfit. Caleb’s actions paused as he peaked through the peephole of the door. A boy handed you flowers and smiled at you and made Caleb scoff. He angrily ran a hand through his hair before stumbling upon a thought he shouldn’t have made. 

“You! Why are you in front of my house?!” You exclaimed, hitting the boy in front of you playfully. “What if my gege sees you?”

The boy smiled. “Well, he’s not here now, isn’t he? Anyways, let’s go.” The boy grabbed your hand and the two of you walked off together.

The Third Time

Caleb thought his day couldn’t go wrong. After finishing his summer homework and his DIY plane set, he lounged around on the couch watching a random documentary after scrolling through the TV channels. 

The feeling of accomplishment quickly turned into anxiety as he saw you walk out in an outfit he hadn’t seen before. Suddenly, his brain flashed to that one day where you went on a secret date with your now ex-boyfriend (emphasis on the ex). Walking out in your best outfit, clean makeup, and raging enthusiasm, you hurried towards the main entrance to put on your shoes. 

Humming as you put on your shoes, you don’t hear the loud footsteps coming towards you. 

“Not coming home for dinner, pipsqueak?” Caleb asked. You felt your body jump as you whip your head towards the guy towering above you. For some reason, you felt a strong sense of deja-vu. 

“Yeah, I’m heading out with my friends tonight. No need to save me a plate.” You replied smoothly. You knew this was enough to convince him. After all, Caleb trusted your word and wouldn’t settle down for anything less. 

Caleb gave you a smile. “Alrighty then, stay safe and don’t come back too late.” He added, helping you up and ruffling your hair. 

“Caleb! Don’t mess up my hair!” You exclaimed, pouting as you tried to fix the strays of hair. All Caleb did was chuckle before waving at you as you exited the door. 

Little did you know that he was also going to the same place as you.

When Caleb arrived at the place your location marker was at, he realized what a lousy guy you were going out with. It was one of those cheesy candle lit restaurants that probably made cold, hard steaks and pasta. If only you could’ve been honest with him about your outing, he wouldn’t have to go this far. 

Caleb found a seat not too close from you and your mystery date to ensure he wouldn’t be seen, but close enough to hear your conversation. As he listened to your ongoing conversation, Caleb felt a sense of envy as he heard laughter coming from your table. He knew he could’ve done a better job at feeding you dinner. Dinner that was up to your tastes and standards. Mingling with his thoughts, a waiter came by and glanced at him with curiosity. 

“Have you ordered your meal, sir?” The waiter asked. Caleb blinked out of thought and replied.

“No need, I just wanted a drink.” He took a sip of his lemon tea and gave a smile. The waiter shrugged before leaving and heading to your table to refill your drink. 

After about an hour and a half, you and your date split the bill and left the restaurant. Caleb discretely followed the two of you. 

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner. I had a lot of fun.” You said, looking down at your shoes as the cold wind passed by. 

“I did too. We can go to a cafe next time if you’d like.” Your date responded, a smile gracing his face. 

Next time, my ass. Caleb thought. No way is he letting you go on another date with that boy. He couldn’t even pay for the meal he offered! Just as the two of you were about to part, Caleb noticed how close the boy was getting towards you. His face scoured, and just as you and the boy got any closer-

“Pipsqueak! There you are.” Caleb exclaimed, startling the both of you. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Like a secret couple that’s been caught, you pushed yourself away from your date in panic. His eyes widened in shock.

“Caleb!” You grumbled, louder than you would have liked it to be. “What… What are you doing here?” 

Caleb took off his hat and smiled. “Had to help out a neighbor around this area.” His calm gaze changed as he looked at the boy off to the side, his tail caught between his legs.

“Uh-” The boy looked at you in distress. 

“Um, this is Carson!” Your heart was thumping loudly in your chest, your words being drowned out. “He’s… just a friend! Just wanted to look at the exam materials for next week’s finals!” 

“I see. Well, thank you for taking care of my meimei.” Caleb responded. Whilst in panic, your gaze meets your date who looked at you with disgust.

“Friends? I thought we had feelings for each other.” The boy began. “Were you just playing with me?” 

“What? No, no, no…” Suddenly, you feel annoyed at the boy you just had a date with. Could he not take the hint that your gege was here? 

The boy scoffed. “You know what? I’m done. You keep making excuses about your gege that I think you like him more than me.” He glanced at Caleb for a moment with a scowl before running off with a frightened look. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, you covered your face with your hands as you felt tears beginning to pool your eyes. 

Caleb helped you to a nearby bench before helping you sit down, a glint of amusement shading his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Caleb asked. He brushed a few stray strands of hair behind your ear as you continued to cover your face. “Show me your face, would you?”

“Nof.” You mumbled into your hands, tears streaming down your face. Caleb knelt down before you and slowly wretched your hands away from your face. He let out a small laugh once he saw your dripping mascara and watery eyes. “Stop laughfing at me…” 

His hands make their way to cradle your face. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll always be here for you.” His thumb brushes across the bottom of your eyes and then your cheek. As Caleb pulled you in for a hug, the expression on his face darkens beneath the flickering streetlamp. 

The Fourth Time 

Even though Caleb didn’t live in the same house as you, he still felt the strongest gravitational pull from his DAA dorm. During summer break, he would arrive home with his heart swelling in chest, knowing your smile would greet him. 

However, this year, you were away for college. Of course, Caleb had a similar college experience. Hanging out with friends, studying until late hours, and going to parties. He knew you wanted to get the college experience too.

But it came with the cost of slowly drifting away. Caleb couldn’t help but feel jealous at the friends you surrounded with, recalling the call you had with him not too long ago. 

“Yeah, even though the class is pretty slow, my group members are really nice to me! Actually, we’re planning to go to a karaoke place tonight to celebrate our finals.” You rambled. Caleb could only smile while looking at the apple he was currently cutting. 

“Sounds fun, pips. Take care and don’t forget about me, okay?” Caleb replied, resuming to cut the apple only to fumble and slice some of his skin. He winced at the pain, but smiled when he heard your voice again and the sound of sheets rustling. 

“Of course I won’t. Talk to you later, Caleb!” The call ended and the kitchen that was once filled with your voice became quiet again. 

The following day, Caleb woke up with a mild migraine. Grumbling as he slid on his pants, he heard a notification from his phone. Immediately, he dropped the pants he was about to put on and scrambled to his phone. 

The screen lit up to a message from you. Attached was a picture of you smiling happily with your college friends. 

Miss u caleb! The message read. Caleb let out a small chuckle and responded.

Miss you more. 

The Fifth Time

Experiment #1009 has failed again. Unhook him from the monitors. We’ll try again tomorrow. 

Doctor, we’re still unable to access…

When Caleb awoke from his “slumber”, the first thing he felt was the agonizing pain from his bionic arm. He let out a groan before scientists came in and started to unhook him from the monitors. 

His mind was exhausted with the daily experiments and testing he had to endure. Caleb could only close his eyes in hopes of mediating the pain he felt before driving back to his place.

It was already late when he got back to his apartment. As he opened the door, a gust of cold wind chilled his body. Removing his coat and boots, Caleb stumbled towards the couch before patting around for the TV remote. 

Getting a hold of the remote, Caleb clicked through the channels before hearing your name on a news broadcast.

“... Hunter of the Year!” The news reporter called out. Caleb’s eyes widened immediately as he turned the volume up. “How do you feel about being nominated for being hunter of the year?” 

Lo and behold, you were in front of the camera smiling like a kid. Caleb’s heart began to beat faster as he waited for your response. Just a second of your voice. Just a moment to look at you. He thought, his hand clenching his jeans. 

“I’m very honored,” you began, “I wouldn’t have won this award without the help of my colleagues, friends, boss, and the citizens of Linkon City.” Even though it was late at night over in Linkon, the shine from your expression illuminated Caleb. 

His heart began to pound. And right as he was about to get his phone out, the toring chip vibrated, causing Caleb to hunched over and groaned out in pain.

“Fuck…” Sweat began to drip down his forehead. Grabbing the edge of his coffee table, Caleb forced his head to look up at you. Your segment. 

“I hope everyone who’s watching this knows that you’re capable of doing great things.” You looked directly at the camera, placing a hand over your chest where your necklace rested underneath your uniform. For a moment, Caleb recalled the time you reassured him that everything was going to be okay.

“Caleb, are you okay?” You asked as he sat next to you on a park bench.

Young Caleb glanced at you with a smile. “Silly question, I’m always more than okay when I’m around you.” He patted your head. 

You let out a laugh before pushing his hand away. “Hmm, well, how do you feel?”

Caleb raised his eyebrow. “Pips, what’s going on?”

“Caleb, I dunno if you need this, but if there’s some days where you feel icky and stuff, you can always come to me. I can hold your hand, serve you ice cream, and… do your laundry!” You exclaimed, clasping your hands over his. “I’ll rescue you!”

For a moment, Caleb couldn’t speak out of astonishment. Has he been worrying you this whole time? Was he being so selfish that he couldn’t attend to your needs first? Did he-

You snapped your fingers in front of him. “Caleb!” 

“Pips…” Caleb let out a small laugh before back at you. “Sorry for making you worry.”

You knitted your eyebrows. “Stop saying sorry when you don’t need to be. Loses its meaning, y’know…” 

This time, the weight on Caleb’s shoulders had been lifted. “Alright alright… But I’ll take you up on that ‘doing my laundry’ offer.” 

Letting out an offended gasp, you yelled, “I did not say that?!” 

Caleb nods eagerly. “Uh, you sure did.” 

“Did not!” You countered. 

Later that night, just as Caleb was about to fall asleep, he heard your footsteps stop in front of his door and pitter-patter away. Confused, he approached his door before seeing a small slip of paper on the floor. 

Helping Hand Voucher 4 Caleb

NEVER INSPI EXPIRES

The sound of an applause erupts from the TV screen, the video now panning over a crowd of people. 

Caleb smiled weakly, taking out the metal necklace you gave to him. He ran his thumb over it before kissing it. He let out another breath, the pain subsiding as he leaned against the couch. 

“If I call you now, will you come and rescue me?” 

Present

The white ball of fur let out a small yelp as you scratched behind its ears. Caleb could do nothing, but groaned as his arms slithered around your waist once more. 

“Let me have my turn… I haven’t been able to hug you in days.” Caleb whined, resting his head on your chest. 

“Caleb, we literally hugged a few minutes ago.” You responded, simultaneously ruffling his hair. 

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count.” If he had it his own way, that puppy wouldn’t have ever stepped foot into your home. Caleb had gotten the puppy for you after he felt guilty for leaving you at home while he was out for days or sometimes weeks without prior notice. But, as soon as he saw the puppy glue itself to you on the very first day, Caleb couldn’t help but seethe with jealousy. 

The puppy yelped loudly as Caleb clung tighter onto you. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Caleb abruptly pushed himself up from his place of comfort, (carefully) grabbed the dog, placed it outside the room, and locked the door. The dog whined, scratching the door to your shared bedroom.

You got up from your spot on the bed, approaching Caleb as he checked the lock.

“Caleb!? Why did you do that?” You exclaimed, shaking his arm. 

Caleb scratched the back of his head. “Do what?”

You deadpanned at him, tapping your foot on the ground to signal your anger towards him. 

Caleb cradled your face. “The puppy will live without you for a few minutes. Maybe a few hours. I, on the other hand, cannot.” 

You hated how his words got to you. “Caleb Xia…” His heart jolted for a second. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Caleb immediately apologized, bringing you into a tight hug. “I just miss you and that goober is stealing all your attention and I-” As you made eye contact with Caleb, you realized his eyes mimicked the beady eyes of your puppy. “Can I kiss you?”

You blinked. “Huh?” 

Caleb asked again. “If I don’t kiss you in the next three seconds, I’ll go insane.” You patted his back before going on your tip-toes to kiss his neck. 

Grumbling, you stepped back and crossed your arms. “Done. Now give me back my puppy.” 

“Oh, I’ll get your puppy alright,” Caleb began, “right after I shower you in kisses.” 

“Caleb!” He grabbed your waist and lifted you up in his arms before the two of you fell back onto the bed. Amidst the chaos, Caleb began to shower you in kisses. Anger immediately turned into giggles as the thought of getting upset at Caleb disappeared. The pain from the toring chip subsided, the barks from your puppy have quieted, but your love for Caleb has remained unwavering. 

It was a faint memory, but it makes present Gabriel chuckle. He's currently jogging on the school fields, his ears plugged with earjacks while he listens to his mp3. He has a competition on Thursday, and the older male already plans to give a free ticket for [name]. Gabriel couldn't help but imagine how she'll look. She'll be shocked, isn't she? Such a sweet girl, unfortunately tainted by a snake she didn't know she was getting choked by.

Thankfully the same snake is foolish enough to let go of its one and only willing prey. Now it's his turn to nurture and protect her from the whole world. [Name] is so interesting in Gabriel's eyes since the day they first met. To be told, he's a fake extrovert. He does this to keep up a reputation as a respectable, yet kind senior. He wants to protect himself from the unfortunate bullying that could happen even when he's almost an adult now. But [name] makes him want to be exactly that. He starts smiling even more, and even volunteers around the academy just to see and give [name] free samples of food and anything the clubs are offering.

And now, he's the Track Team leader. He's actually planning to invite [name] to be a part of the track team, but he supposes she'll refuse. You don't really have good stamina when it comes to running. But Gabriel doesn't mind. As long as you're healthy, he doesn't care. Once he's done with his fifth lap, he pulled on the earjacks and sighed. He could still hear his fellow students’ moans and groans from getting way too tired from running through the large field, and obviously he's the first one to finish. The teacher only nodded at him with approval. It's time to take a bath. And maybe eat lunch with [name] if he's fortunate enough.

…

On your side, the situation is bad. Since Ludwig is officially joining the class, the former class president needs to be moved to 2-B. And a student from 2-B to 2-A. Now with the position empty, your teacher is currently smiling and clapping her hands for attention.

“Okay, students! Since Noah is moved up to the 2-B class, the position of the class president is empty. Does someone want to volunteer to be one?” Mrs. Hannah chirped happily like a finch. She's too enthusiastic while you look like you haven't eaten in thirty years.

Just sitting beside Ludwig gives you the chill now. Goosebumps keep rising on your skin, and it feels oddly cold. The students obviously looked behind to Ludwig. While the blond guy is slowly looking at you. You obviously didn't know what he's signaling, so you only smiled in hopes the teacher notices how awkward this is.

“Seems like everyone wants Ludwig to be the class president! Are you okay with that?” She asked again. Ludwig tilted his head, and pursed his lips. 

“I want to be the vice president only if [name] is the president.” He called out. You immediately choked on your own saliva and coughed hard. Is he seriously dragging you into another mess?! No, you don't want to be the class president, and no, you don't need more attention from fellow students and teachers. One year is enough to convince you that some students see you only as Ludwig's lapdog. You're not going to do this. Not again.

“Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Hannah, I-I don't want that position, please. I have to help my aunt settle her flower shop after school.” You shook your head. While Ludwig looks back at you with a hurt expression. Inside, you're screaming and crying. What did you even do wrong for fate to kick you on the butt like this?! He looks like you just stole his books and burnt them. You forced yourself to look away. Unfortunately for you, you're still weak with his softer expression. You're the one teaching him that manipulation technique, so you wouldn't falter.

“But [name]... Isn't this a good opportunity for you to finally shine and be the leader?” He asked with a croaked voice. Everyone is already gasping and giggling from his surprisingly sappy words. You shook your head and kept your ground. No matter what, you didn't want this position. Just let Ludwig and that Sarah girl be the pair. You're quite sure Ludwig is already in a relationship with Angeline anyways. You always saw them walking together while avoiding Ludwig.

In the end, your teacher decided a vote would be far more democratic and nice. And in the end, you're chosen as the class president, and Ludwig as your vice president. You can already feel the impending headache that is going to attack you. The other students in the classroom think it's good to pair him with you, just to see you suffer, it seems.

After the lunch bell rang, you're currently walking on the school corridor. With a very large German boy tailing you from the behind. Since the classes are finished, Ludwig has been following you. Your hands are clutching your lunch in hand, and you're nervously smiling at the confused passerbys. Usually it's you following the taller male. And you stopped since the school started around a month ago. Now everyone is seeing the famed student council following a nobody from the 2-C class.

“Uh, Ludwig. May I help you?” You finally stopped and looked behind at him. He looks fine today. Now that you notice more, he didn't use any hair gels, which is weird. And he switched his glasses to his old one. Ah… maybe he's at that stage in a relationship. Where he can finally show his true self with Angeline without any fake things.

Ludwig stayed quiet for a while, before he nodded. He raised his hand to show you a box. A Tupperware box, to be precise. “May I eat lunch with you?” He asked ever so politely, that you'll definitely scream yes if this is you from a year ago. But now hearing it makes you flinch.

“Aren't you and Angeline, uhh, a thing?” You asked back. Again, everyone assumes they're the perfect couple. He's crazy great with science, and she's a genius at math. They're a match made and concocted in heaven. 

“...Did you mean we’re a pair of student councils?” He seems confused now. While you're about to scream from the embarrassment. Before anything could escalate, you decided to just nod and let him join you for lunch.

“Nope! No need to answer that. J-just follow me.” You decided that keeping your mouth shut might be a better option at this point. You lead him to one of the public places you usually eat alone, like a squirrel at. Today, it's in the gardens. You have a few spots you'd like to keep as a secret so you can eat without anyone chatting or enquiring you about anything. And fortunately, you have a pretty quiet seatmate today.

Except that's what you thought. The moment you let him sit first, Ludwig thanked you. Which is weird. He apologised, he looked like a kicked puppy, and he thanked you. He must've hit his head on his way to school, because there's no way he willingly does this. You opened your lunchbox and stared at the sad lunch you prepared for yourself. It's just a lumpy sandwich. Business is hard for your aunt these days, and you don't want to bother her, so you make use of everything in the house. 

“That’s all you're eating?” He pointed his index finger at the bread you're eating. You nod, your cheeks puffed from biting on the lettuce, eggs and tomatoes you stuffed inside. You didn't notice it, but Ludwig’s finger twitched slightly as he saw you munch and bite. Okay, now you look like a mouse. A very cute, chubby-cheeked mouse who's trying her best to fit a large piece of bread inside her mouth. He looked away, and took a deep breath before looking down at his food. His mother has made too much, again. Apparently it's fried fish and a large amount of mashed potatoes today. He wouldn't be able to finish this without puking, so he decided to ask for your help.

“Do you want some?” He tugged on your hoodie to grab your attention, and you looked surprised. His parents are rich. Too rich for their own good. Yet his mom always cooks for him every morning. You can't help but feel a little envious and sad. But you can't help but think this is some kind of a test. So you shook your head.

“N-no thanks. My bread is enough. I'm uhh, dieting!” You quickly thought of a reason. Though now Ludwig looks sad, again. He just nodded understandingly, and began eating the huge lump of mashed potatoes alone. You don't get what's wrong with him. Why is he so nice now? Did something happen? Or is this his way to check if you're going to tell anyone about what happened? He's scary. And you feel uncomfortable around him. Because deep inside, you know you're messed up, just like him. And the fear of turning into what he can and will do makes you recoil.

And besides everything, something traitorous in your heart is still beating slightly quicker for him. In your brain, there's a 100 mob of [name]s raising pitchforks and yelling in anger because she needs to spend time with him. Yet there's one teeny, tiny [name] wearing all pink, clutching on a teddy bear with a paper written with ‘Ludwig’ stuck on its head. “H-hey guys, maybe we should give him a chance! He's a changed man now!” Tiny [name] would say. And then she got beaten up by the angry crowd for suggesting something so dumb.

Ludwig meanwhile, is stealing glances at you from his peripheral vision. You look so deep in thought, and there are crumbs of bread on your face. He quickly grabbed his handkerchief, and without question, he wiped your cheeks gently with it. You're obviously dumbfounded. Suddenly there's a thumb on your jaw, and a soft cloth rubbing on your face.

“There… all clean now.” He spares a smile for you, and it absolutely kills you. It looks so affectionate, and the mobs inside your brain all died from the cuteness. You recoiled and instantly shot up from your seat though, you fixed your billowing skirt and cleared your throat. 

“Um, I have to go to the bathroom! Just go to the class first! No need to wait on me.” You laughed like a madwoman. It's all forced, but Ludwig is as always, too dense to know. He nodded like a loyal dog, and waited for you until you're inside the toilet as if he's a clingy puppy.

When you're already inside, you let out a loud groan and look at your reflection in the mirror. There's imperfections here and there, nothing too major. The fall injury has all healed, thankfully. You opened the faucet below and let the water stay cooped on your hands. In a flash, you splashed the cold water on your face. This really can't be happening. You hope he'll lose interest in a day or two. This must've been his annual time to check on the secret.

During your way out, you accidentally bumped into someone. Before you can sputter an apology, you hear a familiar voice call out your name.

“There you are, [name]! I was looking for you!” Gabriel laughed and steadied your shoulder gently. You looked up and brightened up. At least it's not a mean senior or Ludwig. He'll be the last person you'd like to see now. Gabe meanwhile, ushered you to the nearby seats.

“[Naaaaame]! Do you have any clubs you want to join? The track team is open for any new members!” He grinned. He's been advertising the track team for a year by now. But you always refused because you don't want to slow him, or anyone down. You're afraid you can't keep up with athletic people like them.

“I-I’m actually interested in joining the cooking club. Book club is a no now.” You scratched your neck. A year ago, you joined the book club in the library with Ludwig. More like for Ludwig, so you can be around him. The club is filtered because most want to join only to see the prided genius himself, but thankfully they let you in because you two seem to be friends. And again, you can't keep up with what they discuss and debate. Every week is a different topic, and your brain just couldn't comprehend what they talk about.

Gabriel looks elated that you're at least not rejoining that messy club. Book club… he hates them. People that get inside are either big-brained, or snobby (mostly both). They'll talk behind your back if you can't keep up, and laugh at your reactions if you can't comprehend the meaning of a book from the late 1700s. And besides, he heard that Ludwig is elected as the next president. He can't help but scoff once hearing it. Is that guy planning to take every presidential job the academy offers? One sloppy fault and he's gone, preferably.

“Heummm, then I'm glad for you, [name]! As long as you're happy, I'm happy too!” He chipped and hugged you. Doing skinship with him is already so common that you're starting to expect it. It's actually nice hugging him. His biceps are just so nice to hold…

“Just let me know if you ever changed your mind! I'll keep one secret spot for you.” He smiled and blew you a kiss. You shyly nodded and slowly walked back to your class. Without any word, Ludwig comes out from a pillar near the seats you just sat with Gabriel on. His hands are twitching on his sides, and he feels something complicated.

‘[name] doesn't plan to re-join the book club?’ he thought. Ludwig only takes the offer to be the president to tutor you more. But now his plan completely backfires on him. He doesn't know why, but he still felt like the winner because she's not joining the track team either. Track team. Smelly, messy people that rely on their body too much more than their brains. Especially that senior. Ludwig loathed Gabriel. He's usually very neutral with everyone. But Gabriel gets on his nerves. He never interacted with him much, yet he's itching to hit him, he doesn't even know why. Ludwig knows why, he just doesn't want to admit it's because Gabriel kept touching [name] in ways he actually wants to experience too.

At least both of them wouldn't win in their own respective cages. So Ludwig decides that a change of plan is needed. 

“Cooking club it is.”

…

The rest of the day goes as normal as possible with Ludwig beside you. It's so odd seeing him so calm and kind with everyone. Even the other students are shocked. You kept quiet and played with your keychains. You're not looking for any gaps where he'll talk with you again. When the last school bell rang, you packed your belongings and spared one look at Ludwig. He's already staring at you, as always.

“U-uh, see you tomorrow?” You're supposed to say a statement, but it comes out more like a question. Ludwig nodded at you, but didn't move from where he's standing before you started walking. You dragged yourself through the corridors and started thinking about what you should do tomorrow. You planned to help your aunt's flower business, you can only hope the cooking club has a free day every Wednesday.

You slide the door inside the cooking club. There, you saw a few people already inside. You took a deep breather before stepping inside. On clockwork, a few heads snapped to you, and a cheery girl jogged towards you. You noticed it's another Senior. Senior Ayami. Japanese dad, absolute sweetheart, class 3-B, that's what everyone says. 

“Hello! Welcome to the cooking club! Are you here to apply?” She clapped. You slowly nodded and smiled back. The hospitality is absolute. There's a few trays of freshly baked muffins on the table. And they seem like kind people.

“Yes please. Is there a form I needed to fill?” You inquired, and Ayami nodded. She quickly searched for the papers. Though she's a little clumsy and forgetful on where she places her things, she's still pretty responsible. While you're jotting your name and new phone number, Ayami tapped on your shoulder.

“Does your friend want to join too?” She whispers. You, on the other hand, look confused. Didn't you walk here alone? When you look over your shoulder, your heart drops when you see Ludwig there. His left hand is on the strap of his bag, and he's currently scrutinizing the place from each nook and cranny. When he realized you're staring, he stopped and looked slightly flushed.

There's no way he's here. WHY IS HE HERE? The questions are storming your brain, and you feel your heart churn. Ayami goes over to him, and starts chatting with him. You can feel your forehead twitch, especially your blood vessels that are about to pop from the stress. When he gets inside to fill the form paper too, you stand beside him, awkwardly.

“Never knew you're interested in cooking.” You fake chuckled. All you want to do now is to dig a hole in the gardens and bury yourself alive. Ludwig shyly nodded, and his bangs covered his eyes and glasses. He tugged them back in place and smiled at you.

“I just wanted to spend more time with you, [name]. We've been a little distant since the new school year started.” He looks down at his shoes while talking, and you swore he's avoiding your eyes. You'd like to know if that's a signal or something you should know. Yet there's nothing to dissect because he's really just bashful, not like you'll know.

So obviously, Ayami can't refuse two cute juniors to her club. She's already looking between the two of them like an eager mom. She wonders if they're lovers or something. The leader grabbed a pair of clean aprons and handed it to both of them. You accept it with a soft smile, while Ludwig is looking at you, like he's seeking your approval or way of doing things. You just didn't notice him or his hopeful gaze.

Ayami allowed you and Ludwig to be as creative as you'd like and cook anything you two wanted. You looked inside the fridge, and awkwardly back to him. You remembered that he hates cooking. The smoke, grease, everything. He's going out of his way just to torment you, it seems. It's a little over the top, but it's crazy that he's really standing beside you.

“Are you planning to cook anything in particular?” He asked with a smaller voice. He looks like he's ready to be scolded, and you can't help but feel sorry for him for no reason. You just hummed and looked back inside the cooling box. Maybe… something that is easy to transport and take back home? Or just eat here. 

To be honest, you still remembered he hates cucumbers and lime. And your mind subconsciously throws out any ideas involving both ingredients. You shook your head and looked back at him.

“Any suggestions?” You asked back. It's safer to let him choose. You don't want him to get displeased and follow you home in retaliation. Ludwig looks deep in thought. He learned a lot of things from Angeline.

…

Angeline has always been a little suspicious of you. Mostly because when conversing with her, you'll bring up Ludwig as if you're trying to matchmake them. And you always ask about her type. She always kept it vague, like longer hair, nice appearance, and if they're using glasses, they'll look cuter in round glasses.

Unfortunately, you also shared your own preferences with her. You'll always keep Ludwig in mind back then.

“I like guys with their hair down!” You excitedly jumped on your seat. “Too much gel isn't really that good on the hair follicles, right?” You'll giggle.

And Angeline kept it all in mind.

Sophisticated men, kind boys with square glasses, blond, blue eyes, boys that like cooking and playing games together. 

Ludwig already won by three. He has blond hair, blue eyes, and the awards on his house shows how smart he is. But the rest is questionable. He never even went to an arcade in his life.

Angeline coached him what to say with [name], but he forgot everything the moment he saw her. Seeing her again makes him uneasy. Yet now he realised that he's indeed, happier when she's near him.

So that's why now he changes his hair style and glasses. He looks into his mind palace to try and remember what you like, and what you've always shared with him.

…

With a determined look, Ludwig had found the answer. You really like rice balls. It's one of the cheap foods you can get at the asian store near your house. So he would choose it. “Maybe we should make rice balls.” He solemnly says. You only blinked once, before nodding. At least it's not a risky, expensive food you'll probably mess up.

In an hour, there's a dozen tuna rice balls you and Ludwig made with the ingredients from the fridge. You shared them with the other four members of the team, and when it's almost 4.30 PM, you decided it's time to go back home. You bid farewell to everyone, and walked to the gate with Ludwig beside you.

“Um… again, see you tomorrow.” You waved your hand. Ludwig nodded, but he looked expectantly at you. You turned your heel and started walking into the other direction from his home. He clenched his fists on his side. Usually it's always you who walks him home. He doesn't know where you live. He wants to be responsible too. Why can't he walk you home? He's so afraid he'll get bested by Gabriel. If you're with him, what'll he do?

“[Name], please wait up!” He soon ran to your side. You stopped on your tracks and looked behind, only to see a 6’1 nerd almost crash against your body. He stopped a few centimetres away from you, and bit his lower lip. “May I walk you home?” He asked. His eyes looked wetter than usual, you're afraid refusing him will make him mad. But it's already odd enough he wants to walk you home.

“Uhh, sure?” You sound unsure even to yourself. He brightened up almost instantly. He matched his pace with you even though his legs are obviously longer. He's memorizing each passage and quick route you have passed, and he could only hope that you'll allow him to do this every single day.

…

Gabriel is currently setting up each photograph he has of [name] on the corner of his room. He applied to be the school festival’s helper and photographer for every event just to make sure he'll have all the photographs of his dear junior in his camera. He had 1.546 pictures as of now. At least he has an excuse to take extra pictures of her. The rest is from his ‘coincidences’. Oh! He met you on his way to the neighborhood’s library. You look nice with your pink hoodie. He snapped some pictures for safekeeping!

Your missing hairpins are pinned carefully to the wall. Even the pens you threw away sit beside them. Of course, the most important part is the picture of the two of you together, snapped by one of his friends. You looked so happy and carefree, while his hand rested against your shoulder, squeezing you closer with him.

“[Name]... I wonder when we'll be able to be together.” He chuckled. Gabriel is already planning to coax you out of your old shell, and he'll be the angel you needed in your life. A new school event is going to start soon. The Spring Festival would allow the two of you to spend more time together.

But even the cats near the academy had noticed Ludwig slowly itching back to [name]’s reality. Gabriel rubbed his temple and sighed, this is getting too complicated. He thought Ludwig’s enslavement to [name] has stopped, but it's clearly wrong.

Gabriel grabbed a flash disk and his school vest. He took one whiff and almost moaned. It still smells like your cologne. Maybe he should investigate and buy the same brand so that he can lull himself to sleep easier. He plugged the disk to his PC, and soon, impossible amounts of files popped out. 

[Name]’s schedule.

[Name]’s favourite activities.

[Name]’s pictures.

[Blackmail material].

He ignored all of it and went straight for the pictures. Gabriel’s right hand on his mouse, the right now fisting something that is throbbing hard between his legs. 

“‘m sorry for this, [name]...” He softly moaned, “I just couldn't help myself… I love you so much.” He mumbled to himself. He's doing something disgustingly sinful to your smell. But once you two are lovers, he promises he'll treat you better. He'll be the most devoted boyfriend ever.

Let's just hope there won't be any obstacles. He heard Ludwig move classes so abruptly, and the headmaster and other teachers couldn't convince him to stay on 2-A. He clicked his tongue and moved his hand faster. Just then, a loud thunder hits his ears. He slammed the mouse to the table from the shock, and then the electricity died.

“Oh, come on!”

…

Ludwig is currently shielding you from the rain with his blazer. The two of you are running to the nearest bus stop to not get drenched by the sudden rain. You're panting while he's placing his suit on top of your hoodie. He's wet from head to toe because of his sacrifice.

“Hey, hey, you need this more than me.” You nudged it back to him, but he shook his head. He’s actually a little proud of himself for acting that quickly. At least you're not touched by the raindrops at all. Meanwhile, all you can see is a proud samoyed whose hair is sticking on its skin. There's waterdrops on his lashes, and his hair is stuck on his forehead. His glasses are foggy, but he'll manage.

“Ludwig, you really don't have to do that.” You sighed and quickly searched your bag for a tissue. You handed a pocket tissue to him, at least he can clean his glasses now. He thanked you for the nth time today, and slowly squinted while wiping it. You're aware his eyes sucked without glasses. He has a habit of studying and straining his eyes too much since he's young. 

“I'm glad you're okay, [name]. That's enough for me.” He turned bashful with every word. You're still confused. Why is he so different in the course of four months from where you guys were separated by the summer break? You rubbed your cheeks out of frustration and cold, and finally decided to end this once and for all.

“Why are you doing this? Are you ensuring my loyalty that I wouldn't snitch on you?” You looked straight into his eyes. He looks surprised at the sudden burst of energy from you. He feels guilty for making you worry.

…

The whole summer break after the confrontation with Angeline, Ludwig spends his days reading law books you used to point at the library. 

“Having a judge boyfriend would be funny, right? Maybe I'll do a crime and he'll let it slide. He'll be my secret partner in crime!” You grinned. 

Ludwig thought that's ridiculous. But he's now reading through the thick books without any look of boredom. Your number is still deactivated. At this point, Ludwig has memorized all of the messages you sent him. Why did he answer you so abrasively? He called you a parasite. And yet you're not mad. You still stuck around with him.

He goes to the park to get some fresh air. It's just an excuse though. You said that you love taking a stroll at the neighbourhood park to sit by the swings. He looked at the large oak tree and kids playing on the swings and frowned. No [name] in sight. He walked mindlessly, his left hand holding a cup of lukewarm honey tea. He keeps sipping on it, staring at the shops near him. He stopped after seeing a flower shop with a very familiar picture on. Ludwig looked up, ‘Blossom’, is what the shop is called. He didn't even realise he already got in. There's a bell ringing on the door. 

He took one look at the picture frame on the counter and correctly enough, it was a picture of [name] standing beside someone he doesn't recognize. “Hello! Welcome to Blossom! How may I help you today?” A cheerful voice comes from in front of him. Ludwig almost let go of the frame and let it fall down, but thankfully his hands managed to grab it just in time. Then he felt something rubbing against his pants, and when he looked down, there's a fat tabby cat looking back at him, while meowing and rolling to its belly.

“Uh… My apologies.” He neatly placed the frame back, before looking at the fresh flowers behind the counter. He remembers your favourite flower. Daffodils. He didn't exactly know what it meant. You just talked about it in one of your many yapping sessions, where you'll talk and he'll half-heartedly listen.

“Do you have daffodils?” Ludwig asked. For once, he's kinda nervous because this woman in front of him is the same lady in the picture beside [name]. Which means she could probably show up at any moment, and maybe he could converse with you again.

“Going through a heart-break? Are you alright?” The older lady hummed but went to grab the daffodils to wrap for him. Ludwig is confused. Does daffodil mean something bad? When the lady came back out, he asked the meaning of daffodils.

“Daffodils represent unrequited love. I didn't expect such a fine, young man like you to go through that type of heart break. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find someone better.” She explained. He frowned while accepting the beautiful, arranged wrapped daffodils. He paid extra and left the change as the tip. 

Language of flowers… It's actually interesting. But it saddens him that your favourite flower would be such a sad one. He'll learn more. And he'll make sure to impress you with how much he knows about flowers when you two finally meet again.

…

“...” He stayed quiet while the rain hit harder against the plastic roof on top of their heads. Ludwig looked down at his shoes, water was slowly pooling into a puddle around his dress shoes, and he finally raised his head back to look at you. “I missed you.” Three dangerous words to say to someone you have no connection and feelings for.

You are shocked. Your jaw went slack from what he's saying. “It's all my fault. I'm sorry for pushing you away.” His voice cracked, assuming it's from the sudden emotional outburst. Ludwig slowly grabbed two of your hands and engulfed them on his larger one. He looks at you expectantly, and sniffles pitifully.

“P-please forgive me. I just… I only wanted to be your friend again.” He smiled timidly. He couldn't be hoping that you're still interested in him. The least he can do and hope is that you still want to be his friend. But the thought of Gabriel now latching around you makes his blood boil. If he's your ‘best friend’ again, at least he can protect you from that creep.

You're about to pass out again. You probably really have low blood sugar because everyone has been stressing you out these days. You retracted your hands back to your side, and Ludwig looks like his heart is broken to a million pieces. As if he was just rejected by the girl of his dreams. You're just creeped out by everything that has happened just in a span of the day.

“Look, Ludwig… no offense, but we're not really friends.” You started things off, hoping it'll go smoothly. You just hoped your feelings and emotions wouldn't betray you. Old habits die young, and you still care so much about him, though the love has dried up like drought.

“Just… follow me. You'll get sick if you're wet like that.” You neatly placed his blazer back on his shoulder. Then you grabbed his cold hand and positioned yourself. The two of you needed to run for a bit before arriving at your home. “Get ready.” You signaled, and there were four footsteps against the wet pavement of the neighborhood that day. Ludwig is speechless. Your hand is extremely warm despite the cold weather around the two of you. His heart can't help but rush a little.

But even a genius knows when he's losing. Ludwig knows that [name] is already half way through the running course, Gabriel is already chasing, and he's still in the starting line. He wouldn't force [name] to love him. Guilt and anxiety is still choking him from how he treated her. The least he can do is drag Gabriel down with him. If he couldn't be [name]’s boyfriend, no one, absolutely no one can.

A/n : just a little filler episode for Ludwig and Gabriel's background! Hope you guys love it!

Reblogs are appreciated, reqs and asks are open!

Taglist :

you knew caleb despised working at the fleet if it interfered with your visits. it was a whole battle to get him out the door, the only thing to soothe the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips the promise that you would give him as many kisses as he needed once he returned.

it seemed he was eager to claim that promise, as you were barely able to hear the sound of the door opening before you felt him looming behind you. "oh, welcome home-"

he tugged you into his arms, his arm firm around your waist, and you could tell that the day hadn't gone so well for him. you sighed, turning to poke his cheek. "you okay? do you want me to make dinner instead?"

silently, he shook his head, tugging you to face him with a pout.

"c'mon pips, you know i don't mind makin' dinner even when i'm tired," he had a certain glint in his eyes as he lowered his head towards you, a smile on his lips. "but wasn't there something you promised me when i left?"

rolling your eyes playfully, you let him tug you closer, your lips meeting in a clash of desperation and longing. you sighed as he kissed you, letting him take the lead.

it was only a matter of time before you had to pull back for air, absolutely breathless as you looked up at him. you smiled, cupping his cheek carefully. "did the fleet wear you out that much?"

"it wasn't just the fleet," he hummed, lowering his head to you with a smile. "anytime i'm away from you, i long for this. for you."

zayne, as you came to find out over your relationship with him, was immensely pent up. a lot of the time, something work related could distract him from his internal desires, but anytime he was with you and away from any busy work, he couldn't help but give into him.

you were giddy when you brought home desserts from a bakery nearby that he had been wanting to try, placing down the bags with a dramatic flourish. "behold, sweets for days!"

he had chuckled at your display, kissing your forehead before you both began sharing treats. from sitting side by side to hand feeding one another, it was only inevitable that one of you would make a move.

and it was only fair that zayne, in all his need, was the one to break first.

"you have something on your lip." he mumbled, reaching for you with what you perceived to be innocent intent. you had inclined your head towards his, only to yelp in shock as he swooped in and captured your lips.

desserts completely forgotten, you could only wrap your arms around his shoulders as he pressed himself against you, lips moving in a familiar rhythm before you both ran out of breath.

you gasped as you pulled back, smiling as zayne looked more disheveled than you had ever seen him. you giggled as you fixed his glasses, grinning playfully. "did you get rid of what was on my lips?"

"hm, not yet," he leaned back in with a smile, "i do believe there's still some more frosting left.."

There were few words to describe how captivating a sight it was, gazing upon Jason like this. His eyes were the size of copper pans, their reflection a show of the treasure they had unearthed. His mouth agape as he stared at the little girl sheltered in your chest. You hold back a laugh; your daughter deserved the peace. But you couldn’t help but tease. 

“Are you alright?” You barely hold back the chuckle that surrounds the words. This snaps Jason out of his trance, though his eyes refused to lose their glimmer. 

“I should be asking you that.” He softly pets your forehead, freeing any hair stuck by sweat before leaving a kiss. 

Your heart flutters, and you falter for a second. “My heart is full. And so will our hands in a few years' time.” You smile as you brush the cheek of the sleeping baby. There is no doubt she will be a child who teaches you many things, as you taught your parents and Jason taught Bruce. Had you been less aware, you would have fainted at the thought, but you are sure you will both embrace those days when they come. 

“She looks just like you,” Jason whispers, his eyes now firmly glued to your daughter. He smiled widely, your daughter. Never did he think he’d see the day that he would capture the affections of someone quite like yourself let alone start a family. There had been days that he dreaded the idea of being responsible for anyone else but himself. His life had taught him that no one could be counted on. His parents were too absorbed in their own afflictions to consider a child's needs. Bruce was too rigid in his morality to ever truly understand Jason. And his birth mother… she had been the final nail in the coffin, until you.

You had given him pause the moment he met you. You were uncharacteristically warm yet unwavering in your beliefs. You cared for Jason, but refused to let his lofty tendancies be the death of your character. You had laid it out to him plainly that your love for him was endless, but you would not chase after the affections of a man with as much sense as he. It was up to him to determine if a relationship was worthwhile. And Jason responded short of falling at your feet. Sometimes he cringes at his younger self, but he knows he’d do it all over again. You were worth every ounce of his self-respect. And so was the child that slept in your arms.

“You should hold her.” You shift the child in your arms, but Jason pulls away. 

“Let her sleep.”

“She won’t wake.” You shift again, but Jason moves back further, stiff. You eye the man before you and repress a scoff. You were sensitive to his demeanor; you know the stories of his past. But with the hormones coursing through you, it was hard not to take offense on behalf of your child.

“Jason! She is your daughter.” You try to keep an even keel; there was no use in escalating this situation. 

“I know that. But–”

“I have been able to hold her, and she remains unharmed. And even if she were, we are in a hospital for goodness sake.” You shift your daughter again, holding her out for Jason. “I am here. You’ve got this.”

Jason hesitates a moment longer before he reaches for the bundle, his hands trembling. He is unsure how to hold her, but your guide her head into the crook of Jason’s arms. She was so tiny compared to her father. She stirs for a bit, only to inch her way closer into the warmth of Jason’s body. And that was enough. All over again, Jason’s eyes welled with tears. He lifted his head to avoid disturbing the angel with his rainfall of tears. You sniffle as you wipe his tears with your fingers then settling to rub his cheek soothingly. How could he have ever hesitated? 

“Thank you.” Jason's voice comes out watery. He kisses your hand before leaning into your touch as he rocks the newest addition in his arms. 

he almost laughs were it not for you trying to escape again. walking off to the storage room to get more things. and you admit, it’s a lot. but owning a house is a lot. and you just want the space to be usable and comfy and worthy of love.

“angel,” he sighs, finally grabbing onto your shoulders and halting you. forcing— no, begging you to see him. “i’m here.”

“and the house is a mess,” you frown. frustrated, the edges of your vision blur. he’s wrong, you’ve been working on this house for days. and still, on the very day you looked forward to him visiting, it isn’t ready. and you’re fed up, and exhausted and humiliated for letting him stay here no matter how many times he insists he doesn’t mind. “you’re here. and it’s a mess!”

he frowns. “am i getting in your way?”

what an atrocious thing to make him think. “no! no…” you sniffle, holding his face in your hands and caressing the contours of his cheekbones to ground yourself. “not at all, i didn’t mean it like that.”

he leans to your touch, lips kissing the center of your palm. “then?”

you look around. piles of trinkets unkempt, pillows strewn about, the carpets crumpled, tables and chairs scattered like a disaster after a hurricane. “i just… i thought i’d be done by now—and that i could welcome you to something… nicer than this.”

he purses his lips. wipes your tears. “ah.”

“would you like me to go?” he asks, brushing wild strands of hair out of your face.

“no,” you admit, fingers weighing heavier on his skin.

“can i help?”

you bite your cheek. “i can’t ask that of you.”

he snorts in amusement, catching your gaze. “why not?”

“you’re my guest.” you insist, like its an obvious fact.

“and your partner.” he counters, chuckling. “i didn’t think you’d have trouble with bossing me around. you do it so much when we’re in—“

“that’s!” you shush him, pressing panicked palms to his face to shut his pie hole. “enough!”

he’s all giggles now that you’re flustered. “the house is beautiful. you’re doing a great job, and i like being here. done or not.”

your heart is butter under the warmth of his words and you spare him a small smile. “you mean that?”

“anywhere is home as long as you’re there.” he reiterates sincerely, pulling you closer. he glances at the mess. “this is nothing. we lived in a cave once.”

you are bright when you laugh and he revels in your luminance. your fondness now felt in the breath you take, “i remember.”

and he’s glad you do.

“now…” his fangs glisten when he grins. knowing that he’s captured your heart and will give him at least a sliver of a chance. he leans, pressing his lips on your mouth. he melts when you kiss him back, draping himself over you.

you pull away chuckling at his eagerness. “what are you even here for?”

caleb straightens up then, throwing his teammates a glance over his left shoulder. “what’s what?” he asks, all innocent, golden-boy charm. but there’s a flicker in his magenta eyes, a knowing glint; he’s absolutely shameless. 

“that!” another one of his teammates splutters, pointing somewhere beneath caleb’s navel, horrified. “is that… dude, are those panties?”

a slow, love-drunk grin spreads across caleb’s face like wildfire. “oh, these?” he teases, his long thumb hooking casually into the sweat-drenched waistband of his shorts and dragging down one side of the fabric, giving them a full, deliberate view of the lace hugging his hip. there’s a tiny strawberry-patterned bow at the top of the pair. “yeah. my baby left ‘em at my place last night. just keeping them safe for her. you know how it is.”

his team exchanges glances, blinking in disbelief. he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world, heading courtside for his water bottle and when he reaches for it, the movement makes the blush pink lace flash again. a collective groan echoes in the gym.

gideon, his supposed voice of reason, blinks rapidly. “caleb. brother. my man. you know you can just… put them in a dresser until she comes back, right? you own drawers. you don’t have to wear her panties to keep them safe. nobody is stealing your girl’s panties but you.” 

his team dissolves into loud wolf-whistles and the kind of boyish, obnoxious guffaws and whooping that can be found in any damp, old spice smelling locker room. the tips of caleb’s ears tint pink, but he’s smiling dopily, rubbing the nape of his neck with his knuckles. someone throws him the ball and he catches it on instinct, bouncing it once. “where’s the fun in that?” he says, his grin returning full and bright, dribbling the ball idly. “they’re comfortable, and the best part? no chafing.” 

“plus…” he starts, and the ball stops bouncing. his voice drops, losing all of its teasing edge and warming into something cloud-soft. his teammates groan in unison; they know that look. caleb’s about to go off about you. “it’s like having a piece of her here with me. keeps me focused and reminds me what i’m playing for. i have to make it to the pros so i can build her a mansion.” he says it so earnestly his teammates can almost pretend he’s talking about why he wears his lucky socks and not, you know, his girlfriend’s fucking lace panties. for caleb though, it’s probably the same thing. 

a slow, dreamy smile touches his lips. “aaaaand,” he singsongs, the dreaminess shifting into pure, unhinged glee, “they smell like her.”

there’s a beat of stunned silence between the players, then—

“jesus fucking christ, caleb!” the team’s small forward wheezes, crushing the heel of his palms to his ears. “that’s disgusting—”

“that’s it. i’m finding another team. i can’t. i physically can’t,” one of his teammates, drew, declares, turning on his heel like he’s actually going to march right on out the swinging doors of the gym.

gideon just shakes his head, looking skyward for patience before holding his hands out for the ball. caleb passes it with a shit-eating grin. “you’ve seriously got some screws loose up there, xia.”

“he’s got a whole hardware store full of screws loose,” one of the seniors on the team hollers from the baseline. 

caleb takes it all in stride, winking as he easily catches another ball tossed his way. he doesn’t even sweat as he lines up for a shot from the corner. “just a few,” he hums, tapping the side of his head with his free hand. the ball sails through the air, hooping through the net with a near silent swish. he turns back to his team. “now, are we gonna practice or are you just gonna stare at my ass all day?”

practice resumes, but the energy has shifted. the only thing on their mind is the sight of their fearless captain in strawberry-patterned panties and they tease him relentlessly behind it: looking good cap! and down catastrophic, captain! and a little bit of hey caleb, you remember that one episode of spongebob with the panty raid— but caleb could care less. 

later, back in the apartment he shares with gideon, caleb flops onto his bed, pulling out his phone and tapping the message widget on the home screen that immediately brings him to your message thread. 

> caleb: pip you there??

> caleb: the guys were so mean to me at practice today >:(

> caleb: sons of bitches 

your reply is almost instant, and he can feel the restless, possessive coil in his chest begin to loosen just seeing your name.

> you: why? what happened?

he bites his lip. then, with deliberate slowness, he shifts onto his back and snaps a picture. just the low waistband of his gray sweatpants, tugged down an inch to reveal the strawberry lace against his skin that he’s still wearing. he sends it.

[Image Attached]

> caleb: wore the panties you left over here to practice:)

> caleb: they’re soft. and they smell like you.

> caleb: which is the best smell in the world btw

the typing bubbles appear, then disappear. 

> you: ????? YOUCDID NOT

> you: wdym they smell like me????? CALEB

> you: i can’t believe you. did you really not wash them?

he brings the phone closer, tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth as he grins, fingers flying over the keyboard to write his reply. 

> caleb: washing them would be a tragedy.

> caleb: it’s the only piece of you i have with me right now :cccc

> caleb: miss you so much my chest hurts.

he hits send and waits, pressing the phone to his sternum dramatically, right over the ache. the notification buzzes against his palm almost immediately.

[Image Attached] 

he taps it and the sound he makes in the back of his throat is embarrassingly ruined. it’s a picture of you, of course. curled up amongst your fluffy pillows, drowning in his favorite heather gray sweatshirt with the hem of it pinched between your fingers, tugging up the fabric just enough to show him the familiar black boxer briefs you’re wearing, to show him that you’re just as obsessed as he is. 

> you: miss you too >:)

lucian whines again, bapping his father’s comfortable cheek lightly in a half-conscious tantrum. sylus scrunches his face up until he feels the warmth of the pillowy palm slide over to his earlobe and take hold. he sighs, he supposes he doesn’t mind that one. he leaves it, and lucian falls asleep.

maybe now—

bap.

finally sylus peels his lids open in tired surrender. to his right, he finds mochi-ball cheeks smushed against his pillow, kyros’s arm outstretched entirely to reach his chin. his sleepy eyes drooping as his fingers rub against the prickly stubble that grows there.

relief floods him when he sees your silhouette against the little light through the heavy curtain come towards him. to help, he assumes— help him out of the pile. “sweeti— oof!”

your head knocks the breath out of him as you come to rest it on his belly. he watches as you turn to your side to meet his eyes, and bend your arm to place over his chest. you sigh, content. “30 minutes, Sy.”

he hums, low and resonant in your ear on his body. sure, he scoffs. you’ve never had a 30 minute nap in your entire life. but he relents, sinks back into his daze and registers the weight of his family on his body.

30 minutes, he considers. his boys on either side of his head, his face a sensory mat for their fingers, and his beloved rubbing soothing circles over his chest.

he can’t help but chuckle at the thought that your feline qualities have begun to manifest in your children too. three loves of his life, making biscuits over his skin.

30 minutes, he agrees, although he truly doesn’t mind forever.

You were bold, and you had that “fuck it” mentality. You approached him with the intention of making a friend in this hormone-raging place. You started off asking if you could sit next to him, but he simply moved his computer backpack away from the seat next to him. The lecturer was late as hell that day, too. So the auditorium started to fill with casual chatter.

You first attempted to do small talk. No response. Well, you didn’t expect much anyway. The alcohol is just making you talk about everything and nothing. Galene’s body language didn’t even show that he was attentively listening to you, and you do not give a shit. You’re fucking dropping out; this degree of yours sucks. You would really rather just put the fries in the bag. At this point, you think that he wanted you to just do that, too.

“Don’t do that.” The low register of his voice caught you by surprise. “You put the effort into coming into every class. You are bright, and you’re close to finishing your degree. Don’t let all that go to waste.”

His profound words rendered you speechless. He had said all that while solving complex equations on his papers.

Now aware that he’s sentient, you ask him for his name.

“My name is Galene.” He replied. Notably, he didn’t ask for yours. But you told him anyway. To that, he nodded.

The immediate air between you went silent. The room was still filled with chatter and even loud laughter. You awkwardly coughed into your fist and began asking him questions, trying to know about him.

But before you could get further than his major- which is in computer science, the lecturer came in. You shrugged it off and continued talking to him, but he cut you off.

“The lecturer is here; it’s time to pay attention.”

Galene is blunt as fuck. That’s what you gleaned from talking to him before every class now. At first, you thought he didn’t like you, with how cold he’s acting. He proved the opposite in the fifth week with him.

You thought it was going to be the usual; both of you get up and wordlessly walk away, not to be seen until the next class. But this time, you noticed that Galene didn’t budge, seemingly waiting for you to finish packing up. You didn’t say a word, even when he followed you out of the auditorium. Only when you saw him waiting for you outside the bathroom did you begin to ask him what he was doing.

“I don’t have any other obligations after that class.” Was his only explanation. You then ask him why he was following you.

He hesitated in his response, but eventually, he let out a heavy sigh. “I thought we were friends. I must have misread the situation.” Galene was about to turn on his heel and walk away. But you grabbed him by his shoulder and told him that you’re not telling him to go away, you’re willing to hang out if he wants.

He stared at you, you think. It’s hard to tell with how obscured his face is.

You stumbled over your own words, trying to express that you’re just wondering what his intentions were, and you finally let out how you felt like Gal didn’t like you. seeing how he never seemed to take any interest in anything regarding you.

“I like you.” He responded. “You were always kind to me.”

You looked up to him, confused and, quite frankly, shocked at how he’s just so direct.

“I am interested in you. Why do you think otherwise?” Gal asked, voice steady and without any defensiveness or accusation. It appears that he’s genuinely curious as to why you thought that way.

You told him that he never seemed to want to spend time with you outside of class, nor did he ask you questions or initiate conversations.

He paused for a few seconds before responding carefully. “I’m… sorry.”

The apology caught you off guard.

“I didn’t mean to come off as uninterested. I understood that we were both busy people. I thought I was respecting your time by letting you be after class, and you were respecting mine by doing the same.” He explained, while grabbing you by the arm and gently pulling you away from the entrance of the bathroom, that you didn’t realize that you were blocking the way.

“I saw you idling around the campus a few times. You weren’t as busy as I thought. I assumed you just haven’t seen me doing the same, so I decided to be the first one to relieve this unspoken tension.” Gal fidgets with the numerous statement rings on his fingers as he continues to talk calmly.

“Your patterns indicate you would eventually reveal parts of yourself without pressing further. I thought you would prefer it if you steered the conversation, and I was respecting that by not prying.”

And with that, he was done saying his piece. Waiting for you to respond.

You had to pick your jaw up from the ground. How do you respond to that? Not knowing, you let the silent awkwardness hang over the two of you.

“Are you having trouble thinking of a response?” You were amazed at how he could ask that as if he was asking something mundane, and not something loaded. You closed your mouth and nodded.

“Do you accept my apology?” He then prompted. You took a second before shrugging and replying with a non-committal ‘I guess’.

“Do you want to spend time with me?” You gulped uncomfortably at that. Well… Galene doesn’t appear to be dangerous, just a little socially odd. It’s not like you have anyone to hang out with or anything to do after this, except getting wasted in your room. So you agreed to spend time with him.

To which he nodded. Then stood there idly.

You looked at him as he stared out into space, at least, that’s what you think he’s doing. You were scratching your head in confusion. What was meant to happen? So you asked him again what he was doing.

“I am spending time with you.” Simple, succinct. Yet, doesn’t alleviate any of your bafflement.

You then asked if he wanted to do something else.

“No.”

This immediately puts you in an uncomfortable spot. It seems like he sensed it, so he explained his reply further.

“No, I don’t want to do anything else unless it’s spending time with you.”

What the fuck. You gave up trying to figure out his ‘riddles’. So you told him that you’re heading to the cafeteria to grab a bite. He didn’t say a word, but he automatically followed you.

Okay, you think you get it. He’s fulfilling the condition that he’s spending time with you. CS students are weird as hell. But whatever, at least you’re not alone, right?

Weeks would go on like this. Galene followed you after class and clung onto you in silence until you had to verbally and clearly tell him that you wanted to stop hanging out for the day. If you fail to do so, Galene would follow you all the way to your dorm and just stay there. He ignores your roommates and neighbours unless they directly address him. You found that he’s quite curt in responding to the people around him, but you don’t think he’s being hostile on purpose.

He’s definitely not a talker, oh no, not at all. There would be stretches of time where you and he just don’t say a peep. When left to idle long enough, Galene would pull his coursework out and start completing them. The added pressure actually made you do the same, and you did see an improvement in your grades.

Galene is a decent man, when you head to the cafeteria, he doesn’t get anything for himself. Feeling bad that he’s not eating, you would buy him lunch. He thanks you every time, and would treat you lunch the next day without prompting. He doesn’t ask what you want, he just chooses what he thinks you would like and it was on point every time.

You once asked him why he doesn’t talk. He would reply with: “I have nothing to say.”

You then asked if he’s annoyed that you talk a lot. To your relief, he said: “No, I like listening to your voice.”

You asked him why he wears that mask every day. “I don’t like to show my face.”

Why?

“I’m ugly.” It kind of breaks your heart that he said that like it’s a fact.

You then asked to see how he looked and it was the first time he refused to do something you asked. Perhaps it was best not to push further, so you just don’t know how he actually looked for months.

It’s… weirdly cozy. He doesn’t talk, and you don’t have that pressure to put up pretenses. It’s nice to have someone that’s willing to just be in your presence without expecting anything. Yes, it can be boring, but it’s healing. You don’t feel too drained because he really does not demand anything from you.

Until one day, out of the blue, he said something that made you almost spit your drink.

“I would like us to be more than friends, please.” He said it so nonchalantly, but you knew that the discrete fidgeting of his rings was a tell that he’s nervous.

Once again, you were rendered speechless. Frozen, unsure of how to proceed. You don’t know what it's going to be like being his romantic partner. Or perhaps, he means something else?

“I want to be romantically involved with you. I want to be your boyfriend.” His clarification kills any doubt that he’s talking about other things.

You then asked him why, making sure to add in that you’re not rejecting him at this point. You guess that then implies his answer influences your decision. But that didn’t waver him, and he proceeded to tell you the full, yet bizarre truth.

“I want it to be appropriate to hold you.” To your surprise, he took his mask off. But his hair is still obscuring his eyes.

You asked why he took his face mask off all the sudden.

“My looks should aid in your decision to accept me or reject me as your boyfriend.” You didn’t miss the downward twitch of his lips when he said that. For the first time, you can actually see some emotion in him. Galene is afraid.

Did he just want to hold you? Nothing else influenced his confession?

“I want it to be appropriate to kiss you.” He replied. The fidgeting has gotten a bit more obvious.

You think that it was probably all. You took a moment to think, but that train of thought was broken when he spoke again.

“I want it to be appropriate to have you all to myself.” You saw his adams apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “It is only a matter of time until someone else steals you away. There are not enough words to describe how desirable you are. I can only quantify how many people confirmed to want you too.”

You see that his jaw tensed up the longer you don’t give him your verdict.

Well. You’re sold. Galene is kind of the only viable option here in this college. So you accepted his confession, albeit reluctantly, because you have no idea what you’re getting into… You do have a glimpse into a very boring future with him. Gal breathed out a sigh of relief before closing the distance between you and him.

Galene kissed you on the forehead and murmured a reverent “Thank you.” Against your skin.

You would be lying if you said that he doesn’t make your chest flutter sometimes.

And so, life goes on. Nothing really changed, except Galene would be a lot touchier than before. Just in time for winter, when the streets are white with frost and when your coats don’t exactly keep you warm. Your boyfriend would wear a heavy overcoat, which would rest unbuttoned so that he could engulf you in it. Like a mother goose shielding her young from the cold. Especially when you and he are required to idle in one place for a while, like waiting in line, you would be swallowed up whole in wool and strong arms.

What a gentleman, he doesn’t let you cross the road, over puddles, or do anything or go anywhere without holding your hand. Who needs mittens when you have Galene? He will make sure that your digits remain flexible and not frozen stiff. He made it clear that there is no shame in just going up to him and wriggling into his winter clothing like a maggot burrowing into flesh. It’s funny, you laughed when you realized that you’re sometimes treating him like a turtle shell, and you’re its inhabitant.

He’s always behind you, when stopping in your path, his arms automatically found themselves around your waist or hips, while the back of your head is always pressed against his chest. Only when you start to move would he let you go.

No regrets choosing him as a partner; he takes care of you extremely well. He lugs around his laptop bag wherever he goes, now it’s filled with essentials to keep you hydrated, fed and comfortable. You did see what you thought was a shiny, onyx gun sometimes peeking out from one of the compartments. But neither you nor he brought it up; you would rather not bring any attention to it either.

He takes care of you in other ways, too. You had to bite on your pillow to stifle sounds that you don’t want others to hear, as he dives in between your legs. Your thighs would squeeze hard against his head as he devours you; his hair always felt like silk, and it adds to the sensory experience. Sometimes you think that you accidentally hurt him that way, but he simply states that he “Likes the pressure”. How he first initiated oral sex is as bold, short and direct as his love confession.

No penetration, though. He said that he would only do that once you and he get an apartment together, because he needs a lot more privacy than the quiet part of the library or your dorm room when your roommate is out. You would need to settle for his tongue and fingers for now.

Time sure flies when you’re having fun, too much fun. Next thing you knew, you and Galene were in graduation gowns, smiling for camera flashes while holding a piece of paper that took a couple of years to get. As always, Galene is behind you, holding you tenderly as you talk to your folks. He’s silent, even a little scary in some ways. He doesn’t have his face mask on for this special occasion. And that means you get to see his frown in full display whenever you talk to someone who isn’t him.

You noted that Galene doesn’t seem to have anyone to congratulate him on his achievement. No family, no other friends. Just you. And it’s more like he’s doing the praising, kissing your knuckles and the back of your hand whenever he gets the chance to, because your head is covered by that pesky cap. He doesn’t need words, you could feel it in his touches that he was proud of you, and that he was excited to start this new chapter in his life with you.

Right after, Galene rented a studio apartment in a big city. It's not cheap, but he was fortunate enough to land a job in a wildly successful startup that gives him insane fringe benefits, ridiculously high pay and the option to work from home. You guess, Galene is just that good.

Of course, you moved in with him. Eager to see what he can do as your lover, especially in the bedroom. And he absolutely did not disappoint.

Galene is not one to fuck fast and animalistic. He loves good, slow sex, rhythmically pumping into you and at a constant force. He doesn't talk dirty, preferring to fill your mouth with his tongue anyways. You don't know what you expected, but you definitely didn't expect that he doesn't like marking you up. Not even a hickie. Why? Well…

“I don't like seeing my beloved injured.”

To him, hickies resemble a bit too much like impact bruises and that upsets him. So you learn to respect that he didn't like having them on him either.

He's not adventurous in sex. Gal finds it unacceptable to have it happen outside of bedrooms with drawn curtains. He doesn't like the inclusion of toys or other BDSM elements because he thinks it's “unexplainably upsetting”. Foreplay is simple, just some kisses, caresses and verbal consenting. No need to have some elaborate roleplay or costuming, he rather goes straight to the main course. But other than that, he will always give in whenever your urge arises. Doesn't matter if it's in the middle of the night and he needs to get up early, as long as you're in the privacy of your shared apartment, he's willing to make you climax.

Life with him is… well, boring. He wakes at 7am, plants a forehead kiss on you. Breakfast is always plain oatmeal with oat milk, does exactly 100 pushups within five minutes, takes a shower, gets ready for work (which is just booting his desktop up).

Then, cuddling with you until you either wake up or he has to tend to his job. 12pm is when he eats his lunch, it's always a quarter plate of mashed potatoes or brown rice, a grilled chicken breast fillet, a quarter plate of either broccoli, green beans or peas and a bowl of cut cantaloupe with a glass of skim milk to wash it down. This menu repeats itself for dinner, there is little variation in his daily diet.

You would need to tell him what you want him to cook, or else you're eating the same thing as him. Galene would make almost everything you request, but if you ask him to make you something fried or something overly sweet too often, he would refuse and say:

“I will not make that for you today because it isn't good for your health.”

Likewise for takeouts, he would refuse to if he deems them detrimental to your health. But once in a while, he would agree to it.

Then he gets back to work after eating lunch with you. Not before cleaning up and kissing you on the crown. He clocks out at 4, and starts cooking dinner. Again, not before sneaking in a couple kisses and snuggles with you.

After dinner, he just spends time with you. Literally. He doesn't do much except hold you while you do whatever. He watches whatever you watch, never once protesting that you scrolled too fast or too slow, or that your taste in TV shows are trashy. Maybe have sex with you, but that's entirely dependent on your mood.

Right before bedtime at 11pm, he would do his skincare routine in front of the vanity next to the bed. Come too close to him, and you will find yourself well moisturized too.

Weekends are usually spent with him shopping in malls or grocery shops. He trails behind you like a shadow, following you to every aisle, to every shelf. If you stay stationary for too long, he hugs you from behind.

He doesn't react much to things you wanted to show him, be it a figurine, food or even an adult toy. Galene would simply smile under his mask and affectionately pat your head or stroke your cheek.

However, the only time he gives you some space to breathe is in drugstores or makeup shops. He would be looking at hair or skincare the entire duration you're in the shop. When you leave, he will drop everything and leave too. Only when you re-enter the store would he pick up whatever he left and buy it.

One day you asked him what his hobby is, expecting something like maintaining his looks or the sort.

And he said “My hobby is spending time with you.”

Then you asked what he liked to do before meeting you.

“I liked to play video games.” You were surprised, did he just give that up as soon as you entered his life?

“I lost interest in it after having you.”

You then had an idea, maybe you could rekindle that interest! So you suggested that you and he play a certain sandbox game with survival and building mechanics. It has a multiplayer feature which is perfect for couples bonding.

He agrees, on one condition, though. You must be on his lap the entire time. Sure, what the hell. You just wanted to see Galene act a bit more human.

Well. You don't know what you expected. Galene, just like in real life, follows you everywhere in the game too. You could be gathering wood for your base, and he has to be within a couple blocks away, probably doing something similar. You could be fishing, and he would be there too, virtually doing the same thing. His entire gaming experience also revolves around you.

Frustrated, you quit the multiplayer feature and told him to play the game as if he has never met you.

He stared a bit at you before returning his attention to the screen. Galene started rapidly mashing buttons on his keyboard and mouse, making the character move so fast and so complex that it made you dizzy. Coordinates and other numbers disappeared as fast as it appeared. As if it happened as fast as you blinked, he's already completed half of the game.

You watched him click and clack incessantly without a moment's rest, colourful visuals flashed on the screen as he transitioned from one area to another via a portal he made. It would have taken you hours to even get to that point, and he has done it in less than a couple minutes.

He had collected rare objects and used them to create other rare objects, which in turn is used to defeat some enemies and destroy some blocks. It was almost incomprehensible at the speed he was travelling. You had no idea what had happened, but you knew he completed the game when the final boss- the dragon, had been slain.

You were slack jawed, watching him do that all within minutes. Galene removed his fingers from the keyboard to gently close your mouth for you. His arms returned to wrap itself around you as he lovingly nuzzled his face in your hair. Not even bothering to address what he just did.

So of course, you asked him, what the fuck was that?

“That was how I played before you came into my life.” He answered albeit dismissively. Preferring to bask in your presence and touch in peace.

So he just… Speedruns?

“Yes.” He confirmed.

You love your boyfriend despite how… eccentric he can be. He treats you well. Very, very well. He brings home the bacon, a lot of it, to the point you don't even need to work and you took full advantage of it. The sex is good, he definitely listens to you and pays attention.

That's enough to overlook some strange things that've been happening in your life. Like how you haven't heard from your friends and family for a while now. They must be really busy.

Or how it's actually really hard to get a job, harder than usual considering you’re in a bustling city with endless opportunities. You guess it's because the economy's been really bad. And you're absolutely grateful for Galene’s provider mindset.

Or how you can't seem to find your passport. Oh well, it's definitely somewhere in the apartment. It's not like you're going anywhere anyways.

Will you regret not paying attention to the weird signs earlier? Maybe. Maybe not.

But one thing is for certain: Galene, Oh Galene, he loves you. And you know that.

That frozen bit of memory is nowhere near what his soul craved, but it was enough to get him through the rest of the road, enough to keep him sane.

By the time he’s finally, finally standing outside your front porch, the neighborhood is deadly quiet, nothing besides the occasional chirps of insects.

Phainon grips his luggage with one hand, a sharp click echoes as he unlocks the front door with his spare key. Taking a cautious peek inside out of habit, he stepped inside once the stillness of home registered in his mind.

He arranges his shoes neatly in the cabinet, not at all interested in acquiring your wrath for clumsiness this time.

The pilot tiptoes further inside, only one of the lights of the living room guides him towards the slightly ajar door of your shared bedroom.

Phainon’s breath halts short as he catches sight of your sleeping form, it takes an inhumane amount of restraint for him to not just lunge at you and beg you for forgiveness.

But he manages to catch himself, taking reassurance from the steady rise and fall of your chest, he pivots on his heels to the kitchen to quickly wash his hands first. There is no way he’s letting the filth of the world touch you.

When that is said and done and Phainon’s knees have hit the floor right beside your slumbering form? He cries.

Not a magnificent breakdown, (though he does stifle a sob in the crook of his arm), just tears free from the constraints of the past weeks’ paranoia, coating the disbelief that he’s home, you're here, you’re safe.

A shift from your slumbering form alerts him, making him rapidly wipe away the tears. Your brows pinch together for a few seconds, before smoothening alongside your breaths. Phainon finally allows himself to breathe as well.

Cyan eyes flicker over the way your hair fans on the pillow, the light of the half-moon cradles you in a gentle embrace. One of your hands rests on the rounded curve of your belly and right beside it, your cat lays curled on the bed.

The sight fills Phainon with shame, even the cat was doing a better job at parenting than him.

You weren't completely alone during his absence, Cyrene had taken care of you before she, too, had to leave for her own work yesterday. And in the gaps of his schedule before that, his mother had watched over you.

While it was true that this mess of a schedule wasn't really his fault, a deliberate mistake made by one of his superiors rather, he still couldn't forgive himself.

Not when you lay there, hugging the half-finished knitted sweater that you’d probably tried to work on while waiting for him, not when he should've been there to hold you as you slept.

Phainon bites his lip as another wave of tears threaten to drown him, he wants nothing more than to wake you up and hold you — but the saner bit of his mind knows better. The last thing he wanted was to ruin the sleep you’d manage to secure after who-knows-how-long of twisting and turning.

The pilot rested his arms on the edge of the bed, his eyes flickered to your baby bump and an impulse took over him.

He looked to-and-fro for a good few seconds, as if he were about to do something not permitted by the law (and that just might be the case, considering how much he’d messed up).

Then, slowly, he leaned in until the tips of his silver-blue hair pecked the fabric of your nightgown and his ear gently rested on your baby bump. He gripped the bedsheets to keep balance.

And at last, he found what he’d been searching for, barely perceptible bumps echoing from within that sacred cradle. Phainon’s whole face lit up with the dorkiest of grins, the kind that definitely would've earned him an affectionate pinch from you if you were awake.

His instincts warred with his rational mind, his ever running mouth now emboldened after being freed of all his worries from one single touch of your skin ; but he kept his mouth shut, opting instead on greeting his children through his inner voice.

In the midst of the chatter that’d stirred in his mind, he cast a furtive glance to the side, noticing that vase on the nightstand.

Not just any ordinary vase, the very vase he’d gotten scammed with while trying to show off his antique appraisal skills to you during your courting phase. It was reserved solely for the flowers he brought for you after every shift.

“So that there's another anchor that’ll bring you back, something for me to keep track with so that the days without you don't blur into each other.” was what you’d said.

Instead of humiliating him for his stupidity, you'd managed to make something special out of that mistake. And what had he done? He couldn't even bring a single flower for you this time because every flower shop had closed down.

Phainon looked at the single wilted stem clinging to the rim of the vase, not a trace of the pristine white rose he’d placed there before he departed last time.

Just like your marriage. That bitter, insecure part of him parrots, threatening to drown his sanity in waves of guilt, shame and self-pity.

No. Phainon shook his head, now isn't the time for this— there isn't any time for this.

He sat up straight, taking one last look at that wilted stem with blazing eyes.

He will steal a flower from the neighbor’s garden if he has to, but you must wake up to the sight of one next morning. No more of this dilly-dallying, shifting his responsibility on others or being married to his job instead of you.

He was going to make everything up to you, one by one for the rest of your pregnancy. Fix every error and spend every day earning the right to be called yours. No matter what it takes.

And so, it begins.

— SUNDAY

Since marriage, your eating habits had gotten entangled with each other. Meaning, whenever either Phainon or you were away, it’d send both of your motivation to eat astray.

Phainon knew you had slacked off during mealtimes during his absence, courtesy of the footage provided by the secret cameras around the house — set not because Phainon didn't trust you, but because he couldn't trust himself to stay sane without knowing the specifics of how you were treating yourself.

So, the very first matter Phainon made sure to fix had been your meals, which, he could now proudly say that he was capable of preparing something that wasn't just lettuce wrapped in tomatoes after grueling tutoring sessions from Mydei.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that you’d gotten unfamiliar with your own kitchen throughout the duration of your pregnancy.

Since Phainon typically made all the meals, your mother-in-law had taken care of it herself during your second trimester and in the intervals where both of them were away, one of your friends always got it covered before you could even think about ordering food instead.

Phainon would always keep your hands occupied with a snack, or just feed it to you himself. If you suddenly lost interest to eat anything during your mealtimes, Phainon would put his soul into persuading you for one more bite.

“Here comes to the airplane…!”

“Honeycakes, if you take just one more bite, I swear I'll even dance naked in the front porch if you tell me to.”

Of course, there were the infamous midnight cravings as well. You don't know whether you should be concerned or not, but your husband seemed excited to be able to go fetch a random snack from the convenience store every time you demanded it.

You’d thought he’d frown at least, but it was as though he looked forward to them.

And if your craving happened to be something that he could make? You had better gear up for the absolute show he was going to put on.

Because when you smiled and laughed at his clumsy attempts at twirling a carrot or stir-frying with one hand?

It made everything worth it.

— MONDAY

Mornings were an absolute battlefield for you.

You’d always been more or less cranky early in the morning, but the added hormonal changes from carrying not one but two lives in your body resulted in a concoction of extreme dizziness, nausea and sour mood at least until mid-day, nearly every day.

Thankfully, your husband never had a problem at being woken up at the crack of dawn, by your side in an instant to hold your hair up, carry you to and from the bathroom or to rub your aching back.

Incenses gifted by Hyacine specifically to soothe morning sickness would be lighted up, and you’d find yourself curled against his steady chest while he whispered tender reassurances and massaged your sore spots, all day long, if you’d prefer.

“Attention to my firecrackers in there…!” he’d press his ear to your belly, expression twisted in reprimand.

“Stop giving your mama a hard time, okay? Or I'll revoke your candy privileges for ten years!” tapping a finger on your belly before pressing a kiss atop your navel because he could never help himself.

— TUESDAY

Nothing could've prepared Phainon for the mood swings you’d get semi-regularly, not the period mood-swings that he’d survived, not even the Aeons.

But, Phainon never complained, not even as they worsened as the weeks passed.

You’d be fine one moment, chatting with him or doing something else normally, then the terrors (as he liked to call them) would hit and suddenly, everything was your mortal enemy.

But Phainon is nothing but the unstoppable force to your immovable self. His brain always ready to adapt to whatever you threw at him.

“This isn't seasoned well!”

Phainon is immediately bolting to the kitchen to try again.

“Why did you leave your shirt on the couch, Phaiyi?!”

Phainon is sliding down on his knees while pinching his ears before moving to correct his mistake.

“You’re breathing too loud…!”

Cue Phainon holding his breath while maintaining direct eye-contact as if to say, see? Aren't I being a good boy, darling?

“Ahhhh! I hate this! Why can't you be pregnant instead?”

Now that, that is something that typically stops Phainon. There are few things that can make Phainon feel totally helpless in the world and this matter was on the top three of that list.

It's not fair at all, he agreed. Sometimes, Phainon would lay awake at night, thoughts spiraling along the lines of how you’d even handle it all alongside the labor.

His vision would blur, voices in his head vacillating between anxiety and utter wonder at how you were actually braving through it all, despite everyone's worries.

So, Phainon cradles your hands in his as though he were tasked with holding onto clouds instead.

“I may not be able to physically feel your pain, but I know, moonbeam. Every time you whimper in discomfort? My heart aches so badly it could jump out of my ribcage!” a choked chuckle through tears unshed.

“I… may not be able to bear our children, but let me bear you— all of your pain, all of your frustrations, all of your curses. I’ll hold it all. Not just now, but til the forever that I promised you.” a single tear escaped his eye as he leaned his forehead against yours.

And at last, he whispered, “Please?”

Phainon never gets angry, doesn't even allow his brows to frown whenever you're seized by the ‘terrors’. Because he knows you never mean what a burst of hormones makes you say, because every time he’s gently grounded you like this, you’ve leapt to his arms, muttering apologies drenched in your own tears.

And Phainon?

He’s always, always been there to cry with you.

— WEDNESDAY

You were not the only one going through changes during your pregnancy, and though you may not always see it, it's apparent to everyone else that something has been rewired in Phainon's head.

It's not news to anyone that Phainon is extremely physically and verbally affectionate with you. But that seemed to be amplified during your pregnancy.

He’d always chase after your skin, a steady hand on your back, grip that tiptoed the line of being possessive on your hips, kisses stolen from every inch of your body.

And heavens forbid when someone’s hands lingers too long on your belly? He’d fix them with the sharpest glare in existence before turning to coo at you innocently.

He’d always been the number one appreciator of every dip, curve and scar that made you you. As such, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that Phainon was enamored by the way your body was changing to accommodate your children.

Oftentimes, he’d scavenge for excuses just to keep his hands on you a little longer. Feet rubs, stretching exercises and massages when you didn't really need them, or were annoyed with him — always an excellent strategy because you can never continue being irritated with him when he uses his hands.

His favorite activity had become bath time. As simple movements became more and more difficult for you, he’d practically jumped on the opportunity of being able to bathe you.

It's not just bath-time, he’d say, it's a sacred ritual! He’d measure the water temperature with the utmost seriousness, temper the bath with expensive bath salts and body washes just because he read somewhere that they help with this and that.

His fingers would massage your scalp with aching tenderness, run over your skin as though he were handling archaic painting.

And if by mistake, soap got into your eye or he accidentally tugged on a hair strand too hard? You’ve now unlocked the power to have his pilot's license revoked.

— THURSDAY

There were moments when fears skipped over the line of irritation and refused to leave.

His profession certainly didn't help, envious eyes followed every trail of your life no matter how harmonious it’d been.

Usually, neither of you paid them any mind, much too lost in your own little world. But sometimes, even your tightly nurtured rationale cracked, made vulnerable by anxiety.

It's as though your husband had a sixth sense for sensing when these palpitations seized you. He’d know by the faintest change in your responses or expressions and reassurances would tumble out of his lips with a lingering urgency.

“You're beautiful.”

“You're doing so well.”

“I’m so, so proud of you. You're already an amazing mother. Our kids are so lucky to have you as their mama.”

“You can do this.”

“Who had the audacity to make my moonbeam sad? Give me names, now.”

“Lean on me, okay? You aren't alone. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.”

While Phainon was a master at giving others comfort, he often denied himself the same privilege. He wasn't exempt from his own anxieties, he simply kept them hidden so as to not burden you.

But you knew, you knew about the nights where he didn't sleep, you could feel the veiled tension in his silence before he’d force that cheerful demeanor back in place.

You never confronted Phainon though, merely took his hand, pressed a tender kiss on the band of your union on his ring-finger and anchored him.

“You’re doing perfectly. Even if it were a million times, I'd still choose you, I'd still trust you with my heart.”

And Phainon would fall in love all over again.

— FRIDAY

Sometimes, you’d get random bursts of energy (or zoomies, as he liked to say) and would plead to use them on chores.

Which was an absolute no-no from Phainon.

So, you’d be sat practically burrito-wrapped in a blanket, your favorite show on the screen and snacks nearby while he went to handle whatever it was you wanted to do.

Ever since your pregnancy was confirmed and announced, gifts had begun to flood in from everyone, filling the nursery with trinkets that sang of how much your children were already loved.

Phainon's fingers brushed the soft coat of the plushies hand-made by Castorice and Tribios, moving next to arrange the shelf full of storybooks written by Cyrene ; right beside it, lay a thick tome illustrated with star-riding dromases titled ‘Nousporism for Children’.

Clear clinks echoed in the air as he arranged the cat-themed ceramics gifted by Cipher, a melody followed suit when he cleaned the ridges of the crib-mobile where mechanical birds twittered.

He halted in the middle of folding one of your gowns (sewn by Aglaea herself to caress your sensitive skin), attention stolen by the notepad that lay abandoned on top of your desk.

It didn't take him long to recognize what the contents were, a fond smile already taking shape upon his lips as his eyes caressed all the names you’d penned down.

After much debate and a subsequent vote that was held in the friend group chatroom, the matter of the baby names was given to you to handle, since everyone agreed that Phainon's naming skills couldn't be trusted.

Phainon knew you'd make the best decision. But was it going to stop him from giving his own verdict anyway?

Phainon glanced left and right, biting back a giggle.

And then he drew two stars besides the two names that your pen had traced over the most.

Helio ⁠☆ Plenilune ⁠☆

— SATURDAY

Phainon treasured every moment where he could just… exist alongside you.

The mundanity of brushing your teeth together, of getting to boop your nose with flour-dusted fingers during impromptu baking sessions, of being able to just hold you in silence that didn't urge words — that bliss, those privileges, were precious to Phainon.

But there was one thing in particular that he swore was the panacea to all his problems ; kneeling in front of your seated form while he tucked his head in your lap and wrapped his arms around your waist.

And now, this position provided him with another advantage, to be able to press as many kisses on your belly bump as he desired until his lips began to ache (which was never).

You tried and failed to stifle a giggle as Phainon’s lips pressed on your ankle, trailing up along your calf to peck your knee, painting your thigh with a dozen more kisses when you complained ‘it tickles!’ before pressing a loud, exaggerated (but not really) kiss on your belly.

He nuzzled his cheek against the rounded flesh with enough fervor to make your pet-cat feel defeated, “Miss Cerydra told me that that she’d name stars after our children the day they are born. She hopes that one day they’ll be able to ‘join her on her cruise through the stars themselves’.”

He melted on your lap in the midst of his nuzzling when your hand found its way to his silver-blue tresses, voice now reduced to unintelligible moans, “Oh? Hysilens told me that she was composing a duet piece for them.. and that she hopes that one day, they’ll be able to play it themselves.”

Phainon regained some of his bearing at that, a chuckle muffled against your skin, “Those two really do think in the same pattern, huh?”

You hummed in agreement, tousling his hair further.

A content sigh escaped Phainon's mouth, he pressed his ear against your belly, “I hope they know how loved they already are.” the golden flecks in his eyes shimmered when he felt two muffled kicks.

Your eyes flickered over the content little smile peaking from his half-hidden face, the sight softened your own visage. “I think they already do.” you reassured.

Just then, an impulse seized you, a wicked smile made its way to your lips.

“Teddy bear?”

The tufts of hair on top of his head perked up, you could've sworn that you saw apparitions of canine ears on his head.

“Yes, moonbeam?”

You bit your lip, “Phainoonieeeeee?”

Phainoonie straightened just enough to meet your playful eyes with his wide ones, “Here, love, here!”

You couldn't hold back the urge anymore, a yelp escaped your husband as your hands seized his cheeks, “You’re so cute, so adorable. So so sweet and hot and handsome — I just want to gobble you up!”

Phainon went boneless in your hands, an enthralled whine tumbled out of his mouth. He did absolutely nothing against your ardent attacks, letting you knead and squish his face to whatever extent your heart desired.

When he finally found the will to breathe, “Mmph… all yours. All yours, [Name].”

You stopped mid-pinch, taking a sharp inhale as both of Phainon’s hands came up to envelope yours. He turned his face to press a kiss on both of your palms before turning one around to press his lips right atop the band that made you his just as much as he was yours.

He peeked up at you, suddenly shy, “Marry me again?”

As if he’d have to ask.

A coldness creeps into his heart. “Get the men.”

In almost no time, there’s a group of about ten crew members racing down the frost-bitten landscape. They held their lit torches high, trembling flames that were snapped and slobbered in all directions by the wind, as if lambs being hauled to slaughter.

A few of the lookouts had already set a bonfire in the distance to mark their finding, and as Nanami leads the group closer, he can feel his pulse jump to his throat. He can taste the blood. He can smell it.

He brings a gloved hand up to cover his nostrils as he looks on at the reddened snow, “This…this blood- where does it hail from? Has one of ours been injured?”

“Not ours, Captain!” One of the seamen hasten to explain, he jogs past the bonfire. “A wounded man, he has suffered a great loss of blood!” And where the man motions them, Nanami could see two writhing lumps in the darkness - about as large as a young Grey Seal, though perhaps not made of as much pure muscle. 

They follow the man—a corpse.

At least, well on his way to become one.

Dressed much like them in protective coats, there was no telling just how long the man had been laying there in the snow. In a slowly-growing pool of his wine-blood. His fingers were blue, mouth trembling, eyes frosted shut. Though, perhaps out of some sick sense of mercy. Because even from here Nanami could see the garish slashes on the man’s neck and shoulders.

His pale face grimaces at the torrent of light that signals the crew’s entrance, muttering something that they could not discern.

Nanami’s the first to crouch beside him and take the man into his arms, “Bear attack?”

“I do not believe so, Captain.” The same young crew member from before urgently speaks, “Our early lookouts- they claim they saw something in the shadows…something otherworldly!” Nanami looks into the boy’s ghost-white face, “Something demonic!”

The blond man nods, “Itadori, help me with his boot.”

Together, they manage to knife between the coagulation of frost and blood that composed of the man’s boot. Like much of his body. It was a tough leather fighting against a dull blade, enough to make one sweat even in the bitter landscape. And Nanami almost thinks better of his decision before-

“A prosthetic leg.” Itadori breathes. He holds up the metal limb for the rest of the crew to peer at, fashioned from some sort of metal, it was attached to the man with a series of buckles and belts. So intricate, in fact, that had it not been for the discoloration then one might have thought that it was his natural outgrowing limb.

Nanami’s brows furrow at the device, “This must be…and what about the other one?” 

“The what?” Itadori asks.

“The other one.” Nanami’s the one to make his way onto the other ‘lump’ he’d made out, much more frozen stiff than the other one. He kneels down to gently wipe off the clumps of snow on the grooves of your face, your beautiful, beautiful face. You didn’t seem to be at all hurt, unlike the man. “A woman…”

“Found with the older man, Captain.” One of the crew answers, “Both frozen, almost to death.”

“Almost to death…”

And that’s when they hear it.

It.

That ghastly, guttural roar that came from no place but hell.

If the darkness could speak, this could be its voice. Hear its nightmare, its pain, its humanity. It makes the crew members break out in a cold sweat.

In the three seconds that it rips through the wind, Nanami’s running his mind through every page of every zoological textbook he’s ever read - and coming up blank after each one. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank—no living creature should ever be able to make a sound like this.

Just what in hell was that?

“C-Captain!”

It’s Itadori’s trembling tone that snaps Nanami out of his frozen state. He looks to the boy—fuck, he looks down and realizes that his hands were shaking.

“Put- put him…” Lips parched, he clears his throat and doesn’t care if it’s unsteady. “Put him onboard! Now!” Nanami yells at the crew, who instantly move to action as he keeps an eye in the dark direction of where the noise had originated from.

Beyond their circle of torches, something shifts in the shadows.

Something tall.

Tall.

Tall.

Another roar—“Hurry!” The Captain cries, helping his crew lift the injured man. “To the ship! Now—”

Perhaps because of the blood loss, their straggler is nothing more than a slight burden in their trembling arms, though with that- that thing in the darkness beyond them, he just might as well have weighed a hundred tonnes.

It’s with such dreadful relief that they manage to reach the Horisont and lever the body up the port side of the ship. As it’s carted off like a still-trembling corpse, Nanami calls out to the seamen that work the base. “Itadori, that thing is coming.”

“C-Captain?” The boy asks, nervously.

And the older man only silently hands him a gun, “We have to be ready.” Holding one himself, he raises the nozzle of the pistol in the air and fires, man-made thunder in response to the voice of something beyond. “Ready the rifles!”

Rows upon rows, guns upon guns, human beside human.

Lining the berth of the ship with their weapons raised, they clutched those polished wooden handles. Death at their fingertips. A third roar punctuates the night, and had it not been for their Captain’s presence right beside them, those men might just have been running for their life. 

“On my command…” Nanami calls out. 

Something bludgeons through the wintry landscape. As tall as even the tallest hanging icicles, with a coat that flaps around it like bat wings. 

“Aim…”

Inhuman.

“Fire!”

Gunshots ring out like applause, ah, the only invention of humanity that may cut through the cold. That may slice it. Two of the bullets hit the creature in what looked to be its shoulders, and it collapses to the ground with a pained cry. Pained? Could it really feel such a thing?

Most monsters didn’t. And this one raises its hooded head and roars.

Oh—Nanami’s stepping backwards before he can stop himself. 

“Next group, next group!” Itadori’s juvenile voice takes command in place of his Captain, though he was shaking even more so. Crew members with their guns cocked kneel down in the exact positions of the previous line.

Their nozzles smoke, hungry for blood.

With an arm stretched outwards, Nanami’s directing them. “On my command…aim…fire-”

Gunshot after gunshot after gunshot.

A second round of applause. A standing ovation. Almost with more fervour than before, those bullets reach towards the limelight where their lanterns were fixated on this hulking, inhuman figure. A hard target to miss.

Hit after hit after hit.

And yet…it does not stop. It does not slow down. It does not even shed blood - this thing takes their most fierce protection, lets it sink into its body as if not the worst thing it’s ever experienced. The bullets embed deep into its clamoring limbs, only increasing the fury in its pace.

Step after step after step.

Until finally- they’re catching a glimpse of blood-shot eyes.

“Re-retreat! To the ship.” Nanami yells, grabbing some of his crew members and pulling them to stand. He’s shoving them in the direction of the ramp that led up the side of the ship, not looking backwards until Itadori was already aboard. “To the ship! Retreat to the ship! Ret- no.”

He’s whipping his head behind as one of the foolhardy men rush in the direction of the monster with his gun. Raised as if to bash it with it—

“Retreat!”

In just one sweeping motion the creature throws the crew member aside. Hard enough that he bangs against the side of the ship, hard enough to break bone. 

Nanami pales as he hears the crunching of ligaments and skeleton, screaming out at his crew to board the ship once more. “Retreat- retreat, I say! This is an order from your Captain!” He’s stomping through the bustling deck, weaving through the men that feared for their life as much as they feared the life now rattling the ladder of the ship. “Where is that man we brought aboard? Where?”

“St-starboard, Captain.” Itadori replies.

And Nanami wastes no time before going up to the man - laid out amongst some blankets on the side of the ship - and grabbing him by the lapels of his frost-crusted coat, “What does that thing want?” He barks out at the groaning man, he assumes that you’d been taken inside. “Tell me! What does it want-”

Another young member, Ino, quivers out. “Captain, he’s almost—”

Roaring.

Gone and guttural.

It had reached the deck by now, standing tall amidst the crew that raced like ants. That looked just as helpless. In one hand it crushes a human skull as if nothing, and with the other he points straight at the shivering corpse.

“Bring- her- to me-”

A voice that sends their hearts beating out of their chests, so that they felt less-than human. Just as it sounded.

Her…?

From behind, one of the crew members stabs at the creature with the edge of his gun. Nanami doesn’t wait to watch him get flung off the edge of the ship- “The Blunderbuss.” He’s turning to the crew with widened eyes, breathless. “Ino, get the Blunderbuss!”

“Y-yes, Captain!”

In no time, a heavy metal firearm is being pressed into Nanami’s hands. He doesn’t wait to take aim and—shoot!

It strikes the monster right in the middle of his chest, and it stumbles. Hands but a blur on the greed-cold nozzle, sweat sticking his skin to metal, one eye closing in concentration- the Captain shoots again.

And again.

And again.

Each one finds its target with deathly precision. But a monster never truly dies, does it? Not until they can spike fear into the hearts of those mortal? It turns out, they merely fell.

As if a great oak befalling, it almost hurt to watch it descend. They all rush over to the other side of the deck as the monster plummets; the ice below craters once it rests, erupting a halo of dark blue lightning bolts brought out of the frozen water. Nanami wastes no time lugging the prolonged length of the Blunderbuss over the deck and shooting it a few more times - this time, however, not quite at their untimely visitor.

He aims for the thinning ice that cracks off with the blows, segregating the creature from the rest of them. And not one member of the crew releases a relieved breath until after the chunk of ice breaks off. Floats off.

It opens its eyes.

Snaking his body upright, “Give her…” Charging back towards the ship. A voice that thunders up to where they are, and makes everyone take a step back. “Give her to me-” All but Nanami, of course, who aims a single shot at the monster—and lets his hand fly off the trigger.

BANG—!

CRASH.

Thrown off his feet, it seems that the taller they are the harder they fall indeed. That…thing ends up with its back against the slab of ice once more, which gives way beneath its weight as if made out of nothing but paper. Opening up a gaping mouth. Ice-water sloshing at its feet. Crumbling into the tiniest pieces, the monster sinks…

The Captain doesn’t lower his gun or his caution until he can’t see its flailing arms any longer. Until the sea swallows up their woes with a gurgle, and with it, a creature more monster than man. Nanami peers down as its blood-black cloak dissipates into nothingness.

Then - and only then - does he turn to face the rest of the stunned crew.

“Take me to her.”

Less than an hour later, the man was up and talking—you, however, weren’t quite as lucky. According to the ship’s doctor you were alive, it seems, but just barely.

Itadori frowns at your shiver and rubs on your hands even harder. Entire body tinged ever-so-slightly with a pallor of blue - it didn’t matter what your original shade was, you looked plain sickly. And so tiny in Nanami’s bed, his heart aches as he lifts his bedcovers up to your chin, wishing that he had more than some ol’ Captain’s drudgery. You looked like a lady.

“Where am I…?” The black-haired man’s voice creaks out, his long locks sweeping the ship’s floor. He seemed to be the Captain’s own age. Despite being in the warmth now, he still quivered - whether out of the frigid outside, or the memory, Nanami wasn’t quite sure. “Who-”

“You’re aboard the Royal Danish ship, Horisont.” Nanami answers, watching as the doctor hands him a vial of something that the man downs with a wince. “I’m Captain Nanami, this is Dr. Shoko.”

“How many of your men did it kill?”

The blond man shivers, momentarily speechless. 

He looks at the man intensely, his teeth were drenched in red. “…Six.”

“It will come back and kill many more.” He begs, tone trembling until it was almost indiscernible. He sweeps a hand around the room, flickering in and out of existence in the dim lantern. “All of you, if necessary, unless you deliver me to it.”

Nanami bends down until he’s eye-level with the other man, almost condescending. “It’s gone. It sank in the freezing waters, it’s dead-”

“No, it is not!”

There’s a bang and a clutter- suddenly the long-haired man is upon him, grabbing Nanami by the coat and shaking him. His eyes held a madness to them that shook the taller man to his very core, and he found his own scared face staring back at him through those irises. “It cannot be killed! It- it…”  As if the weight of his own words were hitting him, he’s sinking back onto the couch that made his impromptu clinical bed. “It c-cannot die…I’ve tried.”

“You’ve tried?” Itadori pipes up.

Nanami looks at the madman wearily, “And you have most certainly been…unsuccessful.”

“Whether you believe me or not…” Sinking his head into his hands, throat shattering in tears. “-it will come back…for me.” He breathes heavily, “And when it does, you must promise that you will put me out on the ice and let it take me.” Looking up into Nanami’s molten eyes, “Please.”

“What sort of creature is that?” Shoko asks, taking off her medical gloves. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Or more pertinent a question—” Nanami looks behind at your shivering figure, still, and then at the man before him. “What manner of devil made him?”

The man gulps, “I did.” As if the weight of a thousand years was rushing out of him at once, “I, Geto Suguru, made him.”

.

.

.

PART I: Geto’s Story.

His name was Geto. Geto Suguru.

It was his father that gave him that name, Suguru (杉る) meaning excellent, superior, surpass. One could claim that it all started with him, his father. And his mother.

For there are some parents that bear no merit to become parents in anything other than name.

The world changes once you bear life, you know, in the way that they look at you, in the way that they speak to you, in the way that they know you. They don’t know you as anything otherwise. And unless you can change with the world, then the world will change you. For love is a melding of souls that leaves one’s tempered. 

And one has to be strong to accept change, to be changed. Both physically and mentally. Fear it, of course - the presence of strength does not equate to an absence of fear - but be strong. Change.

The strength of one’s love is equivalent to the strength of one’s self. Why shouldn’t you change?

And so—to recap, the world shall change, you shall change - so who does that leave amongst the conflict?

Why, the child, of course.

To his mother, he was strong: her first-born. And this woman amongst women, this flurry of passion and decadence, the only person to ever beat him in cards, the sole empress of their mansion to brave his father for all those years; to him, she was far stronger than he.

Far stronger.

And yet, his mother died at the hands of the nation’s best doctor.

His father.

Geto Suguru’s mother died giving birth to his younger brother. Though she didn’t die with regrets- at least, their father didn’t believe so.

The youngest child was the apple of their father’s eye, the one that couldn’t grow up, the one that was worth a life. He was the breeze, Geto was the storm cloud.

Where he was locked in the library and taught the ways of the human tissue, it was his brother that was boasted at every social function. What had taken him years of reciting the complexities of anatomy to learn from his father, his brother could earn a smile with but a single look. When he had never heard a syllable of love from his father, he could hear through his bedroom—a wall shared with his younger brother’s, sweet goodnights.

There was something more- or rather, there was something missing.

“Father?” He remembers asking one morning after their early anatomy lesson. Geto must have been barely fourteen by this point, though his father acted around him like nothing more than if he were dealing with a poisonous viper. 

The elderly man pauses, and turns stiffly towards his first-born. “Yes?”

“You let her die, did you not?”

“I did everything in my power to save her. You must know that.” His father answered, grimly. He clutched his textbooks tighter as his son got up and rounded the table slowly.

Geto looks at him, “So you failed.”

The patriarch looks at him dismissively, “No one can conquer death.” And it has the tone of the final say, to which the man turns his back and leaves.

“I will.” Geto calls out after him. And there was no way that the baron didn’t hear him, no way that he didn’t know the boy had just picked up his own cane. A thin bristling woodwork singed with years of hitting onto the very flesh that held it now. 

Geto whips it through the air, “I will conquer it.” He wasn’t speaking at a particularly high volume, and yet it cracks through the halls of the library- making his father stop in his tracks and turn. “Everything you know, I will know too.”

The man looks at him with intense eyes, so similar to his younger brother’s. “I think we’ve done quite enough for today.”

Ultimately, he was not strong enough.

The Geto fortune’s downfall was swift; two revolts and a fire across their fields left them bereft. They kept the estate, but lost everything else.

Including his father.

Geto was accepted into the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh, where he attempted to…widen the narrow vision of academia. It is here that he held his own at a tribunal hearing, before an audience of a hundred he demonstrated his earliest experiment mending the arm of a dead man, and the head of another. By running an electric current through this specimen, he made it move—life!

“This is a hearing, Doctor, not a carnival act!” Another powder-wigged, bespectacled, puff-pastried member of the board cried out from his raised podium. 

It was exactly because of bigwigs like him that Geto had to attend such a hearing in the first place. Some of the higher-ups had caught a whiff of his experiments on corpses, and thus they’d demanded a proper investigation before the entire association, to determine whether such acts were in line with the ‘morals and scientific integrity of’ the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh.

The other surgeons around him leaned in on the edge of their seats as the elderly board member stabbed a finger in the direction of the moving corpse. He seethes, as if he found the mere display of it offensive to his eyes. “You’re not helping your cause, this galvanic trickery will simply not do!”

“Trickery.” Geto repeats, reaching deep into his pockets. “Trickery?”

Before everyone, he pulls out a red apple, ripe to the touch. Throwing it in the air a few times—before throwing it to the corpse.

Who reaches out and catches it.

“That is not trickery- that is a decision!” He cries out at the display. The single arm twists and turns, letting the deceased head inspect the apple. And above the applause, Geto yells in elation. “Motor coordination between the eye of one dead man, and the arm of another! Infused with new will and the rudiments of understanding-” 

A board member cuts him off, “Understanding in a brain that has already died-”

“This is the future! It is strength-”

“It is an abomination!”

It is only after Geto was formally expelled for his ‘blasphemous’ research by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh did he meet Kenjaku. It was with a tip of his hat and a bow so low that the tips of his nose nearly touched the blood-stained pavement, and then Kenjaku was led inside his laboratory.

He had strange stitches on his forehead, and Geto thought of him as almost a kindred spirit. A face to which he couldn’t put an age. He claimed to be an acquaintance of his brother’s and inquired into the other man’s work.

It was also the first time that Geto Suguru heard your name, his brother’s fiancée. 

It was also the first time that his heart had undergone the strangest palpitations that were not in line with any medical textbook he’d devoured before.

“So you claim you can do it-” Kenjaku had peered down at the man, dark eyes twinkling in interest. “-bring a man to life from the dead? Create a man that is so strong that he may not die?”

“I know I can.”

And it seemed to have been exactly the answer that he’d been looking for. 

Kenjaku reached into his long coat, and pulled out a flat white card with swooping cursive. “I have a proposal for you, Doctor.” At the surgeon’s raising eyebrows, his feline grin only grows. “I will endow your pursuit with unlimited resources. In exchange, I may in time ask you for a favor in return- but mostly, it would be my utmost honor to record your process for posterity.”

Geto looks at his outstretched hand. He hesitates. “I will…consider-”

“Don’t pretend to be reasonable now, Doctor.” Forcefully, the card with details is being pushed into his hand. “It would be such a shame.”

Geto never did find out his first name.

In the coming weeks Geto also grew to meet you, and he grew to be hated by you.

Or so you claimed. It was the interference of the natural cycle between life and death that made you instantly dislike him, you’d heard enough about his work from Kenjaku, a close family acquaintance. So to see this pompous, stubborn, (beautiful) scientist in the flesh was not too different from meeting the devil himself.

And the devil always was quite tempting.

“You laugh at my ideas?” He’d asked on your first meeting with him. It had been a lunch with none other than Kenjaku, his younger brother, and you.

And while the former two had disappeared for ‘brandy and cigars’ at a moment’s notice of one of your brewing debates, Geto had been the only one to stay. To sit opposite you on the long table. To look you straight in the eyes as you scoffed at his claims to bring a dead man back to life. “Idea are not worthwhile by themselves now, are they?” 

He crosses his arms, “Explain.”

“Think of the war, for example.” Your steely gaze watches as Geto’s dark brows raise, “Honor. Country. Valor. These surely are worthwhile elevated ideas by themselves, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mhm.”

“And nevertheless, men are dying for them, in a decidedly less elevated way.” You continue, “Face down in the mud, choking on blood, screaming in pain. Fathers, brothers, sons. Men that were nursed into this world by their mothers, only to fall on a battlefield far from those that provoke these tragedies.” You’re looking straight at him, “Those men remain at home, untouched by blood or bayonet.”

Geto tugs on his coats, skin hot for the first time in…ever. “I-I see-”

“That is what happens when ideas are pursued by fools.”

His head snaps up, “And you think me a fool? Hm?”

To which you lean close enough that your breath wafts his face, warm and only warmer. Just the slightest smile on your face, “Run to your brandy and cigars~”

He’d never been harder.

A few weeks after that meeting, Geto rode down in a carriage with Kenjaku to a lake near Vaduz across the channel. A tower built as a water filtration plant and abandoned at the start of the war; the moment he laid eyes on it, the tower, he could feel destiny calling.

He could feel it.

The months slurred into one, and so did his experiments.

He stitched together the corpses of prisoners and men recently hanged, until he’d grown quite expert in making seamless threads on skin, until even various shades of skins could be melded into one. Trial after trial after trial.

The floor of his once-new laboratory ran red. 

And with every step closer he got to creating life, it felt like Geto lost a bit of his own. 

The first time that Geto bedded you, that was the night that he finalized the creation that would come to be his greatest downfall. He’d finally found the pressure points he needed to intrude in order to keep the lymphatic system intact. 

And he worked like a dog.

Night after night after nightmarish night. Those bad dreams melded into reality, and Geto could differentiate which was which.

Until one night, a strom was a-brewing above his spiral tower, and Geto stepped back to admire his creation. Upon a cross-like platform hoisted a pale body much larger than the largest man, much less human. He’d chosen each body part himself, of course: that toned torso, that handsome face, that small waist, those sea-blue eyes, hair of holy white. 

The perfect creation. 

As flares of lightning outreached across the sky, Geto connected the body to various cables and bolts aiming to extract the energy of the storm. Climbing to the top of the tallest tower, he’d enabled a massive ray that acted as a lightning catcher aimed straight at the lifeless body upon the cross. Like the hand of the heavens above, it was to give life.

“By God, it’s perfect.” Kenjaku whispers, coming up to the surgeon’s side in the laboratory. Kenjaku had taken residence in this very tower until Geto was to complete his experiment, and he frantically stopped Geto in his ministrations- “Quick! Quick, you have to do it now-”

“Pardon-” Geto’s brows furrowed, “Do what?”

“My brain.”

He pales, “P-pard-”

“My brain- inside that body.” He shakes the younger man, “Did I not say that the time would come when I ask you for a favor, boy? Well this is that time- quick, before the storm reaches its peak! Extract my brain and place it into the perfect body of our new Adam-”

Geto smacks his hand away, voice heightening. “That’s madness! I work with corpses, I will not kill just to put your-”

“Is it the money?”

He rounds the scientist now, hands throwing up in the air. And Geto can only step backwards—

“Because I can give you all the money you want- ohoho! You only need to say yes-” 

“But-”

He swipes a hand out once more to grab the other man, though Geto dodges it this time. “-no more, and no less!” Closing in on the man, “Just think about it, my boy, for me- youth! And for you, eternal wealth! No money in the world would be enough for this, and I can give it all to you if you just say the-”

“No.”

Kenjaku charges.

And at that exact moment, lightning clashes.

CLAP—!

It erupts from the needle-like end of the ray, making every piece of metal in the laboratory glow molten red with heatwaves. The diagonal and vertical lines of lightning crackling through the air, powerful enough that one could almost feel the atoms around it sizzling. Making the energy spark against metal as it conducts, making a stray beam hit Kenjaku and make him drop to the floor with a cold shiver. Dead. 

Geto himself can just barely manage to throw himself underneath one of his desks and take cover. His head in his hands, his heart in his throat.

And in the distance, something seems to ba-dump—!

When Geto Suguru opens his eyes again, he isn’t the only thing alive in that laboratory.

.

.

.

“And it was a monster.” In the present day, a Geto Suguru that was not much older - though he felt as such, he sighed as such - finishes off his story by spitting. It was as if speaking the very tale into memory left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, “With the average body and mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, and yet I discovered soon that it had super strength, healing like never seen in a natural organism before- and as his strength increased, mine waned. I did not sleep, I did not eat, I did not live- and more than that, I could not make it speak. I created The Strongest, and in doing so I created a monster.”

Nanami Kento runs a hand down his face silently, “You played God and now…”

“And now you reap the consequences.” Itadori is the one to finish off.

And the tired surgeon can only nod, placing his aching head in his hands once more. “I am its creator, and I have created a monster. It is something that should never have been done- never! I should have listened to her-”

“I did tell you so.”

A soft voice speaks up, and the fatigued crew almost believes it to be nothing but a hallucination- till they’re hearing the rustle of coarse bedsheets, and they instantly snap their heads towards the Captain’s bed. 

It was you.

At some point during Geto’s story, you’d managed to seat yourself up on the bed without any of them knowing. Keeping a keen ear on what was being said. Like Geto, you had that same air of faint fatigue about you- but you still held your head high, your poise that of high aristocracy.

Tired, but still as beautiful as ever. And Nanami swears he catches the surgeon’s gaze glimmer ever-so-slightly as they drift over to you.

By the determined glint in your pupils, he guessed you were none other than Geto’s brother’s (former, likely) fiancée.

Itadori jumps away from his seat on the bed with a squawk, blushing to the roots of his rosy hair. With a slightly stifled giggle, you’re patting the mattress beside you and getting him to sit once more. Once that was over, you cross your palms atop one another and introduce yourself.

“Captain Nanami Kento.” Nanami’s respectfully removing the cap of his uniform and bowing, hoping that you didn’t catch the exact shade of rouge that his ears were.

“Dr. Ieri Shoko.”

“Itadori Yuji.”

You’re nodding as they introduce each other, the rest of the crew, one after the other. Before ultimately settling on Geto, “And I know you too well.”

“Too well.” He chuckles.

“You have all heard my acquaintance’s story here.” You do not wait for the next invitation, gesturing at the man that was still sitting upon the couch. The rest of the room leans in with a nod, “So I believe it should only be fair that I share mine, too.”

.

.

.

PART II: Your Story.

You knew that Geto Suguru was trouble - you knew it.

In addition to unapologetically luring you away from your fiancé (his very brother, at that! That most certainly should’ve been enough to tell you all needed to know about the man), he was steeped in work of such nature that it should never even be spoken into existence. Such blasphemous ideologies, you had never heard of in your entire life. 

And you didn’t want to.

At least, that’s what you had assumed. But Geto just had a way about him that was so…irresistable. 

And even these past few weeks where he’d been holed up within his laboratory had a part of you missing him. Not necessarily out of any romantic obligation- though, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him in your bed. But mostly, you simply wanted to know whether he’d finally completed his life-death mission and left the rest of humanity to bear its consequences.

Unholy, unholy consequences.

“Oh, Suguru…” Your voice comes out breathless, murky in the stagnated air of the dungeon. It had been weeks since either Geto nor Kenjaku had responded to a letter from you, and without further ado - what next was there to do but barge into the very laboratory?

It wasn’t a difficult task you had to admit. The massive mill had been deemed empty after a few of your knocks went unanswered, and the door was unlocked - what have you told Geto about prioritizing his safety!

Nonetheless, it had worked in your favor this time. And while your fiancé had gone in search of his brother, you’d wandered throughout the entire barren, dilapidated mansion until you’d heard a few rustles from…the floor below the ground.

The dungeons.

Wondering that perhaps something unseemly had happened to one of the residents here, you’d quickly made your way down. And the sight that met you—oh, it had your vision blurring with- tears? You weren’t quite sure what was even real by this point.

It was a massive underground cavern, tiled clinically with white stone on every wall. Great pillars. Glistening streams of water. It wafted out slightly damp particles into the air, and made your breath take formulation in front of you. Tall concave arches curved their backs like portals into other worlds, and beyond the largest one- you could see a figure.

So pale that it almost melded into the walls it was chained to, almost wanted to.

But nothing could hinder the sight of the long-limbed, otherwordly…human before you. Less than human, more than not. He had the brightest blue eyes. Pale hair. Wearing nothing but a robe- more like a blanket, around his lower half. Stepping closer, you could see scar-like stitches around most of his joints: his neck, his legs, the most prominent one in the middle of his toned torso. You bring your hand up to your mouth and whisper, “Oh, Suguru, what have you done?”

The figure stirs at your voice, and stands.

“I…” You don’t know what to say, instinctually taking a step back behind a pillar as he stands to his full, towering height. Nearly eight feet tall, perhaps more. The strands of his ivory hair brushed the very ceiling, and you had to crane your head up to take a look at his handsome face.

The way he moves- jerky, to try and crane his head to see you. As if eager.

You notice that he couldn’t move much with the multiple chains around his wrists, and so you step into the light. Breathing out, “H-Hello.”

And then he smiles.

The most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen.

As you get closer, he silently cocks his head to look down at you.

“Hello.” You say, with more conviction this time. You’re raising your head up fully into the white overhead light, looking right into those beautiful blue eyes—and you think you hear him take in a slight hitched breath. You introduce yourself. “Have you been here long?”

As expected, he doesn’t answer once more. Simply blinking down dreamily at you, slow and steady like he was memorizing your face.

And yet you continue anyways- “It must be cold in here- here.” You’re shrugging off your coat immediately, and though it might be quite small for the giant, you stand on your tip-toes to help him wrap it over his naked shoulders. “I’m sorry, it’s not much- oh.” Mouth slightly dropping as he cups his hand over yours, just as you were straightening out the fabric over his pale skin. You feel the coldness of his body and gasp.

His large body somewhat startles at the noise, and you’re immediately feeling empathetic.

“Oh! Oh, I do apologize for scaring you.” In a slightly more hushed tone, you’re smiling up at him - hoping that perhaps it would disarm him, make him take a step closer. “That was not very lady-like of me, was it? Do forgive me.”

And you didn’t quite give a damn about customs, if you do say so yourself. But before this man you’re placing your hands upon either side of your skirt and curtseying- distinctly sure that you were making a fool of yourself before—

Rattle—!

You’re whipping your head up to realize that this giant was mimicking you - with his head bowed, and his lithe hands pinching the air of an invisible skirt.

You can’t help but giggle, and that draws a soft grunt from the creation, as if imitating that, too. 

Or at least wishing to. 

After a few seconds of drinking him in, you notice that he was looking rather intently at your hands. The very same part of you that he’d touched earlier.

His touch had been gentle, parched. 

And in almost slow-motion, you’re tugging off the silken gloves that encased your hands. The expensive fabric was  stuck to your fingertips like a second skin, and the giant’s eyes widen as if he was looking at you peeling a layer of your own. Reaching your exposed palm out—he grips your hand in his cold, cold ones and drags you closer.

He exhales as he brings it up to his face, as he feels you- as he presses your fingertips to his mouth and kisses. The man (or perhaps something else entirely?) lets out a soft chuckle as he feels you.

“Mm-” He grunts out, pressing a tender kiss on your hand before letting it free. Those overlarge palms of his move onto your other, and you’re almost about to repeat the movements of removing your glove on that one - before he tugs on the material at your ring finger. Pinching it delicately between his own digits, and tugging it down off.

Undressing you.

He grunts once more, “Mngh-” Something indiscernible, but to him it makes perfect sense.

In motions that feel like eons, he guides your hands - as light as feathers - to place them upon his own chest. Where you could feel a beating heart.

Ba-dump—!

Ba-dump—!

Ba-dump—!

Racing. 

Heaving chest. Bleeding stitches.

And you didn’t realize until then that you’d been shaking.

Eyes widened, you whisper. “Who hurt you?”

A few minutes later and you were barging into Geto Suguru’s decadent bedroom, where you found him deep in conversation with his brother - something or the other about the Royal Medical Society, not that you could give a damn right about now.

“The man!” You’re calling out, uncaring whether you interrupt. You feel so faint that you have to lean against the doorway to fully speak, “The man-”

Geto’s mouth parts, “You saw him…”

And that’s what keeps you walking forwards, until you’re almost nose-to-nose with Geto- and his brother is the one that has to tug you back by your elbows. “The man- is he patient? A victim?” Tone reaching something shrill that neither man has ever heard from you before, “His wounds- you wounded him like that-”

“No, no, no—” Geto’s clapping both hands on your shoulders and attempting to get you to look at him straight. But you almost couldn’t - his amethyst eyes weren’t how you remembered them, and his hair was askew. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have almost said that he looked crazed- “It was the world that hurt him, my dear, not I- I—” Pointing at himself now, “-merely gave him life.”

As you take a few steps backwards in shock, he’s looking at you fully.

“I gave him life.”

Later, Geto gave you a showcase of the ‘creature’ as he’d called it. He’d explained to you his rapid healing, the immense strength that seemed to have been an aftereffect of the storm. And when you’d pointedly asked him why he was chained was here-

“It doesn’t know any better-” Geto had off-handedly replied.

“But, Suguru…” You bore no mind to the hardening expression on his face, crouching down to clasp the giant’s hand. Your heart flutters as he presses your silken gloves back into your hands from where he’d removed them earlier. Caressing you, “-you know better.”

“Suguru, is he intelligent?” His brother asks, warily watching the interaction between you and…this beast. His brother had mentioned it had the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, so did that mean he could also feel…

To which the surgeon doesn’t reply.

“Suguru, is he intelligent?”

That very night, you snuck out to meet him.

You found the giant glumly hunched over the streams that ran through the dungeon, his long fingers toying with the crisp autumn leaves that had fluttered from the surface above. You watch as he plucks them delicately by the step, chains rattling as he kisses them down onto the water below. Like a little boat that tips and rows right up to you.

He’d flinched as he saw you, you remember now.

Before you’d cast him a gentle smile, and the creation had nervously returned it.

Once you got closer, he’d reached his hand up to - trembling. Shaking at the very thought of human contact, and yet, he’d handed you—

“A leaf?” You’re breathing out in excitement,  and the man looks down when you take it. “For me?”

He’d grunted in affirmation.

“Thank you.”

After a few seconds of admiring the leaf by your lantern, you’d taken it up and pressed it to your lips. Humming ever-so-slightly.

“And what can I give back to you, hm?” You’d wondered out loud, “Oh! I know—”

That night, you’d introduced yourself.

Ultimately, Geto’s brother had decided to stay and monitor the situation - and with it, you did, too. Not quite to ‘monitor the situation’ as he had put it, but rather to keep an eye on…him. 

You didn’t know when ‘him’ had turned from Geto to the monster within Geto’s basement. 

And yet, here you were.

It was you who visited the creation every night, sneaking out when all the lanterns had been dimmed and sleep had befallen the mansion as your only cover. You’d grip a torch of your own in one hand, and in the other would be a cup of ointment. 

“Why hello—” You’d croon out, as soon as you caught sight of his hunched figure on the ground. Still chained - you were working on finding the key to it one of these days. And if worse comes to worse, you’d gnaw through those damned shackles if you had to.

You were on the verge to-

“And how have you been today?” You’d beam up at the pale figure, and he’d beam right back - all thirty-two pearly white teeth on full display. With your hands gentle on his limbs, you’re soothing your fingers underneath the unyielding gaps in the circular restraints around his wrist. Dabbing a bit of ointment on so that it would get all the purpleish skin, “Oh, that awful awful man!”

“Awful-” He’d nod, voice scratchy as it pronounced this new word. “Awful awful.”

It would make you chuckle, “And I’m just as awful, aren’t I? Only teaching you awful words?”

The creation’s eyebrows were pale, but you could still make out the way they knit together underneath the medical light. Fervently shaking his head from side to side, “Awful-” He shakes his head even harder, “Awful- not.”

“You say that I’m not awful, hm?” You bring a hand up to your mouth and titter, “Oh my, you’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

And you’re not quite sure whether the giant understood what exactly that word meant, but he blushes all the way down the back of his neck like he does. Such a pretty pink. Rose pink.

Seeing it, you raise an amused brow. “Oh? Quite shy for a flatterer, hm?” Without thinking much of it - and oh, you really should think more when it comes to him - you reach out and glide the softness of your fingertips down his smooth neck. “No, it’s more like you’re just…sweet?”

With a shiver, he’s leaning up to your touch. “Sweet- sweet. My love- sweet.”

And there was that.

You’re not quite sure where he’d learned that particular pet name - my love - or whether it was a creation of his own beautiful mind. But he’d started to refer to you by it a few days ago, and had preferred it to your name ever since.