who would prepare for peace take up the sword

It's barely six.

The apartment is dark in the way Dew likes it — the long living-room windows untreated, the city outside doing its easy blue pre-dawn thing stories below, the kettle on the induction burner already starting its quiet climb. He has nowhere to be for three hours. He's given himself nowhere to be for three hours. He'd built the morning around a slow start to the week, the assumption underneath being that the ghoul using the morning would be a reasonable party.

The ghoul, however, is not.

The jacket is on the hook by the door.

He hasn't gone within four feet of it since hanging it there. He has, in fact, been so deliberate about not going near it that he's caught himself rerouting through his own apartment, taking the long way to the kitchen, the long way back.

He clicks the burner off, pours the water and stands at the counter with both hands flat on the marble, a small thread of steam coming off his cup and a small thread of something else coming off the back of his neck. He made tea instead of espresso, which should have been a warning.

He doesn't look at the hook.

He knows what's in the breast pocket of the jacket. He folded it himself.

Quarters.

He picks up the tea and drinks it without sitting down.

He is, and this is the professional diagnosis, catastrophically off his game.

The morning hasn't yet seen another ghoul. The morning hasn't yet seen sunlight. The morning has, technically, barely even contained morning.

He's already losing to it.

He sets the cup down and goes to take a shower.

The bathroom is all black stone, low warm sconces, a glass-walled shower the size of a small treatment room. He'd built it for steam and quiet. It has reliably delivered.

He runs the water hot.

He's a fire ghoul whose nervous system is nine clicks above operating range, and the direct route to a regulated baseline is more heat. Drive the temperature up until the body resets. It's how this works. It has always worked.

He steps in.

The water hits him and steam blooms thick around the glass and his shoulders come down a quarter inch.

For the first six seconds, it works the way it always does. His discipline finds its footing, his body remembers it has a job. He tips his head back and lets the water run hot down his throat and his sternum and his stomach and he tells himself, very calmly, that this is completely, totally, utterly —

His brain offers Rain.

No announcement. No slow phase-in. His brain just — produces him. Rain, on the table at Helion. Face down, the long line of his back exposed from waist to nape, the lamp warm on the cool grey-blue of his skin, Delta pressing into the knot high in his shoulder… the sound Rain made when it gave.

Dew's hand goes flat against the tile.

That sound is not something he should have memorized, and yet he has. He could reproduce it. The low chest-deep crack of mnh-fuck breaking apart in the middle of the word, the breathless little laugh after, embarrassed and unbothered all at once. The little 'sorry,' like Rain had been apologizing for showing Dew exactly what he sounded like when something locked finally gave in.

The water is very hot.

His body is still, somehow, hotter.

The scorched-sugar edge of him licks up off his shoulders into the steam, and the discipline he was counting on is not coming back online. It is, in fact, getting worse because the heat is reading as permission. The heat is his body going yes, this, go on, making it easier to think about Rain naked on a table and not harder.

Great.

He shuts the hot off and turns the cold all the way on.

The water goes cold in stages — warm, lukewarm, cool, cold. Dew braces his forearm against the tile and takes the first wave of it across his shoulders and gasps, because his body hasn't had water this cold on it in living memory, because fire ghouls don't voluntarily do this. The shock is enormous. The shock is also, for one merciful second, completely effective.

His brain goes white. His brain goes blank. He stands under cold water in his own shower and feels his heart rate drop and his thoughts go finally quiet and thinks there. There. Good.

Then his brain, helpfully, points out the temperature.

It points out, in a tone so neutral it borders on amused, that the water currently running across Dew's shoulders is roughly the temperature of—

Dew's eyes fly open.

Water ghouls run cool. A water ghoul's hand on a fire ghoul's skin feels like this. A water ghoul's mouth. A water ghoul lying on a fire ghoul, the long cool line of him pressed down the long hot line of himself, every inch of contact conducting clean —

Dew makes a sound against the tile.

It's a small involuntary punched-out fuck. He hears it leave his mouth and immediately presses his forehead to the cold stone and stays there.

The cold water keeps running.

He stays under it because the alternative is turning it off and seeing the jacket on the hook, and he knows himself. He knows exactly what he'll do the second he stops bracing against tile, and it will involve his own hand and a name he has been extremely careful not to think while doing this, and he is not — he is not — going to be the kind of ghoul who fucks his own hand in the shower thinking about an employee.

He's going to be the kind of ghoul who stands under cold water for another forty-five seconds and waits this out.

He waits it out badly.

He counts backwards from sixty in a language he hasn't spoken in a long time, forehead on the stone, cold running down his back, his other hand braced flat against the tile because if he lets it go anywhere else he will lose. He refuses to lose before nine in the morning, not over a phantom temperature he ran on himself.

He gets to seventeen before his brain delivers, unbidden and crystalline:

nice hands

He gets to four and turns the water off.

He stands in the shower dripping and breathing for a count he doesn't take. His body is calmer, technically, by every measurable physiological metric. Heart rate down. Core temperature down. The scorched-sugar edge mostly dissipated, scrubbed thin by cold.

What is not down, what has not dissipated and is in fact still extremely and inconveniently present — is the rest of him.

Dew looks down at himself.

"Oh, fuck off," he tells it.

It does not fuck off.

He gets out of the shower and towels off in a series of short irritated motions.

Fine. Fine.

This is a… logistics problem. Logistics problems have solutions. He'll apply the solution, he'll get dressed, he'll go to work, he'll conduct the rest of his morning like a functional ghoul, and he will do it all without thinking about anyone specific by name, face, sound, scent, or any other identifying feature. He is capable of this. He runs a business.

Several.

He hangs the towel and braces one hand on the edge of the counter and looks himself dead in the eye in the mirror — wet hair, jaw set, water still beading on his shoulders — and lays it out.

This isn't about anyone.

This is… hygiene.

His reflection looks unconvinced.

He closes his eyes. That helps.

The mirror was a tactical error. Eyes closed, he is just a ghoul in a bathroom doing a private maintenance task on a Tuesday morning, and there's no requirement he think about anything at all. He's going to think about literally anything else. The Helion procurement numbers, the disco-night cocktail menu Cumulus is drafting, the radiator click in his office, the lighting program in the salt corridor, or —

His hand moves.

He keeps his eyes closed.

He thinks about the radiator click. He thinks hard about the radiator click. The small reliable mechanical sound it makes when the building is empty, the way it punctuated yesterday, the —

The round bed.

The round bed comes up out of nowhere and lands in the center of his skull fully formed and he's suddenly, entirely against his will, against the explicit terms he laid out thirty seconds ago.

He's picturing Rain across the dark velvet, laid out, hands behind his head, the gold barbell at his stomach catching the overhead, one knee up, the other leg fallen open, looking up at the ceiling mirror with the unhurried appreciation of a ghoul who knows exactly what he looks like from above.

"No," Dew says, out loud, to nobody.

His hand has, regrettably, not received the memo.

He tries to course-correct. He tries to swap the round bed for literally any other surface in his apartment. He gets, briefly, the kitchen counter — so much worse — then his own bed — catastrophically worse — and his brain, apparently delighted to have his attention, discards both and goes back to the round bed because the round bed is where it wants to be, the round bed has the ceiling mirror, the round bed has —

The sound.

Of course it has the sound. His brain is not being subtle this morning. His brain has decided the round bed and the massage sound belong together, has spliced them together in his head, and now he is picturing Rain on the round bed making the low cracked-open unh —

Dew braces.

He keeps his eyes closed because opening them now would mean looking at his own face doing this, and he's not doing that on top of everything else.

His breathing has gone short. The scorched-sugar edge is back full strength, rising off his shoulders into the cool bathroom air. The cold shower has been fully defeated. The cold shower was a waste of plumbing.

The sound. He keeps coming back to the sound.

He tells himself, with the last operational lobe of his brain, that the sound is generic, what any ghoul makes when a knot gives, that it wasn't for him, it was for Delta, who actually had hands on him —

His brain offers Delta's hands and promptly swaps them with his own.

He gets very, very close.

His brain, gleeful, vicious, off the leash now, produces his name. Produces his name and slots it neatly in Rain's pretty mouth. His brain is giving him Rain on the round bed in the lounge looking up at the ceiling mirror and making that sound and saying Dew —

He comes with his forehead pressed to the cool stone of the counter and a sound in the back of his throat that he refuses, immediately and forever, to acknowledge.

The bathroom is very quiet after.

His breathing is loud in it.

He stands there stupid, is the thing. He stands there just — stupid. Eyes still closed, hand on the counter, whole body ringing with what just happened and no way he can pretend it didn't. He just came to a mental image of an employee saying his first name. In his own bathroom. Before seven in the morning on a Tuesday.

He opens his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror.

His reflection looks exactly as unconvinced as it did before he started.

"That," Dew tells it, "did not count."

His reflection says nothing.

It doesn't have to.

He gets dressed fast, because slow is worse. Underwear. Socks. The slacks, black, knife-creased, off the hanger and on in one motion. The shirt, black, second-from-the-left, the one whose buttons he can do without thinking. He tucks. He buckles. He cuffs the sleeves to the second fold, the way he always does, and by the time he's most of the way into a jacket-less approximation of himself he almost feels like he lives here again.

The collar pins are on the dresser.

He picks them up. Small gold lightning bolts. He weighs them in his palm for a beat and threads them through the points of his collar and turns toward the door.

The jacket is on the hook.

He has half a dozen jackets in the closet. He could take any of them. He could leave this one on the hook with the card in it and go to work in something else and not have a piece of cardstock against his ribs for the next twelve hours. That would be the sane play. That would be the play of a ghoul who has just had a productive conversation with himself in a mirror and made better decisions about the shape of his day.

Dew stands in his own kitchen looking at the jacket on the hook and understands, with a clarity that genuinely irritates him, that he is going to take this jacket.

Fine.

Fine.

He crosses to the hook, shrugs it on. He does up the buttons, steps into his shoes, picks up his keys. He does not put a hand to the breast pocket. He knows the card is still in it. He can feel it against his ribs, the small flat shape of it, exactly where he left it.

The card is showing only to him.

He pulls the door shut behind him with a low growl, locks it, and goes to work.

· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·

Dew comes in through the back.

Tempt is quiet. The shades on the avenue side are still down from the close, filtering the daylight down to amber. The bar is wiped. The chairs are still up on the tables in the front section. The back of house is doing the small things — the hum of the walk-in, the dishwasher running one belated cycle from the weekend, no music yet.

He has a perfectly serviceable office at Helion, quieter, less prone to interruption. He has his private office, larger and more familiar. He'd considered both options this morning while pulling his shoes on and something in him had said Tempt, firmly, without argument, and he'd stopped asking himself questions and taken the shorter walk.

The card against his ribs the entire way.

He is not going to examine why.

He climbs the stairs quietly and hangs his coat on the hook in his office. Sits at his desk, opens the folio that knows him better than any living thing.

He lets time… crawl.

Schedules for Tempt, schedules for Helion. New hires, a retirement package. Confirming physicals, staring out the window, doing everything in his power to forget the events of the morning.

It goes well, until a track kicks on downstairs at working volume. Slow disco bassline. He checks his watch. It's barely noon.

He gets through approximately eleven minutes of a supplier revision on the Helion linen order before his own brain betrays him.

Dew looks at his folio.

His folio looks back.

He'd been perfectly ready to spend the day up here. He is perfectly ready. He doesn't need to go downstairs. He's a functioning businessghoul with a linen supplier revision in front of him and a bottle of water at his elbow and absolutely no reason to leave his office.

He closes his eyes and then his folio and he goes downstairs.

He finds himself almost relieved to see that it's Aurora on the stage.

He'd be completely relieved, really, if there wasn't a nagging disappointment crawling up his throat.

Aurora's got the work lights up and a track running low. She's at the pole, mid-pass, the line of her body long and considered and visibly thinking.

The room is empty in front of her except for one occupied chair stage-right.

Phantom.

They have propped both feet up on the chair in front of them, phone face-down on their thigh, full attention on Aurora with the intent expression of a fight trainer in the corner of a ring.

"Toe," Phantom calls.

Aurora adjusts.

"Better. Hold it. Hold it."

Aurora holds.

"Yes, baby, that's exactly it!"

At the bar, Cirrus is leaning on her elbows, Cumulus tucked against her side with one arm slung loose around her waist. Neither of them is coaching from over there. Both of them are watching, but at a deliberate distance — the kind of distance you give a junior dancer being worked with by someone you mostly trust to do it right.

"Phantom," Cirrus says, mild, without looking away from the stage. "You're not allowed to make her routine weird."

Phantom puts a hand to their own chest.

"Excuse me."

"You heard me."

"I'm being responsible."

"You're being Phantom," Cirrus says, and Cumulus snorts into her water.

"I'll have you know I have not made one single inappropriate suggestion in nine minutes."

"That's the longest you've gone in your life."

"I'm growing."

Aurora lets the line go and dismounts in a slow controlled slide, landing on bare feet slightly out of breath. She tucks her hair behind her ear with the small embarrassed motion of a ghoul who has just heard herself praised twice in the last twenty seconds. "I'm not — it's the third pass, I'm still finding it —"

"You're finding it well," Cirrus says, calm. "Run it again from the top."

Aurora nods and waits for Cumulus to restart her track.

Dew has stopped at the back of the room.

He hadn't meant to stop. He'd meant to walk through, exchange the appropriate number of nods, conduct a perfectly normal Tuesday. He stopped because Aurora is, in fact, doing better than well, and the small clean warmth that lands in his chest is, frankly, a relief after the morning he's had. Something in him that isn't compromised.

Something he can look at directly.

He watches her run the pass with his folio held against his chest and lets it sit. A real minute of being a ghoul who runs a club and is happy with his roster. No spiral. No card. No itch. Just the floor working the way he wants it to.

He almost makes the full minute.

Then his eye, entirely against his explicit instructions, slides toward the back hallway.

It's a small motion. Less than a glance. Anyone in the room could have missed it, would have missed it, did miss it — except Phantom, who notices everything, who has been on the receiving end of a hundred of these looks and has stopped counting, and who — without breaking eye contact with Aurora on the stage — says:

"Rain's upstairs."

Dew's whole face does not move.

"In the lounge," Phantom adds, helpfully. "Working out the new room. Been up there since I got here. Door's open."

"I wasn't —"

"I didn't say you were."

Phantom says it cheerfully without turning around.

Dew is left standing at the back of his own club with his composure listing several degrees to starboard.

"Your toe again," Phantom calls, mildly. "Perfect, baby. Hold it."

Bell appears at Dew's elbow.

Bell does this. Dew has stopped registering it as a surprise, but he has not stopped registering it as a condition — the change in atmospheric pressure that means Bell has decided something is about to happen to Dew's day.

Bell has a bottle.

He's holding it loose by the neck, the way you hold something you've already determined the weight of, and his face is doing absolutely nothing.

"Mister Delmere."

"Bell."

"Cumulus flagged a gap in the lounge bar setup over the weekend. Another vodka option, premium tier. The order came in this morning." He extends the bottle. "If you're heading back up."

Dew looks at the bottle. Looks at Bell.

Bell looks at Dew with the precise and untraceable neutrality of a ghoul who is, in fact, doing absolutely nothing right now and is offended at the implication that he could be.

"…Right," Dew says.

He takes the bottle.

He can't say no, Bell, you take it up. He can't say no, Bell, send anyone else. He can't say no, Bell, I'm specifically trying not to go up to the lounge right now without explaining why. Explaining why is the one thing he is incapable of doing because Bell would receive it with the same blank face he's currently wearing and file it under as previously suspected.

Bell nods once. "Thank you, sir."

"Mhm."

Phantom, on the chair, calls another toe correction.

Dew turns toward the back hallway with a folio under one arm and a bottle in the other hand and the growing suspicion that he has just been delivered.

· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·

Dew should stop at his office on the second floor because that's what a functional ghoul would do. Set the folio down, log the vodka in the lounge inventory, come back down after. That's the version of the next four minutes that involves the most stairs and the least amount of Rain.

He, of course, doesn't do any of this.

He keeps the folio in one hand and the bottle in the other and he turns for the lounge stairs. He doesn't examine any part of that decision either.

The music reaches him halfway up.

It's coming from the lounge, low and wrong somehow. A song slowed down past the point a song wants to go, every edge of it dragged soft. A man's voice somewhere inside the reverb, stretched so far the words have come apart. It sounds like the idea of a track, played underwater.

Dew slows on the stairs.

He could announce himself. There's a version of the next ten seconds where he says something from the hallway, clears his throat, and behaves like a ghoul who owns the building and not a ghoul sneaking up on it. That version is right there. Free. Available.

He doesn't do that, either.

He stops at the curtain instead, where the gap is, and he looks.

Rain has the room.

He's not dressed for it. Joggers slung low, a tank gone soft and shapeless with age, bare feet quiet on the floor he renovated. No collar. No rhinestones. None of the usual armor.

He's marking something out — Dew can see that much, can see it's work and not performance, the choreography taken down to half its speed and run without any of the shine on it. An arm going slow through a line. A turn started, stopped, started again. He's not selling anything. He's not even warm. He's just finding where the room wants him to be.

And that, Dew thinks, with the curtain edge caught between two fingers and his own pulse somewhere it shouldn't be — that is the problem.

He's watched Rain perform a dozen times. He's been aimed at. He knows what it is to be the thing Rain's body is pointed toward, and he's survived it (mostly) by understanding it as a transaction with the room.

This isn't that.

Nobody's being aimed at. Rain is alone, slow, unglossed, working a private craft in an empty room, and Dew is standing in the dark of the hallway watching him do it, and there is no transaction here to hide behind.

Just Rain.

Just the want, sitting in Dew's chest with no name on it and no excuse attached.

He should go.

The part of his brain responsible for good decision making didn't clock in today.

Rain crosses to the pole.

He walks the perimeter of it first. One hand trailing the brass, the contact light, almost incidental — the way a musician says hello to an instrument before asking anything of it. He's checking something. Tightness, maybe. Temperature. The pole has been sitting in the cold of the unheated lounge all weekend and he's letting his palm tell him about it.

Then he sets his feet.

The mount is unhurried. He doesn't jump it, doesn't haul. He just takes the pole, both hands, and the long lean line of his body lifts, ankles crossing neat at the brass, the whole motion costing him nothing visible. He hangs for a beat upside down, looking at the room from the wrong angle, head tipped back, throat exposed, considering.

Dew has stopped breathing in any organized way.

The bottle is warm in his hand. He hadn't realized he was holding it too tight.

It isn't, yet, the thing his brain wants to make it. It's good. It's elegant the way a sentence is elegant, structurally — every part doing exactly the work it was built for; no wasted motion, no announcement of effort. Rain's body lifts and pivots and the pole holds him and the whole thing happens at the speed the slowed-down song wants, which is barely any speed at all.

He rotates. One leg unfolds, finds a hook, settles. The other extends long into the air, toes pointed soft. He's not arched. He's just finding the line, adjusting a half inch, holding it, adjusting again, listening to what his body is telling him about the angle.

It must tell him something he doesn't like. He drops out of the hold, lands on bare feet without a sound. Walks the perimeter of the pole again.

Tries it again.

The second time the line is cleaner. He holds it longer. His head tips back further, the long pale line of his throat opening up to the ceiling mirror, and Dew's eye goes up, reflexively, the same coward's reflex as last time, the same safe-place lie.

The mirror gives him Rain a second time, from above, the slow rotation of him laid out flat against the dark of the ceiling.

Two of him.

This is, Dew realizes, becoming a recurring problem.

The thought is meant to be dry. It comes out worse than that — comes out somewhere closer to fond. The heat in his chest tips a degree further toward something he is not going to name, not in this hall, not while standing in the dark watching a ghoul who doesn't know he's being watched do something that isn't even for him —

Rain unhooks. Slides down the pole. Lands quiet.

He shakes out one wrist. Tips his head side to side, considering. Crosses to the speakers on bare feet to start the song over.

Dew should really leave.

His feet stay planted on the ground.

Rain restarts the song.

The slowed thing fills the room again, that underwater dragged-soft voice, the bass coming through the floor more than the air. He stretches one arm overhead. Then the other. Rolls his neck. Walks back to the pole.

Sets up for the mount again.

This time he's not testing. This time he's running it — the slow walk-in, the hands going to the brass, the lift that costs him nothing, the rotation, the leg unfolding into the hook. He holds the line. Holds it longer. His eyes close.

His eyes close.

Dew watches Rain dance with his eyes closed and feels something shift behind his sternum. Something he'd been operating, for a long time now, under the assumption he was done with.

He'd been wrong about that.

Rain's leg comes down. He dismounts in a slow controlled slide, the long line of his body unspooling against the brass, and his eyes open exactly as his bare feet touch the floor. He shakes out his shoulders. Considers the pole. Walks the perimeter again.

He's going to do it again.

He is going to run that line a third time and Dew is going to stand in this hallway and watch and there is no version of the rest of his afternoon in which he has not stood in the dark and watched Rain dance with his eyes closed and liked it and —

His phone buzzes.

It buzzes against his thigh inside his slacks pocket, the small mechanical hum of it absurdly loud in the slowed-song quiet, and Dew's whole body goes rigid because he knows, knows the second it starts, that the sound has carried.

Rain stops mid-step.

His head turns toward the curtain.

The phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

Not a notification, a flood — the staggered rapid-fire of a calendar tool dumping a queue of confirmations into his inbox one after another after another, each buzz a separate event, each event a booking, each booking a stranger.

Rain's eyes find the gap in the curtain.

Find Dew in it.

Dew, standing in the dark of his own hallway watching a ghoul on his own payroll do private work in a room he himself renovated, with a folio in one hand and a bottle of premium vodka in the other and a phone buzzing in his pocket that is currently announcing, in real time, that the room has just sold out for the next five weeks.

The phone buzzes a seventh time.

Rain raises one eyebrow.

"I —" Dew says.

He pushes the curtain aside because hiding behind it would be worse — a confession with fabric in front of it. He steps into the lounge with composure, a ghoul arriving somewhere on purpose, which he… is, technically. He's going to be extremely clear about that, he has a purpose to coming up here in the first place.

The purpose.

He'd had… a… purpose.

"I came up to —" His eyes do a fast desperate sweep of the room for a noun. They land on the bar setup. "— check the bottles."

Rain looks at him.

"The bottles," Rain repeats.

"Inventory." Dew's mouth has decided to keep going without consulting him. "For the bookings. I need to confirm the bar is — stocked. Appropriately. For the bookings."

His phone buzzes again. Eighth. He doesn't look at it.

Rain hasn't moved off the pole. He's standing with one hand still loose around the brass, hip cocked, head tipped, looking at Dew with the unhurried attention of a ghoul who's just watched the most controlled being he knows produce the word bottles under duress and has decided this is the best day he's had in weeks.

"You came up," Rain says, "to check the bottles."

"Yes."

"From the hallway."

"I —"

"You were checking the bottles," Rain says, "from behind the curtain. In the dark."

The phone buzzes. Ninth.

Dew, who has the vodka right there in his hand, who could, theoretically, just hold it up as a defense exhibit, doesn't.

Doing so would mean admitting that Bell handed him the vodka specifically to be walked up here right now, which would mean admitting Bell knew, which would mean admitting there was something for Bell to have known about. Dew has been in this room for approximately forty seconds and is already fighting a war on three fronts.

"It's a busy day," Dew says weakly.

Rain lets that sit. He lets it sit long, longer than is kind, the slowed song still dragging its soft underwater way through the speakers behind him. He doesn't stop looking at Dew, and Dew understands, standing there in his own tailoring with a folio pinned to his ribs and a bottle sweating in his palm, that Rain could say the true thing and is choosing not to.

That's almost worse.

"Mhm," Rain says, finally.

He pushes off the pole and crosses the room toward him, unhurried, bare feet quiet on the floor. Dew's nervous system briefs him with the calm professionalism of a ghoul reporting a fire.

He does not retreat. Retreating would also mean something.

Rain stops an arm's length away. Closer than colleagues. Not as close as the shuttle. He smells like clean sweat and the cold ghost of outside still in his hair, and he tips his head at the phone still buzzing against Dew's thigh.

"You gonna get that?"

Dew finally sets the folio down.

He pulls the phone out and the screen is a wall. A stacked column of confirmation banners, one on top of the next, the calendar tool's cheerful chime icon repeated down the whole display. He thumbs it open. The lounge calendar loads.

It's full.

Not full like a good night. Full like a month. The grid has gone solid — every available slot, claimed and confirmed and paid, five weeks deep, the white space he'd built into the schedule for sanitation turnover the only breathing room left on the page.

"Huh," Dew says.

"Yeah?"

"The lounge." He turns the screen briefly, then thinks better of showing Rain the specifics and turns it back. "It's. Booked."

"Already?"

"Opened the schedule this morning." His own voice sounds strange to him. "It's… booked. Through the end of next month."

Something flickers across Rain's face. Brief. Gone before Dew can read it, which is its own kind of information — Rain doesn't usually let things flicker. He covers it by glancing at the pole, then the bed, then the room at large. The room he was, ninety seconds ago, learning the bones of.

"Guess people want the new thing," Rain says.

"Guess so."

"That's good. For business." A beat. "Right?"

"It's very good for business," Dew says.

It is. It's extremely good for business. It's the single most successful product launch of his ownership and the numbers are going to make Mist do the thing where she almost smiles, and Dew is standing in the middle of his triumph holding the phone that proves it and feeling, distinctly, like he swallowed something cold.

Because the bookings have names attached.

He didn't read them. He turned the screen away before he could. But they're there, a column of strangers five weeks deep, and every one of them booked this room — the round bed, the ceiling mirror, the pole Rain just closed his eyes on — for sixty to ninety private minutes with a dancer of their choosing.

Rain is the headliner, and Rain is right here, and Dew built every part of this on purpose with his own two hands and his own signature and he cannot, for reasons he is also not going to examine, make the cold thing in his chest go away.

This isn't jealousy.

He wants to be clear with himself about that. It can't be jealousy, because jealousy would require a claim, and he has no claim. He… he doesn't want a claim. He wants — operational excellence. A safe room.

A profitable launch.

A happy headliner.

He wants Rain to not spend the next five weeks alone with strangers in the room Dew can't stop picturing him in.

For safety reasons.

"New boss."

He looks up.

Rain's expression has gone quiet and careful, and Dew realizes he's been silent for several seconds with his jaw doing something and the scorched-sugar smell of his own slipping control thick enough now that the water ghoul standing an arm's length away has definitely, definitely noticed it.

"You're burning," Rain says.

It's not a question. It's an observation, delivered flat, the way he noted that the lighting was wrong.

"It's warm in here," Dew says.

"It's not." Rain's eyes don't move off him. "Heat's barely on up here." A pause, unhurried, almost clinical. "That's you."

The scorched-sugar edge of him is, at this point, undeniable. There's no version of it's warm in here that survives a water ghoul standing close enough to read his actual temperature, and they both know it. Rain is just — letting it sit there. Not teasing. Not pushing. Holding the fact of it up to the light where Dew has to look at it.

That's you.

This is, Dew thinks, the most naked he's felt in his life, and he's fully clothed. The only thing Rain has done is correctly identify the ambient temperature.

He folds.

Not visibly — at least, he'd like to believe not visibly. He pockets the phone. Adjusts a collar pin and picks his folio back up.

"Bottles look fine," Dew says.

"You didn't check them."

"They look fine from here." He's already moving for the curtain. "Carry on. Good — the choreography. It's good."

He hears it leave his mouth. He can't recall it. It's good, the choreography, said by the ghoul who claimed under oath thirty seconds ago to have come up here for inventory and not, under any circumstances, to watch.

Rain says nothing.

Dew doesn't look back to find out what Rain's face is doing. Looking back would mean something and he's done enough meaning for one morning.

He pushes through the curtain and takes the stairs down at a pace that is not quite a retreat and lands in the empty second-floor landing with his heart going and the smell of his own control still clinging to him and a calendar in his pocket full of strangers and the bottle of vodka he was supposed to be delivering still in his hand.

He doesn't go back up.

He also does not, technically, complete the errand.

Bell's going to notice.

Bell is going to notice and Bell is going to say absolutely nothing about it, which is worse.

𖥸

Upstairs, Rain stands in the quiet a moment after the curtain falls.

The slowed song is still going, the same eight bars come back around. He looks at the curtain. Then at the phone-shaped absence in the air where the new boss had stood radiating heat and lying about it.

Burning. Over a booking calendar.

Rain files it under none of my business, which is where it belongs, which is where he is going to keep it.

He walks back to the pole.

He sets his feet. He takes the brass — cool under his palms, exactly as cool as it should be, no one else's temperature anywhere near it. He lifts, and he finds the line, and he runs the set again from the top.

He's not thinking about it.

He runs it twice more, clean, and absolutely doesn't think about it either time.

· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·

There are four people Bell could have asked to retrieve the mirror ball.

Mountain, who could carry it down one-handed. Swiss, who owes a favor and wouldn't have spoken for the entire drive. Cumulus, who knows the storage facility's layout better than Bell does and would have located the thing in half the time. Or Cirrus, whose presence is restful.

Bell has a list. Bell always has a list. The list, in this instance, contains four entirely sensible names, ranked by suitability, each of whom Phantom outranks for no defensible reason whatsoever.

Phantom didn't ask, technically. Phantom announced. They appeared at Bell's elbow, vibrating, and said the words 'I heard you're getting the disco ball from storage' with the reverence of a pilgrim who's finally located the shrine, and Bell had said yes, because it was true, and the rest simply happened to him.

Now they're in Dew's company SUV, and Phantom has the aux.

"This," Phantom says, holding their phone aloft, "is a song about a horse."

"I did not ask."

"You're going to want context."

"I assure you I will not."

Phantom plays the song about the horse.

Bell drives at the speed limit, keeps both hands on the wheel. He's found that there's no situation Phantom can construct that can't be survived through the simple application of not engaging, and he intends to apply it now, comprehensively, for the full duration of the errand.

"You're tapping," Phantom says.

Bell stops.

He hadn't been aware that he was tapping.

This is, he reflects, exactly the problem with Phantom: they notice things. They notice the small involuntary things a ghoul does when his composure is operating at ninety-eight percent and not one hundred. They notice, and then they announce, and the announcing is somehow worse than the noticing. Bell has spent several weeks now constructing a face that gives them nothing and he's no longer confident it's working.

"It's a good song," Phantom says, gentler, like they're letting him off the hook.

Bell doesn't thank them for it.

But he doesn't, against every instinct he has, change the song.

The mirror ball was not, as it turned out, in the back room at Tempt.

Phantom had been so sure. Bell, who reconciled the off-site inventory when the acquisition went through, had not corrected them, and is choosing not to examine why. There's a list of things Bell is choosing not to examine today. It's already had additions.

So: the facility. Twenty minutes north, with Phantom and the aux and a song, now, about a different horse.

"Okay, but this one's a metaphorical horse," Phantom is saying.

"They're all metaphorical horses."

"See, you are getting it!"

Bell takes the exit. Phantom has both feet up on the dash, which Bell has decided, after a brief internal negotiation, not to fight, because the alternative is a conversation about it and a conversation about it is what Phantom wants.

He gives them, instead, silence.

Phantom fills it. He figured they would.

They fill it with the metaphorical horse and then with a theory about the disco theme costuming and then with an unsolicited ranking of everyone at Tempt by how well they'd survive the apocalypse (Mountain first, obviously; Bell, alarmingly, second; Phantom places themself last with the cheerful fatalism of a ghoul who knows their strengths are social).

Bell drives.

He doesn't participate.

He does, somewhere around the third horse, stop actively not listening, and by the time the storage facility comes into view he could, if pressed, reproduce Phantom's entire apocalypse ranking from memory.

He won't be pressed. But he could do it anyways.

The facility is a long low building full of other people's forgotten decisions.

Bell signs them in and the attendant waves them back without comment, though his eyes track Phantom for a moment with the wariness of a man who's seen what enthusiasm does to climate-controlled storage.

Unit 14 is at the end of the third row.

Bell rolls the door up and the smell of it comes out to meet them — cool, dry, a little dusty, the museum-hush of objects that have outlived their use and are simply waiting to become relevant again. Tempt's history lives in here, boxed and shelved and labeled.

Old staging. Retired signage. A rack of costumes from eras Bell has only read about in the ledgers. Aether's things, some of them, still — Bell has never had the heart, or the instruction, to clear them.

Phantom goes very quiet.

It's the quietest they've been since leaving the club. Bell turns to check on them out of something that isn't concern, it's… purely operational vigilance. The responsible monitoring of a known variable in an enclosed space.

Phantom is standing just inside the door with their hands clasped under their chin, looking down the length of the unit with their whole face lit up.

"Bell," they breathe. "It's a time capsule."

"It's a storage unit."

"It's the attic of the gay little club."

"Mirror ball," Bell says. "Far shelf. We're here for the mirror ball."

But Phantom's already gone down the row, trailing a hand along the shelving, reading labels out loud in a hushed delighted voice, and Bell, against the entire architecture of his self-discipline, doesn't call them back immediately.

He gives them a moment.

He tells himself it's because the mirror ball is heavy and he'd rather locate it precisely than rush. He tells himself they have plenty of time. He tells himself… several things, in hopes that maybe one of them will be true.

He follows Phantom down the row at an unhurried distance and watches them discover Tempt's whole forgotten history one label at a time. The unit is cool and quiet and smells like dust and waiting, and Phantom's voice is the only warm thing in it.

The mirror ball is exactly where Bell knew it would be.

Hanging from a far shelf, third unit, behind a rolling rack of garment bags and beneath a fitted dust cover. He could have walked directly to it. He could have had it in the SUV in four minutes flat.

He locates Phantom instead, three shelves deep, holding up a sequined something against their own chest and turning to catch the overhead light.

"Bell. Bell. Tell me this isn't the most beautiful thing you've ever seen."

"That is a 2014 Pride costume. The sequins shed."

"So it's retired."

"It's biohazard-adjacent."

"It's vintage." Phantom holds it higher, reverent. "This has history, Bell. Someone danced in this. Someone had the night of their life in this." They lower it, suddenly thoughtful. "Or a terrible night. Either way. Stakes."

Bell takes the costume out of their hands and returns it to its box, because the alternative is that it comes home with them. He files the small flare of something he feels watching Phantom's face fall — not regret, he tells himself, simply the natural conclusion of a logistics decision — at the bottom of the list, with the others.

The list is getting long today.

"Mirror ball," he says. "It's over here. Help me with the cover."

And Phantom, who's spent the entire errand resisting every single instruction Bell has issued, immediately and without complaint crosses the unit to help.

They lift the dust cover together. Phantom takes one side, Bell the other, and they pull it off in one motion. The mirror ball comes out from under the canvas all at once, catches the single overhead bulb, and throws it.

The whole unit goes to light.

A thousand small squares of it, spinning slow off the surface as the ball turns on its hook, scattering across the shelves and the garment bags and the boxed-up history and the dust hanging in the cool air. Across Aether's old boxes.

Across Phantom's whole upturned, delighted, little face.

Phantom makes a small involuntary sound. Not a laugh. Not a look at that. Just a soft oh — the sound of a ghoul who's been ambushed.

They tip their head back further, hands slack at their sides, watching the ball turn. The bit is gone. The horse is gone. The performance is gone. There's only a ghoul with slow squares of light moving across their face, looking at something more beautiful than they expected to find, and Bell —

Bell has stopped moving.

He'd meant to say good, it works, let's go. He'd meant to check the fixture point, run the cable, note the ball for the cleaner in the morning. Those are the actions he came here to perform. They're on the list. He's aware of the list.

He's aware, further, that he's not currently performing any of them, and that this failure of action is being observed by nobody, since Phantom is looking at the ball, and Bell is looking at Phantom, and more specifically at the small squares of light that are moving across Phantom's cheekbone and their throat and the hollow at the base of their neck, where their pulse has gone slow and —

He doesn't know what to file this under. He is also, in fact, aware, with a small and specific alarm, that no folder for this exists. The list has failed entirely.

The composure hasn't failed, technically, in that his face hasn't moved and his hands are still at his sides and he's still breathing. But the composure is a shell around something Bell can't name, and that something has weight, and that something is looking at Phantom looking at the light.

Oh, Phantom says again, quieter, speaking to no one.

The unit turns slowly around them.

Bell should say something. There's a sentence appropriate to the moment. The sentence would restore the errand, would return them both to the list of tasks that got them here. He could, with a small application of will, locate the sentence, produce it, get the mirror ball into the SUV and be back at Tempt before the next hour ends.

He chooses to watch Phantom watch the ball instead.

The ball turns. The light moves. His whole life is a list and this is not on it.

He is aware, distantly, that he's going to have to sit with this later. Alone. When he has time to look at it properly, in daylight, with his file open and a pen in his hand and some kind of infrastructure around him.

But for now, the ball turns. He doesn't stop it. Phantom doesn't stop it. Nobody in the unit says anything for what is, by Bell's internal count, an unusually long time.

He should really say something.

He doesn't.

"Can I ask you something," Phantom says, eventually.

They're still looking up at the ball. The light moves across their face in slow squares. It's the least performed Bell has ever heard them — no setup, no bit, no horse. Just the question, set down quietly in the dust.

"You may ask," Bell says. "I make no guarantee of an answer."

"Yeah. I figured that part." Phantom turns one of the little squares of light over on the back of their hand, watching it slide. "It's about Rain."

Bell says nothing. This is, he's found, the most reliable way to get information and to give none: people fill silence. He's built a career in the spaces other people rush to fill.

Phantom does as expected.

"Something's up with him." They say it carefully. "And it's not — it's not a bad thing, I don't think. He's not in trouble. He's just." They frown, searching. "He's off. He gets this look. I've known him a long time, Bell, I know all his looks, and this is a new one, and it shows up — " they stop. Start again. "It shows up around a… specific subject. And I think you know what the subject is. And I think you've known longer than me, because you know everything, which by the way is deeply annoying."

Bell considers the mirror ball.

He has, in fact, known longer than Phantom. He's known since the very beginning, when Mister Delmere sent an email with a purchase request a little too late at night. He's watched it accumulate: the careful nods, the dressing room, the nine days, the comment card folded into quarters that Mister Delmere doesn't know Bell knows about. He has a complete and ordered file. He could brief Phantom in under ninety seconds.

He won't.

"I'm not certain I follow," Bell says.

Phantom turns and looks at him directly. The light slides off the ball across both of them now, and their expression is not fooled in the slightest.

"You follow," they say. "You're Bell. You follow everything."

"I don't speculate about Mister Delmere's personal affairs."

Phantom's eyebrows go up.

"I didn't say it was about the boss."

Bell doesn't react. Not reacting is the single most developed muscle he has. He doesn't react and he keeps not reacting through the entire long delighted silence in which Phantom realizes exactly what he's just done, their whole face opening up like the unit did when the cover came off.

"Bell."

"The cover goes into the bin by the shelf."

"Bell. You just — that was a confirmation, you realize that, that was —"

"I confirmed nothing."

"You confirmed everything. That's worse. That's so much worse than confirming, that's —" Phantom presses both hands to their own chest, wounded with joy. "Oh, this is delicious. They're both — unholy shit. They're both idiots —"

"I am going to carry the mirror ball to the vehicle," Bell says, with enormous dignity, "and you are going to bring the dust cover, and we are not going to discuss this on the drive."

"We are absolutely going to discuss this on the drive."

"We are not."

The drive back to Tempt could be described as many things.

Silent would not be one of them.

· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·

Phantom finds him in the dressing room before the evening shift.

Rain knows it's bad the second they come through the door, because they don't say anything. Phantom not saying anything is a weather event. They just drift in, drop onto the vanity edge, pick up his setting spray, examine the label like it's a puzzle they're solving, and wait.

Rain keeps doing his liner.

"You're glittering," he says, to the mirror. There's actual glitter on them. Caught in their hair, dusted across one cheekbone, sitting bright on the underside of their jaw. "Why are you glittering."

"Storage run. Disco ball. Long story." They set the spray down. Pick it back up. "Bell drove."

"Ah."

"Bell's a good driver."

The good is doing something. Rain lets it pass.

"Mhm."

Rain finishes the wing on his left eye. Switches to the right. He can feel Phantom looking at him in the mirror — not the usual gossip-incoming look, but something underneath it. Something with intent.

He's known Phantom a long time. He knows when they've decided something about him. He knows the tell of it, the way Phantom holds a piece of information they haven't been given permission to hold — the way their mouth goes soft at one corner while the rest of their face works very hard at nothing.

Their mouth is soft at one corner.

"What," Rain says.

"Nothing." A beat, delicately measured. "How's the new room?"

His hand doesn't slip. He's good; his hand doesn't slip. But there's a half-second where the brush hovers a hair off his lash line before it touches down, and the thing about doing your eyes in a mirror with your best friend watching you in the same mirror is that there is nowhere to put a half-second where it won't be seen.

Phantom does not remark on it, which is the second most alarming thing Phantom has done in the last minute.

"It's a room," Rain says.

"It booked out?"

"Heard it did."

"Five weeks, Bell said." Phantom is very casual. Phantom is never casual. "Bet the boss is thrilled. All that… business."

Rain sets the brush down.

He looks at Phantom in the mirror. Phantom looks back, glitter on their cheek, expression open and terrible and kind. There's a shape underneath it all that Rain, if he were less careful with himself, would have to admit looks a lot like a pin Phantom is currently choosing not to pull.

Rain understands that Phantom knows something. He doesn't know how much. He doesn't know what shape it is in their head. But they've got a piece of it, and they're holding it out, and they're waiting to see if he'll take it.

He doesn't.

"Good for business," Rain says.

It's the new boss's line. He hears it leave his own mouth in the new boss's flat careful cadence and he could die. Phantom hears it too — he watches them hear it, watches the corner of their mouth pull with the specific effort of a ghoul not saying the thing they came here to say.

Phantom holds it. For a whole beat. For a whole two beats, long enough that Rain's stomach does something he's going to also not examine.

Then Phantom sets it down.

"Sure," they say, gently. "Good for business."

They hop off the counter. Drop a kiss on the top of Rain's head, glitter and all, and they leave it there, whatever they came in carrying. They set it down and they leave it, which is the single kindest thing Phantom knows how to do and they do it so rarely that Rain feels the weight of being spared.

"Make someone stupid tonight," they say brightly at the door.

"Always do."

And then they're gone, and Rain is alone with the mirror and the wing he hasn't finished and the thing he just heard himself say.

Good for business.

He picks the brush back up.

The new boss had stood in the lounge that morning, radiating heat over a booking calendar, lying about it, fleeing down the stairs at a pace that wasn't his usual. Over numbers. Over the room doing well.

Except Rain had run the set twice more after he left and he'd felt it the whole time — the warm shape of where the new boss had stood. The way the heat had pointed at him and not the calendar. He knows what it is to be aimed at. He's made a career out of reading exactly where want is pointed in a room.

It hadn't been pointed at the numbers.

Rain finishes the wing.

He doesn't let the thought finish. He's good at this — better than the new boss, who wears it on his skin where any cold-blooded ghoul can read it. Rain keeps his under. Keeps it where the float tank found it, deep, behind the sternum. He puts it back there. He closes the drawer on it.

He has a set to run. He has a floor to work. He has, starting next week, a brand-new room with his name in the booking grid, ninety private minutes at a time, strangers paying for what he does better than anyone in the building.

It's good for business.

He caps the liner. Checks himself in the mirror — collar on, rhinestones catching, the BABY sitting bright at his throat where two hot fingers had once fixed the catch.

The armor's on. The face is right.

He goes to work.

What he doesn't do — what he won't, not in the mirror, not on the floor, not for one cold-blooded second of the entire night — is let himself stand in the warm spot the want left and admit it's still there.

It'll be there tomorrow.