Your crazy big sis with delulu

Bortnikov entered the tent with a disciplined, nearly expressionless face - just as the strict protocol for the Regrator's employees dictated - then stopped at the appropriate distance and bowed before his lord.

Dottore couldn't comprehend why, on average, ten times as many people always wanted to work for this arrogant tyrant than for him, when he never demanded such stiff-necked rigidity from his subordinates - and the fact that he occasionally tested a few of his new inventions on them was really a small price to pay in exchange for getting a direct look into his more public research (and getting handsomely paid by the Fatui, too).

Incomprehensible.

Moreover, the working environment he provided for them and the tasks assigned were a thousand times more exciting than mere Mora-counting and the dry documentation of Teyvat's economic state. Numbers and cemented, always constant equations, never any variety…

'How do they not die of boredom,' he rolled his eyes contemptuously, once again noting to himself that humans were mindless.

Pantalone's intendant's voice remained objective, despite his posture and the fist clenched behind his back testifying that he was far more tense in his master's presence than he tried to let on.

Heh! It was genuinely fascinating how much authority this fastidious bastard commanded among his people, he shook his head. Though he wasn't overly surprised; after all, given how much work he had put into him, he could practically consider the Banker his own creation; and no one besides him knew just how nonexistent the idiot's pain tolerance was.

He couldn't even endure a simple stitching without fifteen minutes of whining (unless he fully sedated him beforehand), whimpering for his soothing cigarette the entire time like some hysterical child - no matter how many damn times he emphasized that until Celestia itself crashed into the soil of Teyvat, he shouldn't even hope to light up in his operating room.

"Sir, the bath has been prepared. Where would you like breakfast to be served?" Bortnikov asked, slightly intimidated. "Also, you mentioned that a company would be arriving. When can we expect the guest, so we may welcome them properly?"

Pantalone was in no hurry to answer. He slowly rose from behind his desk, where he had been sorting his scattered ledgers into neat piles, and - much to Dottore's annoyance - leisurely scooped him up from his cozy little nook, where, by the way, he hadn't let him budge an inch from until now.

In the past half hour, he had managed to annoy him at least a dozen times: as soon as he thought the Banker wasn't looking and tried to slip away, the man, without even looking up from his packing, caught him again and again, nudging him back into his field of vision.

In the end, he petulantly burrowed between two thick leather-bound encyclopedias leaning against each other. From there, with his front legs crossed, he eyed his colleague with an exceptionally sharp glare, pondering just how much he should raise the fee of his personalized medical services once he became his own, unrestricted self again. (And of course, he made a conscious effort to block out the fact that, since last night, it bothered him miles more whenever his colleague touched him.)

Still, for a bit of petty satisfaction, he lashed his tail huffily, "accidentally" knocking over the Banker's previously neatly arranged seals. Instead of the expected irritation, however, the man - who had made people disappear for far less - only deigned to give him a sidelong glance over his glasses. After smirking cheekily and flicking the sensitive blue horn on top of his head - paying no heed to his angry hissing - he turned back to his papers.

'Son of a bitch,' Dottore muttered to himself, a thought that only multiplied in his mind as Pantalone lit his third cigarette in the midst of his chores. He suspected that the poor lizard whose body he was occupying had lost at least a full year of its lifespan from so much secondhand smoke.

Pantalone hoisted him onto his shoulder with a single casual movement, not caring that the sharp claws at the ends of his defiantly tensing paws dug into his robe, plucking out quite a few threads from the delicate fabric - he deserved at least that much compensation, especially in this rather uncomfortable situation. Oh, how he hated not having stable ground beneath his feet! Not to mention being restricted in his agency.

And what the hell did he want from him now anyway?!

"My company is already here" Pantalone declared cheerfully, the well-known, teasing amusement lurking in his voice - especially when he could baffle others with information they didn't possess. Dottore could practically sense how much fun his colleague was having as Bortnikov first looked around the tent in confusion, searching for some grand business partner he hadn't noticed yet, before his gaze settled on him, his incomprehension deepening even further.

"Sir? Is that a...?" he began, tilting his head slightly as he tried to verify through the mask of his uniform whether he was truly seeing what he was seeing.

"As for breakfast," Pantalone continued, completely ignoring him. "We will not waste precious time; we shall have it while bathing." Excuse me... WE?! "Immediately after, we head to Sumeru City to board the ship in time during the afternoon. By tomorrow evening, it would be my pleasure to pass through Fontaine customs inspection."

"T-tomorrow?!" Bortnikov paled visibly but reacted with only a brief, hesitant nod. "Of course, sir. We will prepare the serving in your bath tent immediately."

He surely valued his life too much to inform his boss that even with the Fatui's top ship model, it took at least two days just to reach the border of Fontaine - but then again, who would ever dare use the word "impossible" in front of the Regrator?

"Excellent. Razumova's team can start packing my things here. She is the only one capable of sorting them in a sensible order without causing significant damage to my belongings. Oh, yes. Within half an hour, the second unit must be on standby, in full gear. We can expect Dev Nair's men to try and interfere with our business, and I have no desire to negotiate with them at length."

With that, Pantalone brushed aside the heavy entrance flap of the tent with one hand and stepped past Bortnikov with regal grace, walking out into the Sumerian heat, enveloped in the sweep of his silk robe.

Outside, a crowd gathered almost instantly, and the parched Fatui agents, bundled up to their necks in fur, scrambled to provide shade for their master with massive athel wood leaves - Dottore would have bet that, back in the day, King Deshret himself hadn't received service comparable to this in these parts. 

"No need for unnecessary fanfare," the Banker always said, but after this, he was beginning to wonder what it looked like when his colleague wasn't handling matters "discreetly."

After a few minutes' walk, they arrived at another sizeable purple tent in the middle of the half-dismantled camp, which was just as tastelessly over-decorated as Pantalone's private quarters; its interior resembled the private museum of a wealthy art collector rather than a bathhouse. Shelves along the canvas walls groaned under the weight of expensive vases, sculptures, and antique treasures of unknown origin, while in the center of the tent sat a king-sized tub decorated with golden Mora motifs, from which a thick, sweet cloud of scent arose.

Wait... Did they seriously drain an entire oasis just so their master could bathe in comfort in the middle of the desert?!

And they dared to call him detrimental to Sumeru…

Atop the water floated dozens of fresh, vibrant blue Kalpalata Lotus petals - oh, of course, what else - and with each passing second, Dottore's premonitions grew steadily worse.

What on earth was he even doing here?!

Thank you very much, he could have caught some locusts outside himself, just as he had done recently when he could no longer put off feeding the lizard body - after all, it wouldn't have been ideal to let the biological shell carrying his soul starve to death.

And he couldn't deny that the thought of a rich breakfast worthy of the Regrator sounded enticing to his rumbling stomach, but on second thought, he would still a thousand times rather trade the expensive steak for a couple of bitter insects if it meant not having to look at Pantalone's bare backside. Ugh...

At the mere, nonsensical thought, he instinctively began to make tiny kneading motions on the Banker's shoulder, highly hoping he was ruining the fabric beneath his paws beyond repair.

At that moment, his colleague stepped to the tub, carefully peeling the utterly rigid Dottore off himself, and placed him on the wide rim of the opposite side, where the warm steam almost instantly fogged his vision.

"Patience, little one," Pantalone said cheerfully with closed eyes, while two female Fatui agents were instantly at his side and began the professional, almost comical undressing of the Regrator.

Even his glasses were received onto a silver tray with such high reverence, as if they were some divine relic, and then they helped their master out of his robe with great care, folding it precisely - and it was then that Dottore realized the annoying fact that, despite fixing his eyes on a particularly large and fascinating fold on the tent wall, due to his current anatomy, he could see perfectly in a 300-degree angle. 

Shit.

Over the past centuries, he had seen Pantalone without clothes countless times, yet he had never before felt the urge to stare longer than necessary... at any part of him.

Now, however, entirely unconsciously, his useless lizard eyes slowly traveled upward from the man's feet, embarrassingly searing every single inch of him into his consciousness. When they reached his long, slender thighs, his tail began to wave rhythmically again, but before he could even spare a thought on how annoying this strange habit was, his saucer-wide eyes wandered even higher.

...

Oh. Jeez.

How ironic; even if woken from a dead sleep, he could have traced the exact map of the Regrator's veins; yet, he had always made an effort to pay as little attention as possible to a certain part of the man.

With his other patients and test subjects, he never made distinctions between their limbs, their torsos, or even their genitals; they were merely pieces of meat in his eyes, transient, weak, and disposable once they no longer served his experiments.

Pantalone, on the other hand, had been bold enough to carve out an exception for himself: for the first time in his research (and in his life), he treated a single human's body with genuine respect. Because of this, he only ever stripped him as much as was strictly necessary for the given procedure, carefully wielding his scalpel to inflict only the required amount of damage to his skin, which he then sewed shut with precise, neat stitches. He even used antiseptic on him!

He didn't claim that his curiosity had never gotten the better of him after a few operations before his colleague came to, but... he had never felt the urge to observe him for this long.

Damn it. He had already been aware that the Banker possessed an above-average, ahem, size, but that piece of data hadn't seemed all that significant as long as he was viewing it objectively as a fellow human and, moreover, a doctor. Now, however, he couldn't get past the fact that his colleague was endowed with something in that department which, even in a flaccid state, practically approached his own current total body length.

Dottore acknowledged this discovery with a single, soft reptilian snort, then promptly banished the whole thing to the deepest recesses of his mind, under the heading "useless knowledge that does not serve our glorious plans," and irritably shifted his focus to the ceiling. Above, a remarkably fat fly was pacing back and forth, and he was seriously starting to get vexed about where that much-touted breakfast was, before he did something he would regret.

Honestly, with every single day spent as a reptile, he was starting to degenerate to the level of a simple creature of instinct - which perfectly explained why, despite it being at the very edge of his peripheral vision, he still couldn't fail to notice the carefully maintained, midnight-dark path running down from Pantalone's navel, widening into a shadow that tantalizingly wrapped around his-

How long would it take a lizard to drown in a tub? Two minutes? Three? Let's say four. Unfortunately, considering Pantalone's reflexes, he wouldn't stand a chance before being fished out, and would probably just suffer permanent lung damage instead.

The Banker in question, meanwhile, glided toward the tub with effortless grace, leaving his servants in the dust with an expressionless face, and practically without a care, stepped over the rim and slowly sat down in the water. The petals danced on the water's surface as he settled in with a satisfied sigh, then cast a cheerful glance at the anxiously pacing little creature before him.

"What's wrong, little one?" he asked, sliding forward and generating tiny ripples around his bare upper body, then gently stroked the base of Dottore's neck with the side of his wet index finger. If the gesture, or the oddly spine-chilling endearment wasn't already unsettling enough, Pantalone's voice sounded softer and deeper in the steam, at a frequency he felt straight in his gut. He hadn't thought it would be this hard to play a base creature with a total of two brain cells, but he was starting to doubt his own capabilities. Especially when Pantalone, in the middle of petting(!) his neck, casually remarked: "You are terribly tense."

The sentence hit him like a punch to the gut.

The same cadence, the same silky, possessive tone with which the man had dropped to his knees last night, and… oh, fuck!

Reality and imagination blurred in an instant, and every single one of Dottore's tiny scales tensed at once; he could only hope he didn't look as terrified as he felt. ‘This couldn't be a coincidence’, suspicion shot through his mind, and he stared up at the Banker with narrowed pupils. Indeed, he could find no trace of amusement in those vivid violet eyes - the man wasn't playing games with him. If anything, he seemed... almost concerned?

Bortnikov and his entourage chose this moment to march into the tent as if executing the precisely rehearsed choreography of a theatrical play. The gaze of the white-gloved, low-ranking Fatui agents was fixed strictly on the floor, as though it would be sacrilege for their unworthy eyes to look upon a naked Harbinger. What impressive upbringing! 

He was beginning to understand the rumors about how the Regrator ruled his people with paternal strictness, and how they, like loyal children, anticipated his every command. What the hell was it with this man that had fascinated even him enough back then to recommend him to the Tsaritsa?!

Well, it didn't matter right now. His entire focus narrowed to the two heavy, gleaming silver trays that Pantalone's lackeys were carrying toward them with great care.

The first, sizeable silver tray was placed next to Pantalone on the tub's protruding ledge with practiced motion - the spot where normal people would usually keep various soaps. (Although, normal people don't drag a six-foot-wide tub along with them on a business trip either.)

Nonetheless, the tray held only a single steaming cup of coffee, alongside some neatly arranged syrniki drizzled with Snezhnayan smetana, and a few steaming boiled eggs. There wasn't a trace of vegetables, for which he allowed himself a very sharp, judgmental glare toward the Banker.

But then his own portion arrived: a miniature silver tray was placed right in front of Dottore, identical to the Banker's but barely a third of the size - and looking at its contents, he surrendered his last remaining crumbs of hope in human intelligence.

Had he been human, his eyebrows might have shot up appreciatively at the thinly sliced Sumerian cured meats and the local fruits arranged in the shape of flowers; as it was, he merely sighed deeply and turned toward the water bowl placed on the edge of the tray.

'Seriously?' Dottore fumed inwardly, as the servers even added a miniature pair of silver tongs next to the tiny bites. Was he not getting a napkin around his neck?! What on earth did they expect, that he would tackle the mostly inedible menu with proper table etiquette?

A horde of... ‘accountants’ - the word flashed in his mind like the gravest of insults. If he were a real lizard, he wouldn't even make it to Snezhnaya; they would kill him with their stupidity long before that!

Rolling his eyes, he tried to at least quench his thirst, but then he ran into yet another irritating obstacle: something inside him prevented it.

There was water in the bowl. 

He knew it was water: its surface reflected light, it was transparent and odorless, looking exactly as it should - and yet, a deep-seated, annoying instinct whispered that it wasn't.

What the hell?!

Come on, he just had to force himself. What was the big deal about sticking out his tongue and somehow - anyway – dipping it into the liquid? 

Yet, the idea was not as easily executed as he thought. Annoyingly, he just paced back and forth next to his bowl, unable to bring himself to perform one of the most basic life functions.

‘Wretched, brainless reptile! Miserable, cold-blooded pest!’

So this is what he had come to.

Once, he ran Teyvat's grandest laboratory, deciding the fates of thousands of people, and now he stood over a porcelain bowl, his body choosing to starve of thirst despite all rational thought!

He tried to get as close as possible, blocking out what he was about to do to hopefully regain control over himself, attempting to lap up the thin film of water from the rim. But during his terribly embarrassing clumsiness, his front leg slipped, and he landed back on the ledge with a huff - and if that weren't awful enough, it was only then he noticed that Pantalone had watched the entire spectacle with amused, glittering eyes, munching on a plump, golden syrnik in an irritatingly relaxed manner.

'He must never find out who the lizard truly was,' he swore to himself for at least the hundredth time, and tried again.

 This time - utilizing every ounce of his reptilian self-control - he managed to greedily lap up a few tiny drops of water, concentrating with such intense determination the entire time as if he were conducting an exceptionally complex experiment.

Seeing this, the Banker laughed softly.

"You really are incredibly cute!" he giggled, unable to resist stroking Dottore's back.

‘If I had a human face, you'd be getting a look that would keep you awake for a week’, he grumbled internally. The last time he had been called ‘cute’... Come to think of it, there had never been such an occasion. 

Even at three years old, people compared him more to an Abyssal reject, and even his peers had been terrified of him.

On his next attempt, Dottore's front legs tried to instinctively sabotage him again, resulting in him nearly falling headfirst into his bowl out of sheer frustration.

Pantalone, shaking his head in sheer amusement, leaned forward, ready to act.

"Hold on..." he murmured, then dipped his fingertip into the water and held it out to the lizard. A single, translucent droplet sat on his skin, trembling gently like a too-tempting dewdrop on a morning leaf.

Dottore looked up into those resolute, Sumeru rose eyes, forcing all his indignation into his gaze.

'Absolutely not. Out of the question. Forget it!’

Pantalone patiently kept his finger there.

"Come on, Zandik, try it this way!"

His name was only fuel to the fire in which his frayed nerves were currently burning. His body, his entire being... wanted it. Thirsted for it, in every sense of the word.

'No.'

...

'Not a chance.'

...

'I'd rather dry up!'

The water droplet shimmered enticingly, while Pantalone's mouth parted slightly, wearing the exact face he always did when he was absolutely determined to get something (and could by no means be talked out of it). And as for him, though it was damn hard to admit, he damn well needed it.

'Fuck you, Feofan!' Dottore hissed at last, and casting aside all his remaining pride, moved forward, carefully lapping the water off Pantalone's finger with his tiny tongue. The Banker then willingly dipped his finger again and again, delighted that 'his little one' had accepted his offer; as if he were being paid for every successfully administered drop.

"Well, you must have been quite thirsty," Pantalone's voice softened quite unusually as he stared at him in delight. "Hmm, I think in the future, I must be a more careful master to you, and pay closer attention to your needs."

'Only in your dreams will you be my master, you idiot,' Dottore glared back at him tiredly. 'By the way, you can't even take care of yourself!'

"Are you not hungry?" The Banker gestured toward his tray. "Or is none of what they brought you to your liking?"

Pantalone looked at the food arrangement thoughtfully for a moment, then carefully pinched off a bite of boiled egg from the plate prepared beside his own coffee.

The yolk was perfectly creamy, and the white trembled invitingly. Dottore couldn't help himself; he was unable to take his eyes off it as the Banker held a small piece between his fingertips and brought it to his mouth.

This truly is the end!

The urge to bury his face in his hands was overwhelming, but the nourishing scent of the egg reached his nose, and his stomach surrendered despite all his protests. The reptilian brain did not know the Doctor's legendary pride, only food, and this bite... well, this bite was currently the most desirable thing in all of Teyvat.

Fine, just one. Then it's over.

Pantalone's graceful fingers moved delicately, with an almost hypnotic slowness, as if he sensed that the little animal was fighting an internal battle. When Dottore - casting aside all remaining dignity - finally, carefully scooped the piece of egg from the man's hand with his tongue, a strange warmth washed over him. 

Despite all the awkwardness, he - no, the lizard! - somehow liked this situation. The touch of the skin, the slight dampness of the man's fingertip, the taste of the food... it was all too intimate. Too... caring.

Pantalone's eyes darkened, their usual business-like sharpness replaced by something entirely different, a softer light. Gently, as if touching a fragile flower, he continued to pet the top of the lizard's head, pinching off piece after piece of his eggs, taking delight in feeding him.

"See? How much simpler it is when you let yourself be cared for," the Banker whispered, and there was no mockery in his voice, only a kind of honest gentleness that was utterly irritating to the scientist.

Dottore stared at his own paws, dumbfounded by this bizarre experience.

‘You are terribly misunderstanding the situation’, he thought defiantly, savoring the silky taste of the egg on his tongue. He had never needed anyone in his life. Even as a kid, he had learned that he could only rely on himself, and he had no intention of giving up that conviction. If there is no trust, there is no disappointment; that was his lifelong creed.

True, his current state posed some challenges, but surely he would have found a solution on his own eventually. 

However, as Pantalone's finger reached his chin again and the man's smile grew even softer, Dottore - despite every nerve ending protesting - did not pull away. In fact, he involuntarily leaned closer into the warm touch.

Something strange, akin to attachment, began to bloom in his chest toward the man. I mean, of course, despite all his annoying idiocies, he had always liked him - even if it was hard to admit - but his care, however preposterous that sounded coming from him, touched him a little deeper than it should have. 

Actually, he didn't even know how natural this was, after all, it wasn't as if he had ever received this kind of treatment from anyone else in his life...

Perhaps - just perhaps - in the future, he might actually call him his friend, instead of a simple 'comrade.'

But his sentimental thoughts came to an abrupt halt the moment Pantalone took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, putting the cup down next to the little lizard.

"Oh my, how was he able to drink this? It's disgustingly sweet," the Banker shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as if struggling to keep the liquid down. "Twenty thousand Mora for a single cup..."

The unmistakable scent of Ajilenakh-nut coffee reached Dottore's sensitive nose, drenching every tiny corner of his corrupt soul with longing - even though he instinctively knew that in his current state, a single drop of it could kill him.

...Has he mentioned, 'Fuck you, Feofan' yet?!

After successfully making his way through most of Pantalone's eggs, and noting with satisfaction that the man, in return, had eaten a few of the fruits served to him, he lay down contentedly on the ledge, letting his waving tail dangle into the pleasantly warm water - but his leisure did not last long.

Soon, Bortnikov - whom he disliked more and more - returned with four other female Fatui agent in uniform, carrying a load of crisply ironed, clean clothes large enough to dress an entire camp. One of the younger girls was trying not to fall backward under Pantalone's imposing, fur-collared coat, which clung to his shoulders like a heavy shadow of wealth.

He had no idea where the Banker was heading this time that required him to dress up so much, but he was curious to find out. Pantalone, however, rose from the water at that moment, and although the two nearby attendants immediately rushed to wrap him in towels, the firm contours of his exposed posterior still seared themselves into Dottore's retinas. 

Then there was the annoying sight of those two young girls drying him off in a near-swoon, taking careful care to skip the more sensitive areas and avoid staring too conspicuously. He didn't understand why it irritated him so much, but his mood turned to pure grumpiness in seconds. 

"No need for unnecessary fanfare," indeed. And why with women of all-

Oh.

Of course. Something lingered in his memory about how Feofan, back in the day, couldn't really stand men touching him. Some mystical, centuries-old trauma must have been behind it; at least when they first met, he had experienced firsthand how the then-audaciously-young Feofan - despite his constant, cheerful chatter - flinched every single time he got too close. 

He had thought he'd managed to get over it over the centuries, but looking at this scene, he realized that he had only ever gotten used to him as his doctor.

Hmmm. In its own way, that was quite touching.

"Sir, everything is going according to plan, everyone is ready," Bortnikov reported from a respectful distance.

"Excellent," Pantalone nodded. There wasn't a trace of the previous gentleness in his voice with which he had fed him; in fact, his gaze had become as sharp as a machete. "Let us handle this minor incident. Miss Razumova!"

"Yes, Sir?" An older woman from beneath one of the purple-black piles of clothes nodded obediently toward her master. She had a particularly stern face, though she was enveloped in a sort of reliable aura. The kind of perfect employee who, for some reason, never applied to work for him.

"I do not plan to return here; bring all my luggage to my ship. Also, I would like to entrust you with a special task."

After they had helped him into his jet-black underwear, paying no mind to the girls crouching on the floor holding his socks, he scooped up the resignedly limp Dottore once more. Gently stroking his horn one last time, he handed his helpless body over to the old woman.

"He is mine. I want you to look after him and take care of him until we depart for Snezhnograd. Though he is only a tiny creature, I would be deeply disappointed if anything were to happen to him."

What?! He's not taking him along? Seriously, he's capable of leaving him... with them?!

Strangely enough, there was only sheer surprise in the old woman's eyes as she carefully took him and laid the tiny lizard on her arm. Her body temperature was nowhere near as pleasant as the Banker's, who somehow always seemed feverish compared to a normal human, but at least it served to somewhat calm the reptile's nerves.

In mere moments, Feofan vanished from the center of the bath tent. In his place stood the Teyvatian embodiment of darkness, the menace whose name was feared across the entire world: the Regrator, whose gaze thirsted for blood behind his silver-framed glasses. The sunlight caught threateningly on his richly embroidered, fur-lined garments as he left the tent surrounded by his entourage.

And Dottore didn't even understand what this feeling was that took hold of him, but his tiny heart was already squeezed tight by the man's absence.

In the next chapter, we’re setting off for Snezhnaya :’3 I don't think I can write fast enough for us to get there by the time the region actually drops in-game (especially since I'm also trying to juggle this with my Dottobina fic Dx), but it would be pretty funny though.Until then, in the next chapter, we’ll be checking out our Zandik’s former private cabin in Pantalone's company (because naturally, he had one on the Regrator’s ship - as if we ever doubted it, right?). And then, maybe Pantalone will indulge in a little ... "nostalgia" 🤭

Only a few knew that Il Dottore's favorite place in the world was not his lab. That is to say, if anyone had been asked, they surely wouldn't have thought of anything else; after all, he was rarely seen outside of it. 

However entertaining it was for him to shock others, he knew well how much it would ruin his image if it came to light that now and then he allowed himself those few hours of idling in his strictly secret piano room in the west wing of the Zapolyarny Palace, when for once he wasn't occupied with any of his world-changing experiments (at least, not in the literal sense of the word), and just enjoyed the mild Snezhnayan sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows with his legs crossed.

It was just such an afternoon when, during the forced waiting time of his current masterpiece - for lack of anything better to do - he leaned back peacefully in his thickly padded armchair opposite the piano, while expensive Ajilenakh-nut coffee steamed in an antique porcelain cup in his hand.

Yet another thing that, fortunately, no one would ever have expected of him (based on his experience, people pictured him as drinking at most some kind of pitch-black, bitter tea seasoned with lemon and genocide); and he never refuted this belief. 

No one needed to know how many times in his childhood he had wanted to taste this intensely sweet, spicy drink, which was the privilege of the wealthy elite of Sumeru; not that of an exiled brat whose very life was begrudged by the 'people of wisdom'.

His eyebrows rose just a fraction as his mind's eye conjured up his own pathetic childhood self, hunting for withered starshrooms in the desert on the brink of starvation - the contrast with his current circumstances was truly overwhelming, he noted in passing, though achieving wealth had never been his goal in life.

Of course, he would be a fool to admit that drinking Ajilenakh-coffee wasn't something that made pushing boundaries worthwhile in itself, hehehe; what's more, thanks to a certain someone, he had an inexhaustible supply of it. 

Only once had he made a cynical remark to the Banker before the latter left on a business trip to his homeland, saying that he really could bring a few boxes as a souvenir for his favorite doctor. For some reason, Pantalone took this absent-minded teasing more seriously than he thought - and now he had to maintain a separate warehouse for the endless supply of crates of ground coffee.

Not that he was complaining about it: he particularly liked being catered to, and spoiling him was one of the Regrator's blissful hobbies.

His mouth curled into a satisfied smile as he took a deep sniff of the warm drink's aroma - into which, strangely, something unusual mixed this time.

He froze for a moment and looked suspiciously at the contents of the cup.

He found nothing unusual in it; the warm liquid was steaming with the same greenish honey-brown hue as always. Yet, some kind of... strangely pleasant, musky scent hung in the air, the source of which he was simply unable to determine; it was a damn familiar, addictive aroma, like the smell of clean skin warmed by the sun, or that of a freshly baked potato boat. Nothing that could have been justified in this place. Yet, instinctively, he wanted to find the source of the scent and immerse himself in it up to his neck - as soon as his usual paranoia, triggered by anything of suspicious origin, subsided.

He didn't quite like reacting this way to it, whatever it was - he, who through long centuries of bitter work had made himself immune to every known poison and manipulative substance in Teyvat. Behind his mask, his gaze swept icily over every tiny corner of the room, inhaling deeply and methodically, waiting for his brain to analyze with its usual precision and, if necessary, identify the potential threat.

What he expected least of all, however, was that the source of the scent he was looking for was connected to a certain individual, who simply leaned forward from behind his back, almost flaunting his shameful victory of having managed to sneak up behind him unnoticed.

“Still have a craving... for nuts, Doctor?” 

The warm breath almost brushed his ear and the skin left exposed under the edge of his mask.

Dottore's whole body tensed to the breaking point in a single second, like a drawn bow: never, in any of the anatomical notes he made about himself, was it recorded that he had... weak spots - he deeply despised such primitive, human concepts anyway - yet, due to Pantalone's mere voice and the near-touch brushing his neck, he became aware of the existence of his own ear with an almost blinding intensity.

'How... unusual,' he thought. He hated it when people got behind him, and it certainly would have cost anyone else their life to walk through his defense lines so facelessly - but when it came to him, the whole absurd situation reminded him rather of a kind of strategic game in which they had been teasing each other back and forth for centuries. It was true, today's event slightly overstepped their unwritten rules, but he had to admit, perhaps that was exactly why he liked this idiot: he never let him get bored, and was always able to show something new, even to someone as highly experienced as himself.

Fortunately, his self-control, polished to perfection over the past centuries, did not fail him even in unexpected situations; thanks to this, he managed to set his coffee down beside him on his lacquered side table, carved with ornate motifs, with an elegant movement without letting even a single drop go to waste.

"Is the Northland Bank running at a loss, by any chance, that you cannot even afford the basic etiquette of knocking, Regrator?" he asked coldly, returning the gesture and using the banker's official title. "Sneaking in is a decidedly cheap trick for a gentleman like yourself."

Behind him, Pantalone's soft, satisfied chuckle vibrated in the air.

"I can assure you, the market position of the Northland Bank is quite stable; you need not worry about your next research funds." The voice carried that silky confidence that Dottore usually broke with a single sharp remark. Heh. With a drawn-out, cat-like movement, accompanied by the soft rustle of fine fabrics, he straightened up behind him, then slowly stepped past Dottore. His words followed his footsteps leisurely, almost in rhythm. "However, as it happens, I would need your expertise in a... personal matter of sorts."

By the time he reached the end of the sentence, he was standing directly in front of the Doctor. His tall, slender figure relentlessly blocked out the sunlight streaming through the huge windows, looming over the man sitting in the chair like a dark, majestic shadow. Then, resting his two hands carelessly on the armrests of the armchair, he leaned deeply toward Dottore.

Huh?

The aroma flooding his lungs now became completely tangible, sitting between the two of them like a heavy, smoldering mist. It settled so thickly on Dottore's senses that his rational brain sent another warning signal: the stimulant was directly assaulting his limbic system, which troubled him to say the least. What was this all about? And why on earth was Pantalone staring at him as if he were a stuffed sack of Mora in the middle of an empty room?! 

Whatever this 'personal matter' was, he was starting to have bad feelings, despite knowing the man well enough to know he would never try anything questionable with him. But in that case, only one thing could remain: that he had managed to get entangled yet again in some particularly problematic business, which at best was only fatal.

"Where does it hurt this time?" He asked the usual question cynically, as he did every time the Regrator suddenly appeared to utilize his services - be it a gunshot wound, a poisoning, or that he had managed to cut his fingers with his letter opener again. There was something almost every day (though the current situation was definitely different from the usual).

The Snezhnayan light in the room seemed to fade, giving way to a smoldering, dark twilight in which the Banker's scent weighed down on the Doctor's chest like an addictive mist. Behind Pantalone's silver-rimmed glasses, in his Sumeru-rose-colored irises, burned not the cold businessman, but a very deep, almost... religious adoration? He was looking at Dottore specifically as if he were the most precious, sacred miracle in the world. What the-

The banker slowly lowered his hands, his long fingers encased in black gloves wrapping around Dottore's right wrist with respectful confidence, pulling the Doctor's hand to his own heart with a light but unyielding movement.

"I think here..." Pantalone whispered, and this statement caused an unusually warm tingle in his gut. Even though he had already been into the deepest layers of Pantalone's body, now the simple realization that a single, thin piece of fabric separated him from his chest did something unusual to his pulse.

The Doctor frowned under his mask for a moment, then shook his head mockingly, brushing aside the pathetic first thought and already beginning to plan the details of an operation more complicated than ever before.

"Of course," he muttered testily. "It was to be expected that with your lifestyle, sooner or later it would affect your heart-!"

However, before he could even finish, Pantalone cut in.

"And here too," holding the Doctor's hand tightly, he slowly moved it downward, inch by inch, guiding it down with burning slowness through the fine black silk, down and down, all the way to his stomach, and then to Dottore's greatest shock, he guided his hand even lower, stopping just above an area that, even between them, was mostly considered a taboo.

"But most of all... I think here. Especially when you are this close to me."

Excuse me... But Feofan, what in the sweet, holy shit?! flashed through the Doctor's mind as the only reaction that could be called sensible.

Even though he played the confident, unshakeable doctor on the outside, a suffocatingly heavy, unfamiliar warmth flared up in his face, which slowly, insidiously curled downward through his body, along roughly the same path Pantalone was guiding his fingers, all the way under the fabric of his trousers. This mere fact alone was enough to make him freeze completely.

"You are just messing with me," he finally declared, pulling his hand back, but his voice turned out much huskier and much less threatening than he would have liked. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, which only confused him more.

According to all his logic, the banker should have made a funny comment with his usual little chuckle now and sat down beside him amusedly - but Pantalone did not move this time. His purple irises behind the silver-rimmed glasses fixed onto his mask with ruthless, dense focus, right where he suspected his eyes to be.

"I would never do such a thing," Pantalone took another half-step closer, his voice deepening into a stifled, almost silky confession that immediately sent shivers down the Doctor's spine. "We have been playing this damned game for long years. I know your every movement, and you know mine; but our alliance has long outgrown mere intellect. I want you, Doctor. Every single part of you."

The always-working cogs in the Doctor's brain jammed with a screech in a single second. Damn! What the hell does he want exactly?! You can't be serious that he wants to f-....!

From the realization, all blood drained from his brain - the thought that his closest ally, the only person he had ever let close to him, wanted him in such a physical way, contrary to his principles, was at once paralyzing and outrageous, yet incredibly, dangerously addictive.

Feofan-no. Pantalone was not just any average nobody where his answer would have been clear-cut.

If anyone else had tried even anything similar, they would surely be lying eviscerated on his floor by now - the Banker, however... was the only person in this ice-cold, false world whom he felt close to in some twisted way. Although he never thought he would ever even consider such an offer, if he wanted to be honest, maybe he was right. After all, who else would he do it with if not him? Okay, this sounds completely absurd, but if he were to be honest with himself just this once…

He was used to the man's presence, to their bickering, to the silences beside the late-night piano music when they took pleasure together in something that no one else would have understood. But this? This sudden, dense, and suffocating physical closeness completely rewrote the rules of the game - even if it was just meant to be a very bad joke.

Pantalone had never given any sign that he wanted anything else from him besides his skills; the power he could give him in exchange for unlimited resources - the only thing he couldn't sufficiently acquire with his knowledge.

For this whole thing to turn into something more personal between them was practically impossible all along.

Or was it?

No, it's unimaginable. This whole thing started just as business! When did it become... this?!

And what on earth should he do in such a ridiculously absurd situation?

And the real question: what did he actually WANT to do?

The answer broke to the surface from the deepest depths of his instincts suppressed for four hundred years, yet Dottore was not the kind of person who could be backed into a corner with impunity. 

As soon as the first wave of shock subsided, his stubborn pride and defiant, ruthless competitive spirit took control of his mind lightning-fast. If the Banker decided to kick up the old rules and take such a big risk, he wouldn't back down like a coward either!

All right then. Let's play.

You're going to get a lesson, Regrator, about who to mess with!

The sudden paleness drained from the Doctor's face, and behind his mask, his red eyes suddenly flashed with a dangerous, predatory light. With a single, slow, almost majestic movement, he leaned back in the padded armchair, but he didn't take his gaze off his colleague for a single second, while the corner of his mouth curled into a mocking, slowly spreading half-smile.

"Very well," he snapped shortly, dryly, as if he weren't putting his very pride on the line.

"Very well?" Pantalone repeated, and in his voice, the ever-present honeyed mockery was now replaced by pure, disbelieving shock.

Dottore noted his victory with satisfaction; the sweet taste of regaining control immediately spread through his body. He slowly leaned forward, deliberately and provocatively reducing the distance between them until his mask almost brushed Pantalone's face, intruding deep into the man's personal space, cutting away the last illusion of respectful distance. 

He casually raised his hand and, with a cheeky and challenging movement, reached under Pantalone's chin with the tips of his gloved fingers.

"Since you have talked such a big game," the Doctor whispered, his voice (surprising even himself) almost purring, "...surely you will gladly and willingly show me just how exactly you intend to possess me. Let's see, Regrator, if you are as good at other things as you are at crunching numbers."

Pantalone's eyes widened for a single millisecond, but he held his gaze all the way. Then Dottore had to realize that the momentary shock he had noted with such satisfaction was not a sign of backing down; it was much more the kind of tense silence that is born in a predator's mind when the prey willingly walks into the trap and even taps on the cage wall.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to re-evaluate the situation... 

Out of defiance and pride, he had raised the stakes, believing that the Banker would back down and thereby his own foolish joke would backfire.

Pantalone, however, instead of stepping back humiliated or laughing at the Doctor's cheekiness while assuring him that it was obviously meant to be just a bad joke on his part - did not move.

In fact.

The corner of his mouth slowly, almost imperceptibly, curled upward. It was a smile so suffocatingly dark and confident that the previous intoxication of victory in Dottore's brain immediately turned into a freezing, flashing warning signal.

"Am I that good, Doctor?" Pantalone repeated, with an intensity that vibrated almost physically in the minimized space between them. "I find it highly insulting that you would presume there is a single thing I cannot accomplish at the highest level. But let's not waste time. See for yourself. "

Before Dottore could even comprehend the threat, the Banker moved. With a drawn-out, ruthlessly majestic movement, he lowered both hands from the armrests of the armchair, then slowly, inch by inch, dropped to his knees before the Doctor onto the softly woven, plush Sumeru carpet.

There was no subservience in this movement, no humbleness: even kneeling on the floor, Pantalone looked like a ruler about to conquer yet another highly coveted empire. A long, dark lock of hair fell carelessly over his shoulder as he looked up at the man sitting in the chair, and the Sumeru-rose gaze emanating from behind the silver-rimmed glasses glowed with possessiveness.

Dottore's breath caught in his throat.

This... this can't be true. Just to claim victory, is Feofan really going to-?!

All his knowledge, his accumulated anatomical and clinical experience, turned to ash in a single second. He had no protocol for the most influential, proudest man in Snezhnaya to literally kneel at his feet and look at him with such a ruthless, hot focus that completely paralyzed his limbs. The escape routes were permanently closed; the heavy backrest of the armchair trapped him, while Pantalone's physical presence chained his gaze like a magnet.

And the Banker wasted no time. 

His long fingers, encased in black gloves, slid onto Dottore's thighs with a respectful but unyielding confidence. Even through the fine fabric, the warmth of his hands burned as they slowly, methodically started upward with an unmistakable goal. The soft rustling of silk on his trousers sounded louder than thunder in the stifled silence.

"You are terribly tense," Pantalone whispered cheerfully just above the Doctor's knees, and his warm breath permeated the fabric of the trousers. He would have liked nothing more than to tell him to go to hell, but his always razor-sharp tongue failed him now. He possessed incredible knowledge in every other area of life, yet in this one, he was embarrassingly inexperienced.

The Banker's fingers gently but firmly reached for the Doctor's belt and the buttons of his trousers, prompting a hoarse, disbelieving noise to break from Dottore's throat, and his hands twitched by reflex to protest, but his body simply refused to obey.

The heavy, smoldering scent completely flooding his lungs clouded every rational thought in his head, while the blood pulsed in his face and ears with such intensity that it almost blinded him.

Pantalone's touch, with which he finally freed the hitherto untouched part of his body, practically caused an explosion in his nerve pathways. And the Banker did not hesitate: with his slender, elegant fingers, he gently enclosed the Doctor's just-awakening member. Never once breaking eye contact, as if gazing straight through the mask, he slowly leaned forward.

Silky, black locks brushed against the Doctor's hips as those wet, searingly hot lips first grazed his sensitive skin - gentle, yet entirely possessive. Then, with a single, slow, agonizingly deep slide, Pantalone drew him almost entirely into his mouth. 

An electric wave filled with such elemental, blinding pleasure ran down Dottore's spine, the likes of which he had never experienced once in his long life. His mouth remained slightly open, his breath became ragged and stifled, while his fingers gripping the armrests of the armchair squeezed the wood until they turned white. 

His brain, his genius, his pride - everything was swallowed by that incredible, wet warmth that Pantalone's mouth provided him, as the Banker methodically, with rhythmic and deep movements, began to suck him hard, proving that he was indeed damn talented; in this too.

Fuck that…

He had no idea it could feel like this. He was pathetically swept away by the wave of pleasure, and although he tried to fight it with all his might, disgustingly embarrassing sounds slipped from his throat. He was unable to keep his hips still any longer and began to shift on the chair, terrified, trying with all his strength to stay still; but he did not succeed. 

Especially since it seemed Pantalone was only fired up by his sounds, letting him even deeper into his throat, picking up a desperately intense up-and-down rhythm that seriously made him feel like his soul was leaving his body.

One of his hands broke forward unconsciously and grabbed into the silky locks, while the other slapped confusedly over his own mouth, trying to hold back the increasingly awkward cries that he no longer stood a chance of suppressing. He was damn close to something he didn't even want to think about, while Pantalone switched to an increasingly forceful rhythm, fixing his hips with both hands as if he didn't even want to give him a chance to move away from him. 

Not that he would have been able to... all his perception concentrated on a single point, buried deep in Feofan's throat, while a voice in his head repeated over and over, 'More... more...! Almost... uh, Feofan, more, right there...!'

The pulsating heat flooding his consciousness reached its peak, but the overwhelming wave did not bring relief; instead, the walls of the piano room began to ripple strangely, rhythmically around Dottore.

From behind the roaring blood in his ears and his own ragged gasping, a distant, muffled, yet eerily familiar voice suddenly pierced his mind - a voice that no longer came from the kneeling man's mouth, but from somewhere above, from the darkness, repeating his name over and over, as if trying to drag him back to the surface.

“Zandik?”

Pantalone's passionate purple gaze became blurry; then unexpectedly sharpened, but he was no longer kneeling between his legs, instead... he was underneath him?

“Zandik...? Haha, Zandik?” 

The Banker's hair fell messily to the side of his face, his shirt twisted on his body, while he sprawled regally on the irritatingly bright-colored bedding. Dottore's brain was still far too agitated to grasp what was happening around him; moreover, a burning, unfamiliar tension rattled through his entire 8-inch body, the likes of which he hadn't felt even when he was nearly eaten by a flying serpent in the desert a few days ago. Pantalone, however, seemed unusually... amused as he stared at him somewhat confusedly. 

“Oh, well, so you really are a boy.”

What... the?

He blinked up with sleepy lizard-eyes at the Banker's visibly amused face, only to then experience the most shameful realization of his life: namely, that he had anchored himself with his tiny teeth into Pantalone's collarbones, and completely turned on, with an undulating tail, was rubbing his fully... 'prepared', erect hemipenis against his colleague's abs.

….

For the first time in his life, he truly wished he were completely, permanently dead.

Terrified and slightly dizzy, he scrambled off the man and hastily nestled himself under the pile of pillows on the side.

Is it too late to burn together with the Irminsul?!

It had never happened before that his body reacted this way to any of his patients; he was proud of his self-control and the superiority of his body, which could never be influenced by such pathetic things as hormones! What on earth had he done?!

Moreover, it didn't help matters that the subject in question happened to be... Pantalone of all people! 

Nobody could ever find out about this, he resolved. As soon as they reach Snezhnaya, he must mysteriously disappear! Feofan must never discover that HE was the lizard getting off on him! The mere thought dealt such a deep blow to his pride that he was unable to bear it. 

Besides, how could he pick fights with him after this if the other had such a weapon in his arsenal against him?!

Pantalone then hooked his iconic glasses onto his nose and blinked at him worriedly. Surely, he must have looked sickly as he tried to suffocate himself in the pile of pillows, unnaturally contorted, with a visible desire to die.

“Hey, is everything okay?” the Banker said gently, but the amusement didn't leave the bastard's tone as he carefully stroked Dottore's protruding tail. Even this tiny touch recalled too many details that set every drop of his lizard blood on fire, making him want to do nothing more than hiss angrily. “It's probably because of my perfume; I didn't think about the pheromones affecting you.”

….

Damn you!

He had to admit, his colleague always smelled unusually - and somewhat addictively - good, despite his smoking habits, but he would have never thought that was the reason! Of course, it didn't affect him in his human body; he had successfully built up an immunity within himself to every substance of this nature! But now, as a defenseless, tiny lizard...

Fuck you, Feofan! 

Does this piece of trash spray himself with pheromones?! Why the hell?? To his knowledge, the last time he had anything to do with a woman was when his mother gave birth to him! At least, he visibly avoided strictly medical questions regarding his sexual life, though knowing him, he would have lived and died to boast about any of his performances!

And yet, he was most disappointed in himself.

Pheromones or not, as a human it had never been a problem to suppress his useless biological needs, and he had never found himself in such an embarrassing situation in his life, not even back in his adolescent academy days! 

Shame... his mind had never committed such a betrayal against him before.

How was he supposed to stay calm after this anyway, when just looking at the man would bring back the searing image of Pantalone wrapping his lips around his-...?!

Simultaneously, something else came to his mind, resulting in an even more shocking realization in his consciousness: that if Pantalone ever initiated something similar in reality, it surely wouldn't be a difficult task to get him to give in.

Not that he saw much chance of it ever happening: during the 400 years of their partnership, the idiot had never once shown a sign of being interested in him in any area other than science and raising himself to a divine level. Besides, just like himself, he found most people repulsively inferior.

The banker in question meanwhile stood up with a deep sigh and, sitting on the edge of his bed, threw off the blanket with a shudder.

„How can anyone live in such a horrible climate?!” he lamented listlessly, pulling his shirt over his head in a single movement. Dottore poked his head out from under his oversized pillow just enough to take a good look at the broad shoulders and the toned shoulder blades. He regretted it almost immediately.

He had gone completely mad. So many people had called him mad so many times, and now they turned out to be right!

Meanwhile, Pantalone threw a far too gaudily embroidered thin robe around himself, which remained disturbingly open at his chest. Then, muttering with irritation, he walked over to one of the dressers on the side and touched a gold orb on top that looked expensive and heavily stolen, which then flashed with a white light.

“Bortnikov?” he said forcefully, to which a rather frantic voice answered with a 'Yes, sir' from the orb. “Prepare my bath! Before we set out, I still have a little business to take care of in Sumeru City. Notify Kieran that I need a word with him, then send word to Dev Nair that if he doesn't send his debt within a week, I will feed his little girl to his crocodiles right before his eyes. We have given enough leeway, and 97 million is 97 million after all. If he pays, send half to the Akademiya for the trouble; I don't need the complaints of those smart-ass bastards!”

What a beautiful phrasing for the scum over there who like to be called professors.

“Yes, Sir!” repeated Bortnikov, for whom washing Pantalone's feet was probably just as much a part of the daily routine as eliminating business partners who didn't keep their word. He brushed away the thought of how willing he actually would be to watch both procedures, so instead, he just started pettishly toward the end of the bed.

He was already used to starving, and although at the moment he would have preferred to intentionally starve to death, his survival instinct triumphed this time as well: so he decided that while this pheromone-loaded idiot got himself scrubbed, he would look for some water for himself.

He forced before his mind's eye - above everything else - an oasis with crystal-clear water, which according to his memories had to be nearby, provided it hadn't dried up in the last two hundred years since he was last in this area. After all, he could even drown in it out of shame if it came to that.

Pantalone's gaze focused on him at this exact moment, and his face immediately took on a sort of cheerful expression; then he fished a cigarette and matches out of his robe pocket, and after lighting up with a blissful face, he leaned his elbows on the dresser like some sophisticated mafia boss.

“Oh yes, regarding my morning coffee... This time make sure there is some local fruit and some unseasoned meat.”

“Sir?!” disbelieving bellowed from Bortnikov's voice. “That is unusual. Are you feeling well? Of course, I will have food brought to you right away, but… sir?”

Predictable. So despite all his warnings, Pantalone was still neglecting his breakfast. Let him not forget to kick his ass for it at their next check-up!

“Indeed,” chuckled the banker. “I will have company this morning, and I have no idea what flavors he prefers. I think we should try the local ones.”

Upon hearing this, panic literally broke out on the other side of the orb, while Pantalone just touched the orb again with closed eyes, put his cigarette down in the ashtray - he kept them scattered everywhere - and enjoyed the ensuing dead silence.

Then, glancing up at his tiny lizard, his gaze became sharp.

Dottore knew very well from this that there was no escaping from here anymore.

Next chapter

Although he had never been fond of idleness in his life, he wouldn’t have found it hard to get used to this current state. After the past few days - even though he sorely missed his sterile laboratory and the blessed advantages of full agency - he finally didn’t have to scan the sky every thirty seconds, wondering when a starving Red Vulture would scoop him up. One quickly learns to appreciate the little things.

For instance, the sight of Pantalone’s shirt-clad shoulders and glossy black locks, especially when he wasn't lying sedated on his dissecting table, or listening with feigned arrogance to him campaigning for the funding of his latest project. Not that he had ever refused him over the past 400 years, but the bastard always played hard to get for a long time (he’d bet anything it was for his own twisted amusement) before signing the blank checks, leaving the amount empty.

Dottore - or rather, currently Zandik, the Sumeru "newt" - sprawled motionless atop a majestic purple silk pillow, his red irises focusing intently on the man lying beside him.

There was something infinitely satisfying about the way the sunset filtered through the slits of the tent canvas, catching the fine threads of the Banker’s tight silk shirt, tracing the firm yet elegant curve of his shoulders. His hair, now completely undone, tumbled softly against his neck, creating an almost palpable contrast with his pale skin.

‘A remarkably… flawless anatomical specimen,’ an utterly irrelevant observation crossed the Doctor’s mind. Now that he wasn't strictly acting as his physician, looking for flaws to pick at, he actually had to admit he couldn't find many negatives to list about his colleague’s physique (his internal organs were surely a different story, but fortunately, he could afford to argue about those later, back in his real body).

The symmetry of the shoulder girdle was satisfying, and the tone of the trapezius muscle was surprisingly well-developed considering that Mr. Banker’s lifestyle mostly consisted - despite his warnings - of sitting in padded armchairs all day, filing the promissory notes of exploited - ahem, partnered - nations. Surely, as a good Snezhnayan, he handled the desert heat much worse than he did, a born Sumeru citizen (who, conversely, always felt as if his very soul was freezing over in the north until he managed to modify his own heat dissipation with a complex, full-body skin treatment) - at least, the tiny beads of sweat lining the milk-white collarbone peeking out from the unbuttoned top of the black shirt bore witness to this...

They were practically inviting. Though he couldn’t figure out what exactly prompted it, and hadn't even noticed when it started, his tail, dangling over the side of the pillow, involuntarily began to make strange, undulating movements.

Hmm, a new instinctive reaction he hadn't experienced until now. Interesting...

He had tried to learn every little detail about his future anatomy before embarking on this project, but he had only glossed over the physical reactions of reptiles. After all, what kind of feelings could a lizard have that could significantly impact the experiment, other than being hungry or wanting to avoid being eaten?

Okay, excluding the mating instinct, but he saw no reason why Pantalone would trigger anything like that. That would be rather... hehehe, peculiar, given their professional history.

Yet his tiny, cool body was drawn to the man's visibly hot skin in a bizarre way, like a smooth, polished desert rock glowing under the midday sun. His wide mouth stretched even wider in irritation as he concluded that he definitely did not enjoy being an animal utterly devoid of self-control.

Just then, however, the peaceful silence was interrupted by a tense whispering from outside, followed by a nervous clearing of a throat, and then a formal yet strained male voice.

"Sir...? Lord Regrator? Agents Bortnikov and Vereshchagina request entry! If we may..."

Oh? Pantalone’s two meddling sidekicks could only mean one thing: splendid, ripe-for-eavesdropping inside information on the horizon!

Dottore watched the sudden flurry of activity with amusement:

"Lord Regrator" snapped upright from beside him in a fraction of a second. The pathetic, broken man from an hour ago, who looked like a toddler whose favorite toy had been snatched away, vanished as if he had never existed. In the blink of an eye, his face hardened into that ice-cold, infinitely arrogant, and superior expression the world always saw when he appeared at business meetings. 

With a single theatrical yet majestic motion, he snatched his heavy, fur-trimmed coat from the back of the chair, threw it over his shoulders, adjusted his silver-framed glasses, and only then granted permission to enter, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned nonchalantly against the edge of his desk.

‘What an actor,’ Dottore chuckled to himself, deftly burrowing beneath the richly embroidered satin blanket. Once he was sure no one could spot him, he crossed his front legs, ready to shamelessly harvest any secret, exploitable information - an art he had already mastered to perfection recently.

Bortnikov and Vereshchagina entered the tent with disciplined steps, accompanied by two other presumably low-ranking companions, and they all bowed deeply and respectfully before the Banker. Dottore instantly noticed how, mid-kowtow, their eyes lingered in shock on the ornate liquor bottles scattered around and the heaped-high ashtray, though none of them were brave enough to voice a comment aloud.

"Report," Pantalone snapped at them, snapping the small group out of their gawking. They all threw themselves into attention at their boss's voice, which was as smooth and majestic as if he weren't standing in a dusty tent in the middle of the desert, but at the very least in the throne room of the Zapolyarny Palace.

Bortnikov, who had spent the last few decades handling his colleague’s most dubious dealings, nervously cleared his throat. ‘Well, well, bad news?’ Dottore thought, thoroughly amused by the sight.

Usually, he was the one whose plans were constantly derailed by misfortune, while a fresh sack of Mora somehow always dropped right into Pantalone’s lap. Even if some god-tier talent managed to rob him, luck would manipulate the situation so that the thief lost a far more valuable treasure than what they stole. Well, such blissful scenarios never happened to him, which was starting to make him a bit resentful.

He was curious to see what could be so tragic that these four miscreants only dared venture in here with their tails between their legs.

"Our squads have completed the tier-three sweeping of the ruins," Bortnikov began his report, his voice noticeably dropping lower and lower. "We still haven’t found anything. No tracks, no... biological remains. It’s as if the Doctor... the earth swallowed him whole."

Dottore nearly burst out laughing. ‘Hehehe, Pantalone, you pathetic old man! What the hell do you even need my body for?’

The Banker’s face bore the news without a single muscle twitching, but his silver-ringed fingers tightened tensely around the hem of his coat.

"Keep searching," he said imperiously. "Until I give the order to pack up camp, leave no stone unturned."

"Sir, if I may..." the blonde woman named Vereshchagina stepped forward cautiously, cowering slightly under the Harbinger's gaze. "We must make a decision about our departure soon. The northern waters will close to transports within weeks, and... the Mayor has already sent a third official notice from Snezhnaya. The Rooster is explicitly furious; he writes that the Palace considers Il Dottore’s case officially closed, and you must return immediately to head the Northland Bank. The economy cannot halt for a dead-"

Pantalone shot her a look so piercing that the girl reflexively stepped back, the words catching in her throat.

"-a-a missing Harbinger, Sir."

Well, to be perfectly honest, despite their centuries of informal working relationship, he would never have believed that Mr. "Money Talks" would waste resources searching for his corpse. Considering that back in Signora’s case, his only input was that an empty-coffin funeral would suffice - after all, it makes no difference to the deceased anyway. Utterly pointless to scour Inazuma for mere ashes using Snezhnaya’s tax money.

By comparison, this dedication now was almost touching. Heh, at least someone appreciates my heroic deeds, Dottore smirked maliciously. Bravo, Feofan!

Oh, right. And Pulcinella can kiss my ass.

A suffocating, thick silence fell over the tent. Pantalone turned slowly toward the girl, and the glint in his eyes behind his glasses rooted all four agents to the spot.

"Inform the Mayor," Pantalone began, and though his voice was sweet as honey, it was simultaneously as sharp as a scalpel, "that smoothing over the diplomatic and economic aftershocks in Sumeru falls under my jurisdiction. At the same time, I am well aware of the impacts my absence has on liquidity. A small detachment will remain here to continue the search, while we ourselves shall set out for Snezhnograd tomorrow afternoon. Dismissed."

All four of them bowed in hurried relief and practically backed out of the tent.

The moment the canvas flap fell shut behind them, Regrator’s iconic presence vanished as if by magic.

Pantalone’s shoulders visibly slumped, like a support pillar being pulled out from under a tent. The majestic coat slid from his shoulders straight onto the ground, and he collapsed back into his gaudy velvet armchair - completely antithetical to Sumeru - with a single heavy thud.

Dottore watched with judgmental disdain as the man’s hand reached almost automatically, skipping the glass this time, straight for the entire ornate bottle of liquor.

‘You pathetic idiot,’ the Doctor thought resignedly, scurrying his four tiny legs down from the pillow. ‘If you drink yourself to death here, who on earth is going to take me back to my lab?!’

He carefully crept down the side of the floor-length bedspread, plopped onto his four legs, and scurried nimbly toward the desk. By now, Pantalone had already downed quite a few gulps of alcohol straight from the bottle and was staring ahead with an increasingly glazed look, sweeping his account books - usually held in such high esteem - off the table.

What is this nonsense? Flattering, but for pity's sake, it’s not like you couldn't find yourself another doctor! Okay... maybe the others are less brilliant, less open to questionable moral challenges, and obviously wouldn't be able to keep you alive, but in return, they'd surely be much cheaper and more patient!

The papers covered in fragrant ink scattered across the floor, but the Banker was visibly indifferent to the destruction. He rested his heavy head in his palm, his glasses slipping slightly sideways on his nose, the ornate silver chain hanging pathetically against his chest. He sat there like a mournful monument raised by his own hands.

Dottore stopped at the foot of the desk, tilting his tiny lizard head to size up the vertical obstacle. He never would have believed that a regular-sized desk would one day pose a challenge, but now he was forced to battle the ruthless laws of physics.

Sighing resignedly to himself, he hooked his tiny claws into the carved vines decorating the desk leg and, almost amused by his own absurdity, began to claw his way up. ‘If anyone from the Fatui saw me in this state, I'd have to perform a prefrontal lobotomy on the entire crew,’ he sighed internally, finally hoisting himself onto the polished mahogany surface by balancing with his long tail.

Dottore walked leisurely over to the man’s hand, but Pantalone didn’t even flinch, merely staring blankly into nothingness with glassy eyes.

The cool skin of the lizard body immediately felt the near-feverish heat radiating from the Banker, and instinct - that wretched, primitive, heat-source-craving reptilian instinct - kicked in once more.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, he firmly pressed his tiny, blue-scaled head against Pantalone’s wrist, right where the man’s pulse throbbed beneath the pale skin.

The Banker shuddered as the sudden cold stimulus visibly cut through the alcoholic fog. Slowly, heavily, he turned his head toward his arm, and from behind his askew glasses, his deep purple, tired eyes focused on the little creature.

"Zandik...?" he whispered hoarsely, and at the sound of the name, Dottore’s stomach did another flip. He wasn't exactly used to being addressed by his true name so intimately.

At the same time, Pantalone’s lips curved into a bitter, self-tormenting smile.

"You haven't left yet? Oh, no. Not you... Unlike that scoundrel who didn't even fully settle his debts."

‘Hah, you're seriously bringing that up right now?! Go ahead then, drink yourself into oblivion, and maybe find another doctor!’ Dottore stomped his front legs angrily and let out a soft, irritated hiss - but this didn't deter Pantalone; in fact, he seemed to quite like him for it.

The man slowly raised his other hand, took off his glasses, and dropped them onto the desk, then slipped his long fingers under the little lizard with incredible caution and lifted him up.

Against his own will, Dottore didn't resist; his minuscule nervous system completely short-circuited as the Banker enclosed him in his searingly warm palm and brought him closer to his face.

"You are so cold," Pantalone murmured, beginning to stroke the blue spike on top of the lizard’s head with his thumb in a gentle, almost hypnotic manner. "You will freeze to death in Snezhnaya if I take you with me. There are no dunes there, Zandik. Only ice, and too much silence."

Dottore completely froze as he realized this statement could yield rather poor results if Pantalone happened to sprout some sort of empathy and decided to leave him behind in his natural habitat instead.

However, he had a more pressing problem: his body began to tingle unusually under the warm fingers as the man caressed the horn on top of his head over and over again.

Dammit, the oculocardiac reflex! He hadn't expected to ever have an issue with this - after all, he hadn't planned on being petted (the very thought gave him the shivers) by a big purple idiot - but the moron was stimulating his exact reflex zone, and his body was slowly starting to slip into hibernation.

Yet, damn it all... it felt incredibly good. The lizard body stubbornly demanded the heat, so Dottore, abandoning every remaining shred of human dignity, nuzzled closer to the man’s thumb.

"You know, I don't particularly care for things that have more than two legs," Pantalone chuckled in a muffled, musing tone, though he didn't stop pampering the tiny creature snuggling against him for even a second.

Well, of course - seeing as Mora doesn’t have a single one, Dottore thought, and if he hadn’t been so neurologically anesthetized, he would have rolled his eyes demonstratively on the spot.

Pantalone looked at him thoughtfully with his purple irises, the corner of his mouth twitching barely perceptibly.

"... But you don't seem so bad."

And that is exactly the foundation of our relationship for nearly four hundred years, the Doctor acknowledged internally, letting out a satisfied puff of air. After all, who else could have tolerated the Banker's fussy nature for so long if not him? Naturally, the feeling was mutual, but he had absolutely no intention of stroking the banker's ego with that admission.

Pantalone, however, wouldn't let the matter rest. He leaned closer, his gaze suddenly narrowing suspiciously. That typical, focused expression settled on his face, the one that usually appeared whenever he hatched his darkest, most manipulative business ideas.

"By the way, I was thinking I might have named you too hastily, since I don't even know if you're female or male."

His tiny eyes snapped wide open at this highly suspicious statement. What exactly did he want, staring like that? And besides, did it even matter?!

That focused gaze boded nothing good, and he felt a sudden inner urge to escape as fast as possible.

...

Feofan... what the fuck are you up to, man?!

But it was too late. A second hand, covered in glittering rings and clad in a black silk glove, descended from above like a storm cloud ready to strike - he stood absolutely no chance against it.

The huge, warm hand lifted him gently but firmly, and with a single effortless motion, flipped him onto his back in his palm.

‘Are you seriously doing this right now...?!’ Dottore fumed internally, trying with all his might to get over this terribly humiliating, undignified situation. He was forced to lie there helplessly, legs sticking up in the air, while Pantalone inspected the area between his hind legs with such deadly seriousness, as if trying to appraise the authenticity of a sizable diamond. His eyebrows nearly met in the middle of his forehead.

"I think... you might be a girl, aren't you?" Pantalone finally concluded.

Right then and there, Dottore solemnly resolved that their next surgery - if it was even worth returning to this imbecile’s side - would be a radical brain transplant. He simply could not fathom how someone whose business acumen was otherworldly and whose knowledge of economic matters verged on pure genius could be so phenomenally stupid regarding the most basic biological aspects of living creatures! What the hell did he expect to see on a damned reptile anyway?!

"But perhaps you won't mind if we keep your name regardless," Pantalone continued, a soft, weary chuckle escaping his lips. "After all, He wasn't exactly so manly that it would bother him, right?"

Dottore's scaly body tensed. If that brain surgery ever came to pass, he'd better not forget to "accidentally" leave one of his rusty scalpels inside the frontal lobe! Not manly? Haha. Hahaha! Say that again, Regrator, when I impale you on my eight-inch-...!

His furious internal monologue, however, was suddenly cut short by a sharp shift in tone. The faint smile vanished from Pantalone’s face in a split second, replaced by a grief so deep and maskless that it caught even Dottore off guard. What is it now, you...?!

"You know, I still don't want to believe that I won't ever hear his voice again. That we can't argue anymore."

Huh?

With a bitter, self-tormenting expression, Pantalone carefully turned the little lizard back onto its belly, then lifted him with astonishing gentleness and rested him on his broad, silk-clad shoulder. Following the movement, the man reached almost mechanically toward his pocket for a new cigarette, but just as his fingers brushed the black metal case, his gaze flicked to the tiny blue creature resting on his shoulder.

The gesture froze mid-air.

Pantalone stared at the lizard for a moment, then let go of the cigarette with a soft sigh and withdrew his hand.

"After all this time, it somehow became natural for him to be by my side," he whispered, his voice sounding vulnerable now, completely stripped of any superior arrogance. He looked a bit... like his twenty-something self, before all the wealth in the world had completely consumed him, when he was just a young man asking for his help. "And now... I don't really see the point of it all."

A suffocating, heavy silence filled the tent. Dottore felt his cool skin hungrily absorbing the near-feverish warmth radiating from the man’s neck. His tail twitched again with a strange urge, but this time, his human consciousness grew quiet as well. There was no mockery in it, no cynicism. Just the pure, raw realization that this ice-cold economic genius - no matter how much he had tried to act in their final moments as if his decisions left him unbothered - was actually completely lost without him.

Pantalone slowly raised a finger and gently, almost apologetically, flicked the lizard’s tiny head.

"I only told you this, okay? Don't share it with your friends" he murmured with a faint, self-deprecating half-smile.

Then the Banker stood up from the chair and stepped toward the bed. With a single careless, weary motion, he unbuttoned a few more buttons on his silk shirt, leaving the upper curve of his chest completely bare. With incredible care, he lifted the little creature from his shoulder and - to the tiny lizard’s absolute astonishment - slipped Dottore underneath the fine, black fabric, right against his bare, scorching skin.

"The desert grows frigid at night; perhaps it’s best we keep you safe."

Dottore’s red eyes went wide in the darkness. The inside of the silk shirt pressed against his back, pinning him tightly against Pantalone’s chest, where the man’s heart beat fast and erratic. The scent of his skin, the blend of expensive perfume and alcohol, was near-suffocating to his sensitive olfactory organs, but the warmth... the warmth was perfect.

Pantalone lay down beneath the covers, placing his hand over his back through the shirt, as if drawing a living shield around him against the freezing air of the desert night.

He didn't understand. He had never seen Pantalone this... caring, never, with anyone. He had always been convinced that his colleague cared solely for money and power, for which he would ruthlessly destroy anyone and anything without a second thought. He had no idea that he was even capable of acting so gently toward a lowly creature like his current self.

Inside the dark silk prison, Dottore's muscles slowly relaxed completely, but his tiny heart beat so fiercely that he was on the verge of diagnosing himself with a heart attack. He listened to the Banker's breathing, submerged in the sultry heat beneath the shirt, and as his tail curled contentedly between Pantalone’s ribs, one last thought drifted through his mind:

‘Once we reach Snezhnaya, Feofan... it will be high time for a proper, honest talk.’

Notes:

Next Chapter Sneak Peek: “Zandik...? Haha, Zandik? ... Okay, I guess you really are a boy.” What...?! Blinking sleepily with lizard-heavy eyes, he looked up at the banker’s visibly amused face, only to be struck by the most embarrassing realization of his life.

Next chapter

Chapter one - Pet-thing

Well, Plan 'D' had failed as well.

He was starting to get used to it, but of course, he wouldn't be The Doctor if he just accepted it. This current situation, however, tested him a bit.

After the losses so far, there had at least been the advantage that he could return to his beloved lab as 6'2" of pure, concentrated cynicism to come up with another brilliant idea. But now, with the Irminsul project having failed miserably, he faced a bit of a problem: specifically, the fact that he was trapped in a body measuring a mere 8 inches.

Moving his four tiny legs nimbly, he tried to avoid being mistaken for prey by some starved predator, while also trying to talk himself out of the instinctual urge to sprawl out on a rock and sun his belly. How humiliating…

And so, flitting from shadow to shadow, balancing with his long tail, he focused on a single goal: he had to make it back to his Snezhnayan laboratory, where he had left his far more efficient human body.

But how?

He had only one sensible idea, provided he could reach his target fast enough: 

Pantalone.

True, things were complicated by the fact that his colleague wasn't famous for wasting too much of his time (which is money, after all) in one place; moreover, he currently believed him to be dead. What reason would he have to stay here, unless he had found some lucrative new investment in Sumeru? Not very likely.

For a few moments, he annoyed himself with the thought that perhaps it would have been wiser to let him in on this too, just in case…

Then he changed his mind again, just as he had before the two of them set out to execute the latest project. He couldn't risk involving anyone in his most high-flying experiments, after all!

Besides, it would have been heavily damaging to his image to share with another Harbinger - especially him! - that he would be sniffing around the enemy camp as a blue-horned lizard for a while. He would have thought him mad, at the very least. Meaning... significantly more so than in reality.

Aware of this, he was already bracing himself for the fact that his colleague was probably halfway to the palace, counting his beloved shares, meaning he would have to spend months hiding in shipping crates on ships to somehow make his way back north - which made it all the more surprising when, after heroically scaling a massive dune, the shadow of a Fatui tent with sky-high (compared to him) walls woven from luxurious purple fabric fell upon him.

Oh! Could he actually be lucky for once in his life?

Perhaps they had stumbled upon some crystal mine nearby, and the Regrator was currently working his men to the bone until they mined every last crumb for him, not giving a damn that most of his diplomatic subordinates had never held a pickaxe in their lives? It wouldn't surprise him, he chuckled to himself, shaking his head. In any case, it came at the perfect time for him.

Slipping under the bottom edge of the canvas, however, he was greeted by something far more surprising.

The interior was just as suffocatingly elegant as its owner, though not much of it could be seen - for alongside the aroma of expensive Fontaine cologne, the tobacco smoke was thick enough to cut with a knife.

He reeled off hundreds of curses, among which the epithet "fucking idiot" popped up more than once, along with thoughts like "I cut open hundreds of human lungs just so you could get a new one" and "can lizards actually die of smoke poisoning?" To an outside observer, of course, it would have looked like nothing more than a very angry-eyed reptile vigorously thumping the improvised bamboo floor with its hind leg.

And speaking of the owner: Pantalone was standing with his back to him, his heavy, silk-embroidered coat tossed over the back of a nearby chair this time. He looked unusually human without it. The ribbon holding his black hair back had loosened somewhat, and the fine silk shirt stretched remarkably tight across his shoulders as he poured himself a glass of firewater.

And even this.

What on earth was he doing? Hadn't he told him that if he couldn't brew his elixir, he'd only have himself to rely on?! And this moron, to celebrate, starts burning the candle at both ends!

He crept closer suspiciously to get a good look at him, just like during their routine check-ups, but this time, he noticed something unusual.

Were Pantalone's eyes... red from crying?

Nooo, let's stay grounded in reality. He had probably just been neglecting sleep again, as usual. Unless Teyvat's economy had collapsed in a single day - much like his own plans, ahem - he saw no reason for the Regrator to ever fall into such a mournful mood over anything.

… Wait. Could it be that…?

No, there was no way it was because of him.

Even the thought of it was ridiculous. Right?

They weren't that close. I mean, of course, he knew the man inside and out (haha, and how!), and knew full well what he was hiding under those unreasonable layers of clothing, but they weren't exactly... friends, were they?

Dottore froze at the edge of the carpet. For a moment, his brilliant mind completely locked up as his lizard eyes focused on the man before him. He had always known the Banker was a highly... aesthetic specimen, but from down here on the floor, at barely twenty centimeters tall, the long legs, the narrow hips, and the casual elegance with which Pantalone raised the glass to his lips offered a completely different perspective.

Suddenly he felt very hot, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the desert climate. Perhaps it was his current body temperature; it had to be that.

Alright, back to work, he thought, silencing the unwelcome thoughts about body parts racing through his pea-sized brain, and thoroughly assessed his options. He needed to find some kind of... box. Big enough for his air to last the next few days, important enough that they absolutely wouldn't leave it behind, but not conspicuous enough for them to look inside.

The chosen target was a dark-toned, silver-studded document box on the edge of the desk set up against the side of the tent.

Perfect.

If he managed to climb up the floor-length tablecloth, a sleek - okay, on a reptile scale, rather pathetic - leap from there would land him right behind it, where he could somehow open the lid unnoticed!

He was just about to dash forward and dig his tiny claws into the exorbitantly expensive fabric when the soft clink of the bottom of a glass broke the silence from across the room.

"What the hell," Pantalone muttered. His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual silky, mocking spark, and this unfamiliar tone completely rooted Dottore's four tiny legs to the spot for a moment.

He was just preparing to come up with some "how to look like an innocent desert pebble" self-preservation tactic when he heard a (not so soft, to him) swoosh, and the next moment, the toe of an immaculately polished black leather shoe blocked his path, barely a handspan away from his own nose.

Dottore slowly, very slowly, raised his head. He glanced up the trouser leg, past the hanging belt ornament densely adorned with gems, the half-tucked hem of the shirt, all the way up to the heights from which Pantalone looked down at him in all his glory.

The Banker's face was cast in intimidating shadow from above, candlelight glinting off his glasses, but the most unsettling detail was that in his right hand - where the rings now looked infuriatingly majestic, some as large as his current head - he held an ornate letter opener threateningly.

"If you touch me with that, I swear my soulless corpse will haunt you until the day you die," Dottore would have loved to hiss, but nothing more than a pathetic, silent "kkhhh-tsss" sound came from his throat as he shifted menacingly (or at least, he tried to look menacing) from one front foot to the other.

Pantalone didn't move. For long seconds, he just stared at the strange creature gesturing on the floor, but no emotion could be read from his face.

Dottore was already bracing for the worst - after all, to his knowledge, the Regrator wasn't famous for his love of animals - when the man's expression suddenly relaxed. As he watched him, the cold, murderous aura that had surrounded him until now simply evaporated, replaced by something entirely different.

The Banker placed the knife on the desk, then slowly lowered himself onto one knee, sparing his expensive trousers no mercy from the dusty floor as he leaned closer to him. Close enough for Dottore to catch the scent of firewater and musky, expensive perfume.

From this vantage point, no doubt remained. Pantalone's eyes really were red, with dark, deep circles sitting beneath them.

"How on earth did you get in here?" the Regrator whispered, a tone so soft, almost painful, appearing in his voice that Dottore had never heard from him before, not in a single diplomatic negotiation, nor during their private arguments. "Blue scales and angry, red eyes. Aren't you... a desert newt?"

In that holy moment, a blood vessel literally popped in Dottore's tiny lizard head.

"A… NEWT?!" he would have gladly screamed if he actually had working vocal cords. “You functionally illiterate, walking coin purse! How the hell do you manage the entire economy of Snezhnaya, if you can't distinguish a miserable reptile from a slimy piece of swamp carrion?!" 

Pantalone, however, merely extended his hand slowly, and his long, delicate fingers - which Dottore, out of some strangely questionable impulse, had observed so many times as they elegantly signed another contract or stroked the rim of his glass like a terribly aristocratic snob - hovered above the lizard's head.

"Perhaps I've gone completely mad, seeing him even in you. Yes, madness..." the man said abstractedly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a bitter half-smile for a moment. “He possessed the very same, insufferably insolent gaze.” 

What the hell is he talking about?!

Ah, yes. Looking at the half-emptied bottle of firewater, he understood everything now.

"How about you stay with me?"

Finally a great idea. All the way to Snezhnaya, for that matter, he thought, and leisurely climbed into the offered palm.

It was an unusual feeling, placing his life into someone else's hands, though indirectly, this wasn't their first time. Perhaps, for once, he would be lucky with this arrangement, and at least he wouldn't have to camp out in a box without food or water for the foreseeable future.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to give you a name."

He hoped he hadn't rolled his eyes too conspicuously. 'Go on, impress me, you old fool,' he sighed to himself. But if it turned out to be some sappy nonsense, he swore he would…

"… Zandik."

…

What.

The.

Hell.

It must have been a ridiculous sight, both of his button eyes bulging out at the same time. Pantalone, laughing bittersweetsly, patted the sharp blue spike on top of his head as if thoroughly enjoying his reaction, then slowly carried him over to the king-sized bed on the side, gently placing him on one of the cool, embarrassingly soft pillows. Propping himself up on one arm, he lay down on his side next to him, staring at him with a small smile.

"What do you think? You even look a bit like him."

Then, as if suddenly learning that his main vault at the Northland Bank had been robbed, he turned onto his back, buried his face in his leather-gloved hands, and though he gave no other sign of a breakdown, his shoulders shook imperceptibly.

Dottore's tiny lizard heart gave such a thud that it nearly leapt from behind his fragile ribs.

This idiot... is actually mourning him?!

This journey promised to be much, hmm, longer and more interesting than he had thought.

Behind the mask of indifference, his own childhood self, with his mouth slightly bitten in, tried to wipe the pleased expression off his face and focus on the meticulously laid out rows of numbers and the (horribly inaccurate) lifelike coloring of the ruin guard drawn beside them on the blueprint spread out before him. Despite all his efforts, he was completely transparent.

He had hoped that his old, abysmal acting skills had improved enough over ten years of experience that it would no longer be obvious to anyone when something was giving him trouble, but it seemed he would have to be disappointed in himself. The girl, in some bizarre way, read his movements like an open book, and that frustrated him beyond words.

“I don’t need anything,” 18 declared with a confident smile, clasping his hands loosely behind his back.

His expression darkened slightly as he watched the girl's pale fingers tirelessly working their way through the ice-blue strands, twisting tiny curls into the ends of the upper locks. All the while, she sat behind the kid with such effortless ease that she might as well have been his older sister - or his mother.

Did she really like his hair that much?

He had never seen her touch any of the older segments so shamelessly. Or was it simply 8’s natural childish charm that fascinated her?

Not that he considered himself a particularly adorable child. As far as he could remember, back in the village where he had lived with his ‘parents’, the locals usually referred to him as a monster-bred rat. Naturally, primitive people found it far easier - and far more entertaining - to label something demonic than to accept a much duller scientific explanation like pigment deficiency, a condition that had continued to make his life miserable in more ways than one ever since. His steadily worsening eyesight, for example.

He let out an irritated grunt.

“At least not for something with an easy solution.”

“Getting a pair of glasses doesn't seem all that unattainable,” Columbina mused thoughtfully. “The Rooster mentioned recently that there's even a budget for things like that if any of us or our subordinates ever need it.”

18 nearly laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion.

Though he had never personally met Pulcinella, 25, 35, and 45 had all described the mayor as an unpleasant man who constantly hovered around them, sniffing for trouble and treating them with suspicion. Not to mention that Prime would sooner have cut out his own tongue than ask a favor on behalf of any younger segment. Naturally, he would never have wasted his own time on something like that either.

“I'd rather avoid it for as long as possible. I'd look like some pedantic old schoolteacher, like 25,” 18 replied. Since he had already been caught anyway, he resigned himself and took another casual step toward the board. Affecting indifference, he tried once more to focus on the middle row of numbers. Unsuccessfully.

In the end, he pressed his lips together in irritation and took a deep breath.

“Besides, my eyesight isn't that bad.”

“Yet,” 8 inserted quietly without looking up from his collection of sixteen different shades of brown pencils.

18's jaw tightened, and his crimson eyes narrowed dangerously as he looked toward his miniature self sitting in the center of the room.

“How about you stay quiet and keep drawing that monstrosity instead? From what I can see, you can't even solve a simple equation.”

By now, however, the child had grown increasingly accustomed to his older counterpart's constant needling and did not bother responding beyond a comically dismissive glance.

Instead, as though struck by sudden inspiration, he leaned ever so slightly into Columbina's touch, a tiny smile appearing on his face - barely noticeable.

Something tightened sharply in 18's stomach, but he brushed the feeling aside almost immediately.

Why should he care?

Right. It was probably just strange seeing himself in a situation like this.

He couldn't remember anyone ever holding him in their arms, not even his own mother.

And after... after that night, he had stopped tolerating anyone coming anywhere near him at all. Even though he was only a segment and had not personally experienced the exile the way the original Zandik had, the imprint of that memory remained so vivid within him that he had never again been capable of trusting anyone. Every attempt at closeness was met with immediate suspicion.

More often than not, he was right. People usually approached him only when they wanted something from him - or more specifically, from his abilities.

8, on the other hand, had lowered almost all of his defenses around the girl. He shifted slightly so Columbina could follow the calculations that seemed unbearably childish in 18's eyes while enthusiastically explaining his grand ambitions.

One day, he insisted, he would build a mechanical monster larger than anything Sumeru had ever seen - powerful enough to rival the gods themselves.

Taking Columbina's gentle laughter as encouragement, he continued offering increasingly ridiculous ideas.

...

Had he really been that desperate as a child?

Desperate for someone who didn't think he was insane - or worse, a monster?

Someone who would encourage even his most absurd ambitions instead of calling him an abyss brat for having them?

How pathetic.

And yet, as he watched the two of them together, a faint bitterness lingered in his mouth.

Then the kid suddenly stretched his ridiculously short arm toward the formulas on the board, squinting one eye shut as he compared the proportions between his fingers and the tangled diagrams before adding another few lines to the end of his notes.

He tapped his pen thoughtfully against the paper when he realized he had probably made a mistake somewhere, but remained determined to solve it on his own.

“It's not that bad for me yet,” he finally said with a shrug. “Only really distant things are blurry, and bright light can hurt sometimes. But apparently by the time we're thirty, we can barely see anything beyond arm's reach without glasses.”

18 nearly choked.

Was the naive little idiot seriously saying that out loud?!

This was exactly the sort of weakness they absolutely did not need to share with anyone!

“We developed the mask because we always hated it, and it wasn’t practical to keep wiping it away while researching,” 8 continued, as if he were giving yet another little lecture on the workings of gears. “It’s much more aesthetic, it doesn’t fog up, we can see in the dark with it, and we were able to build in countless other useful functions as well.”

“Oh! That explains a lot,” Columbina nodded thoughtfully.

“Wonderful!” 18 hissed sweetly. “Do you want to leak any more internal information?!”

“I wanted to make one too, a really cool one,” the child turned back to Columbina, though he seemed to regret it almost immediately, because the stroking hand withdrew again. “... but they all said I should enjoy ‘seeing’ without it while I still can.”

The girl propped her chin in her hand as if she were thinking, and some memory of her own must have come to mind, because the curve of her mouth then dipped slightly downward.

“Hmm,” she murmured, and this time her voice rang even eerily than usual between the room’s cold walls. “This false world bathed in white light may still show you real colors. Keep looking with your own eyes while you can still find wonder in it, because once you awaken to reality, you may choose the darkness yourself.”

18 froze for a moment.

... What the hell?

He knew full well that the world wasn’t a children’s story - oh, did he ever know that! But next to Columbina, he sometimes honestly seemed optimistic.

“Only the weak think that way,” he declared, raising an eyebrow. “If the world is a lie and a defective thing, then the answer isn’t to close our eyes, but to take it apart down to the last speck of dust and rewrite its rules! If you don’t like this world, then create another one, one worth seeing!”

He had hoped to crush some of her constant composure and finally draw out a stronger reaction, but the girl apparently did not take it to heart. In fact. To Zandik’s astonishment, the corner of her mouth curved for the first time into a very faint, almost challenging smile.

“Rewriting the rules... It’s rare to find a mind that doesn’t fear challenging its creators,” she said with a strangely liberated air, with an edge to her voice that he would have sworn was a hint at something.

She knew something. Something decisive, something she had so far hidden behind the mask of ignorance.

The matter only became more certain as Columbina’s hand slipped over little 8’s shoulder, her fingers trailing across the paper already densely covered in writing, and as a result, at the end of the unfinished formula written so far, the solution appeared in tiny, elegant letters. The child, still in her arms, stared with wide-eyed, enchanted fascination as his theories finally made sense.

“Build that world,” Columbina said melodiously, almost humming, turning her head straight toward 18. “And I promise, I’ll be the first to take off my blindfold to see it.”

Thoughts swirled in Zandik’s head as he tried to sort what he was seeing into his usual safe little box. He was already used to everyone simply being... dumber than him, and to seeing through everyone’s pathetic little disguises at once. He knew them, their desires, their weak points, he knew exactly what to say to achieve his goals with them. He was proud of his abilities, with which the whole world - and everyone in it - had gradually become his playground, where he could freely amuse himself with those more stupid than he was.

And then there was Columbina... She didn’t seem brilliant, or even educated on an academic level, and by his experience she mostly couldn’t have cared less about most of the sciences unless it involved meddling in one of the older segments’ current experiments.

Her book knowledge probably even fell below 8’s, and honestly, he didn’t think she was particularly strong either (how the hell had she nearly beaten the Prime in the trial?! That question bothered all of them) - instead she kept speaking about strange things that could be interpreted in too many ways to seem unsettling, and on top of that she read their best disguises with such eerie accuracy that sometimes he himself felt like prey on his own turf.

How the hell had she managed to get the most distrustful Prime among them to take her under his wing, then bring her down here among them, and convince Original and 65 as well that she could spend her time here day after day, handing her an open attack surface against them?!

Was he going to lose his mind completely when he got older? 

At this point he considered himself the last one the little dove hadn’t managed to wrap around her pale, fragile fingers with some feigned concern. Speaking of feigning...

“If we’re already talking about the importance of sight with someone who clearly rejects it,” he ground out through his teeth, eyeing the girl suspiciously, “how exactly do you see with that?! It’s obvious you somehow manage just fine with your eyes closed. Is that some kind of goddess ability?”

Silence. 8 was probably curious about the answer too, because he turned back questioningly to his adopted sister.

Judging by her unchanging face, he was almost certain the girl wouldn’t answer, but then space and time changed around him like a lightning strike. Columbina had been sitting relaxed behind 8, wrapped in her thick Fatui cloak, and the next moment she was simply standing directly in front of him, as suddenly and silently as a gliding white shadow.

“WHAT THE... ?!” 18 jerked backward. His heartbeat skipped for a moment, and his hand instinctively slipped into his pocket to the hilt of the scalpel he always kept on him. Every cell in his body tightened, ready to dodge the attack if necessary - which, however, did not come. The girl was standing in front of him, scarcely half a step away, and in the middle of the blurred everything the fragile lines of her beautifully curved face and mouth stood out sharply. He couldn’t help it, but he had to swallow.

“I’ll show you,” Columbina said softly. After her earlier sudden pace, she moved carefully, as if she knew exactly how close she was to snapping his nerves and making him counterattack if she crossed his boundaries any further.

Right now, the control was in her hands.

The third Harbinger... perhaps the Prime could have handled her, but he, without experience and the proper tools...! He felt irritatingly cornered, and his thoughts spun wildly, searching for some kind of way out.

Danger.

Closeness was dangerous.

People had always only come near him when they had the upper hand and judged him weaker than themselves. In other cases, they feared him more - like his Akademiya peers - and preferred to keep a proper distance.

Should he have attacked before she did? He could have taken back control, and his safe personal space - and yet... was he curious? He wanted to see what the girl was planning. To watch for her weak points, maybe to be the first to figure out her little tricks...

Columbina slowly, almost provocatively, held out her hand, which practically stretched his nerves to the breaking point.

Should he push her away? At the very least he was taller than her, and although he didn’t prefer physical combat, perhaps in this one thing he could have gained the upper hand. Not that he could really compete with a divine being at the moment, but he could have shown that...

Then the girl rose onto her tiptoes. Her delicate, cool fingertips reached the longer unruly strands curling at his temple, and carefully smoothed them behind his ear, quite literally knocking the air out of his lungs.

Columbina... began to caress his hair, with such self-assured, deeply rooted tenderness, as if she had guessed one of his darkest, most carefully guarded secrets: that this self-contained, wild adolescent, despite all his proud distance and arrogance, had been desperately longing to experience this touch - this attention that he had never once received from anyone in his entire life, not even from his own ‘family’.

He had no idea how he was supposed to react to this. Did he even have to? Was it natural for another person to touch you, not by accident but on purpose, and in such... an expressive way? Perhaps for others it was, but for him...

He felt as if his blood were racing madly through his veins, and he would have gladly destroyed himself from this humiliation.

Why couldn’t he control it? Why wasn’t there some sensible equation that could explain why he weakened so much from this stupidity?!

In the end he concluded there could be no other explanation than that the girl had used some kind of otherworldly power against him.

“Absolutely believable,” he clicked his tongue in mockery, though his voice broke a little at the end. He tried with all his might to ignore that unusually warm, tightening feeling in his chest that was spreading through him from the touch, and although he controlled himself fairly well, when the girl’s fingers continued to wander over the sensitive surface of his ear, something horribly embarrassing was about to tear out of his throat, which he managed to suppress only at the very last moment.

A chill ran down his spine, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He roughly seized Columbina’s fragile wrist.

The girl didn’t object, and didn’t even pull her hand away, as if... naively trusting that he wouldn’t break her bones. And how close he had come to doing exactly that! He would have done it with anyone else. Why not with her? Perhaps this too was part of the girl’s power, completely bewitching him so that he would be unable to fight against it?

For the first time in his life, his body reacted in a strange way: he was seized at once by cold and then flooded with some pleasant tingling starting from his face, which kept spreading through his entire body, concentrating in his stomach. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant - in fact, there was something downright addictive in it - and that was exactly what irritated him most.

“What exactly are you doing?” he demanded in disbelief, breathing hard. “That... is not an answer to my question!”

The girl giggled, and extended her other hand too, framing his flushed face. And tearing down 18’s last remaining walls that still stood within the bounds of reason.

“Even if I don’t see the world, I always see you, Zandik,” she said... kindly?

But this time there was a kind of seriousness in her voice, as if there were no teasing in it at all, only the purest truth - even if it was too absurd for him to ever believe. And the name... his real name, the one he had only ever heard her use for Original and 8 until now... The boy’s breath caught for a moment too.

“No divine power is needed for that.”

System error...

18’s mind went completely dark in a single heartbeat. The words struck exactly where, for ten years, he had tried to bury them under cold equations and cynicism. In his head, the most defining, darkest experiences of his life chased one another: rejection, loneliness; the fact that in everyone’s eyes his existence had only ever been a mistake. A mistake just because he was different from others. Because he was more than others! Because he dared to question things no one else did. 

Because he saw beyond what his own defective eyes showed him...

Maybe, just maybe - he began to understand what the Prime had seen in him. And 65. And the original.

The strange feeling Columbina radiated brutally shattered all his defenses, and instead of, as always, driving him to attack, for the first time in his life it quietly made him believe that someone did not see in him a deformed anomaly, but him himself.

This revelation triggered some kind of elemental, wild, biological explosion in both his body and his soul. In the blink of an eye paranoia was replaced by a heavy, throbbing excitement, a heat that clenched his entire being.

Columbina was too close. The soft palms on his face, the scent of frozen flowers and fruit, the full lines of her slightly parted lips that he simply couldn’t take his eyes off... suddenly all of it was no longer just a phenomenon to analyze, but a tangible, flesh-and-blood woman who was taking control away from him.

And Zandik hated it when control was taken away from him.

The rage born from helplessness turned in a single suffocating instant into a dangerous, possessive hunger. His breathing turned ragged, uneven. 18 slowly, almost in a trance, took his hand out of his pocket, but his fingers had already released the scalpel’s reassuring, cool handle. Trembling with tension, yet unstoppable, they moved toward Columbina to pull her closer, press her against his own burning body, and in his raw, twisted way even take by force the care he had tasted from her against his will.

In the end, though, some inexplicable voice in his own head stopped him. Maybe 8’s presence? No, in truth he could not care less what his younger childhood self thought of who he had become. Let him do better if he wanted to!

As for Columbina... he himself did not understand why, but for the first time he was desperate at the thought that the girl might come to hate him if he treated her this way.

With the last scraps of his self-control, he shoved the girl’s touch off himself, just enough to step away from her and disappear from the situation as quickly as possible.

He still heard 8 asking Columbina some question, but he was no longer able to make out the words. He had to go, farther from here, as far away from Her as possible...

The metal floor echoed beneath his feet, and the sterile, ice-cold darkness of the corridor settled over his shoulders almost at once. He was practically running, ignoring the fact that any of the older segments might see him in such an utterly pathetic state.

When he finally reached the door to his room, he could not take it anymore. At the next step he turned toward the thick steel wall and, with all his strength, without thinking, slammed his fist into it.

He had never liked physical violence. He believed that the sharpest weapon a person possessed was the mind, and that the physical body served only learning, but now his reason had betrayed him, and he was incapable of thinking.

The heavy plates swallowed the blow with a dull thud. 18 pressed himself against the wall, the skin on the back of his right hand splitting open at once, and the sight of the warm blood welling from his knuckles finally cleared the impenetrable fog from his mind like an ice-cold shower. He pressed his forehead to the frozen wall, gripping his wounds, while a helpless, sharp breath hissed through his teeth in fury.

Physical pain was good. Pain was logical, anatomically measurable, and reliable: an unambiguous reaction he understood, and one he could control. He had needed that sharp stab of it to drown out the memory of the far too warm touch burned into his skin, the memory that still set his nerves alight.

Thinking about it more carefully, he was not angry at Columbina. Far more than that, he was angry at himself - that the childish, stupid girl’s obvious teasing had reduced him, in a single minute, from the living statue of self-control he was supposed to be into the level of a pathetic creature ruled by instinct.

Slowly, as his panting eased and his pulse began to return to normal, he carelessly leaned his back against the wall and slid down it until he reached the cold floor. Resting his bleeding hand on his knee, he stared into the dark while the throbbing of his wounds gave rhythm to his thoughts.

The initial shock gradually ebbed as the stupid hormones racing through the adolescent body calmed somewhat, but in the deathly silence the girl’s gentle voice rose again in his head:

“Even if I don’t see the world, I always see you, Zandik...”

18 stared ahead with wide eyes in the darkness of the corridor, and a very faint, hoarse sound escaped his throat. A muffled, broken laugh.

At first it was only a disbelieving, dry snort, which gradually deepened into a pulsing, manic chuckle. He lifted his bleeding hand, pressed his fingers to his face, and the involuntary, stifled laughter that broke out shook his shoulders.

He had to laugh, because the situation was at once infinitely absurd and deathly frightening. He, who wanted to subjugate the whole world with his intellect, who trusted no one and despised everyone, had now found something that, without a weapon and with a single sentence, was capable of bringing his defenses to their knees.

The anomaly called Columbina had not only shattered his disguise. With her eyes closed, she had looked easily into the deepest, darkest secrets of his soul, and instead of being frightened, she had stroked the monster living inside him.

~☆~○~☆~○~☆~○~☆~

The memory blurred - the corridor, and 18’s figure as well.

Flickering images flashed through his mind, different segments, different times - and yet the common point somehow always remained the same: Columbina...

For the first time since the fusion, these images had broken loose in him now, as if the segments wanted to express their anger at him for having taken her from them.

He possessed their experiences, their consciousness, and over the recent period he had perfected his ability to absorb and use for himself the whole mass left behind after their existence. These memories were the only ones he had never been able to access - until now - as if with their last strength they had deliberately tried to keep them for themselves as punishment. They were amusing themselves by showing him, in the end, at the threshold of final death, once more what the one thing was in which he himself had never taken part.

Columbina had never touched him.

Her care, her tenderness and... perhaps her affection, she had given to each of them, and in the end they had shamelessly rubbed it in his face.

That is so like him, he observed flatly. He would have done the same himself, if he had only been one among many whom a stronger segment had finally erased from existence.

Or something like that.

Since the petty contract with the Dendro Archon left a little room for creativity in several places, he naturally took advantage of the situation so that the valuable resources Zandik had once invested in this project would not simply go to waste.

Of course he knew he would pay a heavy price for it, but life had never handled him with kid gloves. One could say he had grown used to violently forcing his own limits apart.

He would not have had a problem with that, but now he felt unusually weak. There was no physical pain he could not handle; more than once he had operated on himself without any pain relief, and in the end it often came to the point that he no longer even felt it when he cut himself, and he had become immune to most of Teyvat’s poisons as well.

But these... ‘feelings’? He did not know what to do with those. They had completely stunned him, and he stood before them like his own eight-year-old self before 65’s epistemological explanations.

Back then they had had plenty of fun at the child’s expense, as he stubbornly tried to act as if he understood anything; now, however, this was not funny at all.

Over the centuries he had dealt with so many things, and thanks to the segments, Il Dottore had lived through the lives of a dozen men, making countless scientific discoveries humanity could never even have dreamed of. He had traveled throughout all of Teyvat, even to parts no one had set foot in for half a millennium. He had experienced a thousand things.

And in the end, to be defeated by his own affective fluctuations? Ridiculous.

Surely 8 would be laughing at him now, as he raged over the fact that some Moon Goddess had never once addressed him by his own name, among all the segments, outside of that icy “Doctor.”

What the hell was wrong with her, exactly?

He treated her like a little sister, just as all the others did. He protected her from the other Harbingers as well and gave her everything - even things she herself had never known she wanted. 

He let her into his darkest secret as well, into his living space, among the segments. He gave her a family, adapted the environment to her: he brought sweets into the lab just because of her, even though he had never cared for such things, but the girl’s face always lit up when she found something on one of the tables.

In the past he had never eaten publicly in the Fatui dining hall either; he only changed that habit for her, after he knew full well that if he did not stay there with her, she would spend the whole time huddled in one corner over her empty piece of bread, beating herself up for not daring to open up to their colleagues. He even made sure some more valuable ingredients ended up on her plate besides the pastries - he, who had never cared about anyone but himself and his goals!

And then he manipulated the Fatui meetings until the other female members accepted her among them, just to keep her somewhat away from him. Naturally, they were unsuccessful, but his plan worked. She gained “friends,” she could feel like she belonged, while all the while he stayed by her side and supported her, even though nothing could have been further from his personality than caring for someone who seemingly brought him no advantage. What more did she expect from him?!

He was sure none of the other segments were as attached to her as he was - not even the original Zandik!

And yet, on that day, when he returned from Sumeru with the gnoses, he was the one who finally received that look from her, the one he had not been able to forget ever since.

They met halfway up the steep staircase leading to his laboratory beneath the palace.

Granted, he was not in particularly good shape, and until that point he had had to keep up the mask of perfection, because after all, he could not very well appear before Her Majesty and his opponents waiting for his downfall looking like he was falling apart!

Thus preserving his dignity, he moved forward with stiff but self-assured steps, all the while longing only for the solitude of his lab - and to be able to scream out the tension if necessary, without anyone seeing him as some whining, weak mongrel.

In his head, millions of new memories were chasing one another, which he had to merge with his own consciousness. It was nowhere near as simple as it would have sounded from the outside, or as he himself had expected.

Never mind, he thought, he would deal with it - but then the girl unexpectedly stepped into his field of vision.

Something... was not right with her. She was not wearing her Fatui cloak, which he had never seen her without in Snezhnaya before. She was paler (if that was even possible) than ever, and instead of her usual cheerful, skipping glide, she was climbing upward with tiny, trembling steps. She stopped right beside him and did not even deem him worthy of a glance.

“What did you do?”

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it among the raging noise in his head.

It took him a few moments to realize what she was referring to. Ah, she had certainly discovered that the little beehive where she had idled away her days until now was gone. 

He had no desire to explain himself to anyone; he owed no one an accounting, and besides, the buzzing in his head was already irritating enough that he had no strength left for their usual playful cat-and-mouse game, with which they normally teased each other.

“I fulfilled Her Majesty’s wish,” he stated simply. “And I exercised control over my own life. May I not do that?”

He was terribly close to completely losing control, and the girl had no idea how hard he was trying to avoid that, for her sake alone.

She had no idea when, in a strained voice, she threw at him: “You were… one of them. They were... your family.”

Family... The word burned, filling him with anger and contempt.

“Family?!” Without thinking through what he was about to do, he slammed her against the wall and loomed over her, one arm braced against the stone above her shoulder. “We were the imprints of a dead man, created with the sole purpose of having the Original defeat through us the one thing he had no time left for: time itself! He did not need a family, nor multiple segments, only a single one who would eventually become Zandik in his place and carry out what he himself could no longer do!”

The fear that came over Columbina’s face sliced into his chest like a sharp blade, and awakened in him some inexplicable disgust toward himself.

The girl’s lips were trembling, and perhaps only some kind of shock could have kept her from crying. Was she really that terrified?

And then she said the sentence that surpassed every insult anyone had ever thrown at his head - his parents, his classmates, his professors, the Fatui...

“You are not Zandik.”

Those few words painted his vision red and flooded him with uncontrollable madness.

“Oh, but I am Zandik!” he hissed, gripping the girl’s throat forcefully. His lips twisted into a mocking smile. “No matter how much you dislike that fact, I am the only one now, so get used to it.”

The look she gave him - that endless disappointment - burned itself into his memory for life. He let go almost at once, and although a thousand thoughts ran through his mind, in which perhaps for the first time in his life he wanted to apologize, he was incapable of saying anything else. He simply spun on his heel and stormed off toward his laboratory, leaving the girl trembling by the wall, clutching her throat and trying to draw breath again.

He did not care. He raged, trying to convince himself that he did not care, while the voices in his head chanted gleefully: “See? You lost her. She never wanted you, just like no one else ever did. You are rotten. Guilty. She hates you. She never really liked you.”

He began to go berserk in a way no one had ever seen before. With his increased strength, far more efficiently than the equipment could handle. For a moment he did not care about the experiments, his research, or how many million mora he would have to ask Pantalone for this time so he could make this dump somewhat livable again.

They had always considered him mad, and now they were damn well right.

Walking through the rooms of his laboratory, he found five blue-glowing flowers, exactly like the one that had once been on the Original’s shrouded corpse: on the armrest of 65’s favorite armchair, on 35’s notes, beside 25’s test tubes, on top of 18’s books, and in 8’s bed, in the hand of the crooked little stuffed toy sewn full of sutures.

He knew perfectly well who had left them there, and for what purpose - which was the final knife thrust into his cracked, dead heart.

Why? Why had she loved them all this time, all of them, and why had she hated him so much?!

He was Zandik too! Now he was the only one, the real one! No, he had always been the real one, even more perfect than the Original, made not by some mere humans, but by pure knowledge itself!

He dropped to his knees beside the child’s bed, trying with trembling breaths to regain control over himself.

It did not matter. He had always known that in the end he would be alone; there had never been room for anyone else in the mission he had set for himself.

He thought that after this, at least, there would be no one left to stop him when he went to Nod Krai and became a god - using Columbina’s long-hidden, treasured power.

But then the image went dark, and he began to fall.

~☆~○~☆~○~☆~○~☆~

Everything was hellishly hot; his fevered body longed for something cool, something soothing. It had been a long time since he had last felt ill, but now his limbs had grown so weak that he could only writhe in place, lying on his stomach on some hard surface.

With tremendous effort he managed to open his eyes, but almost immediately regretted it: a sharp, blinding sunlight shone down on him, burning his retinas so fiercely that tears nearly spilled from his eyes, yet he did not even have enough strength to lift a hand and cover his face.

The mask... that cursed mask was not on him, he noted irritably, which also meant that from his entire surroundings he could only make out blurred patches. He seemed to be in some densely furnished smaller room on the surface, in the middle of which he was lying on an old rug that smelled of machine grease, tightly wrapped in gauze, leaving him barely able to breathe.

He could not quite figure out where he was, or how he had gotten here, and then, as he tried to recall his last real memories, the image of the laboratory on Paha Isle came back to him somewhat dimly, along with that of a certain Moon Goddess, whom he had heard shouting for the first time in his life.

Perhaps it had only been a fever dream, he concluded. Somewhere deep in his consciousness, a desperate voice surfaced, calling him by his real name, but that only made him even more certain that he had probably hallucinated the whole thing on the threshold of death.

That, however, did not help with the question of where the hell he actually was.

If anyone else had found him, at best he would have woken up in some damp cell. Had Pantalone come for him? No, that seemed far too simple for a place his colleague - friend? - let’s stick with colleague; he would not have set foot in it.

Then he felt something strange: a cool, white, light-like blur began nudging him toward a raised surface within arm’s reach - a bed, perhaps?

Had he had a seizure and fallen off it?

The white figure, though seemingly much smaller than him, finally managed to turn him onto his back, but then it hovered back and forth with distinct disappointment, unable to move him enough to put him back on the bed.

“Just cover the light instead,” he muttered irritably to the unknown entity, which, after a few more eager circles, stopped between the window and his face and tried to block the incoming sunlight with its own translucent body. With rather less success than more.

One of his legs, which someone had fastened with a crude, simple splint, ached fiercely l, which was a particularly rare occurrence in his case. He had not felt anything like it in a long time, though now perhaps he could at least be glad that it proved he was still alive. Even if he was lying in a completely unfamiliar place, utterly helpless, while some ghostly, dim-witted creature tried to help him.

How comical...

Maybe he really had died, and all of this was only in his imagination? If one considered it that way, there was no blazing Abyss waiting for people like him, as the rumors claimed. Not such a bad option, is it?

If only he did not feel so weak... that was the only thing that irritated him, and damnably so.

At the sound of the door opening, he flinched, and tried to make the largest movement he could manage: he turned his head toward the sound, only for a larger, moonlit-colored blur to enter his field of vision, which, after a few seconds of stunned stillness, dropped a heap of something onto the floor, then hurried to his side and wrapped its arms around his chest from below.

“Luonnotar, help with his legs! Let’s lift him...”

That voice...

The ghostly little creature floated forward, and Dottore experienced the most bizarre moment of his life as the two of them, stumbling and with great effort, finally managed to help him up into the much more comfortable, soft bed.

He was just about to make some acid remark to hide the embarrassment caused by his helplessness, and to force out a little information about his current situation, but then…

He was struck like a bucket of ice water when, scarcely a handspan from his face, Columbina’s graceful, beautifully curved, rosy face came into view.

But that was not the most shocking part: the girl was not wearing her blindfold, and her eyes... were open, while she stared at him with curious fascination.

Chapter One

8: "Why don't we have a wife?"

Zandik: "..."

35: "A what?! Hahahaha!"

18: "What is this nonsense again? As if we need anyone else besides ourselves."

35: "Pfft, I suspect the question has something to do with him spending hours this morning explaining his little plans to Columbina, and her pretending to care."

8: "She said my ideas are amazing and that she'd gladly help convince Pantalone to fund them! There's no way she was just 'pretending'!"

35: "I can almost see the old bourgeois's face when we ask for money for Aranara traps at the next management meeting with our little dove by our side... Pffhah! That's brilliant!"

18: "After all, our serious arguments for funding 'Sumeru research' keep getting rejected. We might actually come out ahead on this; the end result is the same."

35: "I beg of you, record it when you present this as a new project! Hahaha!"

45 (Prime): "Extremely amusing... let me make sure to enjoy the joke, considering this task would fall on me, as usual."

35: "Since you are our official face, undoubtedly."

45: "By the way, you could just take over for me. After all, no one could tell us apart if you were capable of forcing some seriousness upon yourself."

35: "Yet someone could. The other day, before I even spoke a word, she asked if you weren't here. Only then did she come in."

18: "Strange, she asked me the exact same thing."

65: "Likewise. I thought it was just some misunderstanding, but it seems there's more to it."

35: "Pfft, surprising, but it seems she likes all of us except you. Of course, I'm not surprised. I have no idea how I could become this insufferable in ten years."

45: "...If we are done amusing ourselves, let there be no doubt that the situation could become critical if we don't suppress it as soon as possible. It wasn't without reason that we insisted on letting no one close to us, yet here the kid can't even sleep without that hideous little toy he got from her!"

8: "How do you even know...?! Sutura is not hideous at all!"

18: "It has a name? How disgustingly childish..."

65: "It could indeed be risky. She is the first to get close to us, the first to know about us at all. Perhaps we went a bit too far when we allowed her to become such a part of our lives."

18: "Even our own parents wanted us dead; it's natural that this situation is new to us. Perhaps we are too lenient with her, but I find it unlikely she would betray us. She's like a sister to us."

65: "Hmm. It is unusual for someone not to think we're insane. In fact, she watches with interest every time, even when she almost cries from the sight, like during that transplant the other day. By the end, she learned to sew quite skillfully, singing to the patient the entire time. Is it possible she is the crazy one?"

35: "She keeps coming back over and over, no matter how far we push her away or how much of our work she sees. I wonder why? It would be an interesting experiment to look inside her head."

45: "Oh? Surely the Original could tell us the most about that. After all, he was the closest to her 'head' among us, wasn't he?"

8, 18, 35, 65: "He was WHAT...???!"

Zandik remained silent, lazily resting his chin in his right palm, showing a deep interest in the pile of reports scattered across his desk. His crimson eyes narrowed into slits.

He had never kept secrets from himself... until now. But now, a single tiny factor seemed to threaten the success of his entire life's work.

A woman creating tension among the segments? Could she even turn them against him?

And yet, instead of removing the woman from the equation...

He turned to the Omega segment, locking eyes with his 45-year-old self with a stern gaze. He completely ignored the provocation.

Zandik: "Our research efforts in Sumeru have encountered a few setbacks, and Gamma lacks sufficient experience. Take his place."

35: "Wait, you don't mean that from now on, at Fatui meetings, I have to…?!"

8: "WHAT WAS that thing with Columbina?!"

45: "Heh. So that's how we're playing? So be it. After all, the Original will always be more than all of us, right? Even when he breaks his own rules."

The Prime didn't even look back, leaving the lab with a mocking, all-knowing smirk on his lips.

Zandik knew well that forgiveness had never been one of his strong suits, especially in his forties. However, after the slam of the door, another much more pressing issue arose: five pairs of rather suspicious, glowing crimson eyes locked onto him in the darkness, demanding answers.

~☆~○~☆~○~☆~○~☆~

Columbina didn't even know why she had come here.

She had longed for her Moon for so long, and now that she finally had every opportunity never to return from there, she found herself once again beneath the night sky of Nod Krai, despite her hellish exhaustion.

She tried to believe she was only following an old, sad tradition; that this visit was just one final tribute to an old acquaintance; and she tried to ignore the suffocating sorrow that swept through her.

It is over.

He is no more.

Everyone else was celebrating, but for her, the sense of relief never came.

She walked along a sterile, abandoned steel corridor deep inside Paha Isle, the cool metal beneath her soles, chasing an old memory of someone who had vanished from this world long ago. In her hand was a single stem of a tiny moon-prayer blossom—its petals glowed ice-blue, the exact color that had been dearest to her heart since time immemorial.

She didn't fit here: the environment was too artificial, making her practically stand out in her moonlight-colored clothes, yet for some reason, she found this place comfortingly familiar. It reminded her of the old, secret laboratory beneath the Zapolyarny Palace, where she had spent so much time after joining the Fatui.

With the only human she truly believed understood her.

Even though a long time had passed since then, it still lived vividly in her memories. She had almost grown used to the clinking of glass and the metallic tang of blood; the cries of pain, the dying pleas, and the sounds of the death throes echoing between the gray walls. Though they had shaken her at first, she believed it was all necessary for those people to be healed in the end. Even today, she still wanted to believe, just a little, that it hadn't all merely served a mad mind's lust for power.

Yet after every horror, when she herself ultimately witnessed the Doctor's emotionless obsession with knowledge, her memories kept returning to a certain day, barely a few decades after she had joined.

It was late at night, the false moon hanging high in the sky, when she stepped into the now-familiar corridor. An unusual calm had settled over the place; this time there were no anguished wails or tortured pleas. The deathly silence was broken only by the strangely vivid, almost out-of-place sound of a piano.

The melody was chaotic - tense and unpredictable -, yet... so profoundly familiar that it coursed through every cell of her body. Behind her blindfold, with her eyes closed, Columbina could almost see the racing notes; the music pouring from the instrument crashed against the laboratory’s cold walls in heavy waves, filling the air with a kind of abstract life force.

At first, she assumed it was some new experiment - a thought that would hardly have surprised her after everything she had witnessed over the years. Yet somehow, the music felt utterly unlike the methods of her fellow Harbinger. And the song itself... she could not fathom how he had managed to recreate it when even she no longer remembered it clearly, and only ever found herself humming fragments of it when her thoughts began to wander.

Slowly, noiselessly, she glided closer and closer to a side door she had never had a reason to enter before. Now, however, following the melody, her slender fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and after a brief hesitation, she quietly stepped inside.

The small room that revealed itself was not significantly different from all the others down here: its walls were illuminated by the faint, luminescent blue light of experimental vats and tubes. On the lone small desk against the wall lay a chaotic pile of scattered old books and notes, alongside an overturned inkwell that had dried up long ago, as if someone had recently taken out their helpless rage upon them. Other than that, a single piece of furniture stood in the center of the space: a richly decorated, grand piano that must have been modified with some Snezhnayan technology so that the keys glowed a vibrant blue with every stroke.

The eerie glow released by this framed Zandik's figure with an ethereal aura.

The older man sat at the piano, shirt sleeves rolled up, his long, slender fingers racing across the keys at an almost frantic pace. He wasn't wearing his mask like his younger segments, and though his shoulders noticeably tensed at the girl's approach, he did not stop playing.

Columbina stepped up to the instrument and quietly sat beside him on the wide piano bench. She could feel the tense vibration radiating from Dottore's body, though she was certain no one else would notice it. She had lingered by his side for too long - just as she had with all his other selves; she could read his movements perfectly, despite the flawless, emotionless mask hidden behind his smile, knowing exactly when he was annoyed, disappointed, angry, or in good spirits.

She didn't even know how long she had been studying her colleague's face - back then, in her mind, she might have even dared to use the word "friend." 

The once taut, beautifully curved features deepened year by year, tracing a life path that she didn't know much about, but was certain hadn't been easy at all. She admired these changes, especially since she herself remained exactly the same throughout: an almost childishly young girl, untouched and pure like the freshly fallen snow on the streets of Snezhnaya, no matter how many centuries drifted past her.

Dottore, however... was completely different from when she first met him at the meeting where Pierro announced him as the Fatui's newest Harbinger. Even though she knew the reason, she found it difficult to identify the two as one.

Back then, unlike the others, the Doctor was the only one who didn't just measure her with a cold gaze, but almost immediately, theatrically flouting all court protocol, stepped up to her and authoritatively claimed her for himself. With a half-smile on his face, he trespassed into her carefully guarded personal space without asking, engaging her in conversation despite the fact that she didn't really know how to answer his questions, which seemed nonsensical at first.

A somewhat comical dynamic of communication developed between them: she would just listen, trying to learn every strange, unfamiliar expression, while he remained completely indifferent to how much she understood of his words—of which there was always plenty. His uninhibited, intellectual arrogance might have mortally offended anyone else, which was why the other Harbingers always tried to keep their distance, but to Columbina, strangely enough, this unfiltered directness was the only genuine point in this new, unknown world.

Dottore wasn't afraid of her. He didn't blindly revere her for her divine nature, nor did he judge her. He was simply... curious about her. And to her, in that lonely moment, it meant unutterably much that someone didn't see her as a holy relic or a dangerous monster, but as a remarkable mystery waiting to be solved.

In place of the insolently young scientist from back then, a much more mature man sat now, and though they seemed like two separate people, she could see the similarities exactly. Zandik had always said that everything that characterized him as a youth had died out long ago, yet whenever she was with any of them, she felt warmth enveloping her heart. Especially... with the Original, in whom all his other personalities united, forming such an incredible blend that it restored her admiration for humanity.

Columbina stared dreamily at the grayish, ice-colored strands tied into a ponytail, falling in rebellious waves over the man's shoulders; at the pale blue, ruffled shirt which now lacked the usual white medical coat he typically used down here - instead, the fine, dark fabric stretched directly across the broad, striking curve of his back.

Beyond the eightieth year of his human life, his face had changed slightly: his cheekbones had become more pronounced, and the line of his jaw was slightly narrower, now faintly darkened by the shadow of silvery stubble. He was no longer a flawlessly ethereal beauty like Prime; time had left deep marks on him - but perhaps that was exactly why it was so hard for Columbina to look away before etching every tiny detail into her thoughts.

Fine lines were etched around the man's eyes from daily vigils, and deep furrows were left on his forehead from constant frowning... 

He still appeared much younger than ordinary people of his age, but he could not escape the fate of mortals, no matter how hard he tried to find the perfect antidote against it. They always avoided the topic between themselves, but she had a strong inkling that the Doctor didn't create younger segments of himself by accident, as if defying time had become his obsession.

To remain unchanged... was it truly that valuable?

Zandik was the only one she could have asked, but she herself felt that he wouldn't appreciate it if she brought it up. Yet... there was a certain beauty in aging and the transformation of the body, and she would have loved to trace these signs with her fingertips, just to understand.

Only the man's deep crimson gaze remained invariably intense, making the overall picture even more intimidating.

As his hands raced across the keys, pale skin marred by countless scars peeked out from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, bearing witness to how long it had been since he stepped outside the palace where sunlight could touch him; he hadn't been to the surface in a long time, and by now, all his external research and Harbinger duties were handled by his segments instead.

It was a strange feeling... something she hadn't believed she could experience as a non-human being. She wouldn't have sworn to it, but remembering Rosalyne's words about love, somehow all signs pointed to the fact that she, too, was finally experiencing something similar.

Watching those long, slender fingers, she felt unusually weak.

They handled the instrument with such confidence, yet so gently... She had no idea the Doctor was so talented in something else, something that was far more art than science, but it seemed Dottore was capable of surprising her again and again until his very last moment.

She leaned a bit closer, almost unconsciously chasing that heavy, pure, yet suffocating presence that emanated from the man.

She didn't understand this sudden, tense curiosity in her own soul; she didn't know why her own heart beat faster from the way the piano's blue light illuminated his profile, she only knew that in this moment, Dottore was the only thing in the entire laboratory - no, rather in all of Teyvat - that felt real and alive in this false world. For a fleeting, foolish thought, she wanted more of him.

She took a deep breath, immersing herself in the moment, and stepping over the ever-present uncertainty, she turned to the only thing capable of calming the sea raging within her being: she began to sing.

She didn't shape words, but an ancient, pure, wordless melody, following the powerful chords. Her own song. It wasn't easy to keep up with the overly fast and powerful tempo, but her voice sliced softly, with sharp clarity, into the heavy air of the laboratory, like the first ray of moonlight shining in the dark night.

But then something unusual happened: she would have never believed herself capable of throwing the Doctor off balance - even when he was performing difficult surgeries, he always answered her silliest questions- but now, Columbina noticed a tiny change.

The man's fingers faltered on the keyboard for the space of a heartbeat.

Every cell in her body felt that after this, the previously powerful, tense chords slowed down, almost involuntarily blending with her singing, softening into a deep, pure, and harmonious accompaniment, as if she had woven an invisible leash around his mind with her voice, forcing his hands into a shared rhythm. Their duet ultimately became a far more terrifying, ethereal lullaby, a composition that connoisseurs would likely compare to madness rather than a sonata.

A sweet, gentle feeling pooled over her heart: the Doctor... was adapting to her. He, who never paused for a single moment for anyone, and even brazenly defied Her Majesty's will if it meant he could follow his own head! She didn't really know how she should react, or if she was even allowed to mention it. She decided instead to preserve this moment within herself until the end of time.

When the melody came to an end, Columbina's voice slowly died away, and with it, Dottore's fingers also stopped over the final, long-ringing chord.

She felt him slowly turn his head toward her, and in the darkness, his crimson eyes gleamed: a gaze filled with a wild, suffocating tension, before the amused melancholy on his face was replaced by his usual dismissive smirk. It was a more perfect disguise than any physical mask, one he could don instantly even upon waking from a dream.

"For someone who was protesting just the other day that you are capable of cooperating in silence, you interfere with my playing rather insolently." Dottore's voice was unusually hoarse, though he tried to smuggle his accustomed playfulness back into his words. "Furthermore, you have completely ruined my schedule."

Columbina smiled softly. Dottore always covered up with teasing whenever, on rare occasions, something slipped out of his control.

"Perhaps because you always try to reach the end too quickly, Zandik," she replied carefully, but the complicity between them lurked in her voice too. She deliberately used his true name, which no one else in the palace would dare utter - but for her, perhaps after the time spent together, teasing had become a sort of love language. "Are you afraid that if you slow down, your own thoughts will catch up to you?"

Dottore's body stiffened for a single second at the sound of his old name, but he didn't comment on it, despite surely being aware of how lenient he was with the girl. He would have retaliated against such insolence from anyone else, yet she never abused her privileged position.

At least, usually.

"Fleeing from my thoughts would be a boring, shallow, and endlessly futile pastime," Dottore stated amusedly. He knew perfectly well that Columbina wasn't primarily referring to his internal 'thoughts' - but rather to his six other selves - yet he played along. He visibly enjoyed the echo of his own deep-toned voice in the deathly silence. "The mind is merely a finely tuned machine, a complex clockwork, and I know the movement of my own gears far too well to be frightened by them."

His deep crimson eyes gleamed darkly in the lab's twilight as he slowly, embarrassingly thoroughly, looked her up and down.

"Yet for some reason, you are here, while they restlessly carry on in your stead as well." He gently stroked the far edge of the keyboard, taking care not to accidentally strike a single note. "In the past, you never left them alone... or rather, shall we say, 'yourself'?"

"How amusing." A dry, cold, yet all-too-weary mockery rang in Dottore's voice. He slowly turned away from the keys, and with his right arm, he closed the lacquered lid of the piano, leaving just enough time for Columbina to pull her hand away; though he tried to act as if he didn't care whether she was fast enough. Then, his long, slender fingers began a rhythmic tapping on the dark wood of the instrument while he looked down at her in half-profile over his shoulder. "After nearly a century, a creature is trying to psychoanalyze me who, despite being a Harbinger, has not taken on a single mission since joining because she is convinced she is unsuited for it. Yet I know exactly - in fact, since our trial, I even have proof - that with a single snap of your fingers, you could bring entire nations to their knees. This attitude is tragic."

In Dottore's expression, there flashed that typical, arrogant frustration of geniuses when faced with wasted talent. For him, who had torn his own mind to shreds for knowledge and personal growth, Columbina's way of life was obviously... illogical and infuriating.

He condemned this reclusiveness, but behind the pride lurked a hidden incomprehension as well: he was incapable of accepting why someone with such immense power in her hands wouldn't want to use it to reshape the world. He had brought this up more than once lately.

Columbina's gaze darkened slightly behind her blindfold, and for a moment, a faint shadow of suffocating sadness flitted across her face.

"Her Majesty currently has greater need of my presence than my... 'power'." Everyone considered her immense, capable of fulfilling any wish as a goddess, yet she didn't see in herself at all what was expected of her. The people of Nod Krai, Her Majesty... and finally, Zandik too. The only difference was that the Doctor didn't want to use her to solve his own problems. At least, that was what she believed back then. "And I don't think she is the only one in this place."

They looked at each other for a long, almost embarrassingly long time, until Zandik finally broke eye contact.

"How confident," he sighed. "And what wind brought my dear Columbina to this endlessly depressing place at this late hour, she who until now has spent her entire day in necessary idleness by Her Majesty's side?"

Columbina… his Columbina…

The name the Prime had given her, defying the Tsaritsa's order that she be addressed as Damselette after joining. Shortly after their first meeting, he had once likened her to a dove that had fallen from its nest, and the name soon became so much her own that the others began calling her that too.

Columbina tilted her head slightly to the side.

"Hmm... by that, do you mean you missed me?"

Dottore's gaze darkened for a moment, the mocking half-smile freezing on the edge of his mouth as his fingers tensed over his crossed arms. He hadn't expected this cheeky, pinpoint retort, but he visibly took pleasure in the fact that someone was capable of defying him.

He slowly leaned closer, until his lips almost brushed her ear, and his voice dropped to a deep, vibrating whisper.

"Oh yes, what a sweet notion," he said softly, his words infused with surprised, intellectual excitement. It was rare for anyone to see the underlying meaning in his words, especially when it could hand the other a weapon against him. "Let's put it this way instead: the atmosphere in my laboratory becomes annoyingly restless when their favorite little soul-soothing dove is absent."

Oh? Considering that every segment of his was essentially himself, he had practically admitted that he took pleasure in her presence. Even if the silent peace he preferred was routinely broken by her songs. Even if he wasn't capable of saying it openly, this confession made her happy.

Happy, and... perhaps a bit reckless.

"A dove that has just flown into the nest of the most dangerous predator," she mused softly, sliding her pale palm flat against his chest. "Yet the predator doesn't attack, even though he has the opportunity to eat her."

She felt a fierce heartbeat beneath her fingers as the distance between them, usually not too carefully guarded anyway, narrowed even more dangerously now. Normally, none of the segments kept much distance from her, touching her from time to time without any pressing reason. Sometimes with a commendatory pat on the crown of her head, sometimes with a teasing poke in the side, or simply grabbing and guiding her hand for instructional purposes... but the air had never been this vibrant on any of those occasions.

Zandik, however, was different than usual. Columbina found humans hard to understand, and he couldn't even be compared to the others, but in that burning gaze right now, there was something... vulnerable?

She smiled carefully as her other hand also sought support against the doctor's shoulder, sliding right next to him on the bench.

She expected rejection, but instead of pulling away from her, Zandik reached forward with both arms around her waist and, with raised eyebrows, gripped the fabric of her thick Snezhnayan coat in disbelief - as if aware of what he was doing, yet not agreeing with it himself.

"Bad idea," Zandik said then, in an unusually deep voice, perhaps to himself.

Columbina nodded with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"The worst I've ever had."

She couldn't really have said what kind of crazy notion was driving her - perhaps the sudden, suffocating empathy washing over her for the man whose cold scientific armor was finally, irrevocably cracking before her?

Her silky hair fell like a soft, ebony curtain around their faces, shutting them out from the reality of the cold room in an instant. The last remaining millimeters between them vanished as, with closed eyes, she pressed her own soft mouth infinitely gently and sensually against Zandik's somewhat rigid, razor-thin lips.

It was like a quiet, wordless confession; a very delicate touch that deepened in bated breath, with which she flooded his ice-cold, dark world with the pure warmth of her own being. She had intended it as a gentle confession, a cautious declaration that steps across the hard-fast rules of reality and simply exists - but all lofty thoughts fell to dust when the physical contact crashed down upon them with staggering weight.

For the first millisecond, Zandik's body froze like stone, as if his mind, which until now had accurately seen through every factor, was completely incapable of processing the received information for the first time in his life. He didn't pull away, but he had visibly lost control over his own consciousness.

Scientifically speaking, he had touched thousands of women emotionlessly, seeing them as pieces of meat that he expected to lead him to his ultimate goal. He himself, however, as he had hinted a few times in the past, had never felt the need to be touched by anyone. He had learned to tend to his own injuries at a very young age so that he would never need anyone else, and to Columbina's knowledge, if he had biological needs at all, she considered it very likely that he had completely suppressed them as a useless waste of time.

True, she had no experience in this either; since her birth in Nod Krai, it had never crossed her mind that she herself could fall captive to the wonder humans called 'attraction' and would even sacrifice their lives for; but she wanted that if the man ever looked back on this moment, he wouldn't think of it as something he could have spent his valuable experiments doing instead.

So she smoothed her small palm against his face and poured her whole heart into the touch.

At first, the kiss was nothing but a chaotic meeting of fire and water. The Doctor's lips were dry, tense as a bow, but Columbina did not rush. She gently mapped out the beloved face, her thumb moving almost unconsciously, lower and lower along the sharp curve of his cheekbone.

There, where the fine lines of suppressed tension sat deepest in the corner of his mouth, Columbina's fingertip went still, causing a stifled, almost desperate sound to tear from Zandik's throat.

This was not the voice of the confident Second Harbinger, nor that of the all-knowing, seasoned scientist; rather, it was like a tiny short circuit, a muffled electrical discharge in a perfectly calibrated machine. The man's entire body tensed, his breath catching for a tenth of a second, as if Columbina hadn't merely touched his skin, but had stripped bare his most fiercely guarded neural pathways.

The girl smiled softly behind her blindfold as she felt the taste of discovery.

Until now, she had only watched curiously from afar this tiny area, barely a few millimeters wide, in the corner of Zandik's mouth, where the man hid all his opinions, emotions, and defense mechanisms. From here originated the mocking half-smiles with which he observed the entire foolish, inferior world; here the muscles tensed when he suppressed his anger at the latest missions from Pierro and Her Majesty, which, the filthier they were, the greater the chance he would be decorated with them. And this tiny point twitched downward every time the loneliness became too heavy for him down here in the dark.

It was like a secret coordinate that the Doctor himself had forgotten, or perhaps never even knew existed, but she had been watching it for years, along with every other movement of his.

The girl drew closer until their breath had completely become one. She turned her head and followed the path of her fingers with her lips. Leaving the center of his cool mouth, she pressed an infinitely soft, almost feather-light kiss right there, into the left corner.

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Zandik's shoulders, which until then had stood rigid and defensive, suddenly gave in. His fingers, which had been gripping Columbina's thick coat convulsively, now loosened; instead, his palms pressed hot, almost pleadingly against her waist, pulling her closer - even closer - to himself.

Columbina felt his lower lip tremble beneath hers. Every single time she intentionally touched that sensitive, tense spot with the tip of her tongue or the soft curve of her mouth, another hoarse sigh broke from Zandik.

It was as if the Doctor, who had written thousands of notes on the workings of human anatomy, was now helplessly watching his own body rebel against his logic. He didn't know what to do with this intensity.

When Zandik's lips finally kissed her back, barely perceptibly, and a low, hoarse sigh tore from his chest, the stiffness was replaced by something far deeper, an almost painful clinging.

His always-confident fingers, wrapped around her waist, now sank tremblingly beneath the fabric of her Fatui coat and intertwined across her back. Though he was never famous for gentleness, even during the riskiest experiments, he held her so carefully now, as if afraid that if he moved too quickly or too hard, the fragile illusion would shatter into pieces.

It was hard to believe what they were even doing. After all the other segments treated her as some kind of sister, which they had voiced more than once, she never thought this could come of it.

As their chests pressed together, she felt the man's heartbeat completely break free, thumping in a chaotic, desperate rhythm, synchronizing directly with her own racing pulse. 

There was no time to think further, and Zandik kissed her as if fighting for his life. As if all the accumulated loneliness and exhaustion of a mortal, aging man wanted to dissolve once and for all in the girl's timelessness. And she, for the first time - even though she was far from the true moon of her imagination - felt truly at home.

And this was the moment that changed everything: the elemental kuuvahki began to leak from beneath her skin so powerfully, as if her entire being had begun to prepare to become one with the other. The pure moonlight energy poured through the kiss like a soft, all-engulfing wave directly into the man's essence, surrounding and saturating them both, flooding the tiny room with a dim white light.

Columbina felt the Doctor recoil slightly from the touch of the sudden, intoxicating stream of energy, but he didn't let her go. His two eyes opened and locked with her own gaze, which was open a crack for the first time in so long.

She hadn't wanted to see for a long time, but at that moment, she felt she would miss something. And indeed, there was something inexplicable, something meaningful in Zandik's gaze, as if everything had suddenly fallen into place.

But then, the sound of the door slamming open poured over them like icy water.

They broke apart almost instantly, gasping for air, turning as one toward the ominous figure leaning mockingly against the doorframe.

The Prime stood behind them, elegant, his arms crossed over his chest, wearing the most blood-chilling smile Columbina had ever seen. Although his mask concealed most of his face, she could still feel the biting mockery with which he looked at the pair of them deep in her bones, and an inexplicable, dark, and tense vibration of energy instantly filled the air.

"What a delightful composition," Dottore’s silky, bone-chilling voice rang out. He stepped further inside with measured, ruthless strides, causing Columbina to spring to her feet and back away from him against her own will. He didn't ask for permission; he dropped his gloved hand onto the crown of her head in his usual manner, but this time, there was absolutely no playfulness in the gesture. "It seems we have succeeded after all in extracting the energy signature of our most valuable test subject."

Zandik did not agree. Nor did he deny it.

…

Test subject?

Before... he had never called her that.

'Our little dove'... 'our little sister'... 'our dear'...

That night, something changed irrevocably.

~☆~○~☆~○~☆~○~☆~

The depths of the Nod Krai laboratory were freezing and echoing, like a forgotten crypt. Strangely, not a single soul remained. She figured Her Majesty must have recalled those working under the Doctor back to Snezhnaya after the defeat of the Second Harbinger came to light.

The traces of the inhumane research that had taken place here recently still loomed dark on the cracked walls, the overturned instruments, and the metallic debris scattered all around. Columbina’s footsteps glided noiselessly across the dust-covered floor, barely touching the ground, pushing further and further into the darkness.

Grief suffocated her heart, along with a gnawing sorrow over the loss of her first home.

Rosalyne was dead.

Capitano had not returned from Natlan...

Sandrone had died too, because she had been weak, unable to protect her.

And Dottore... the man who had once meant the entire world to her... the last fragment of his being had met its end by her hand. Did she regret it? She couldn't quite decide. The Prime had become so dangerous that she had no other choice to stop him, even if her own heart shattered to pieces in the process.

As she ventured deeper into the unlit, somber space, the scent of machine grease and dust was suddenly permeated by something else, something heavy and suffocating: a chilling, thick stench of blood.

The girl froze. There was barely any light source inside, flickering mostly on the screens of abandoned machinery, yet the floor was still clearly, visibly covered in a vibrant red liquid. 

She took a deep breath, and preparing herself for whatever horror she might find within, she cautiously descended further. Hydro energy flowed erratically beneath her soles with every step, the metal walls eerily echoing her every move, but she did not stop; she headed straight toward the center of the room.

And then she saw it: slouched against a heavy iron tank, the outline of a human figure materialized.

The dark silhouette lay in the dust like a ragdoll, his once-white coat practically soaked with the continuously spreading blood, while one of his legs lay on the ground at an unnatural, twisted angle. His mask was cracked, shattered into splinters, but from beneath it, that familiar, glowing crimson gaze still flashed at the girl.

"Doctor?" Columbina whispered, her voice breaking in disbelief against the cold walls. The flower nearly slipped from her suddenly weakened fingers.

A hoarse, yet still insultingly mocking grunt came from the darkness. The man lifted his head slowly, with visible agony.

"Why... who did you expect... in my lab?" he squeezed out, trying to swallow the blood welling up from his throat.

Columbina stepped closer slowly, her eyes wide with shock, but then she gathered the last remnants of her self-control. "Indeed. It should have been suspicious that the body was missing."

Dottore’s lip twitched into a faint, dismissive half-smile, though pain immediately shot through the grimace, and cold beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He was surely preparing a sarcastic remark, but when his gaze drifted to the ice-blue petals in the girl's hand, something unusual flickered across his face.

"Oh, you brought flowers too...? I thought those were only meant for the others."

"You're bleeding heavily, don't speak," Columbina cut him off.

What on earth was she doing?

This single question repeated in her head as she knelt beside the man, indifferently watching the blood stain the hem of her own dress, her entire attention locked onto his tormented face, marred with deep gashes.

"It's nothing," the man whispered, his chest heaving from a lack of air. "One is... bound to cross paths with a bit of... a moon goddess's wrath now and then."

Almost purely by reflex, she placed two fingers against Dottore’s carotid artery, exactly the way he himself had taught her back then to check if their current patient was still alive. His pulse felt ominously slow.

"You are going to die." She didn't even understand why her voice cracked at this fact. Wasn't it her own power that had put him in this state? No, Dottore's own madness had brought him here, she corrected herself.

And yet…

"Is that so? What a wise observation," Dottore hissed back, closing his eyes as if his sheer pride were the only thing keeping him alive.

Columbina did not answer. She relaxed her hand, and the air above her palm suddenly trembled. Out of nowhere, pure, cool, and shimmering water began to form, gathering into a soft sphere between her fingers.

Dottore slowly opened one eye, watching the movement with keen interest - an almost clinical curiosity. There was no fear in his gaze, only a sort of deep, resigned weariness, like someone who had already calculated every possible outcome and accepted his fate. 

Perhaps he expected her to finish what she had started during their battle, which was why his eyebrows knitted together in question when, instead of the anticipated attack, Columbina gently, with incredible caution, brought her hand closer to his chest and began to wash away the clotted, dark blood from the gaping wounds. The cool water brushed softly, comfortingly over his taut, feverish skin.

Though the old days felt as distant as if they had happened in another lifetime, the Doctor's cold lessons of the past instantly came alive in Columbina's fingers. Her delicate palm brushed along his heaving chest, assessing the extent of the injuries. The gashes were frighteningly deep, but the dark red fluid was streaming onto the floor slowly, sluggishly. Perhaps... he still had a little time before he bled out completely.

"Do you have bandages anywhere?" the girl asked, while the water trickled down to the floor stained a faint red.

"In a laboratory? Take a guess," came the hoarse, choked reply.

"Where?"

"You can't be serious about wanting to treat me. You? Treating me?" For the first time, genuine, unfiltered disbelief crept into Dottore's amused voice.

"Will you stop mocking me for one damn second?" Columbina snapped, her voice striking the metal plates with such force that the Doctor nearly flinched. "No matter what an asshole you are, I never wanted to kill you!"

The man was genuinely stunned. He had never heard his former little dove sound so raw and furious, and he certainly had never imagined that Columbina even knew - or would ever use - a word like ‘asshole’. For a moment, the shock completely silenced his cynicism.

"Outside the airlock... In a crate," he finally groaned out, and though he tried to suppress it, a deep, painful whimper escaped his lungs as he attempted to shift his broken leg on the floor.

Columbina sprang up and slipped noiselessly under the heavy, half-lowered door, continuously chanting to herself that she must be capable of saving a single person. She had learned enough in the past, and though she had assisted in horrors as a naive, foolish girl, she could truly put her meager healing abilities to use this time. But why on earth did she want to save him after everything that happened - the man who bore the guilt of so many horrors on his soul? She would have time to think about that later.

Soon, she returned with a large, heavy box of gauze. She knelt beside the man again and began unwrapping the bandages with swift movements, scanning the laboratory's sparse equipment.

"As usual, you don't use disinfectant? What kind of doctor are you?" she asked, thoroughly annoyed, seeing that the crate contained almost nothing but bandages and blades. Naturally, she found no painkillers either. 'Those who are truly in pain will pass out anyway,' the man used to say all the time in the past.

"Only when it matters," Dottore muttered, his head lolling weakly back against the wall of the tank. "The ones I cut open here usually didn't survive anyway."

Columbina’s face twitched with helpless rage. "Alcohol?"

"You know my... opinion on it," the man whispered, his eyes closing once more.

It was one of Zandik's oldest, strictest principles to almost never ingest alcohol or drugs. Always, under all circumstances, he claimed that a human's greatest asset was a clear, sharp consciousness, and he considered anything that could harm or dull it for even a single second to be a disgraceful, unforgivable sin. 

During their years spent together, Columbina had never seen him drink - not a single one of his segments. Intellect was sacred to them; intoxication was deemed the refuge of the weak.

Columbina wasted no more time on words. She saw the deathly pallor spreading across the man's face and knew that with every passing moment, they were drifting closer to the edge of the abyss. With a decisive movement, she snatched one of the gleaming blades from the box and set to work. There was no room for hesitation now: with a single sharp slice of the scalpel, she ripped open the man's blood-soaked coat, then his dark blue shirt, removing the heavy, ruined fabrics from his shoulders with a single tug.

She thought the sight couldn't possibly be that horrific, yet the moment the Doctor’s broad chest was exposed, Columbina froze for a second - and not primarily from the sight of the wounds.

During the long years spent together, they had stood side by side countless times over the ice-cold operating tables beneath the palace. They had examined an innumerable amount of human bodies together with sheer clinical indifference, but him... she had never seen him bare before. 

Hidden behind his clothes and mask, the Doctor had always been an unapproachable, unearthly phenomenon, an ideal to the girl, whose humanity had only been evidenced by that ancient night when he had uniquely lowered his walls before her. Yet now, here he lay before her in his raw, vulnerable, and mortal reality.

The girl’s heart leaped, but she immediately shook her head angrily, dismissing the unworthy thought.

Not now. Not here.

She fiercely commanded herself back into the present, forcing her focus onto the urgent task at hand, for the man's wounds were far too real to allow for any wandering thoughts.

The eerie, dark gashes of the kuuvahki had plowed through the flesh to a terrifying depth, immortalizing the moment of impact in chilling patterns. Columbina’s throat tightened at the sight, but after the initial confusion, the old, cold routine instantly returned to her fingers. She grabbed the thick roll of gauze and began wrapping it around the man's upper body with stoic precision. She did not skimp on the material; she wound it around wildly and tightly to stem the relentlessly leaking stream of blood. She found it a bit difficult to hold and stabilize a body so much larger than her own, but she wasn't yet accustomed enough to her new power to boldly dare call upon the help of the kuuvahki.

The snow-white bandage was instantly swallowed by the heavy, crimson darkness during the first few layers, but the girl kept wrapping the gauze until the gaping wounds completely vanished beneath the stiff, clean binding.

A hoarse groan tore from Dottore's throat at the suffocating tightness, his forehead slumping onto Columbina’s shoulder against his own will. His right hand lifted slightly from the dust, as if wanting to push the girl away—or perhaps merely trying to touch her—but in the end, no strength remained for the motion: his arm fell helplessly back onto the freezing metal floor.

"Try to stay conscious," the girl said firmly as she secured the final piece of fabric and set down the scalpel. "Wait here!"

"And here I was planning to run away," Dottore gritted through his teeth, but behind the banter, utter exhaustion was now clearly audible in his voice.

Columbina slipped under the airlock once more, and now out of sheer annoyance, she began rummaging through the crates outside in a hurry. Nothing. Only screws, metal components, and sterile syringes.

'Perhaps on the upper level...' flashed through her mind. She couldn't imagine how the Fatui soldiers and lower-ranking researchers, forced to work alongside Dottore and living in perpetual fear, could have endured this suffocating, spine-chilling laboratory without a single drop of alcohol.

Through the dark, ruined corridors of the upper level, she searched through everything she could get her hands on with undeniable stubbornness. An oppressive feeling trembled in her chest as she pried open the lids of heavy wooden crates, having no idea why she was doing it. Why was she fighting for this monster's life?

When they clashed in the final battle, when her divine power broke free, she had truly wanted it to hurt him. She wanted revenge for the manipulation, the lies, the way he had treated her after realizing that the power of the kuuvahki was something he could exploit. Afterward, he had used her as a test subject for years without batting an eye, unconcerned with her feelings... her pain... all while smiling at her the entire time, saying, 'we are family, we help each other, right?'

And the most horrific part wasn't even what he had done to her.

The blood-stained dissecting table, laid out…

The mocking, 'Zandik? Oh, he's dead. Do you still wish to see him like this?'

The images of the empty hospital wards she had desperately walked through…

18… 25… 35… 65… 8… all gone.

Only a tiny plush toy, marred by countless stitches, stared back at her from the minuscule, dreadfully simple bed in the very last room, tilted strangely, as if someone had recently hugged it tightly in terror and agony.

She hated... she truly hated the Prime! With every beat of her shattered heart, she felt rage toward him. But now, seeing him lying in the dust, frozen in his own blood, the image of Zandik suddenly flashed before her eyes. And then the images of all the other segments she had once known and grown so deeply attached to. She knew there was no difference; he was the exact same Zandik, a piece of him, only... he had been so consumed by darkness that he ended up destroying himself through it.

She couldn't forgive him. At the same time, she was incapable of not seeing in him everything that had once made her lock all his versions into her heart. First and foremost... the Prime himself.

Hope was almost beginning to desert her in the dark warehouse, her throat tightening with helplessness, when finally, deep inside a bag that had seen better days lying in a corner, she met with success: her hand closed around a half-empty bottle of Snezhnayan Fire-Water. Some guard must have hidden it from the Doctor.

Columbina cut through the path back to the elevator almost as if flying, down and down, through the airlock, straight to the deepest depths of the laboratory. But when she returned to the ring of machines, her movements suddenly froze.

Dottore still sat in the exact same posture she had left him in, but his body had slumped even further. Only his head tilted unnaturally and limply to the side, as if his neck muscles had finally given up the fight, no longer able to support his own weight. Sweeping away all sanity, she ran to him and began calling out his name, cradling him fearfully in her arms.

Dottore did not answer, lying completely unconscious in her arms. His pulse was frighteningly weak, shrinking to a barely perceptible thread beneath the girl's fingers, and his breathing had become so shallow that it barely lifted his chest. He was still alive, but his body had given up the fight, escaping into a deep, dark unconsciousness away from the agonizing pain.

"Zandik..." she whispered in a trembling voice.

What could she do? She was weak, helpless...

Wait.

Weak?

Nonsense. She possessed the power of the Three Moons. When she closed her eyes, the faces of her Sisters smiled at her encouragingly. It was time to get used to the fact that she was no longer just a helpless shadow, severed from her own light!

She took a deep breath, letting the surge of raw kuuvahki permeate her body, and the Moon - the real, her very own Moon - answered from afar, filling her body with infinite power. Carefully, so as not to tear open the fresh bandages, she enveloped the man's heavy, abandoned body from the ground in a white light, and prepared herself to commit what would likely be the greatest sin of her existence as a Moon Goddess.

Lo'ak

Every single muscle in his body trembled and clenched as a wave of fierce sensations washed over him; his eyes went wide in shock, and his mouth hung open in a silent cry of ecstasy. For what felt like the hundredth time, the thought flashed through his mind: what the hell was his brother, really? He was definitely not just an ordinary Na’vi. More like some kind of deity Eywa had sent to Pandora in mortal form, solely to destroy him.

Neteyam penetrated him with just one finger, but that alone was enough for his body to betray him. When he touched some secret, hidden point inside him—one Lo’ak himself hadn’t even known existed—his back arched, his vision went white, and as he thrust his hips forward, a surge of pleasure exploded through his core. He couldn’t compare it to anything he had experienced before. In the past, he’d turned to his own hand more than a few times when frustration built up, but this… this was a completely different level of pleasure.

Lo’ak panted, his voice catching in his throat. His fingers dug into the long, silky blades of grass, gripping them tightly as if trying to anchor himself to reality. The world seemed to spin around him, colours blurring together, until nothing remained but Neteyam, who gazed at him with near reverence, his stare so deep and intense it was as though he had never seen anything as beautiful as him before. For a long, breathless moment, Lo’ak could do nothing but tremble and twitch, his body shaken by the aftershocks of the intense orgasm. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once; he felt alive, yet utterly vulnerable.

Then, as the initial shock began to fade, Lo’ak became sharply aware of what had just happened. He didn’t even fully understand it himself, and that uncertainty made his face flare hot with embarrassment. He looked down at himself, fully expecting that he had surely made a mess of both himself and his brother—but… he saw nothing. He was still hard, his intimate parts coated in some kind of clear fluid, but beyond that there was no sign that he had come. Huh? But he had definitely felt it!

Lo’ak swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He wanted to run, to hide from the intensity of what had just happened, and yet… he wanted to experience it again, to chase that height and the sense of completion this strange experience had promised him. He looked up at Neteyam uncertainly through his lashes. He feared he would find some kind of triumphant superiority on his face, but there was no trace of it. His brother watched him gently, with open curiosity, as if Lo’ak were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.

„Was it good?” he asked cautiously, and Lo’ak felt like kicking him. What kind of question was that?! Besides, he was certain that through the tsaheylu Neteyam must have felt at least some of it too.

„It was…” he began, sounding both irritated and shy at the same time, struggling to find the words. „I never knew…” In the end, he gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod.

Despite his hesitation and the lingering shock, there was a new hunger in Lo’ak’s eyes—a desire to explore this new, sensational world Neteyam had opened up for him. He knew he should be ashamed, but the memory of that otherworldly pleasure still burned brightly in his mind. His gaze searched his brother’s face, timid and pleading, desperately wanting to learn and experience every secret of his body and his desire. Apparently, Neteyam was more than willing to help him with that exploration. His finger continued to work inside him slowly and gently, experimentally curling toward that spot that made Lo’ak’s thigh muscles tense, gradually increasing the pressure until he started to whimper beneath him once more. He was no longer in control of his own body, and even though he most wanted to sink into the ground from embarrassment, he found himself pushing his hips toward Neteyam’s finger, murmuring his brother’s name in a daze.

He was getting close again—oh hell, he was sure that just a few more thrusts and…! But then Neteyam slipped out of him, and the stretching sensation intensified as a second finger joined the first. He heard his brother whispering sweet things in his mind while kissing him everywhere he could reach, including his painfully hard erection, to which he kept returning again and again. He fingered him slowly and gently, giving him time to adjust, even though Lo’ak wouldn’t have minded if he’d split him open. He wanted it—wanted it so fucking badly that he nearly shouted at him to forget all of it and just fuck him, hard and wild, the same way he never hesitated on hunts before loosing an arrow. Fine lines appeared on Neteyam’s forehead, and the corner of his mouth curled upward.

„Impatient,” he shook his head, his tail giving a playful flick behind him. “It’s a bit bold to compare it to killing, expecting me to mount you while you’re still this tight.” Lo’ak was sure all the blood drained from his face. But no—he wasn’t going to get embarrassed! He’d already gone through that a few times today, even before Neteyam’s fingers had mapped out every place on him he himself had never explored.

„If you can read my mind this well, then you should know what I want, I—I can’t take it anymore!” He carefully lifted his knee and distractedly pressed it against the nerve-tempting monster between Neteyam’s legs. Oh fuck, how badly he wanted to feel it inside him—thick and hot, completely filled by him…

His brother’s lips pressed into a thin line as the sensation shot through him, while he struggled to pull himself together. A few of his braids fell forward over his shoulder, giving him a threatening air.

„Okay. You asked for it.”

Oh. He might have fucked this up.

As a third finger slid in—fuck, all three of them—Lo’ak no longer had a voice left to protest or to urge him on.

He had no idea whether the pain of the stretch or the pleasure of the fullness was stronger, but both urged him to arch his spine and gasp for air as he pushed himself back against the friction. It was starting to… hurt like hell. But even then, he couldn’t stop.

„Easy…” he heard his brother’s voice, but he had never been the obedient little brother.

„Ugh… it’s stretching! Neteyam…” he complained, and to keep himself steady he grabbed onto his brother’s strong upper arm. Naturally, that didn’t stop him from pushing himself downward. Neteyam let out a resigned sigh.

„Skxawng… do you trust me?” A pretty interesting question coming from someone who had half his hand up the other’s ass.

„Let’s say I do,” he whimpered.

„Then relax—and don’t move!”

Easy for you to say, he wanted to reply, but through their bond he could clearly feel the raw desire and the mind-shredding restraint radiating from his brother. Neteyam was careful to slide his hand in and out slowly, preparing him bit by bit, even as he was clearly suffering himself. Lo’ak trembled as he struggled for air, trying to reassure him that he was okay, that he didn’t need to worry anymore, that he was ready—so ready there were no words for it—but there was too much he would have had to say, and all he could manage was a soft moan. Instead, he condensed everything into a single word, a single whisper.

„Ma Teyam…”

His brother’s hand froze, and he himself seemed to lock up as well. He stared at him in disbelief, his beautifully shaped lips forming a silent ’ah’. He pulled his hand out of him so suddenly that Lo’ak clenched around nothing, whimpering at the sensation he’d been deprived of. Then all he felt was Neteyam on top of him, covering him with his broad chest, pressing him into the ground, trembling. The arm braced beside him, the stomach pressed against his own, the hand clasping his wrist and pinning it to the earth. Oh yes—finally, finally he was showing mercy! But… his face was strange. If he hadn’t thought it was madness, he would have believed he was about to cry. Ah, impossible! He never… or did he? He tried to find answers through their bond, but a fog settled over Neteyam’s thoughts, and only a single phrase echoed there, again and again: Ma Teyam. Huh? He hadn’t been joking when he’d said it—but he hadn’t thought that…

„Say it again” his brother asked. His voice was deep and sensual, yet far too vulnerable.

„M–Ma Teyam…” he tried carefully, surprising himself with how much heart he put into it this time. He was probably blushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

And then he felt something big and thick pressing up from below. It was larger than he had expected based on its appearance, and even though he was already as loose as he could possibly be in his current state - damn, just an hour ago he had been sobbing for his dead brother at the bottom of the sea, and now this very person is taking his virginity! - he realized that Neteyam hadn’t exaggerated when he warned him that this wouldn’t be exactly painless.

Oh fuck, oh fuck!

Neteyam pressed his lips against his, swallowing his painful moans. With his free hand, he reached between them and stroked gently, trying to distract him. He felt as if he was grinding away at his own sanity, yet he moved slowly, cautiously, keeping his focus on him the entire time—on his quivers, his whimpers—as he gradually pushed past the barrier.

The tsaheylu sent warm waves between them as their bodies connected, and when the thick crown pushed over the edge, they both moaned at the same time.

„Ma Teyam…” he whispered into his brother’s ear, and he wanted to stroke his back, but instead the sensations hit so intensely that his nails dug into the skin rather than caressing it.

„You okay?” Neteyam asked, his voice trembling as he still tried not to lose the last remnants of control.

„More than okay” he sent through the tsaheylu, unable to speak. All he could do was hope that his brother was still paying attention. Soon, his worried voice echoed in his mind:

„Does it hurt a lot?”

„Not really… just you’re… really big… oh damn!… Just keep going, ’kay?”

He pressed deeper and deeper, and his body received him with a painful yet yearning embrace, going ever further. Eventually, even his legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, pulling them even closer together. He couldn’t even tell anymore which of them was making the more awkward noises.

Probably him, after his brother’s prayer-like whisper reached him.

“Baby bro… Lo’ak… Ma Lo’ak…”

Neteyam was utterly lost in himself. What he felt was beyond words: the warmth of the love of his life enveloped him, they had become one, and nothing else mattered—he simply surrendered to the deepest waves of desire. He was with him, inside him, on him. He spoke incoherently, clutching him as he claimed him inch by inch, as if he had been waiting his whole life for this. Oh… perhaps he really had…?

“You’ve tormented me for so long… Ma Tìyawn… Ma Kalin-ah…”

Perhaps the words affected him more than he expected, or perhaps he was hearing the echo of thoughts he had never dared reveal—but Neteyam’s words struck him straight in the heart. His body arched against him, as if to absorb him completely, and in response, Neteyam slipped fully inside, hitting that precise spot that sent electric jolts coursing through every fiber of his being. Shame no longer mattered.

„There! Oh Eywa, Neteyam, please, there! It feels so… ahh, so good!” He panted more and more desperately, his eyes closing, unable to keep them open any longer. „Ma Teyam, please! Tsmuka‘an… take me… I wanted to give this to you, only to you, always… only to you!”

And Neteyam no longer held back. His braids whipped back and forth as he drove forward with wild, relentless thrusts, trying to maintain the angle that made Lo’ak see stars—and somehow he managed it. No matter how infuriating it could be that he always succeeds at everything, this time his younger brother whispered his gratitude silently, just for him.

He had expected that once they got this far, his brother would be wild and unpredictable, but the way Neteyam still held him with both arms, protective as always, filled him with such profound love that his eyes misted over.

Then Neteyam began to tremble more and more over him, his movements growing increasingly uncontrolled.

„I’m sorry… oh Eywa, Lo’ak, I… I’m sorry, I can’t… hold back…” he panted heavily. Lo’ak almost laughed at him—it was ridiculously endearing how he tried to persevere despite being so inexperienced and despite having waited so long for him.

“Don’t hold back,” he begged, resting his head against the curve of his shoulder. “Do it… like this… like this… ahh yes, come… come inside me!”

“I—” Neteyam began uncertainly, but he couldn’t finish, his body finally surrendering completely. The feeling of his brother coming inside him was unlike anything he had ever known. He felt the warm rush spilling into him, the wild thrum as his body emptied completely down to the last drop, his movements in sharp contrast to how utterly still the rest of his body had become.

Neteyam’s trembling, the desperate friction of his own body, and the heat coursing through him were more than enough to push Lo’ak over the edge as well. Finally—oh, finally—he came, thick strands enveloping them both, likely leaving his brother’s back scratched raw in the process.

They lay like that for a long time, panting over each other, lazily caressing one another, while Neteyam’s softened form still remained inside him. He didn’t want to let go. No, not yet… it couldn’t end. Not yet…

After the heat of desire finally subsided and their breathing returned to something resembling normal, Neteyam carefully slipped out of him, despite his silent protests, and rolled beside him in the grass. He was breathtaking—his eyes still shining, a satisfied smile on his face, faint purple flush lingering on his ears. This… this was how it was meant to be. Damn it, why couldn’t it have been like this? Not here, not in this place, but at home—their home.

As the haze of passion lifted and the cold reality crept back in, Lo’ak pressed closer to his brother and, after a little fidgeting, clung to him. He tried to hold back, but the tears came. At first small, almost imperceptible sniffles, as if it were nothing, and then he could no longer hide them.

„What’s wrong?” Neteyam asked, though he surely already knew. The tsaheylu did not lie.

„I… I don’t want to let you go,” he admitted desperately. „Don’t… you can’t leave me alone! No one else… no one could ever replace you out there!”

He saw, felt his brother’s heart breaking for him, and no matter what he tried to say, he could not lie to him.

„In whatever form, if there’s any way at all, I’ll come back to you,” he promised, pulling him into a tight, reassuring embrace. So… certain of himself. How could he be so certain?! He held him just like they used to as children, whenever he was broken and in need of comfort. „Wait for me, okay? Take care of yourself and the others until I can be there.”

He knew one thing for sure: no one could possibly be better suited for this task than him. How could anyone ever fill his place?

„Neteyam… no… I… I can’t…”

Two strong arms closed around his waist, and a gentle kiss landed on his forehead.

„You’re stronger than you think, skxawng!”

At least someone still believed in him. Yet, it wasn’t that simple! How could he come back? The dead don’t return, and if they somehow did, they would never be the same.

But there was something in Neteyam’s smile… something that made him believe this wouldn’t be their last moment together. True. After all, he was Neteyam! If anyone could return from Eywa, it would be him, without a doubt.

That—somewhat—reassured him.

„You know, it doesn’t matter how you come back, in what form,” he said finally, frowning slightly, „but if I could have a choice, I’d appreciate it if it wasn’t totally embarrassing to tell Mom and Dad later.”

A small laugh brushed his hair, and his brother’s old, conspiratorial smile spread across his face.

„Hmm. Maybe I could fulfill your childhood dream, and you could become Toruk Makto like Dad. You wouldn’t have to bring home some Na’vi girl to make a flashy entrance.”

He couldn’t tell if he was joking, but the old instinct to hit him flared up again.

„That’s a terrible joke, bro!” he rolled his eyes. „Sure, knowing you, you’d definitely be the most terrifying Toruk anyone had ever seen, and you’d ruin my reputation—but forget it if you think… you can do this with me again! And well… it was good… so…”

Neteyam just laughed, wholeheartedly, as if they were still kids on their old base, when everything had been fine. He wanted to lean in, wipe that ridiculous grin off his face, but…

Something was wrong. He was choking.

Neteyam looked at him questioningly, then pure panic washed over his face.

„Don’t tell me you connected to the Tree of Souls in the water, skxawng! Damn, you’ve been here for hours!”

He saw his brother’s desperation as he quickly separated their kurus and tried to lift him, but his form began to dissipate slowly, as this place—the tarsyu flowers, their favorite tree…—all fell apart.

He rarely saw his brother cry, but in that moment, he clearly saw the tears rolling from half-closed eyes.

„Wait for me, Lo’ak, okay? I love you—” he whispered weakly.

He wanted to say it too. He wanted to say goodbye too, but… darkness claimed him as his lungs finally gave in. With the last of his strength, he clutched onto something that held him, lifting him weightlessly toward the water’s surface.

Neteyam

Although it had been his habit for years to playfully tease his little brother, Neteyam never intended for Lo’ak to genuinely feel ashamed. Seeing the (not so much smaller anymore) boy’s shoulders tense as if his own thoughts had shackled him, his fingers nervously drumming on his thigh before clenching into fists, as if trying to gather courage – it filled him with guilt. He recognized that gesture: Lo’ak always did this when something weighed too heavily on him, and Neteyam hated being the cause of his burdens.

He sensed that his brother’s thoughts had become scattered, so much so that even he couldn’t make sense of them anymore. But the questions "Where to?!" and "How?!" still echoed sharply between them.

It was hard not to smile, though he did feel a bit sorry for him. This kind of vulnerability was unusual from him – Lo’ak always seemed so confident, even when he wasn’t, but now… he was curious, expectant, and frightened all at once. Neteyam sighed softly and slid a little closer to him, moving slowly, cautiously, as though trying to tame a frightened wild animal.

"Would you like me to tell you?" he asked gently. The possibility lingered between them, giving Lo’ak the chance to refuse if he wanted. His little brother looked up at him, pale as death.

"Eywa spare me from getting a lecture from you!"

The answer was somewhat disappointing, but also a relief. In his current state, he wouldn’t have had the strength to give a reassuring explanation, and although his head was foggy from a delayed orgasm, he would never, under any circumstances, force him.

Maybe it was a mistake to want more, he thought. He should have been content with what he could get, despite the fact that it was a miracle that this possibility had even been given to him at all.

Then, from somewhere, far away, Lo’ak’s voice spoke beside him:

"Just… show me instead."

Neteyam’s blood froze in his veins, then ignited like a blazing fire. His brother’s words were quiet, almost inaudible, yet they echoed in his chest for a long time, to the rhythm of ancient drums, which might have been his own heartbeat. He could hear his own ragged breath, the pulsing of his heartbeat in his ears – or perhaps it was Lo’ak’s? It was hard to tell, as their senses mingled through tsaheylu.

After the last sentence, the silence between them vibrated strangely. Neteyam tried to understand how seriously Lo’ak meant it, but his brother wouldn’t meet his eyes, staring fixedly above his chest, his lips pressed together as if trying to take back his own words – but in the end, he didn’t.

Neteyam raised his hand slowly, very slowly. He moved as though afraid Lo’ak would flinch, but when his thumb gently caressed the back of his brother’s hand, he didn’t pull away. He was still tense – but he stayed still. With a defiant expression, perhaps a bit too determined, he watched.

Neteyam took a deep breath, trying to calm himself: he didn’t want Lo’ak to see how close he was to the edge, and he tried to steer his thoughts away from what he would most like to do with him immediately, without delay – but he knew perfectly well that Lo’ak wasn’t ready yet, and he would sooner throw himself in front of a machine gun again than hurt him.

"We’ll only go as far as you want," he assured him, gently stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. Each touch sent electric jolts beneath his skin, and he strongly suspected the feeling was mutual.

Lo’ak let out a soft snort, but this time it wasn’t mocking – more like he was trying to hide his own embarrassment.

"And what if I don’t know how far I want to go?"

Neteyam smiled. Not because it was funny – but because it was so typically Lo’ak. His little brother had always lived this way: craving new experiences but being afraid of them at the same time. Always wanting to dive headfirst into the unknown, yet fearing he would disappoint someone again.

In reality, he was always far more talented and capable than his peers – honestly, even more than him – but his constant need to prove himself led to endless mistakes, followed by a spiral of self-criticism from which no one could pull him out.

He didn’t want him to worry about the usual habits now; not in front of him.

"Then we’ll figure it out together."

Lo’ak finally looked at him.

There was something in his gaze – not exactly fear, but not full determination either. It was more of a quiet anticipation, like someone standing at the edge of an unknown cliff, unsure if one more step would lead to death or the most wonderful experience of their life.

So Neteyam decided to take that step for him, and he gently placed his hand on the boy’s cheek.

Lo’ak’s skin was warm beneath his fingers, his chest rising and falling faster. Slowly, cautiously, Neteyam traced the elegant curve of his brother’s cheekbone, down to his neck, over the graceful slope of his shoulders, barely touching him, yet feeling the boy shiver. Not from fear – it was something else, something that encouraged him to continue.

Anticipation? Excitement?

In any case, Lo’ak’s wide-open eyes met his, as if searching for an answer: as if he couldn’t decide whether what they were doing was right or wrong – yet he didn’t want to stop, not even for a moment. Instead, he leaned closer, his palms settled against Neteyam’s back, his soft fingertips pressing into his skin as he embraced him.

With Lo’ak nestled between his legs, skin against skin, Neteyam felt his own patience being stretched to its limits, every nerve in his body urging him to finally act. Years of pent-up passion raged within him, an ancient instinct he had endured for longer than reason should allow – warring against his resolve not to rush now that he was so close to him, even though the desire burning in his body was slowly consuming every remaining thought.

Patience. You are stronger than your instincts. You can’t. Not yet… Damn it!

Eywa forgive his weakness, but he wanted him so badly! He had never wanted anything so much in his life. He wanted it, wanted it so much it almost hurt physically.

Just… a little longer…

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward. Good. His control proved perfect; every movement, every touch remained completely under his command. Mostly.

Then Neteyam felt Lo’ak’s lips part beneath his, and his little brother moaned into their kiss – and it was over. He was no longer capable of asking for permission or waiting for a response – at least… not like this. He wanted to claim him, to intertwine with him, even if only their tongues pressed together. Even such a small expression of possession drove him wild; he couldn’t stop, no matter how the small, warning voice in his mind screamed that he was going too far.

Even if he was committing an ancient sin, he had never wanted so badly to break the rules. He explored every tiny inch of Lo’ak’s mouth, kissed him until his lips were blood-red, sucked, nibbled on those tempting lips, traced the adorable, sharp fangs, and kept returning to the boy’s sweet, uncertain tongue, which welcomed him despite all its doubts as if it had come home.

It seemed his brother felt the same – his hand moved slowly, his fingers nervously curling around Neteyam’s waist, as if afraid that if he let go, everything would vanish.

So… adorable… He had to protect him, no matter what.

He couldn’t help but hug him tighter, gently caressing him, gradually lowering him beneath him until Lo’ak was completely laid out among the soft blades of grass. The dawn-colored light of the tarsyuk painted his face, reflecting charmingly in the glowing tanhì freckles on his forehead. He could have recalled their placement at any time, having marveled at them since his brother’s birth, watching the tiny changes. He knew which were the first, and which were the most recent. Come to think of it, their pattern resembled the blooming flowers around them. It explained a few things.

He wanted to say something to praise him, to tell him how wonderful he was, to make him understand how lucky those were who could continue to admire him day after day, and that every single part of him – even those he hated about himself – was perfect in his eyes. But to his surprise, Lo’ak spoke first.

"Neteyam…" Not "bro," not the mocking "hero warrior" or "golden child." Just Neteyam… If he had asked him now to destroy Pandora, he would have done it. His brother looked up at him in awe, his hand sliding up to his temple, gently tracing the patterns of his stripes. His eyes sparkled astonishingly, his pupils wide, and his voice trembled slightly: "Have you always… looked this good?"

Something impossibly hot spread through his chest, a wave that left him unsure whether to laugh, be stunned, or doubt his own hearing. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he only hoped he didn’t look as foolish on the outside as he felt inside. Lo’ak… had never complimented him since they were kids.

"Did you hit your head?" he asked with a confused smile. His face felt so… warm.

Lo’ak turned his head away, offended, but Neteyam was painfully aware that his grip on his back hadn’t loosened for even a second.

"Does it sound that unbelievable?"

… Yes?

"It’s just… I didn’t expect it."

Lo’ak huffed in frustration but didn’t move. He couldn’t have, really – Neteyam’s closeness enveloped him so completely, it was as if his very breath held his world together.

"Just forget it!" he grumbled finally, trying to turn away, but Neteyam didn’t let him. He was still smiling at him – a genuine, slightly incredulous, but endlessly warm smile danced on his lips.

"I’d rather remember it. Forever, if possible," he said, his fingers lightly tracing Lo’ak’s arm, up and down, lingering briefly at the crook of his elbow. "You haven’t said anything like that to me in a long time."

His brother’s eyes narrowed a bit, and for a moment, it seemed as though he wanted to respond, maybe even deny it, but in the end, only a deep sigh escaped his lips. Neteyam watched him – the stunningly long, thick eyelashes, slightly damp and sticking together, the tiny, worried crease between his eyebrows, his fingers nervously fumbling at his shoulder blades as if searching for something to hold on to. He didn’t expect anything to change until he acted – but then Lo’ak moved suddenly.

In one swift, unhesitating motion, he slid his hand to Neteyam’s nape and pulled him closer. There was no subtlety, no warning – and that was what made it so heartbreakingly true to who he remembered: his skxawng little brother, who always ended up letting his heart guide his actions, and who always made Neteyam be who he truly was.

He was surprised, but then the raw, pure passion his brother put into that kiss wiped away all other thoughts. This wasn’t like their previous, tentative attempts – this had something demanding in it, something relentless. As if Lo’ak didn’t just want this, but needed it, and wouldn’t allow it to be delayed. The feeling that pulsed through their bond struck through him with such force that it made him dizzy.

Neteyam moved instinctively, one of his hands gliding down Lo’ak’s side, his fingers lightly brushing against his ribs, all the way down to his waist before finally settling on his hip. As he leaned in deeper, he felt Lo’ak’s lips part slightly beneath his, his breathing quickening. One of Lo’ak’s legs lifted gently, pressing his thigh against Neteyam’s hip, as if instinctively seeking contact, as if any distance between them was too much. They pressed against each other, hard, hot, demanding. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lo'ak…” His name was just a soft, barely audible whisper, a drawn-out sigh from his lips, as Neteyam tried to pull back a little, to calm himself, to buy just a little more time before he tore off all restraints and turned into something monstrous; but the boy held him back with his leg, leaving him no escape.

“I want it…” Lo’ak’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but Neteyam heard it. He heard it in every single cell of his body.

He didn’t know exactly what his brother meant, but whatever it was, he wanted to give it to him. Immediately, with his entire being. The desire that pulsed through their bond surged through his whole body, and surely, they both felt it, the yearning turning into a self-reinforcing cycle between them.

“What do you want?”

A moment of hesitation, a few sharp, drawn breaths… Lo’ak looked just as lost as Neteyam felt. He barely heard the voice in his head a heartbeat before five fingers slid beneath his stomach, desperately wrapping around his hardness. Fuck.

"You... to... p-put it in me."

…

That was definitely not among his first ten guesses. Almost – but only almost – he laughed, right before he remembered to be shocked by what he had heard. He had to swallow, but something got stuck in his throat.

"Do you even know…?" he asked, eyes wide.

The response came with an irritated growl: "Don’t look at me like I’m an idiot, as if there’s any other option!"

He quickly brushed his hand away from himself; it was hard enough to hold back as it was, especially with the touch mixed with that request, making a certain part of him unmistakably interested.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to hold back?" he asked with a disbelieving smile. "Trust me, I want it too, but you’re not ready yet."

Neteyam felt Lo’ak’s body tense in his arms. Whether it was his words or his own uncertainty – he wasn’t sure. His little brother stared at him silently for a moment, then let out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes.

"You always do this…" he muttered.

"Take care of you?"

"You’re overprotective!" Lo’ak’s eyes flashed, and as he looked at him again, there was that stubborn determination that always defined him. That fire that broke all rules, defied every command, and sometimes left even his family unable to follow his thoughts. "Every time I truly want something, you try to stop me because you think you know better what I need!"

Neteyam’s heart pounded faster. "I just—"

"I don’t want you to keep suffering!" Lo’ak’s hands slid to his shoulders, his touch strong and firm, not hesitant or shy. "I don’t want you to protect me from this too!"

This kid, seriously…

"It’s going to hurt." Neteyam’s voice was gentle, barely more than a whisper. Not a threat – just a simple fact he couldn’t ignore.

Lo’ak didn’t waver for even a second. "I won’t die. And if I do, at least I’d be here with you!"

Neteyam’s throat tightened. He knew he couldn’t win this argument – though he didn’t really want to. The touches, the body of the person he loved most pressed against his, the taste of their kisses on his lips – everything he had held back until now was now a reality. A reality he never thought he could possess, and Lo’ak was now offering himself to him.

His eyes slowly traced over the thin face, the determination, the desire, the uncertainty he still tried to hide. Then he leaned down, gently resting his forehead against his brother’s.

"Alright. Let’s do this. But give me a little time first, and try to relax, okay?"

Lo’ak’s breath caught, but he didn’t back away – he only nodded.

Then Neteyam began to move downward – covering him in kisses, marking every tiny stripe and spot he passed over. He tasted the sensitive skin of Lo'ak's neck like a starving man, savoring the tiny gasps he earned in response, delighting in finding those spots that made his little brother shiver. If he hadn’t been so desperate, he would have lingered longer, discovering every secret point, but he was already past the point where he could allow himself that luxury.

Lo’ak’s body was tense beneath him, his breathing quick and ragged, as if even he couldn’t decide whether excitement or anxiety was taking over. Neteyam’s fingers glided down his hips, settled along his sides, as though trying to soothe him, but in reality, he was falling apart a little too.

His lips left wet, red marks on Lo'ak’s collarbone, his chest, his stomach. His tongue drew a small, sensual circle around his navel, and as he moved lower, he heard his brother sharply exhale, his flat, toned stomach tightening beneath his mouth.

"You’re doing so well, just breathe," he whispered, settling between his brother’s knees, his hands gently gripping the soft thighs. His movements were instinctive, his kisses trailing lower and lower. He knew Lo’ak needed him to help him unwind, to release that tense anxiety, and with every touch, every breath, that was exactly what he aimed to achieve.

He felt Lo’ak slowly surrendering to the sensation, his body relaxing beneath him, becoming more open – and Neteyam knew exactly when the moment came to move forward.

He looked up at Lo'ak, as if trying to assure him without words that everything was okay, that he was here with him, that he would protect him – even from himself. His brother’s face was unimaginably red, his lips slightly parted, his gaze hazy, his damp lashes clinging together – at once vulnerable and demanding. His entire existence seemed to exist just to make Neteyam lose himself in that wonder.

Neteyam’s fingers slid along the inside of his thighs, gently, patiently, just enough for Lo’ak to feel his touch, but not enough yet. He heard the faint whimper that slipped from his brother’s lips, felt the way his hips moved instinctively, as if begging for more without a single word.

"Shh…" Neteyam whispered, pressing a kiss to Lo’ak’s stomach before he leaned even lower. He moved deliberately slowly, letting the sensation envelop them completely, letting every nerve in Lo’ak’s body eagerly await the next touch.

And when he finally did it – when his lips softly touched the most sensitive spot, when his tongue traced the neglected, aching part’s natural curve with a smooth, wet motion – Lo’ak’s body tensed.

A stifled gasp, a long sigh, and Neteyam knew he was exactly where he needed to be.

He chained down every screaming demand of his own body – he wanted too much to feel every shiver, every tiny reaction from Lo’ak, and he needed to know that it was all for him – that every moan, every twitch of muscle was the result of his touch. Lo’ak’s fingers tangled in his hair, first hesitantly, then more firmly, and Neteyam smiled at the gesture.

Yes… that’s it, let go, baby bro!

Just shut up, please! – the desperate voice echoed in his head.

Oh? So Lo’ak had tuned into the tsaheylu? That might… make things easier.

Or more awkward.

He decided that the only way to maintain his remaining dignity in Lo’ak’s eyes was to banish all other thoughts from his mind – most importantly, to block out the other’s thoughts. Only the sensation… oh. Hmmm…

The nature of tsaheylu was unique. He could sense the same raw waves he caused, though dulled for himself. He slowly marveled at his own self-control.

He continued tasting Lo’ak with dedication, unsure whether he was instinctively good at this despite his lack of prior practice, or if his little brother was just so adorably sensitive – either way, the boy soon became a trembling mess under his mouth. He was barely coherent, his palm clenching and releasing in Neteyam’s hair, following the rhythm of his lips working on him.

"Nete… yam… yes, like that… oh, like that, more…"

He was loud. He had always imagined he would be, but actually hearing it was more arousing than his most heated fantasies – the ones he indulged in on those tough nights when he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He had always pictured it, but the real Lo’ak exceeded his fantasies, the way he swayed, helpless and lost in the pleasure, his head falling from one side to the other, his face flushed a deep purple like the rays of the setting sun, constantly moaning. His taste was addictive, so enticing and sweet, like a ripe fruit waiting to tempt him into sin, and the masculine, musky scent seeping from his skin grew stronger with every passing second, leaving him dizzy. There was nothing else in the world but his voice.

"…teyam… there, don’t… don’t stop… Nete… oh, Tsmuka‘an, please."

Oh, fuck… that name – the way his little brother called him, perhaps for the first time since he was six, shot straight to his core, as if he wasn’t already at his limit.

Thanks to their bond, he began to experience the overwhelming pleasure flooding Lo'ak as if it were his own, mercilessly guiding him toward the same desperate craving. By now, he was practically starving for it – to finally be inside him, to feel Lo'ak’s hot body tightening around him, to reach his peak together, clinging to each other in desperation.

His brother was close – he could feel it. More and more liquid seeped into his mouth, slipping past his lips, making his chin and mouth messily, maddeningly wet, with the excess trickling down between Lo'ak’s thighs. He had never seen anything so breathtaking, so utterly intoxicating.

Drowsily, he reached lower, his hand wrapping around his brother’s rock-hard shaft, and as he continued to pleasure him with the same rhythm, tracing every tempting vein, he lifted Lo'ak’s legs onto his shoulders and leaned down, his tongue venturing even further.

Not for a moment did he try to hide his intentions – he wanted Lo'ak to know exactly what he was planning. Yet despite that, when his tongue first traced along the most untouched part of him, Lo'ak shuddered in startled surprise.

Everything is okay – he assured through the tsaheylu, and once again he descended upon those utterly adorable creases that – perhaps a sign of a twisted mind – he had longed to taste and tease for what felt like an eternity, until they finally opened up to him.

As his hand continued to caress Lo'ak and his mouth followed the rhythm of his movements, the moment came sooner than he had expected.

With his brother’s dying whimpers ringing in his ears, he pressed forward with the index finger of his free hand, and without pausing, he carefully, gently curved it, slipping it through the tight ring of muscle. Holy fuckin' Jesus – perhaps that was the expression their father had once used. He had no idea who Jesus was, but their bond suddenly pulsed between them with such force that no Na'vi expression could describe it. Even without moving his finger, that single cautious, exploratory intrusion was enough for Lo'ak to arch beneath him, experiencing such an intense orgasm without actually reaching release that even Neteyam shuddered, caught in the waves of sensation surging through the tsaheylu.

Lo’ak

He had always been convinced that his brother’s emotional range was about the same as a pa’li’s: silently doing his duty, following orders, and at most, getting frustrated if he didn’t get something right on the first try (just on the second). However, he would never have assumed that Neteyam would willingly connect his neural queue with another Na’vi—let alone anything else—unless their parents had explicitly approved of that person as a suitable mate. Even if the girl looked more like a syaksyuk than a woman. That had always been a fact in his mind.

And yet, tsaheylu dragged him down into depths he never expected, hitting him with the crushing realization that, for his entire life, for as long as he could remember, he had completely misunderstood the person who had always been by his side.

Neteyam… saw him. More precisely, he saw only him.

No, it wasn’t just that he saw him—every fiber of his being was bound to Lo’ak, so desperately, so achingly, that Lo’ak had no choice but to start questioning the complexity of his own emotions.

Like an ocean, he was consumed by all the repressed emotions and restraint that had been buried inside Neteyam for what felt like an eternity—emotions that, without exception, revolved around him. Seriously, he was starting to feel ashamed that he had never noticed any of this before. Even when glimpses of Neteyam’s true self peeked through his perfect mask, he had never realized the truth; he had always just grown more annoyed, thinking his brother was messing with him, teasing him. But to feel how deeply, how intensely he had always been loved... it twisted his stomach into knots.

Neteyam, meanwhile, was holding onto him as if he knew exactly what kind of turmoil he was going through and was determined not to give him a moment to be consumed by guilt. His hands were everywhere, clinging to him like a lifeline, desperate to touch him, to make up for all the times in the past when he hadn’t been able to. He was wild and passionate in a way Lo’ak had never seen before—so much so that it nearly drove him insane.

What the fuck, seriously?! Lo’ak had never felt so... wanted. If Neteyam had ever lost control of himself like this in the past, he never would have stood a chance against this relentless siege on his sanity!

He was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, overwhelmed by the flood of new sensations—physically and mentally alike—yet he only felt more insatiable, more exhilarated. He wanted Neteyam’s attention, the reverence in his eyes that was directed at him and only him. He wanted his thoughts, the ones that ached with longing for him. And he didn’t even understand why experiencing them was making him so damn excited.

There was hardly any untouched skin left on his body; Neteyam had covered nearly every inch of him with kisses. And though his entire being was now overly sensitive beneath the heat of the air and the friction of two insatiable hands—or was it that he was the one burning up?—a deep, searing emptiness formed inside him. A void he had no idea how to fill. The kisses only made him crave more, just like the increasingly… bewildering memories.

At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing when a scene unfolded before him: a slightly younger version of himself, mouth open, drooling onto the floor as he slept curled up against Neteyam, while his brother watched him with quiet affection. Why was this here, among everything else, as if it was so important? But then he noticed that something… wasn’t right.

The Lo’ak in the memory mumbled something incoherent, a small smile tugging at his lips. Neteyam quickly turned onto his side, back facing him, as if he had been caught. But memory-Lo’ak didn’t wake up. Instead, he reached forward, his hand sliding clumsily up Neteyam’s chest before grasping the firm muscle with a soft sigh. Neteyam lay still, eyes open, not even daring to breathe as one hand fumbled against him. And when, by accident, it brushed over his nipple in the briefest of glancing touches, he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

Then he felt it—and so did the present-day Lo’ak watching the memory—something pressing against his back. Something warm and undeniably hard, just as he let out a contented sigh in his sleep. No, this isn’t real, Neteyam thought frantically. And with him, the current Lo’ak, frozen in horror.

“-teyam…”

It was just a barely audible sigh, yet Neteyam’s breath hitched sharply. This had to be a dream, he told himself. He wasn’t the type to have these kinds of dreams, but this had to be one—because Lo’ak would never, even in his unconscious state, think of him like that… His younger brother pressed closer, burying his face against his back, his hips beginning to move, grinding against him in an ancient rhythm, soft, desperate moans spilling from his lips.

Neteyam couldn’t breathe. His mouth parted, trembling. He tried to hold himself back. After all… his brother was just dreaming. It was natural at his age; he couldn’t help it. And he… he was the older one. He should have controlled himself in this situation—he had sworn to Eywa herself that he tried!

But the sensation of the most important person in his life—the object of his deepest, most forbidden desires—rubbing against him was enough to send his own arousal skyrocketing.

He suffered for what felt like an eternity—long, agonizing minutes that stretched into hours—before finally, breaking past the last shreds of his dignity, his long, slender fingers slipped beneath his tewng, trembling as they wrapped around his own growing erection. The heat of it burned his face, and though some part of him knew he should feel ashamed, the overwhelming experience of Lo’ak’s desire—combined with the intoxicating pleasure surging from below—set him on fire.

His legs trembled as he touched himself more and more desperately, matching the rhythm of Lo’ak’s gentle movements against him. It was so… warm… both his brother and himself, their bare, sweaty skin sticking together. He used all his strength to avoid letting his tail’s excited twitching brush against the other boy’s stomach and risk waking him up. Left with no better idea, he curled it around Lo’ak’s thigh—unknowingly pulling him even closer.

He thought it couldn’t get any worse. But when Lo’ak, in his sleep, shifted closer and pressed a tiny kiss between his shoulder blades, he nearly lost it. He felt his own body react instantly, and the sensation was almost unbearable. His face flushed dark purple, and he could only pray to Eywa, to fate, to the entire universe that no one would wake up and see them in this impossible situation.

A few strands of hair fell into his clouded vision as a thought formed in his mind: Lo’ak… if they were alone, would he be willing to do this with him? No, of course not… but what if he would? He imagined them lying face to face, both of them touching themselves—or perhaps each other? Their hands moving in the same sweet rhythm, their quiet gasps blending together, Lo’ak looking up at him with that adorable, soft purple flush, so close to the edge, just like he felt now. His precious one—what sounds would he make, how would he struggle for breath while held in his arms, until his body arched against him and he lost himself completely?

At that moment, he felt his younger brother twitch slightly behind him, his tewng pressing damply against him as he rode out the last waves of pleasure. The mere sensation was enough to push him over the edge as well, completely covering his hand and stomach.

Though this wasn’t his first time, he had never experienced an orgasm this strong, this intense. It felt like a miracle that he managed to stifle a desperate cry as his very soul nearly left his body.

His vision was hazy as he turned toward his younger brother, gazing in awe at the peacefully sleeping, adorable face before him while struggling to catch his breath through his heaving chest.

"You’ll be the death of me," he whispered, brushing a stray braid from behind Lo’ak’s ear that had come loose from the others.

The scene blurred, and a deep confusion washed over Lo’ak, nearly making him dizzy. Neteyam’s thoughts receded, as if his brother had finally managed—through great difficulty—to push them away from Lo’ak’s sight, making the present space and time sharpen into focus.

He was still straddling his brother’s lap, but Neteyam was no longer kissing him. He had gone still, his arms barely touching him, as though offering him the chance to push away without effort if he wanted to. His face was pale, with only two faint spots of color forming on either side of his nose. His ears drooped, and he looked so utterly pathetic that Lo’ak had never seen him like this before in his life.

"I’m so sorry," Neteyam said softly, his voice breaking. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable, that Lo’ak’s own shame suddenly didn’t seem so important anymore. "You weren’t supposed to see that. I… I thought… I could control it."

He reached for their bonded queues, ready to sever the connection, but Lo’ak—for reasons he himself didn’t understand—stopped his hand.

"Okay, that was pretty fucked up," he declared. "I think that was my fault, so don’t worry about it. Sure, I’m burning up with embarrassment now too, but like you said, we don’t have anything left to lose, right?"

"You know, I can see what you're thinking too. It horrified you."

"Hey, hey, hey—there’s not a Na’vi alive who wouldn’t be horrified seeing themselves in a… uh… wet dream, about their brother—… eww…"

At the "eww" part, Neteyam seemed to shrink even further into himself, and Lo’ak cursed his only talent: making already bad situations even worse. He had only one idea left to salvage this mess, even if it meant his dignity would be burned to the ground.

"I admit, it caught me off guard, but it didn’t bother me. In fact, what you were thinking about… well… I liked it too."

We’re not dying of shame, not today! Maybe later.

"Huh? Really?" Neteyam’s eyes glimmered with disbelief, every tiny golden speck within them lighting up on their own.

"I’m saying, I wouldn’t be against trying it. Preferably while we’re both awake. I don’t have much experience, so I’m not promising it’ll be good, but why not?"

"Lo’ak… We’re before Eywa."

Well, that certainly hadn’t stopped millions of years of Na’vi ancestors from rolling around at the base of the Tree of Souls right after their tsaheylu.

"Then I hope Eywa brought a snack. Besides—" he lifted their intertwined queues "—we’re basically married now, so if she didn’t object before, she shouldn’t now."

Uh, shit. Had Neteyam’s smile always been this devastatingly gorgeous?

Any attempt to salvage what little dignity he had left—if he had any to begin with—evaporated as he crashed onto Neteyam’s sweetly curved lips, like a man dying of thirst upon an oasis, while his brother pulled him in again, tight, until the undeniable proof of their desire pressed together through their tewngs. The pleasant sensation shot down their spines, begging—pleading—to be repeated over and over again.

Neteyam was so... damn, hard, and the realization that he was the cause of it made him reckless. He only intended to shift forward slightly, just enough to relive the pleasant friction, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. Just like in that memory—except now, a thousand times more embarrassing—he found himself pressing against him.

Fuck, fuck... ! If they kept this up, he would coming to his shame without even being able to see the part of Neteyam that excited his imagination the most. He didn't dare look down between them and confront it, but he wanted to more than anything.

What could it be like? Neteyam didn't look down at himself in the memory, and the last time he had seen his brother naked was when he was about five years old, and since then... he had probably changed a lot. Could he be as perfect and unique as every other part of Neteyam?

Two hands fell above his knees and gently squeezed.

"If you're that curious, you can take a look," Neteyam murmured in a much deeper voice than usual. He held his gaze as his fingers slid upward, stopping just at the top of his thighs.

"What?! How did you know...?"

"I hear every thought of yours, crystal clear." His expression turned amused.

"HUUH, are you messing with me?! How is that even possible? I can feel your emotions, see images, but I don't hear anything!"

"I think the only explanation is that the more advanced one always takes control."

The obvious provocation almost drew out Lo'ak’s usual response, the one ready to burst with a snide remark, but then he remembered who was speaking: it was Neteyam, the one who had given his life for the idiot he was. He swallowed and looked away.

"Hey, shut up! I just don’t have any experience with this yet."

The skilled hands untied his girdle in an instant, and he hissed as the free air suddenly caressed his heated, naked member. Neteyam looked into his eyes the whole time, but his hot hand moved ever closer to take his soul.

"You’re the first for me, too."

Oh, okay. Something stirred his heart at this confession, and he had no idea why it made him so happy. Then, as a warm palm, not his own, enveloped him for the first time in his life, all thoughts vanished from his mind, leaving nothing but Neteyam's damn talented fingers as they began to move up and down with careful but decisive motions on his lenght.

It was so insanely good that he couldn’t hold back the pleading moans that spilled from his lungs one after the other. He weakened so much that he had to grip Neteyam's shoulder, his forehead pressing against his chest. He couldn’t even say where the thought came from, but the recently seen memory flickered in his mind, remembering how sensitive his brother was here. So before he thought too much about it, as an experiment, his lips brushed against the other’s skin, his warm breath gliding over the taut peak, and then his tongue made a single slow, pleasure-filled small circle around it. All the muscles on Neteyam’s abdomen tightened at once.

"Ahh, damn... Lo'ak..."

He didn’t hear his brother speak like this very often, but he definitely liked it. As he tried to hold back the urge to push forward into Neteyam’s palm like a wild animal, he remembered what his brother’s exact fantasy had been, and he thought it was time to show him that he had always underestimated him.

“Wait a bit,” he sent through their connection, and despite his brother’s reluctant protests, he peeled his fingers off. It was hard not to groan in disappointed frustration as he lost the pleasurable friction, but he knew what he was about to do would be much better—at least for his self-esteem.

He moved slowly down, tasting every beautiful mound of muscle. He had always watched his brother's body with envy, but seeing it through a different lens, knowing it was his own, feeling the taut lines under his own hands, hearing the sounds of his gasps in his ears as their souls connected, affected him in a way he had never known before. Lower and lower, as Neteyam's trembling grew stronger, and when he reached the line of the tewng at his hips, his brother grabbed his hair. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't..."

Just relax. You've always taken care of me, now just leave this to me.

As he tasted the sensitive skin, he couldn't help but glance to the side, at the imposing, sizable bulge beneath Neteyam's girdle. To ease his embarrassment, as he began to undo the side strap, he couldn't help but remark through their connection:

It's unbelievable that you've been hiding this all this time.

Neteyam was completely beside himself, gasping for breath as his brother's unsteady fingers struggled to remove every obstacle that held even himself back from madness.

His thoughts only suggested one word in return: Skxawng...

He almost felt like laughing, it was so much like him. So much like his brother, with whom he secretly loved to tease. And now he wanted to repay him for all the care he had showered him with since his birth.

With a sly smile, he pulled the small cloth off his lips as he stared into Neteyam's narrowed eyes - but then, when he finally saw what he had wanted to see all along, he nearly choked on his own saliva.

Holy. Fuck.

He had underestimated him. He had so damn underestimated him! The mere sight of him was enough to make his own even harder, and as every last drop of blood drained from his head, he couldn't help but stare at him.

Since childhood, he had always been driven by a kind of curiosity to taste things he shouldn't — he even remembered how his parents panicked when he once ate an atokirina - but never, ever had he felt such a strong, desperate desire to have something in his mouth. Big, thick, and beautiful - he was sure he would never find anyone else even remotely attractive again.

Neteyam fidgeted awkwardly under his gaze. It seemed that on one hand, the waiting was driving him crazy, and on the other, perhaps he hoped his younger brother would change his mind — otherwise, he was ready to be damned.

And Lo'ak decided he would no longer leave him in doubt. After all, he's a grown man - or something like that. And he's just going to suck another grown man, who happens to be his brother - no big deal.

"Wait, you don't have to if you don't want to!" Neteyam said quickly, grabbing his younger brother's arm. Unspoken between them hovered the thought that maybe this was the last time he could stop himself. But he didn’t back down.

"I want to."

"Then... if it's too much, don't be afraid to stop..."

Pfft. And once again, the overprotective older brother. Do you always have to underestimate me?!

He had just wrapped his fingers around the base of it, and Neteyam's hand jerked to his mouth, as if it would hold back all the embarrassing sounds he couldn't control, but he wanted to hear them anyway, so he was determined to ruin him as much as possible, so much so that he couldn't control himself. For the first time in his life, he wanted to dominate him.

He had only run his hand along his entire length a few times, and Neteyam was immediately leaking. Ahh. He says don't do it, when he's so desperate!

A little smugness warmed his smile, and he placed his other hand on his brother's thigh, forcing a way for himself. He moved his fingertips slowly as he leaned gently against him, taking a deep breath.

Neteyam's scent intoxicated him. He hadn't thought anything could turn him on so much, but it was good, it really was so damn tempting that he wanted to scream to himself.

He started with a small, soft kiss, then when he first licked the top of his head, he felt his brother's hips involuntarily thrust forward. Eywa, how long he had been waiting for this! He couldn't blame him.

He lazily pushed him back to the ground, mentally gathering every secret knowledge he had on the subject that Spider had shown him a few years ago, laughing amicably through an old digital book at the base - admittedly, it was mostly done by women for men, but he didn't see any reason why not.

He licked him slowly, trying to coordinate the rhythm with his hands. When he succeeded, he felt Neteyam completely fall apart beneath him.

"F-fuck..." he whispered in a throaty voice, leaning back a little so their eyes could connect. There was something intoxicating about it, connecting physically and mentally, while pushing the boundaries of his always exemplary, collected brother. He felt the time had come, and without breaking eye contact for a moment, he slowly took it into his mouth.

Two trembling hands sank into his hair

"Lo'ak... uhh.. damn..." .

He wanted to laugh to himself in joy that he finally had such a powerful hold on him, but he overrode the urge to be even better. Even more, even more unbearable. He tried to avoid hurting him with his teeth, even if it meant having to uncomfortably open his jaw.

Neteyam had experienced greater pain because of him.

Still, looking at it from the outside seemed much easier than doing it. It was hot, twitching, throbbing, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to accept in. His brother's moans formed a melody more beautiful than the Omatikaya lullabies, and the deep pleasure on his face made it seem, from the outside, as if someone had just put him in his place. Because of him. Only because of him.

This gave him strength, and he began to suck harder, eliciting guilty moans from him. He let it go deep again, his tongue swirling around the shaft, his fingers not moving from the base, only his other hand sliding up the flat abdominal wall, holding it down so that he couldn't move forward even at the height of pleasure.

"Ahhh... Lo'ak, yes... like this..."

He wanted to answer, but... finally, he could.

I love you, he said in his thoughts, and if he hadn't been sure he had passed, Neteyam's twitching proved it. Maybe he had answered, but he hadn't heard.

All the more so the increasingly unholy sounds, and he wanted more of them, as long as possible, prolonging the moment. He wanted to enjoy every little tremor that his bare mouth caused from him, the most heroic warrior he had ever known - but he felt that neither of them could hold out much longer, so he quickened the rhythm a little, and helped him with his hand.

More and more powerful thrusts, while from time to time he released it from his mouth, then took it even deeper. Neteyam was only moaning incomprehensibly under him, one hand gripping the grass beside him, the other in Lo'ak's hair, and he was no longer able to control himself, so that his hips wouldn't sway in an ancient rhythm.

Then the taste suddenly became even saltier, it throbbed even more forcefully, and her hips began to shake, but then, as if he had come to his senses, he suddenly sat up and pulled Lo'ak off him.

"Wait...wait, ahh, Lo'ak...wait!"

Scared, he pushed his brother's hand away, then clasped his own hand around his base, gasping for breath for a few moments until he could calm down somewhat.

"What is it?" Lo'ak asked in confusion. Did he mess something up? Did he hurt him?

"No, no, none of that," he replied. So he could still hear his thoughts. "Just...not like that. I..."

"What?"

"I want to be inside you," Neteyam growled. He looked as if he had just revealed his darkest secrets.

Lo'ak stared at him with a frown, his tail wagging behind him. Okaaay....

"Um, I don't want to be a party pooper, but how can you? You know, I'm not a girl," he rubbed the back of his head.

There was a long silence between them.

"Dad talked to you about these things, right?"

"Dad just said that once was enough for him, I can ask you. But I would have been trampled by a herd of Angtsì!"

"Baby bro. You know how two men do this, right?"

Huh. What??? Two men... can do more than that?

Maybe... he shouldn't have asked Spider back then.

Neteyam

Words carried great weight—he had always known that. That was why he always thought twice before speaking. But his little brother had a way of making him impulsive, even when he was alive.

He had feared that the secret in his heart would remain forever unspoken, locked away without ever passing his lips. But now that Lo’ak knew—and hadn’t reacted nearly as badly as he had expected—a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders, one he had carried for years.

How long had it been? He couldn’t even remember when the simple, innocent love between brothers had shifted into something else entirely. Something more forbidden, something far more consuming, burning inside him with a heat he could no longer control. When it came to Lo’ak, his body moved on its own, drawn to him instinctively. He would have followed him to the ends of the world, no matter the cost.

And his brother—he always went where his heart and thirst for adventure led him, often recklessly, straight into danger.

Neteyam understood why, even if it frustrated him. Lo’ak couldn’t help but seek proof that he was worthy of attention, of praise—recognition he had never been given. And Neteyam, despite knowing this, had never been able to make up for their parents’ approval. He was… just a brother to him. Nothing more.

He loved every sky-high tree of the Hallelujah Mountains, the thick, humid air, the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy, coaxing the vibrant flowers to bloom. But none of it mattered as much as Lo’ak’s presence. It was the only reason he could let go of his home—especially this place.

He could still see that day before his eyes, the memory burned sharp and indelible in his mind—when he had played here with his eight-year-old little brother.

Lo’ak had fashioned himself a crude headdress from fallen feathers, kneeling at the base of their tree, draped in a richly patterned syuve. His face was streaked with uneven, pale violet lines, reminiscent of how the future Tsahik was adorned in the old Omatikaya tales—though Neteyam was fairly certain that, during an actual tìrusey, a real Tsahik’s markings would be… a little more deliberate than this.

The thought sent a strange tingling through his stomach, especially as he watched Lo’ak, wrapped in their mother’s syuve—one that had been passed down in their family for generations. His laughter rang bright and full of life through the trees.

“If Mom finds out you stole that, she’ll wring our necks,” Neteyam sighed. It was more than likely that if they got caught, he wouldn’t escape punishment either.

His little brother, meanwhile, had just finished his masterpiece—a hideous feathered Olo’eyktan collar. Neteyam didn’t stop him from standing on his toes to drape it over his shoulders, but he still felt like they were doing something they shouldn’t.

“We’ll put it back before they come home, and they’ll never know,” Lo’ak waved off his concern, admiring his handiwork with satisfaction. Then, suddenly, his expression darkened as he glanced around.

“Someone should be singing the ritual songs. We should’ve brought Kiri!”

“Oh, that would’ve been fun—watching you two argue over who gets to be the Tsahik.”

“Pfft, she never would’ve beaten me!”

Lo’ak declared confidently. Neteyam smiled at the memory—his brother’s smug grin as he adjusted the feathered collar, the proudest accomplishment of his life so far.

Neither of them had ever actually witnessed such a ceremony, but Lo’ak seemed to have memorized everything their mother had told them the night before, trying to recreate it as best he could—with a few creative substitutions for the proper items.

Neteyam never forgot the stomach-churning taste of the “spirit-cleansing” drink, a concoction of mashed herbs and berries, which Lo’ak had forced down his throat after much pleading. He couldn’t taste anything for days afterward.

Still, the victorious smile that spread across Lo’ak’s face after successfully making him drink it had somewhat made up for it. (Even if Neteyam had briefly considered what it would actually take for him to be genuinely mad at his idiot little brother.)

Lo’ak hadn’t quite grown into the role yet—his performance was too childish, exaggerated—but his enthusiasm, the bright sparkle in his eyes, the complete devotion with which he threw himself into the game… it enchanted Neteyam.

“Well, there’s just one thing left,” Lo’ak announced decisively. Then, without warning, he grabbed Neteyam’s hand. “Tsaheylu!”

Neteyam was so startled that he didn’t even have time to protest before Lo’ak was already reaching for his braid, his small, clumsy fingers trying to grasp the neural strands. The gesture was entirely childlike—naïve, playful, and yet so natural that, for a moment, Neteyam’s heart skipped a beat.

“Lo’ak!” He jerked back in shock, shoving his brother’s hand away. “Don’t do that—Tsaheylu isn’t a game!”

“But why not?” Lo’ak blinked at him, confused. “Mom said that’s how the Olo’eyktan and the Tsahik bond before Eywa—so they can feel each other’s hearts!”

The thought was so innocent, so pure and earnest, that Neteyam had no idea how to respond. He just stared at Lo’ak—his flushed cheeks, the streaks of paint smudged slightly across his face, the way he impatiently tapped his fingers against the crook of his elbow, waiting for an answer.

The wind stirred their braids, as if Eywa herself were watching them. But was she giving them her blessing? Or was it a warning?

“…Maybe one day,” Neteyam murmured at last, a strange feeling curling in his stomach. He didn’t dare say more. He didn’t dare admit that even then—even back then—something about Lo’ak made him feel a way he shouldn’t.

“Well, in that case…” Lo’ak muttered, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Before Neteyam could react, his little brother reached over his shoulder and tugged his braid forward, then grabbed the frozen Neteyam’s one and simply draped them over each other.

Even though their tswins did not connect—only rested against each other, hidden within their hair—the intensity of the sensation surged through his entire body, weakening his knees, the tingling coiling deep in his stomach.

For the first time in his life, he felt something like this—an unfamiliar, profound attachment that defied all reason.

He knew he shouldn’t be so affected by the sight of their hair entwined. He shouldn’t have felt anything at all. But feelings never asked for permission.

They were simply there, lurking irrevocably beneath his skin. Haunting him on sleepless nights as he lay beside Lo’ak on their sleeping mat, when no one was watching, and he inched closer—covering him, warming him, running soothing fingers over his arm when he had bad dreams, shielding him from everything and everyone.

At first, it had been mere childish devotion. But as the years passed… as he grew older, it became harder and harder to explain to himself.

Like when Lo’ak, exhausted from a long hunt, lazily rested his head on his shoulder, mumbling sleepily—probably his usual complaints—but Neteyam had to summon all his strength not to touch him.

Or when his little brother stormed ahead of him after an argument, tail lashing with frustration, and Neteyam couldn’t not notice how beautiful he looked like that—flushed with raw emotion.

Then, the stolen touches became more frequent—just as the heat in his body flared every time Lo’ak wandered too close. Sometimes, it was a near thing, maintaining control and not doing something irreversibly foolish.

Like when Lo’ak’s legs draped over him in his sleep, curling into his chest, his tail wrapping around his thighs, and Neteyam felt like he was going to lose his mind—his fingers clenching so tightly into the mat that his knuckles turned white.

Year after year, the torment only grew stronger until his resolve solidified: If he was ever chosen as Olo’eyktan, he wanted no mate but him. No matter what was expected of him, he would never be able to bond with anyone else.

And now, here sat Lo’ak, fully grown, beside him—their hands entwined between them. Even Neteyam himself marveled at how naturally four fingers laced together with five.

From the look in his eyes, Lo’ak might have been thinking the exact same thing. His eyes shone, perhaps even brighter than his tanhìs, like stars in the night sky, making the curve of his forehead all the more striking.

He regarded their fingers with that same childlike confusion he always had—ever since he first realized he had one more than his brother. And in the midst of his endless self-reproach, he bit his lip in hesitation.

“Neteyam…” Lo’ak began cautiously, uncertainty lacing his voice. His head dipped slightly, as if he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

Oh, Eywa, how he loved hearing his name from his lips—especially in that soft, bashful tone.

Neteyam wanted to memorize everything about this moment—how Lo’ak ran his fingers through his own hair as if trying to summon courage, how he parted his lips to speak but seemed to think better of it, shutting them just as quickly.

"What is it, baby bro?" he asked with a laugh, trying to ease the tension. "You look like you're about to drown in your own thoughts. Don't think so hard—just spit it out!"

"I'm just… curious about something," Lo'ak huffed, like an agitated young palulukan. His nails curled reflexively, digging into the back of Neteyam’s hand—then, realizing how sharply he had overreacted, a faint purple flush spread across his cheeks, and his ears flattened.

Under his brother’s curious gaze, he grew paler, as if struggling to gather his resolve.

"In the end… you didn’t do it with anyone else, did you?"

For a moment, Neteyam didn’t quite understand what he meant, and his thoughts strayed to dangerous places. No. Lo’ak definitely wasn’t implying that.

"Do what?" "The… Tsaheylu."

...

Oh. His breath caught, and for a moment, he had no words.

They weren’t children anymore, and this question was far more intimate than if Lo’ak had simply asked if he had lain with someone before—he might have recovered from that easier.

But of course, his little brother had never cared for things as simple as respect and propriety.

"You never gave me a free moment when I wasn’t busy with saving your ass," he finally sighed, exasperated. "When would I have? With who?"

"Are you seriously blaming me for that?" Lo'ak scoffed. "You had plenty of chances—any Omaticaya girl would’ve had you. Probably most of the Metkayina, too."

"As if I ever wanted any of them!"

There it was. Another fight, just like when they were reckless kids, wasting time. And who knew how much of that they even had left?

Neteyam was about to say something to break the tension when Lo’ak’s next words reached him.

"And me?"

It was barely a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud might change everything.

Him, the eternal rebel—the one who had never feared anything.

"If you really… love me, we could have done it."

The question struck his chest like an arrow. It was as if all the air had been ripped from his lungs, as if Eywa herself had stopped time for one fleeting moment, just long enough for Lo’ak’s words to pierce the deepest, most guarded part of him.

Lo’ak’s question shook him. Neteyam could no longer hear the wind rustling through the trees—only the sound of Lo’ak’s breath, his heartbeat pounding too close to his own.

This was a trap. A beautiful, tempting trap, one he could fall into with a single careless step—never to return. The answer pulsed within him. Yes. He had always wanted him. Lo’ak had always been the only one he had ever thought of, the only one he had ever longed for with every nerve in his body, the only one no one else could ever compare to.

But it couldn’t be. The bitter truth sat heavy on his tongue.

"Lo’ak…" His name fell from Neteyam’s lips like something fragile, something that hurt to say. And maybe it did.

"We… we can’t."

His brother frowned in confusion.

"Why not? We’re not kids anymore, and we don’t have time to keep waiting for someday!"

There was a tremor in his voice, deep beneath his frustration. Neteyam’s lips parted—then closed again. He wanted to tell him. Wanted to explain that Lo’ak didn’t understand what he was asking.

Tsaheylu wasn’t just a gesture, not just a kiss or an embrace; that if they did this, he would likely never be able to bond with anyone else ever again. And Neteyam was already gone.

No matter that he had been given this one moment to say goodbye—he was only a memory. Nothing more. No longer a part of this world.

"You still have an entire life ahead of you," he said finally. Pain seeped into his gaze, and the words left bitterness on his tongue. "You would bind yourself to me forever, and I… I’m not here, Lo’ak. I can’t be with you."

Lo’ak’s lips pressed into a tight line.

For a moment, he closed his eyes—then opened them again, and Neteyam couldn’t not notice the way his irises shimmered, as if he were barely holding back tears.

"And you think…" he asked, voice hollow, "I would ever want anyone else?" Neteyam froze.

"If you're the only one I’ll ever be able to connect with... that’s more than enough for me!" The boy grabbed his shoulders roughly, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.

"That’s all I’ve EVER truly wanted, so you’d better fucking find a way to drag your dumb ass back to me, I don’t care how, you hear me?! NO EXCUSES, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, if anyone can do it, it’s definitely you!!"

Lo’ak’s tail lashed irritably behind him, and he probably didn’t even notice how, in his intense emotions, he had climbed over Neteyam’s legs and curled up in his lap. The sight of his stormy, furrowed brows struck like a lightning bolt, and even the sounds of the rainforest seemed to quiet around them, as if Eywa herself were holding her breath.

The question hovered in the air, fragile yet burning, like a freshly bloomed loreyu flower in the morning dew.

Neteyam’s fingers tightened over Lo’ak’s hand, his touch searing, feverish. He stared into his brother’s eyes, then at those well-shaped, faintly violet lips—the ones he had spent so many nights staring at while Lo’ak slept peacefully beside him, oblivious to the maddening, sinful thoughts that tormented him.

Neteyam’s heart pounded in his throat. As his brother trembled above him, as if regretting the question, as if he wanted to take back his words, Neteyam already knew—he couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t let this moment slip away.

Slowly, with almost sacrilegious reverence, he lifted Lo’ak’s hand and brought it to his lips. His kiss brushed over each finger, one after another, returning again and again to the one Lo’ak despised most about himself. His name slipped from Neteyam’s lips like a sigh as he continued his silent devotion, and this time, Lo’ak didn’t pull away. Neither of them moved.

They only watched each other, floating between emotions, in a world where neither past nor future mattered—only this moment.

Neteyam reached forward, his face stopping mere inches from Lo’ak’s. He could smell him—that clean, familiar, yet maddening scent that set his blood on fire.

"I want to do it." The words left his mouth with such raw honesty that even he was surprised by them. He was no longer the golden child, not a heroic warrior, the pride of his people—just a young man holding the one thing he desired most in his arms. "Fuck, you have no idea how much!"

The weight of the confession crashed down on them both, breaking through like a dam, releasing everything he had tried to suppress for years.

Lo’ak’s fingers trembled as they pressed against Neteyam’s face, as if afraid he would disappear if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.

"Then do it." His voice was barely more than a breath as he brought his queue forward, offering it with averted eyes. "Now."

"But…"

"JUST SHUT UP AND DO IT! I want this, and I know you too, so there’s nothing stopping us, okay?"

Neteyam hesitated, but he couldn’t resist any longer.

Carefully, as if handling something fragile, he reached for Lo’ak’s queue, taking his own between his fingers. The moment was sacred—not a game, not some childish experiment, but something deeper, something true, something that would change everything forever.

Lo’ak’s lips parted slightly as Neteyam slowly drew them closer, their skin warming where their bare stomachs pressed together. Lo’ak tensed above him, a soft, shuddering whimper escaping him; even that was enough to make Neteyam feel like he was burning alive, but nothing could compare to the moment their neural tendrils brushed together, then intertwined— Neteyam felt as if an entirely new world had opened before him.

The first contact was explosive. In a single breath, he felt everything—Lo’ak’s thoughts, his emotions, as if their souls had fused into one, beating with a single heart. His brother clung to him in surprise, his pupils blown wide, his spine arching as the new sensations crashed over him.

Love. Curiosity. Pain. Want…

Neteyam squeezed his eyes shut, realizing there was no going back. Lo’ak knew now. He could feel it all. And he accepted it.

As his thoughts surged through their bond, as his brother grasped the full meaning, as hesitation slowly melted into understanding—Neteyam instinctively wanted to shield him from it, from the overwhelming storm inside him—but there was nowhere to hide anymore.

Lo’ak’s breathing grew ragged, his gaze locked onto Neteyam’s face.

"I…" Lo’ak’s voice echoed deep inside him. No words, just raw, unfiltered emotions flowing between them. Neteyam clenched his teeth, his hands curling into fists, trying to restrain himself—but when Lo’ak’s fingers traced down to rest over his chest, right above his heart, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

"Me too…" he whispered, and like a starving beast, he yanked Lo’ak closer, his lips descending upon his brother’s neck with wild, fevered desperation.

Their breaths mingled, their bodies aligned as if they had always meant to fit together this way. They had no idea what they were doing anymore, only instinctively moving against each other, the tsaheylu deepening their bond—not just through the connection, but in every lingering touch, every shared longing.

Neteyam’s lips parted involuntarily as Lo’ak’s hand slid down his side, lingering at his waist, igniting a thousand tiny detonations low in his belly. And when Lo’ak leaned in to press their mouths together, they both groaned into the kiss, their minds and bodies spiraling into a shared descent.

He felt every hazy, heated thought—both his and Lo’ak’s—the ones his brother might never have admitted even to himself. But Neteyam knew. He felt it. Oh, Eywa… and it was driving him insane. They were alone in this perfect, unrepeatable moment, and nothing else mattered anymore.

But… this came with something else—something that was about to push them past a boundary they could never return from. When his hands slid down Lo’ak’s back, and his fingers brushed the base of his tail, his brother’s breath hitched sharply.

Neteyam couldn’t stop himself from gripping his waist, pulling him even closer against him—stunning both himself and Lo’ak with the realization that their bodies were ready for an entirely different kind of connection too.

Lo’ak

The world of memories had always been a strange experience, something one could never truly get used to—even if na'vi children learned to enter it before they could walk.

A strange experience, but never like this.

When he finally gathered the courage to connect to the Utraya Mokri after so long, he thought he’d only stay for a few moments—a brief encounter.

He had hoped for something simple, a nostalgic glimpse into the past where his brother would greet him with a smile, maybe caught in the middle of an old adventure or a shared game. He wanted to see Neteyam the way he had always been: smarter than him, stronger and braver, as perfect as he had always been—and for that, Lo’ak had always hated him. Well, if he was being honest, "hate" wasn’t the right word. Pain in the ass—that was probably the term Dad had used once.

When they were kids, his brother had been his biggest role model, and he had believed that he could follow in his footsteps—even with his five fingers and stupid eyebrows. Small details, who cares?

Naively, he had believed that it didn’t matter how he was born, that one day he, too, could be great—maybe even the best. But after being compared to his brother so many times and always falling miserably short, that feeling twisted into something much uglier. Everyone always questioned why he couldn’t behave like Toruk Makto’s son, why he couldn’t be an example to their people—everyone, except his brother.

Neteyam, though he teased him constantly, never made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. In fact, despite all his annoying pestering, he had been the only one capable of convincing him otherwise. Lo’ak had hoped to relive a moment like that from the past, but… As the world unfolded around him, something felt off.

The landscape was familiar, yet foreign. The leaves of the trees shimmered strangely, as if he wasn’t inside a memory but a dream. The air was heavy, unreal. He knew this place, but… he had never seen it like this.

And there he was—Neteyam, just as he had last seen him, but his eyes looked more tired than ever. He lay among enormous, blooming flowers, leaning against their old favorite tree, like an ethereal masterpiece, as if he were a part of this dreamlike scenery.

He was still so breathtakingly beautiful that Lo’ak felt his heart ache. He knew this was just a memory, an illusion, yet his brother’s presence felt so real that he couldn’t push past it.

There was so much he wanted to say… so much he wanted to ask…

It was a grave sin before Eywa to disturb the dead, to disrupt their rest by reminding them of their fate. But he had been pretending for so long—how could he do that to the only person who had ever truly been his anchor?

His whole life, every action, had been a mess of mistakes—and though he knew how many rules he was breaking once again, his legs could no longer hold him. He collapsed to his knees, spilling out a stream of meaningless apologies.

What did it change? Nothing. He was as pathetic as a child, but he couldn’t stop. Even in death, the brother whose blood stained his hands had to be the one to comfort him.

And then, suddenly—he had no idea how—but Neteyam’s lips were on his, and under that kiss, Lo’ak felt himself turn into liquid protoplasm.

The mantra of I’m sorry in his head was instantly replaced by oh fuck.

He had no idea what they were doing—well, he knew, but he didn’t understand. Why?

This was just a very weird dream, right? The whole world, all of existence, time itself—stopped.

He could feel the other’s breath, his heartbeat (was that even possible?), and his body couldn’t decide whether to freeze or catch fire.

Neteyam’s kiss felt as if it had always been there, buried beneath his skin, carried in his blood, even if he had never known it. It felt good; too good, maybe.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind that this was the farthest thing from right—not just between boys, but between brothers—but he couldn’t stop the waves of heat rising in his stomach.

He wanted it. Damn it, even if Eywa punished him for this, he still wanted more!

He was absolutely inexperienced in this, but he still tried to keep up with Neteyam’s annoyingly skilled mouth. Who the hell had taught him this? If he ever got back, he would have to find them and beat them up. Even if it was a girl.

It was too easy to get swept away, and he must have forgotten to breathe because he nearly choked on his brother’s name as it slipped out of his throat, completely beyond his control.

He felt Neteyam’s arm shudder beneath his own, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine as well.

It was only when his brother pulled back slightly that it even occurred to him to question what the fuck they were doing.

If their mother found out that he had been kissing the memory of his dead brother in Eywa’s presence, she would probably claw his eyes out on the spot. But this flushed, handsome boy in front of him… (Wait, what?!)

Was he really just a memory? A memory shouldn’t be able to do things it had never done before, and Lo’ak was absolutely certain that Neteyam had never done this with him.

"You stopped," his brother smiled at him, and his warm palm slid into his hair—just like it always did whenever he had pissed Neteyam off so badly that even he felt like he had gone too far. Oh. So this was just another prank. And he had fucking fallen for it!

"What the fuck" he muttered irritably. "Are you messing with me?"

He expected this to be the part where Neteyam laughed at him and told him, Why else would I have done it? But instead, the boy lowered his gaze, and the only thing in his expression was pain and… longing? This can’t be—

"I would never with that" he said, pulling back just a little more.

Lo’ak couldn’t help it—he physically felt his sudden absence, and he hated it.

Okay, they needed to talk. Or maybe he should leave? They said the longer your soul lingered with Eywa, the harder it was to return to your physical body. How long had he been here? A few minutes? But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, he didn’t want to leave. Never again.

... No—he scolded himself—, do you even realize what that would mean? And who would even miss me there?! Maybe Payakan.

"Lo’ak?"

His brother’s worried voice yanked him out of his thoughts.

Neteyam rarely called him by name—"baby bro" or "skxawng" were much more common—and usually, when he did, it was because he was absolutely furious with him. But this time, his voice was gentle.

It completely threw him off. Seeing his hesitation, Neteyam took a step back. Not much, just enough to make the air between them feel suddenly too cold.

Lo’ak’s brain was still foggy, like his brother’s kiss had knocked all sense out of him. Maybe it had, because when Neteyam tried to pull away completely, he reached for him instinctively.

He didn’t think. He just grabbed his arm.

Not too tightly—not as if he could actually hold him back—but Neteyam still stopped.

"Don’t… don’t go," he heard his own voice, and his whole body trembled with the realization. He wanted his closeness more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Neteyam closed his eyes. A long, shaky breath escaped him, like he had been trying to avoid this moment.

"Lo’ak…"

His name slipped from Neteyam’s lips like a quiet prayer.

"Why?" Lo’ak asked, though he wasn’t even sure what he was asking for. His brother looked at him again, his gaze dark and full of emotions Lo’ak had never let himself see before.

"Why did you kiss me?" His voice was firmer now, but no matter how hard he tried, it still trembled slightly. "This isn’t a memory. You’ve never done this before."

Neteyam’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if holding something back. Then… he just looked tired. "Because I always wanted to," he finally said. Lo’ak’s stomach clenched.

"This… this can’t be true."

The words hung between them, but neither of them moved. Neteyam’s lips curled slightly—not in the easy, brotherly smile he so often used to brush things off, but in something sad, something aching.

"You realize I haven’t changed, don't you?" he asked softly. "You’re just finally willing to see."

Lo’ak’s mouth parted, but no words came out. Slowly, carefully, Neteyam placed a hand against his chest, barely touching him, as if Lo’ak might disappear beneath his fingers.

"I have nothing left to lose," he continued. "No more ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ No more responsibilities. No more duty. There’s only what I truly want."

Lo’ak’s grip on his arm tightened. He didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Neteyam turned his head slightly, as if he couldn’t bear to keep looking at him, as if saying the next words would be too much.

"And I want you. I’ve always wanted you."

Something inside Lo’ak snapped. All these years… he had never even considered that his brother felt this way. He had thought Neteyam protected him at all costs, risking himself over and over, just to prove how much better he was.

Neteyam… wanted him? What the hell did that even mean? It couldn’t mean that. Could it? Then what else could it possibly mean?! And if this was just a memory— No.

This wasn’t a memory.

His gaze dropped to his brother’s chest, and his eyes widened in shock at the faint, yet undeniable scar that shimmered over his heart like a golden star.

This wasn’t a memory. This was the real Neteyam. Was this the real Neteyam?!

Eywa, what kind of game are you playing with me?!

"I’m sorry if it disappoints you," his brother’s voice broke in a way that was so unlike him. What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t been prepared for… this. Not for Neteyam to be the one to appear before him— The one who knew exactly why he had died. The one who knew his sin.

"I tried to bury it so many times, but…"

And Neteyam didn’t blame him. Instead of yelling at him or pushing him away, he had just admitted that he actually… always…

Lo’ak didn’t think any further. Thinking wasn’t his strong suit anyway.

He surged forward, grabbing his brother by the shoulder with one hand while the other slid to the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss so intense that if Eywa were to take his life the next moment for this disgrace, he wouldn’t regret a thing.

The kiss burned on his lips like searing embers. There was nothing soft about it, nothing careful—Lo’ak wasn’t careful. He never was.

And Neteyam… Neteyam didn’t pull away. Quite the opposite.

Lo’ak felt his brother’s hand gently press against his cheek, fingers tracing his cheekbone as if trying to memorize it. As if he wasn’t sure how long he had left.

That thought clawed bitterly at Lo’ak’s throat. It shouldn’t be like this. Neteyam should be here. In his body, in life! In the world where Lo’ak was too—but he wasn’t.

The realization stabbed through him like a blade.

A panicked pain swirled in his chest, a crushing weight he couldn’t shake even if he wanted to. And yet, beneath the pain, something else was lurking. Something warm. Something familiar. Something he had perhaps never wanted to see before.

Slowly, he pulled back—but not all the way. He pressed his forehead to Neteyam’s, letting their breaths mix.

"You…" The words died in his throat. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask. He didn’t know how to ask.

Neteyam exhaled softly. "I’m sorry."

Lo’ak frowned. "For what?"

Neteyam’s hand still rested on his cheek, as if afraid that if he let go, Lo’ak would disappear too.

"For saying it too late."

A strange tremor ran through Lo’ak’s chest. Neteyam’s eyes were hazy, filled with sorrow, longing—and something else Lo’ak was just now beginning to understand. It had always been there.

Neteyam had always looked at him like this—not just as family. Not just as the protective older brother to the reckless younger one. And Lo’ak…

Too many things clicked into place at once. The way Neteyam always stood up for him, even when it meant getting punished too. The way he had always mattered more to him than anything else—even his own life. And the way that, when he lost him, it felt like half his world had been taken away. His breath caught in his lungs.

"Shit."

Neteyam looked at him questioningly, and Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat.

"You… you’ve always loved me, haven’t you?"

Neteyam’s gentle, sorrowful smile was louder than words.

"Took you long enough, skxawng."

The nickname slipped from his lips so tenderly that Lo’ak felt every ounce of resistance inside him dissolve. Yes, now he knew.

He had always loved Neteyam too—he had just been too stubborn, too foolish to recognize it.

And now… maybe it was too late.

Pain tightened in his chest again, but Neteyam was still here. He was still here, and Lo’ak buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, clutching him like he could bring him back, like he could change the past.

Neteyam’s fingers slid into his hair, caressing around his tswin, the sensation shooting straight down his spine.

"It’s okay," he whispered. "I’m still here."

And Lo’ak held onto him like he never wanted to let go. Looking past his brother’s shoulder, he suddenly noticed the strange flowers around them—flowers he had never seen bloom in the real world before.

"This… this isn’t how it should be," he murmured, glancing around in a daze. His brother only let him pull back enough to follow his gaze. "And why this place, out of all our memories?"

Neteyam’s expression darkened slightly before a faint, almost mischievous smile flickered across his lips.

"Would you have preferred waking up in our kelku that morning I caught you jerk—"

"SHUT UP!" Lo’ak’s hands clamped over his brother’s mouth instantly, his face igniting in flames.

Neteyam chuckled against his palms, his chest shaking with silent laughter. Lo’ak’s entire body tensed—damn it, was Neteyam making a fool of him again?!

"Are you serious right now?! You had to bring that up?!" he growled, yanking his hands away.

"Hey, you asked. And let’s be real, it could’ve been way worse. At least we never saw the tersyu bloom before."

Lo’ak glanced skyward, as if pleading for patience from Eywa herself.

But his brother didn’t let up. His gaze softened, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"But I think I know why. Maybe… we’re here because this was one of the first times I wasn’t trying to pretend I wasn’t who I really was."

The air shifted between them in an instant. The lightheartedness vanished, and Lo’ak felt his heartbeat quicken with an uneasy sense of anticipation.

"I don’t remember us doing anything different here," he admitted. "Or… "

His breath hitched.

"Oh, no—this isn’t about that time when we played olo'eyktan and you married me, is it?!"

Neteyam’s eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, and then—there it was. That familiar, guilty half-smile, the one he only wore on those incredibly rare occasions when he actually got caught breaking the rules. Like he was debating whether to talk his way out of it—until he let out a quiet, resigned laugh and lowered his head.

Lo’ak stared in shock as his brother’s ears darkened to a deep shade of purple.

"So I was right."

Neteyam exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away.

"We were just kids," he muttered, clearly trying to downplay it, but his voice was too soft, too unsure.

Lo’ak snorted. "And?"

Neteyam finally met his gaze, and that was when Lo’ak saw it—that strange glimmer in his eyes. The hesitation, the nostalgia… and something else.

"And… maybe I took it a little more seriously than I should have."

His voice carried a rare, quiet shyness—something Lo’ak had never heard from him before.

Lo’ak

..........

With every passing moment, he was more certain—coming here had been a mistake.

Months had gone by, yet he could never bring himself to face Neteyam’s memory. His brother’s figure haunted his dreams every night, and though he had become better at pretending during the day, feigning that he was fine, upon waking from those dreams, he wanted nothing more than to scream. Desperately, hopelessly, until perhaps even Eywa would hear him and take him away too. To him. Instead of him… Anything would be better than this.

No matter what he did to occupy himself, the gnawing emptiness always found its way back to him. If things were different, Neteyam would surely be there, teasing him for doing a half-hearted job, throwing in a few sarcastic remarks about his lack of skill—only to pat him on the back and call him an idiot with a smile, like he always did. He hated him for that. He… missed him so much.

Something had been lost with him, something irreplaceable. His parents no longer scolded him, no longer compared him, yet the unspoken accusation lingered in their silent gazes. He was certain they would all be happier if he had died instead of his brother. And oh, how happy he would be! Or at least… happier.

More than once, he caught glimpses of blame in his mother’s eyes, or fleeting glances from his siblings whenever Neteyam was mentioned. Just a brief flicker in their gaze, but he knew exactly what it meant. They had looked at him like that countless times throughout his life, whenever he messed up—just like always. But this time… this time was different. This had crossed a line. They would never forgive him. And he would never forgive himself.

Back then… when things felt too much, he would retreat, pulling his knees to his chest, rocking himself on the highest branches of a tree—until he came. Usually teasing him, ruffling his hair, refusing to leave until he admitted exactly how he felt. And when at last he snapped and spilled all his pain, Neteyam would just be there, reassuring him that he wasn’t alone, that he always would be. No matter how many called him a freak, a demon-blood, no matter how many times he got hurt because of his own stupidity or how often Dad punished him for yet another reckless act— but now, he wasn’t there.

Because of him.

The water had become such a part of his daily life that it almost felt like he had been born metkayina. By now, even in his most distressed moments, it no longer troubled him to quiet his heart—at least, physically. Inside, there was only war, but his heartbeat gradually slowed, merging with the soft rhythm of the waves.

Did he even have the right to be here? He didn’t think so. Perhaps he would only catch a glimpse, a memory—but how would he react to seeing him? To his killer… And how could Lo’ak stand before him without crumbling beneath the weight of guilt, without begging to take his place? He deserved life so much more. Everyone would be so much happier if they could trade places!

He would never hurt anyone again. And maybe, just maybe, his soul would finally stop aching.

One last time, the five-fingered hand he had always despised curled into a fist as he connected his tswin to the softly glowing tendrils of the Utraya Mokri. And as his mind sank into the swirling, luminous currents, a single tear rolled down his cheek. —

Neteyam

..........

Being with Eywa… was like sinking into the purest, most serene spring. No pain, no fear, no hunger—only comfort, as his soul lay bare before the vastness of existence, waiting. Perhaps to be reborn, he thought. Honestly, this wasn’t such a bad state to be in. A place, where he no longer had to wear the mask of perfection.

He could simply be himself. Eywa had no expectations of him. She let him rest at last, without the constant worry of Lo’ak sneaking out in the middle of the night, getting himself killed... … Oh. Shit.

He barely managed to stir from the weightless stillness, but his eyes fluttered open hesitantly.

Lo’ak…

Was there anyone to stop him from doing something reckless now that he couldn’t? He could only hope their parents weren’t too harsh on him. That… they didn’t blame him. After all, he had been the one to fail. Maybe they refused to admit that it was his mistake, but logically, it had been that one misstep. That one careless moment, when he hadn’t protected himself properly, despite all of Dad’s lessons on how to evade such an attack. He hadn’t controlled himself. He hadn’t positioned himself correctly when he stepped out of hiding. If only he could tell them!

Lo’ak… there was no one left who would know where to find him when he was hurting. No one to comfort him—not that Neteyam had ever been very good at it, but he had cherished every moment when his brother’s sulking would, after enough pestering, break into the smallest smile. And then everything was okay again—because Lo’ak was already thinking up his next reckless idea, the kind that, at best, would only break his neck.

Did he… at least miss him? Even a little?

"Do you truly wish to know?"

The voice came like a gentle melody in his mind. He should have been used to it by now, hearing it so often, but still, he shuddered, as if caught in something shameful.

His face flushed, hiding behind a shy smile, though he knew there were no secrets before her. Out of habit, he still tried to suppress his emotions.

"It’s foolish," he murmured. "Surely he enjoys his new life as the eldest brother. No longer compared to me, no longer expected to be like me. Without me, he can finally be who he always wanted to be."

"And yet, your heart aches."

"Just… because he never came. I understand why he wouldn’t want to see me, but… even if he can’t hear me, I just wanted to hear his voice. See that skxawng face of his. Know what memory would come to his mind when he thinks of me."

It hurt. More than he expected. So much time had passed, and all of his siblings had come. At first, tearful, then later, with bittersweet smiles, recalling only the good times they had shared. But he never came.

He, whom Neteyam had waited for most of all, had never come.

"You have yet to use your wish."

Eywa knew him too well—there was no use denying it. When she first spoke to him, she had offered a gift, a small compensation for giving his life to save another. He could have used it anytime. But all along… he had wanted to use it with him. Was it selfish to feel disappointed that he never got the chance? He didn’t blame him, but…

"He won’t come, will he?" His voice broke, and the warmth of the endless peace turned cold, freezing as his soul shattered into tiny, aching pieces.

For years, he had suppressed everything—every longing, every forbidden feeling he shouldn’t have had for his own brother. He had hoped Lo’ak would at least love him as his brother. But no matter how hard he tried to get closer, he had never been able to make him... see him.

"Perhaps it’s for the best. If he came… if I saw him again, I’m not sure what I would do."

His vision blurred with tears he had never allowed himself to shed. He was ready to let go, to fade into nothingness—until Eywa’s voice pulled him back.

"In that case, would you like me to send him back?"

Wh-what?

A strange, blinding light engulfed him. Neteyam woke up leaning against the trunk of a massive tree, surrounded by vibrant tarsyu flowers blooming—a sight so unusual he immediately deemed it peculiar. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

It took a few moments for his senses to return after the lingering numbness, but once they did, he recognized the place instantly: their secret “base,” where he and Lo’ak had played countless times as children—just the two of them, without their sisters or parents.

They had stumbled upon it by accident after his younger brother had run away from home in a sulk, and Neteyam had found him curled up against this tree, tears streaming down his face unstoppable.

He could still recall the frightened desperation on Lo’ak’s face before he wrapped him in a comforting embrace, making the younger boy so stunned he momentarily forgot to sniffle.

"Don't cry," he had said with a smile, gently stroking Lo’ak’s messy braids.

"I'm not crying!" came the irritated reply, and Lo’ak shook off his hand.

He would never admit it, but Neteyam knew anyway: he was hungry. Tired. Scared… He knew every little movement his brother made all too well.

"Were you afraid?" Neteyam had asked, sitting down beside him cautiously, leaving just enough space in case the little boy wanted to lean into him. Of course, he didn’t. "It’s okay now. I’m here with you."

"Great. Now we’re both lost!"

Always the optimism, since the day he was born. And it seemed Neteyam’s life mission was to cheer him up, over and over again, despite it all.

"Do you remember what Mom taught us? If you’re lost, ask Eywa for guidance. Eywa shows the way to all her children."

He reached out to touch a nearby tarsyu. Back then, it looked nothing like the dreamlike spectacle it had become now—it was wrapped in a thick cocoon, shying away from his touch.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his brother. There was something similar between him and this plant, the way he hid within his own imaginary cocoon, too shy to reveal his bloom. But Neteyam was certain that if Lo’ak ever opened up, he would be more beautiful than any flower on Pandora.

"Any other plans?" Lo’ak had asked skeptically, but then his eyes widened as an Atokirina' gently landed on Neteyam’s outstretched finger.

For a few moments, they both stared in awe—first at the Sacred Tree’s seed, then at each other—until, suddenly, hundreds more appeared, floating before them in an interwoven chain.

"See?" Neteyam laughed. "Eywa is showing us the way home."

They returned to this place countless times afterward, just the two of them. The tarsyus never opened their petals, just as Lo’ak always took a step back whenever their bond grew too close.

More than anything, Neteyam had wanted to see him there, among the blooming flowers, once more—one last time.

A soft breeze caressed his face, and an Atokirina' drifted gently before his eyes. As his gaze followed its path, a tall shadow suddenly fell over him.

A tall, lean figure with loose braids, a leather strap around his waist. A palulukan dagger hung at his side—a blade, all too familiar. Once, it had been his own.

So he had kept it?

His dead heart felt as if it had started beating once again. A strange, tingling warmth spread through his entire being—something akin to pure happiness—as he took in the sight before him.

Lo’ak… He had grown so much. Taller than in this memory, even taller than Neteyam remembered from the last time he saw him. His hair was no longer tied to his tswin, left to fall freely on either side of his face.

He was older now, and yet… He looked more lost than ever, staring at Neteyam shocked. He seemed on the verge of speaking when, suddenly, he just dropped to his knees.

"I’m sorry," Lo’ak said, his voice carrying an unfamiliar edge, deeper than Neteyam remembered… had it changed while he was gone?

Neteyam couldn’t stop himself from leaning in, a soft smile spreading across his face. His brother may have grown taller, but he was still the same lost little boy as always.

And yet, something much heavier weighed on him now.

Neteyam wasn’t sure what to say to avoid ruining this moment—the last moment granted to them.

"Sorry for what?" he asked, startled by the sound of his own voice—it had been so long since he last spoke that it almost felt foreign.

But Lo’ak reacted instantly—his body tensed, his ears twitched, but he didn’t look up.

"I’m sorry… I… I should have…." Neteyam stared at him. Lo’ak was trembling.

Not like when he was a child, overwhelmed by frustration. Not like when his feet had frozen to the ground, afraid, as he tried to claim his ikran. His fists clenched tightly on his knees, as if that was the only thing keeping him from completely breaking apart.

Neteyam’s heart ached at the sight. Every word he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. This was the moment he had been waiting for, and now… now he was frozen, unable to move. Lo’ak… His Lo’ak. Wild, stubborn, irresistibly free, always defying every rule in his path.

And yet, here he was, kneeling before him, shattered—every ounce of strength and defiance abandoned, as if he had finally surrendered in a battle he was never meant to fight alone.

Neteyam swallowed hard and instinctively reached out, wanting to touch Lo’ak’s hair—to feel that he was really here, finally, after so long. But his fingers stopped midway.

Would it only make things harder? Would Lo’ak even want him to?

His brother gasped softly, as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. His body shook, but he didn’t lift his head.

"I’m sorry," he whispered again, barely audible. "I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry that I get to live, and not you—you, who deserved it so much more."

Neteyam didn't know what to do, his heart was pounding. The love he felt in that moment was so overwhelming, it was almost unbearable.

"Hey," he finally said, hoarsely. "What kind of nonsense are you saying, baby brother?"

He didn’t hesitate anymore. He reached forward and cupped Lo’ak’s face in both hands. His brother’s skin was warm under his touch, his tears leaving tiny trails across his cheeks.

"Look at me," Neteyam said softly. Lo’ak’s eyes slowly opened, and when their gazes finally met, Neteyam felt his breath hitch. Those beautiful, warm golden eyes he had always loved—now broken, yet burning with a strange mix of pain and love.

"You are not to blame," Neteyam said firmly. "You never were. I chose to protect you. I chose to give my life for you, if needed."

Lo’ak shook his head.

"But if… if I had been stronger… if I hadn’t been such a burden… If I had just listened to you…."

Neteyam sighed, wiping away his tears with his thumb.

"You were never a burden, Lo’ak. Never."

Lo’ak’s lips quivered, as if about to protest, but Neteyam didn’t let him.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against his brother’s, just as he had done so many times when they were children.

Silence settled between them—a single, eternal moment where only their breaths mingled, and their hearts beat as one.

Then, Lo’ak moved first. He lifted his hand hesitantly, as if afraid Neteyam would vanish before his eyes. But when his fingers touched his brother’s arm—he was there.

This wasn’t a dream. Not an illusion. Neteyam was real.

Tears welled up again, but this time, not from pain.

Neteyam watched him, uncertain. He had always been a sensitive boy behind the defiant mask, but he had never fallen apart like this.

What could he do to cheer him up? Or at least snap him out of it. He shook his head slightly, then slowly pulled his brother’s face closer and leaned in.

Lo’ak’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening—when his brother gently brushed his lips against his own, it was as if every thought in his mind had vanished. Neteyam kissed him carefully, tasting him softly, giving him the chance to pull away if he wanted to.

Lo’ak’s breath hitched, and he remained motionless for a long moment. Then, barely perceptible, like the touch of a delicate petal, Neteyam finally felt the slightest movement of his lips—and his little brother, the one he had longed for all his life, hesitantly kissed him back.

The sensation surged through every nerve in his body, and he nearly cried out in joy.

"...teyam..."

His name, in Lo’ak's voice, just beneath his lips—it felt like too much to bear.

Maybe he had gone too far. But did it even matter anymore? He only managed to pull back just enough for their gazes to meet, and though he could see the thousand unspoken questions in the other’s eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to answer them.

"You stopped" he finally murmured with a gentle smile, reaching up to stroke Lo’ak’s flushed, trembling ears.