MaterLux

The years came and went. The hurt he once felt inevitably dulled. Yet, you always managed to linger around in the back of his mind, like a little ghost haunting him. 

To this day, he still has no idea what he did wrong. You may have ghosted everybody, but he wasn’t just anybody. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was him. 

He still cares for you, sorta, but it’s been so long, he’s not sure if he’d even want to reconnect with you. Not with how you just dropped him like that.

. . . . . . 

“Are you excited?”

“No,” you respond a little too flatly for Ieiri, who shoots you the look right after. “Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just been forever since I’ve seen everyone.”

She sighs, redirecting her attention back on the road— there’s not much to look at. Most people stay home on gloomy Sunday afternoons. 

The GPS says you’re nine minutes away from your destination, making you remind yourself once more to relax. Though, you really wish you could be one of those people staying in right now. Cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie. 

Ieiri taps her finger on the steering wheel. “It’s like what I said—”

What didn’t she say? 

She held you hostage on the phone for over an hour last weekend, threatening and bribing, and then threatening you again if you didn’t go with her to Kento’s surprise birthday party. 

You thought you had a good argument at the time.

“Do you realize how annoying that sounds? Kento doesn’t even like surprises, could you imagine how irritated he’d be if I just randomly popped up, too?”

“If you were Satoru? Yes. You? Doubt it. If anything, he’d probably like the distraction from it.” 

“Yeah– probably,” you murmured. 

“Can you please get out of your fucking head for once?” she scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been years since you’ve seen everyone, but it’s not like it’s because of a falling out. I don’t know where you got this weird idea that they hate you now because of it. It was them who told me to bring you!” 

“Who’s them?” you stubbornly responded. 

“Suguru, Satoru, Yuki, Choso— even Toji said something about bringing Megumi so you could see him.” 

As much as you’d love to meet his kid, it would also be another reminder of all the years that’ve passed— how everyone moved on with their lives. Getting married, buying homes, having children, starting families. 

The most you’ve done is get the job. You’d include the condo if you actually got to enjoy it, but it’s been a year since you bought it and you haven’t even bothered furnishing the place despite all the money you've saved up for it. The last thing you want to do after work is look at a screen and make more decisions. Deciding between color palettes and aesthetics, deciding on what decor and accents you want— it all sounded exhausting. Hiring an interior designer was an option. Except, you barely want to talk to a stranger, let alone work with one. 

It’s too many decisions to be made for someone that didn’t want to make them. You often wonder if you’ve simply just become someone that couldn’t make them. 

You’re well aware of the things that are wrong with you, but it didn’t make it any less surprising. You, paralyzed by choices and options? 

The people who knew you professionally would laugh. Hard. Any sense of certainty that could be felt in the air almost always emanated from you. You were decisive. Sharp as hell— honed to perfection. Someone that was more than capable of a task as menial as filling a space full of items they liked. 

You know what you like, don’t you? 

No, not really.

You are sharp, there’s no doubt about it. It’s what your boss favors you for, and sure, one could say you’re valuable to the company, too. It’s a nice feeling for a while. 

Then you realize there is quite literally nothing more subjective than the value of something.

Luckily, you are very useful. It was simply a fact, and every single one of your quarterly reviews solidified it. A coworker, or god forbid a client, could spend an entire hour talking shit about you, and they’d eventually reach the point where they’d have to backtrack with a little ‘well’ or ‘however’, before giving credit where it was due. 

The devil works hard and you stole his pitchfork. Ripped it right out of his hands, because apparently, you needed it more than him to become the youngest portfolio manager the company’s ever seen. 

Who cares about the value of something when you need it? Mr. Yaga claims to hate black tea, but leave him out in the desert long enough and he’d easily drink gallons of it. 

Having you at the company isn’t a matter of life or death, there’s thousands of others out there that are more than qualified for your role. More than half probably had resumes twice as long as yours, too. 

But for Yaga, there is no guarantee that day to day operations would run this smoothly, ever again. 

You may be a little blunt. At times, impatient. But in a world full of sexual harassment allegations and sleezy managers abusing their power, not once has there ever been a formal complaint made against you. You’re not always like that either, you’re great with the clients and stakeholders. 

It’s a talent, really— remembering all the personal details people tell you, like childhood stories, the places they’ve vacationed to, a spouse's birthday month that was briefly mentioned months ago. It makes people feel special. 

It was very handy, too. Especially in the case where the company might deal with someone that isn’t likely to give them their hard-earned money or signature. Your job was to either sweet talk or gaslight. No arguing needed.

Yaga may have not preferred you at first. You were essentially a kid compared to the people that applied for the position. 

The plan was to let you down easily, tell you to keep working hard and you’ll eventually get there. You were already lucky enough to have your foot in the door as an employee. 

Yaga had a list of goals he wanted to reach before his retirement, though. Any of the other candidates would’ve helped with that, but none would've given him the opportunity to make a second list and cross that off as well. 

The decision took months. 

In that time, he realized a few things. 

One, he spent his entire adult life playing it safe, which is an obvious sign of fearing growth. You’re not sure who taught him that, but at least he realized it was okay to start over and try something new. It was like a rebrand for him and he embraced that the “new” him craved more profit and welcomed different approaches. 

The different approaches being, finding more aggressive people because they bring in the money quicker. 

He never saw you as aggressive, though. He never saw you at all, actually. It wasn’t personal, those under 30 usually come and go, so he didn’t see much of a point in remembering names. What he did see, when he finally opened his eyes, was efficiency. 

You were straight forward in a way that saved time, had an air about you that screamed “don’t ask me how my day’s going or what I have planned for after work”, yet approachable enough for work related questions. Stellar reports, received every quarterly and year-end bonus. Sharp. 

Making you one of the managers meant he could wield you like a weapon, now you are the one he uses the most. You had the salary to prove it, yet no time or energy to enjoy it. 

You’re respected. The young interns, the girls in particular, look up to you more often than not. Eyes bright and filled with ambition. Romanticizing everything, from how much coffee you drink, all the way to your style that they labeled as “effortless”. They’re not wrong, it is effortless— always some variant of trousers, a t-shirt, heels, and a long coat. They’re never planned, yet they somehow always manage to work thanks to the lack of color in your wardrobe. 

You overheard your lack of jewelry and unpainted nails being appreciated once for how “clean” you look. All you could think of was the girl that used to do her hair and paint her own nails at one point. Except for the ones on her right hand. She saved that job for her best friend who surprisingly had a steady hand, despite complaints flying out of his mouth the entire time. Even on the days he gave in and painted his own nails black, he’d find something to be grumpy and complain about. 

It was always you choosing whose house to hang out at, which movies to watch, what places to grab food from. He was a big brat whose favorite answer to most questions was an inaudible ‘I dunno’ from the way he’d mumble it. So, you always led the way. 

Now it’s you mumbling that same exact ‘I dunno’ when you’re all alone. 

You’re tired. Worn out. If you were a blade, you end each day dull and chipped. Nobody sees it, not even those young girls with all the time they’ve spent studying you, blinded by their own dreams and aspirations to be just as important, not knowing the difference between being valuable and useful. 

Maybe it’s better off that way. 

Who were you to try to burst their bubbles when you never had dreams or aspirations to begin with? Your eyes were never as bright as theirs— not as a student, not as an intern, and definitely not as a new hire. 

You never had a spark to begin with, what makes you think they’d eventually lose theirs? 

Maybe you were the unlucky one here. 

You were the one whose head went under water after one bad semester, after all. Even now, years later, it still feels like you’re stuck in the deep end while everyone else has moved on. 

Toji chose to get married and have a kid. 

You can’t even choose yourself on most days. 

“You have arrived at your destination.” 

Fuck. You have a hard time believing the GPS was that loud when it was telling Ieiri which exit to take and where to turn. 

Her lips thin into a reassuring smile as she makes the final turn into the apartment building’s parking garage, and you fail to return it as you take a deep breath. Ieiri doesn’t say anything this time, figuring you’ll probably just have to see everyone's excitement for yourself to realize this wasn’t a pity invite. It’ll settle half of your nerves. 

The other half should settle itself with time and a drink. Several drinks, honestly. She did the best she could with telling everyone that what you pulled during your second year of college was 100% a you thing and to not talk about it unless you brought it up. Which you probably won’t— everyone will understand. No one wants to talk about being in a dark place when they haven’t fully left it. 

One moment, you’re sitting in the passenger seat with your seat belt still buckled. Next, your chest is tightening as you watch her open the door to Satoru’s apartment. There’s already chattering, which stops once she announces your guys’ arrival. 

You barely get the chance to look around before Suguru’s peaking his head out of the kitchen to see if you really did show up and lets out a laugh once he sees that you did. It was light and airy, the kind that’s accompanied by the warm feeling that you should get in your chest when seeing an old friend. 

He’s obviously changed, it’s been 7 years. Yet, he never lost that quality that managed to make people a little more comfortable.

“Hey stranger.”

Your lips thin into a shy smile, “Hey.” 

“Well?” Suguru asks, holding his arms out. “I know it’s been ages but there’s no need to be shy.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping forward and accepting the hug. 

He lets out another laugh. “Don’t be— it’s nice to see you.”

“Where’s mine?!” 

You easily recognize the offended, slightly childish tone. You slowly turn your head around to see a slightly less lanky Satoru. Aside from getting some much needed meat on his bones, he doesn’t seem to have changed much. He’s still as unserious as ever, still wears sunglasses indoors like an asshole. 

Ieiri stood back the entire time, sipping on a drink she had already managed to make, patting herself on the back as she watched her little plan run smoothly: Show up early and let you build some confidence from awkwardly greeting the old friends you shared together one by one. 

It’s funny, you told her that they’d eventually move on to talking to the friends they made after you, but they all seemed more interested in circling back to you, whether it be handing you a shot or introducing you to a new face. 

If there was one burden she wishes she could take from you, it’d be the burden that has you walking through the world as if you were everyone’s last choice. 

Today should be enough to prove that.

“Yeah, no— at this point, fuck Nanami and his birthday. This is a better surprise.” Satoru throws an arm over you, slightly swaying from the shots he’s already taken. “Pfft– he doesn’t even like his birthday. I’m sure he’d be happier to see her, too—”

“He’s coming up the elevator,” Suguru cuts him off. 

“SHIT! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HIDE,” Satoru suddenly yells, as if he weren’t just talking shit just seconds ago. 

No one would be surprised if Kento heard him yelling at everyone like that, and given how hesitant of a knock there was at the door. The blonde probably already knows there’s something up. 

Suguru goes to open the door, and the moment he opens his mouth to greet him, there’s a loud wave of people yelling ‘SURPRISE’ behind him, with Satoru saying it a split second sooner than anyone else did. 

Kento’s eye slightly twitches. Half surprised, half irritated. He fucking hates surprises and knows that’s the only reason why Satoru decided to throw him one. Before a complaint can leave his mouth, Ieiri hands him an old fashion. He tries to speak again, but gets interrupted once more when she tells him who’s here. 

At first he scoffs, already having enough of people of fucking with him today. 

“No, I’m serious!” she swears, looking around trying to see where you were at, eventually catching a glimpse of your head in the kitchen. “There she is— come say hi.”

Ieiri grabs his wrist and pulls him through the living room and into the kitchen, where you, Yuki, and Choso were talking. She turns back to look at Kento, who’s already surprised by her rare display of excitement, as she gestures towards you. 

“See? Surprise!”

“Yeah, surprise!!” Yuki says right after. 

“Holy shit.” Kento rarely curses, but finds himself unable to come up with better words. “It’s been ages!” 

“I know!” You try to sound more apologetic, but ultimately fail from the nice buzz you had going on. “Happy birthday!” 

And for once, he’s a little less uptight about it when he gives you a hug and says his thanks. It was a nice surprise, he had to admit. If only Satoru didn’t have to ruin the moment with the way he barged into the kitchen with some stupid, frilly party hat in hand, begging Kento to put it on. 

“I said no!”

“C’mon, Nanamin!” Satoru whines, taking a step forward each time the blonde takes a step back. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t want to get any younger— I’m a grown man, and so are you. Maybe you should start acting like one.” 

“I do! I’m just fun,” he continues to pester him, ignoring everything Kento mumbles under his breath. 

You end up excusing yourself to use the restroom, somewhat bummed you couldn’t stick around longer to watch them bicker some more. You’re sure it went on for a while, though, unaware of how it was cut short when Shoko grabs Satoru by the arm. 

He hisses at how tight of a grip she has on him, fingers digging into his skin as she pulls him aside.

“What is your problem?!” he asks through a clenched jaw. 

“Sukuna’s here?!” 

“Yeah?” He tries and fails to free himself from her grip as he answers. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise!”

She looks at him like he’s stupid, nails continuing to dig into his flesh. “A nice surprise? He fucking hates her. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I knew he was coming!”

“Ow ow ow— No he doesn’t?! Do you actually believe that?!” he groans in between each sentence. 

“Yes! He says it every time someone brings her up!”

“Ow ffuck! You know how dramatic he can be sometimes— fuck, Shoko, please, you’re breaking skin.”

“You deserve it!” she responds in a clipped tone, despite finally letting go. 

“Jesus Christ— you can’t just assault people like that,” he pouts, rubbing his arm. “It’ll be fine! It’s been years, he can’t hold a grudge that long.”

. . . . . .

Sukuna can absolutely hold a grudge that long. 

Except, he was staring at said grudge like some fucking loser, and had to remind himself that it was still alive and well. 

At first he thought you were just one of Satoru’s new friends as you walked through the living room, shyly making your way around everyone, but then you just so conveniently looked up in his direction.

His eyes nearly widened. 

And yours actually did, looking as guilty as you should be.  

The longer you two stood there, looking at each other from across the room in shock, the guilt you had in your eyes started to fade. He was sure everyone else welcomed you back with open arms, and in turn got irritated because you probably thought he’d do the same. So before you could even think to take a step in his direction, he wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a look that’s able to make even grown men turn around and walk the other way. 

Which is exactly what you did, stomach slowly twisting into a tight knot as you immediately began to replay the death glare he gave you over and over in your head. 

Sukuna didn’t stay long and left shortly after. Not without pretending like he didn’t know you when he said goodbye to everyone, including Kento, who he never even got the chance to say hi to in the first place. 

Shoko didn’t think that was enough to have a complete 180 in your mood. She then realized you were already quiet before that. You also decided to stay in the kitchen, where there was a wall in between you and him. 

So yeah, she blames Sukuna.

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Ieiri asked one last time as she pulled up to your apartment building. 

“Nah— my stomach just started to hurt. I don’t drink alcohol that much.” 

She still didn’t believe you, not with how big of an asshole Sukuna can be, which is why a certain someone got an earful over the phone the moment you got out of the car. He barely got a word out while she threw nothing but insults and threats so specific his way, that he had begun to believe them.

Of course Satoru felt bad! He didn’t want you to disappear again for another seven years and have it be all of his fault. So, he gives Sukuna a call, continuing the cycle of abuse started by Shoko. 

The phone rings three times. Sukuna never finishes saying hello before Satoru tries to grill him. “Alright, what did you say to her?”

“Who the fuck are you even talking about right now?”

Sukuna knows exactly who he’s talking about, Satoru can just see his face crinkling in fake disgust over the accusation because he’s just a bullshiter at the end of the day. 

“Shoko thinks you said something to her— she said she was acting all weird and shit when she came back from the bathroom.” 

“She’s already fuckin’ weird,” Sukuna scoffs. 

“So you did see her before you walked into the kitchen to say bye?” 

“Yeah, I saw her. Doesn’t mean I said anything to her though, you fuckin’ moron.”

Satoru sighs and rubs his temple, knowing he probably looked at you like he wanted to skin you alive. 

“What? Is looking at her a crime now?” 

“With the way you look at people? It should be.” It’s clearly not the first time Sukuna’s managed to simply offend someone his face with the way it comes out as a complaint on Satoru’s end. 

“Why do you even care?” 

“Don’t turn this back around on me?!”

“Then quit trying to grill me over the way I look at people. Seriously— she comes back and you all are fuckin’ babying her like she’s some victim. It’s not that serious.”

“Well Shoko—”

“Shoko can fuck off.” Sukuna cuts him off. “Don’t bother me about something stupid like this again. If she can’t handle someone looking at her in a way that she doesn’t like, maybe she should stay home and lock herself in her fuckin’ room.” 

“I– she already did!” he tries to come to your defense. “Shoko won’t tell me much, but she was going through it for years. She probably still is! She doesn’t go out at all. I tried telling you before and you wouldn’t listen.”

There’s a long pause before a disappointed sigh could be heard. Satoru could tell it was directed towards himself instead of you. “She was going through it, so she locked herself in a room for years?”

“Not literally,” he scoffs. “Look, all I know is she was dealing with depression and now she’s all anti-social because of it.”

“She should’ve fuckin’ said something then.” 

“Well, she fuckin’ didn’t.” 

“That’s–”

“If that’s an opinion, it doesn’t matter,” he cuts the man off, starting to grow impatient. Satoru has adhd— the severe, annoying kind. There’s only so much he could handle before getting the violent urge to scream out random noises. “I’m just gonna give you her number so you can talk to her if you want. Who knows, she might even open up to you more since you were the one closest to her.”

“I don’t want her n—”

“YES YOU DO.” Satoru yells, leaving Sukuna more appalled than annoyed. “I just sent it. BYE.”

click.

Sukuna glares at his phone for a moment as if it were an extension of Satoru, convinced he was dropped as a child or something and just doesn’t know it. He knows he definitely wouldn’t tell his kid if he dropped them as a baby. 

He relaxes his tensed brows and shakes his head as he pulls up the number Satoru sent. For some reason, he expected it to be your old number that he still somehow knew by heart. 

He hates that he remembers it. 

He also hates that the actual reason why you disappeared isn’t as dumb and selfish as he wanted it to be. 

. . . . . .

In the three weeks he’s had your number, he hasn’t tried reaching out. He also hasn’t accepted any invitations to hang out with anyone as a group, despite being told that you were okay with him showing up. Part of it was spite, the rest being him genuinely tired from work. 

His old man’s been taking more time off under the guise of letting him ‘take over for the day’. He acts so gracious with it, too, as if Sukuna should be thankful for the opportunity, when really, Wasuke should just fucking retire already so he can hire someone else to take his place as site manager. He’s essentially working two jobs now and when he asked for a raise, that old piece of shit laughed so hard that he damn near coughed up fifty years worth of cigarette tar.

You’d think watching his father nearly hack up an entire lung would be enough to make him quit smoking himself, but that shit pissed him off so bad that he smoked three cigarettes in a row just to calm down before going back to work. It still pisses him off. He doesn’t regret taking $50 out of that old man's wallet on his way out to cover his gas for the day. He honestly should’ve taken more. 

It’s been months since he’s gotten home at a decent time. Tonight was probably the worst thus far. 

He drags his feet into his apartment and kicks off his boots, heavy eyes landing on the clock that’s two minutes away from 10:00 pm. 

The next ten minutes are spent shoveling leftovers into his mouth, followed by a hot shower that was mainly spent just standing there, zoning out as the hot water hit his back. It’s been days since he’s jacked off, realizing it doesn’t even give him the urge, his sex drives plummeted all the way down to hell. He just wants to sleep at this point. 

Except when his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake. It doesn’t help that he ends up scrolling through instagram— there was hardly a point for someone that barely followed anyone to begin with. 

There’s not much to scroll through. The most interesting thing being a recent post of Suguru’s night. He absentmindedly looks through them, then pauses at the 4th photo of you and Shoko with your little drinks in hand. 

You were barely smiling. 

Your lips curved just enough for the camera— nothing like the photos of you from before, grinning and laughing. That’s how he’s always remembered you.

Would it have even made a difference if he told you not to move so far away for school? It’s not like he could’ve known, you never said anything. He thought you were doing just fine and you deleted everything one day and changed your number. 

He taps the photo to see who’s tagged. Just Shoko. You still haven’t gotten back on social media, no profile to see what you’ve been up to. All he knows about you is that you moved back to the area after graduation and scored a cozy finance job without telling anyone. The only reason why you got in touch with Shoko again was because she ran into you at some bakery and made you give her your number. 

It didn’t even matter if you did have a new phone with no contacts by the time you moved back. You didn’t need to text him or call him, you could’ve just shown up. Sure, he might’ve been annoyed at first, but he wouldn’t have turned you away. 

You’ve known each other since 8 years old, you disappeared at 19. That’s his whole childhood right there. You played together, ate lunch together, walked to school together until he got a car, ditched school together. You had your own shampoo and toothbrush at his and would just use his clothes if you didn’t have a spare set with you.

It’s just dumb.

Still thinking about it, that is. It’s been years. It may have been fine to still be thinking about it at 21 or 22, but now it’s just ridiculous.

. . . . . .

You aren’t expecting Sukuna to warm up any time soon. At all, really. You couldn’t blame him for the reaction he had seeing you at Kento’s birthday. If there was one person that deserved an explanation, it was him, and you’re just about seven years too late for that. 

He wasn’t the same person you knew. You couldn’t just go up to him expecting that you’d get to have a conversation. A civil one, at least. 

It’s been years. 

And honesty, it might not even be about being several years too late. He’s a grown man, why would he care about a childhood friend that just up and left?

All there’s left to do now is to stay out of his way. You’re sure his temper’s the same and the last thing you want is to bug him. Hopefully being at a kids birthday party shields you from it in the case that you accidentally do. From what you heard, he seems close enough with Toji to know not to fuck with his sons special day. 

It’s not all bad. Toji couldn’t come to Kento’s birthday since his wife and son woke up sick that day, so you were more excited than nervous for today since you’d get to meet them. 

This time it was you that picked up Ieiri. You felt a little guilty for being the one that constantly got rides, despite having a running car of your own. Once you two got to the little park in their neighborhood, everyone was already there, including Sukuna, who was stuck having to watch his nephew that you’ve heard about through Choso. 

The biggest plot twist of all was probably learning that Jin is now technically Choso’s stepfather. You knew Choso had a teen mom, you didn’t know she was that young, though. You also had no idea how much of a milf hunter Jin was, either. 

Jin apparently didn’t know that was Choso’s mother. No one believes him, especially not Sukuna, who still looks at two like they’re a couple of fucking sickos for making him Choso’s step-uncle. 

The kid’s name is Yuji, and he looks just like Jin and Sukuna when they were kids. He’s the same age as Toji’s son, who’s turning 3 today. Yuji acts nothing like his father or his uncle. Jin was always quiet and sensitive. Sukuna was sensitive, too, but he was always very vocal about the things that annoyed him. The toddler was more like Gojo, hopped up on sugar and bouncing off the walls. 

Sukuna calls out to him like an angry mother at a grocery store, gritting his teeth as he tells the kid to, “get your ass over here, NOW,” all while Yuji pretends not to hear or see him…. up until Sukuna gets up from the bench, which is when the little boy decides to run back to him, whining about how he’s sorry and how he didn’t know. 

Megumi’s more quiet and follows Yuji around. He even ran back to Sukuna with the boy, worried that his friend's uncle was going to leave him at the park too, even though his father was at the grill just a few feet away. 

Watching the two boys play is adorable, but you try not to look too much in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with the grumpy uncle, which ends up becoming more difficult than you’d imagined. The kid eventually wore him out to the point where he managed to slip out his view. 

Yuji didn't go very far. 

“...es’cuse me?”

You feel a little tug at your shorts and look down to find an incredibly worried Yuji, who should’ve gone to an adult he knew, but here he was after quickly deciding you were the trusted adult for whatever problem he had. 

“What’s wrong?” You crouch down, getting at eye level. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, pointing to his feet. “I donno how to tie my shoes.”

“You don’t?” you ask, sounding just as concerned. “Do you want me to tie them for you?” 

He pouts. “Yes, please.” 

Your heart melts at his little voice. “Aw, okay.”

Like any other kid, Yuji’s amazed at how fast adults can tie shoelaces, unable to keep up with the strings crossing and looping around each other to create the little bow at the end. 

“Yay!” He claps his hands, jumping in excitement. “We can play again, Gumi!”

Megumi thinks to celebrate with his friend, but closes his mouth right after opening it. 

Then you’re startled by a scoff made directly behind you. “You make a stranger tie your shoes and you can’t even say thank you?” 

The last to freeze is Yuji, who side-eyes him, rather than turning to face him. “Um.. ya I did..”

“No you didn’t?!” The toddler's ability to lie over something so simple amazes and offends the man at the same time. Does Yuji seriously think he’s that stupid? “I watched you lie about not knowing how to tie your shoes and then I watched you try to run off with even thanking her.” 

“I donno how to tie my shoe!” Yuji stomps a foot on the ground to prove whatever point he thought he was making. 

“Yes, you do— now thank her, before I take your shoes away.” 

“Oh no, not my shoes!”

“Yeah. Bye bye, shoes.” Sukuna snorts, clearly enjoying this. “You’re a big boy now, remember? You don’t need them.”

“Yes, I do!” Yuji whines.

“Then have some manners and say thank you.” Sukuna continues to glare at the kid while pointing at you.

“Thank you for tying my shoe,” Yuji tightly grabs the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and bows at you, then turns to his uncle and starts whimpering. “Don’t eat my shoes, Unkakuna! I need them!” 

Sukuna’s even more annoyed now at how specific that was. “Who said I was gonna eat them?!” 

“I dunno! You eat everything!” Yuji claims, bottom lip quivering and all, making his uncle's eye twitch in disbelief. “It’s all stuck in your big belly.” 

Sukuna’s face drops, as if he didn’t see a 6-pack in the mirror this morning with his own eyes.

“I don't have a goddamn belly,” he scolds him through a clenched jaw, then lowers his tone as he begins to crouch down. “Do you want me to hit your Papa Jin?” 

“No!!!”

“Then quit acting like I eat everything in sight, you little shit.”

Yuji scratches the back of his head as he continues to whine, trying to force a couple tears out. Eventually he turns to you. “He’s gonna hit my papa with his big belly.” 

“Uh-oh. That's not nice,” you begin to laugh, all while Sukuna grumbles something about Jin being the one with love handles. 

“Papa gonna cry,” he claims, continuing to act distraught over the news, trying to get all the sympathy he can from you. “My poor papa.” 

You giggle. “I don’t think he’ll hit your papa, though.”

“He’s gonna EAT my papa!” Yuji stretches his arms out, emphasizing how big of a meal that would be for Sukuna. As if it couldn't get any worse, Yuji finds a random basketball and tries to stuff it under his shirt. “Then his belly will be big like THIS.”

“Stop it,” Sukuna snaps, pointing off into the distance behind the kid. “Get out of here before I barbecue you on that grill Mr. Toji’s using.” 

“Hey!” Yuji gasps. “You can’t do that!”

“You can barbecue anything when you have barbecue sauce, Yuji.” he informs the kid, then notices a mortified Megumi standing off to the side. “You’re next.”

“DAAAADDDDYYYYYYYY.” 

The boys run to Toji at full speed. Yuji thinks it’s a game, but Megumi’s genuinely scared, sobbing as his father picks him. His dad’s obviously confused as to why his son’s crying like someone threatened to kill him. Once Megumi’s able to actually get a full sentence out as he points right as Sukuna. 

If Megumi thought he was going to receive any sort of comfort from his father, he was dead wrong. Toji bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop, even when Megumi starts screaming and hitting him for not being more concerned over something so dire.

“Megumi says you’re not allowed to have any cake,” Toji yells out. 

“I’m taking Yuji home if I don’t get a slice.” 

Sukuna’s response has the two boys whining in the distance. 

“NO barbecue me.” Megumi glares as he tries to strike a deal with the most difficult person he’s encountered so far in his short, yet stressful life. 

“Give me three slices and I won’t barbecue you.”

“But Unkukuna, you’re belly!” Yuji rounds his arms out in front of him, emphasizing how detrimental those extra calories would be for his physique. 

Everyone grows quiet as Sukuna stares him down, wondering who the fuck even taught him that. Whoever it was better pray to god that he doesn’t find out. 

“I’m not gonna be your uncle anymore if you keep talking about my belly.”

Yuji reaches out in despair as he screams, “NOOO.”

“No? You don’t want that?” he asks, fighting back a smile. 

Yuji throws his back dramatically, shaking his head. “NO.”

“That’s what I thought,” he barks, not bothering to hide how proud breaking Yuji down with a singular sentence made him. “Now ZIP IT.”

“KAY’.” 

Yuji looks away for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm down, all while sneaking little peeks at Sukuna. 

He quickly looks away after seeing that his uncle’s staring at him, then peeks again. It happens several times, yet his uncle hasn’t moved a muscle once as he continues to just look at the boy like he’s better than him. 

What kind of a sick game is this? 

Naturally, he grows irritated knowing Sukuna is winning whatever game this is, which isn’t fair since he’s already going to have three slices of cake later. Even one slice was pushing it, to tell you the truth. He was too young to put into words why it pissed him off. All he knows is watching Sukuna enjoy good things, that are meant for good people, will never sit right with his spirit.

By the time Sukuna decided to stop staring at the kid as a form of psychological warfare, you had already been awkwardly standing there for quite some time, unsure if you should leave or not. It was either look rude or look too comfortable, neither of which you wanted to come off as.

Sukuna wasn’t mad at you anymore. At least not since Gojo called and told him you were and still are dealing with some mental health stuff. 

He wasn’t planning on talking to you today, either, purely because he didn’t believe he should have to apologize for giving someone a harmless look. But then he caught Yuji trying to get your attention and figured it would’ve been fine since 2 minutes with him would make anyone want to choose peace for the next hour.

You couldn’t tell what he was thinking when your eyes finally met his, but at least he wasn’t giving you that same disgusted look you got at Nanami’s birthday. 

You weren’t the best at starting conversations outside of work, though, and quickly embarrassed yourself with how bad you stuttered while trying to find something to say, which ended up being an apology for tying the kids' shoe. 

In turn, Sukuna looked at you like you were a fucking weirdo. 

“What? No, it’s— that’s fine,” he waves a hand, still thrown off by the apology. “He just goes around annoying anybody he can.”

“Oh– don’t worry, he didn’t annoy me. He's adorable.” 

You suppress a laugh as he shoots you a look saying he’s anything but that. 

“He’s a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, already rubbing his eyes from how tired he is. “We passed around a baseball for an hour before coming here and he’s still running around trying to convince people that I’m a fatass.”

He has to be at least 200 pounds of pure muscle and has the ass of a baseball player, so you neither confirm nor deny the words out of fear that you’d make yourself look stupid again. “He probably just likes your attention.”

“That’s the problem— he’s probably taken 10 years off my life already because of it,” he smiles a little, obviously more fond of the kid that he lets on. 

You avert your gaze as you find yourself smiling as well. “His poor parents.”

“They have good life insurance, he’ll be set.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” you laugh with him until it dies down into another awkward silence. You’ve barely looked at him and try not to think too much about it after the realization. Having a conversation with him was surprising enough. Difficult on your end, too, but you pushed yourself. “How’ve your dad and Jin been?”

“Jin’s been good, he’s—” he huffs out a laugh, “you know he went and made Choso his fuckin’ stepson right?” He openly points at Choso, not very worried about getting caught. 

“Yeah,” you nod, just as surprised by it, more so by the fact that Choso and Yuji and brothers. 

“Well. He’s still going strong with Kaori. Just bought a house,” he struggles to list things worth sharing— aside from the mommy kink, his brother’s pretty boring. Sukuna quickly moves on to Wasuke, who he has no issue talking about. “Old man’s driving me nuts. Says he wants to retire, instead he just takes a bunch of days off and pretends he’s doing me a favor by letting me play boss while he’s gone, so now I’m doing my job and his.” 

“You’re working for the company?”

He sighs deeply. “Yeah.” 

It pains him to say, remembering all that talk about him wanting ‘something of his own’ when he was younger. Now here he is, set to take over daddy’s company. 

“I mean… it’s already there,” you try to offer some words of reassurance, being the one that heard most of the said talk. “All you have to do is maintain it once it’s yours.”  

“Exactly,” his tone changes, less ashamed of pulling the nepo baby card. “I’m not tryna work any harder than I should at this point.”

“Does he pay you extra on the days he’s off, at least?” 

“Fuck no.” He laughs, even though there is nothing funny about being exploited at his grown age. “Yeah— nope— he works me like a fuckin’ dog.” 

Hence why he’s been helping himself to whatever cash is in the old man’s wallet and whatever food he has in his pantry when he visits. He makes good money to begin with, so it’s not like he can’t afford any of it, it’s just the principal. 

He’ll take Wasuke’s toilet paper, too. 

That old man has one year to either give him a raise or retire completely before couches and T.V.s start to go missing. 

“Old man’s been good, though… still kickin’,” he mutters, then stops himself before saying something really fucked up, “What’ve you been up to?”

You shrug as you let out an indecisive hum, knowing you didn’t have much to share. “Nothing really— work usually has me pretty busy.”

He’s well aware of how boring of a life you have, but still tries to push for more details. “Yeah? Suguru says you’re in finance now.”

“Mhm,” you nod, growing shy, “portfolio manager.”

“You spend the day telling people what to do now?” he asks as if he were almost impressed. 

“Not really,” you laugh. “A lot of it’s research, reporting, meeting with clients, I— yeah, I mainly just take care of more of the sensitive stuff. If my manager hat’s on, it’s usually just collecting reports from the other managers or figuring out what’s going on with their teams if they’re not performing the way they need to.” 

He nearly barks out a laugh. 

You look at him with confusion. “What?” 

“So instead of managing a bunch of people, you just terrorize their managers?”

“I don’t terrorize them,” you murmur, shifting in place. “It’s their job to make sure that their teams are performing well and if they aren’t—”

“You ask them why they aren’t doing their jobs,” he finishes your sentence with an amused grin. “Then they sit there for the next hour, trying to come up with an answer for that.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if he has to do the same. “Well— kind of.”

You don’t have time to sit there and listen for an hour, nor do you want to. The longest one went just over twenty minutes before you had to stop her. 

“Listen, Linda— I,” you stopped to think twice about what you were going to say, “I’m just asking why there’s been a dip in the performance, I really don’t need an entire life story for that. Why don’t we take a few steps back— how has your team been?”

“Well… uhm… well… they…” You nodded, thinking it’d encourage her, and it did, but 5 minutes later she went off course to talk about her failing marriage, again. “And then Dave, he—”

“Is Dave a new hire?” 

Her eyes dried right up. “No… Dave is my husband.” 

You knew damn well who Dave was, but she was starting to get on your nerves.

“Okay, let’s talk about your team right now… this is about work— Dave doesn’t work here.” You tried your best to be patient with her, but it was like teaching a kindergartener how to self regulate. “I wanna know things like how everyone’s been mentally— are they eating, are they getting enough sleep, are they taking their breaks? Are they having to work through them?”

She didn’t know. She just wanted to give you a sob story so you’d let her off the hook. So, when she mentioned Dave a third time:

“This isn’t working,” you murmur to yourself as you turn to your computer and start typing. “I’m going to make a little worksheet for everyone, including you. Think of it as a peer review. You’ll have one for each team member and each team member will have one for you. I think that’ll be an easier way to get to the bottom of things.” 

Instead of excusing herself, she stares at you like a deer in headlights.

“There’s no need to wait on me by the way, I’ll have them emailed out to everyone within the next hour.”

On the rare occasion that you do have to ask performance related questions, you send them the same exact worksheet so they have an idea of what you wanted to talk about— which is the only part you mention to Sukuna. He’d probably accuse you of terrorizing Linda when you know you could’ve been ten times worse.

You’re just glad he didn’t ask about any of the other stuff you had to do.

Sometimes you wished you spent your days in Linda’s professional shoes— god forbid you ever had to deal with a man like Dave. Her job was less demanding than yours. More human. Working with others and collaborating with them must be great in terms of keeping you grounded— normal people, that is. 

You wouldn’t consider any of the people you answer to now as normal. The stakeholders, clients, the higher ups, Yaga— they’re all fucking crazy. You couldn’t just pretend like they were normal, you had to match their energy and in some cases, you had to be worse to finish whatever job you were tasked to do, which drove you closer to their territory with each day that passed.

“Do you like it there?” Sukuna looks at you and asks, tone fond and filled with warmth, as if he were proud of you. 

In the same moment you realize that you were only fooling yourself earlier when you tried to believe that he hated you. 

You wish you could turn back time by just a few seconds to change the subject. You didn’t want to answer a question that he clearly wanted a yes to— you’re sure it’d make him feel better about knowing you chose to spend all those years alone, when you had someone would’ve easily stayed by your side. 

You grew stiff, eyes glossing at the question because you hated the real answer to it. 

“Not really,” you murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. “That’s kinda how I feel about most things, though.” 

It was true. You don’t even know why you’re wishing for a job like Linda’s, you always came off as cold and hardly spoke to others before the big promotion. 

He didn’t know what to say to that, he wasn’t even sure if there were any words you could give to someone as apathetic as you sounded when answering. It’s not like he was the type to offer anything encouraging to begin with. Instead, he stayed quiet, comfortable in the silence as he let his own mind run free for a bit. 

Just as you were starting to think you made him uncomfortable—

“Did anyone have to drag you here today?” he asks. 

“No.”

“So you chose to come to soot sprites' birthday?” he asks, as judgmental as ever.

You smile. “I did.” 

He gently rests his hand on top of your head, leaving you with a familiar sense of comfort as he leaned in. “You’re not doing too bad then.” 

“Uncle-Kunaaaaaaa!” The man looks up to see his nephew sprinting towards him. “My tummy growling!!”

“This kid’s always coming up with the most extra ways to say things,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away. “So you’re hungry?”

Yuji slows down the closer he gets, until he’s skipping towards the man. “Yeah. Mr. Toji says he make chicken sticks.” 

Sukuna looks at Yuji the way he always does whenever the kid decides to rename something. “You mean skewers?”

“Yeah, chicken sticks,” Yuji nods, confidently repeating himself, because Sukuna was obviously wrong, even though Toji said skewers, too. Both men obviously don’t know what they’re talking about. 

The man actually looked to you for help, and given how it’s an issue between a 3 year old rage baiter and a grown man that will make time to argue with a child, you decide to stay out of it. 

“That sounds yummy,” you say to Yuji, and you could feel Sukuna glaring at you for not even bothering to call them skewers, too. “You guys should probably grab some before Suguru arrives, he loves chicken and leftovers.” 

Sukuna lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh since it’s true, but if anyone’s taking those skewers home, it’s him. 

Which is why he lets Yuji start to pull him away to get some. 

. . . 

Getting to talk to you more, after being pulled away from Yuji, hardly counted since it was with groups of other people. 

Luckily for Sukuna, your car’s parked right next to his and you’re leaving at the same time he’s trying to get the little brat in his car seat. He’s half asleep and won’t let go— each time he physically tries to pry Yuji off of him, he does this weird muted scream. 

He’s about 2.5 seconds away from wrestling this kid when he hears someone. 

“Bye.” 

It comes off as a little unnatural, but it’s in more of an awkward ‘I don’t know if I should say goodbye to you right now’ way. 

Sukuna turns around. “Oh, wait—” 

His hand slides into his pocket, only to find it empty, then realizes it’s in the pocket of his jacket. The side where Yuji’s on and won’t leave. You stay in the place the whole time, wondering if he’s aware of how funny he looks grumbling to himself as he checks all his other pockets. 

He eventually finds his business card, then rolls his eyes after realizing he’s about to give you a business card, because he’d rather not tell you he already has your number. To add salt to injury, he didn’t even need to pull his phone out, because the goal was to give you his number. 

“Here.” He hands the semi-decent card over for you to take, surprised it’s not more broken down since he’s always leaving them in his pockets, even when he’s throwing his clothes in the washer. “You don’t have to of course, but feel free to reach out if you’re interested in catching up sometime over lunch or something.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You look at the card, flipping it over a couple times. “Um… I don’t actually… need this, though.”

He stares at you for a moment, wondering if it was just some pathetic, last minute excuse to turn him down. 

“I already have it,” you shyly admit, handing the card back to him as if it were better off going to someone else. “Satoru gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.” 

“Fair enough.” He shrugs, reluctant to say more— he might be down to catch up, but he’s still not apologizing for his face. “Shoot me a text sometime, then. I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Yeah, I will.” You smile a little, trying to hide a bit of the excitement that was starting to bubble up. “Alright, well— it was nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

. . . . . . 

‘You’re not doing too bad.’

It took around 3 months after the words left Sukuna’s mouth to actually start believing them. 

It’s not like your life was crazy interesting now. It just slowly started to fill up with things you looked forward to over time. Whether it be hanging out with others or simply sitting in your living room with a latte you took your time making. Your apartment started to feel more like a home with each new addition you added to it. You were nowhere near done, but you found yourself enjoying the process of casually looking through items and randomly falling in love with different ones. 

The newest addition was a painting you saw a year ago and decided not to buy, despite how much you loved it. You stood in that gallery for over an hour, convincing yourself that it would never get that much attention from you again once you took it home. You were convinced that it’d find a way to collect dust in a space that felt as sterile as yours, and left it for someone that had a home where it wouldn’t. 

You found it again in a consignment store with a big coffee stain on the side of the canvas. The person who ended up buying it probably got rid of the moment it spilled. They didn’t even bother hanging it up, and most likely had it on some counter before the accident happened. By the time you got to it, it was collecting dust with dozens of other paintings leaned against the wall since they weren’t good enough to be hung up.

You paid less than a quarter of it was originally worth, but a part of you thinks you would’ve purchased it for its original price if it meant you got to take it home. You’ve thought about it nearly everyday since you stepped out of that pristine gallery, after all.  

Sukuna stared at it for a while before hanging it up. You can’t remember how the conversation started, but he came over and put it up for you after finding out you were going to do it yourself, claiming you didn’t have the right tools. You probably don’t. 

It wasn’t until the canvas was up on the wall when he finally asked the question you had been expecting to get after you caught him looking at it funny. 

“That brown stuff on the bottom corner is a part of the whole thing, right?”

“Nope.” 

He just stood there and continued staring at the damn thing with you, waiting silently for an explanation that he soon realized he’d never get on his own.  

“Are coffee stains some new trend I don’t know about?” 

He was dead serious. It was almost funny how he couldn’t believe that you’d just buy something that was stained like that. 

“Nope, not a trend.” 

He continued to stare at you, so utterly confused as to why you want that thing hung up on your wall when you could just walk into one of those art shops and buy a new one. It’s not like you couldn’t afford it, he’s seen some of the shit you own and you’re clearly not bothered by commas on a price tag. 

You eventually told him the story. He probably still didn’t get it, but that didn’t really matter. 

“How cute,” he says rather boredly, wondering why you couldn’t just tell him that in the first place. “You didn’t buy it for more than 50% of its price, right?” 

You shoot him an annoyed look. “I spent almost an entire year sulking over it, do you seriously think the price of it matters at this point? I wanted it.” 

“You probably ended up cursing the damn thing so no one else could have it. People don’t usually spill coffee on paintings.” he says, starting to laugh the longer he thought about it. 

You don’t laugh with him, but he does catch the proud look on your face as you walk away, just happy to have it. He walks after you with another question in mind, hoping now was an okay time since he always forgets. 

“Mind me asking why you’re just now starting to furnish the place?” 

You shrug. “I was just always too tired to get out of bed. If it wasn’t for work, I wasn’t getting up,” you remind him. “Too many choices to make, too. I’d get overwhelmed and stop looking for stuff.” 

“Yeah, there’s a lotta shit out there,” he murmurs, helping himself to one of the white claws in your fridge. 

The can cracks open and he takes a sip, looking over your living room that’s become a bit more filled in since the first time he came over to help you put your couch together. The place was so empty that he automatically assumed you had recently moved in. 

He’s been helpful since Megumi’s birthday— at least he tries to be. 

It never feels forced, most of the time it’s just him asking if you wanna come along to a place he was already going to, just to get you out of the house. 

He also asks how you’re actually doing, a lot— figuring you were just someone that needed some extra support, given how one lonely, difficult semester made you isolate yourself to the point where you started to believe you weren’t worth missing.

Once, he almost asked how you could’ve ever put him into that category. He loved you, both platonically and not platonically. But he never asked, the past is the past and that’s probably just how it is when someone’s spirit’s in the dumps.

He’s far from a therapist and never has any advice to give, but he was surprisingly good at getting you out of your head— pull you back to reality, without the reality check. You’ve obviously had more than enough of them. It’s why he doesn’t bother being harsh with you, at all. Even during the times he’s come off as more straightforward, you don’t feel any judgement or malice behind his words. The last thing he wanted was to say or do something that made you think you couldn’t give him a call. 

It’s probably why you’re so comfortable with having him come over and why you don’t mind telling him certain things, like the fact that you spent most of your free time sleeping at one point. He never bats an eye. He just wants to be around you, like he’s always had.

“Summers’ coming up. Getting anything for the balcony?” he asks, nodding in the direction of its doors. 

You turn your head, looking over at the empty space. “What would I even get?” 

He’s mid-sip when you ask, but hums in acknowledgment. “Some seating, a little table, maybe a fire pit if you’re feeling extra crazy.” 

You fight back a smile, “Oh? Thanks, asshole.”

“You might be a grandma, but I never said there’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“I’m trying not to be, okay.” You give him the finger as you walk to the fridge, hoping he didn’t take the last seltzer. Seconds later you’re cracking one open yourself.

He chuckles at the little pout you get on your face when you’re offended. “I’m just fuckin’ with you— you’re fine.”

“I guess,” you murmur, leaving him in the kitchen to go take a seat on the couch. 

He trails behind you, leaving enough space between the two of you as he takes a seat on the couch he nearly lost his mind trying to put together. The instructions were in a language so uncommon that most people go about their lives without knowing about it.

“What do you mean you guess?” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Kinda feel guilty for all the years I lost, I wish I could get them back.”

“I bet,” he leans back in his seat. “You ever considered making more time for yourself, now?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Taking some time off. Could be a week, could be a couple months. You could even try working part time for a little. You have a savings, I’m sure you could get away with taking a break.” 

“Oh— yeah, I have actually. The company has really good benefits, though. It’s kinda why I haven’t even tried to leave,” you turn towards him, leaning against the arm rest as you hug your knees. “I’ve been considering asking for a demotion, though.” 

You’re not quite sure how Yaga would handle that. You’ve been coming up with different ideas all month— a hybrid schedule, switching to a 4 day work week, maybe leaving early some days, a demotion. You’re sure taking on another role would have its own difficulties, but it’d be easy to handle compared to all you do now. The workload you have really should  be split between two people, maybe even three. 

“That’d definitely be a lot less work,” he remarks, still shocked at all the shit he has you do. 

“A lot less— I’m hoping Yaga agrees to one of them. If not, I might just find some place else. I could probably take a few months off then. Free time does sound nice.” 

“Yeah you could sleep in, hang out with anyone who’s free, find a hobby, go on a date—“

His last suggestion gets shut down with a laugh. “Yeah, right.” 

“What?” he smirks.

“I suck at dating,” you inform him. “I don’t even know how to anymore.” 

He snorts. “That’s a little dramatic, no?”

“It’s true— last time I went on one was three years ago.”

He raises his brows, then flatly asks, “Three?”

“Don’t judge me,” you grumble. 

“M’not. It’s just— 3 years of completely nothing?”

“God— obviously.” You hide your face in embarrassment. “You are judging me right now.”

“I’m not,” he laughs, taking another sip. “Just a long time to go without having someone take care of you.” 

"Well I slept through most of it anyway so I'm fine,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at how he’d even make a joke like that when he knows you can support yourself just fine without anyone’s help.

“You’re awake right now, though.” 

“So?” you scoff.

“I can take care of you, if you want,” he offers.

“Not funny,” you murmur, just about ready to kick his ass out. 

At first, he’s confused as to why his little offer had you that offended. Then after a minute, it clicks. Since you refuse to look at him, you miss the amused grin on his face after realizing you two are thinking about two entirely separate things in terms of ‘being taken care of’.

You only finally look at him when he gets up from where he’s sitting and there’s a shit eating smirk on his face, making you think he’s just being a dick and leaving.

Then he takes a seat right next to you, leg just barely brushing against yours.

“What are you d—”

“I think you’re a little confused here,” he says a little too calmly, throwing his arm over the backrest and leaning in way too close.

“Listen, I looked forward to hanging up that painting of yours all day, same goes for all the other stuff I’ve helped you out with.” You feel your cheeks start to warm as a result of the low, honeyed tone he’s using on you. “I really like helping you. It makes you a little happier, and with all the assholes I have to deal with everyday, it makes my day a lot better. So, why not just let me do a little more?”

“I don’t— what are you even talking about right now?” Your words come out all nervous and jumbled, failing to stay calm from how close this guy is. 

“I’m talking about all the times I’ve caught you looking at my dick print.”

Your eyes widen in horror and he laughs. 

“Yeah, you’re not slick,” he tucks some hair behind your ear and leans in closer. “C’mon— you’re not even at work right now and your mind’s still all over the place trying to find stuff to be stressed about. Aren’t you tired?”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you hesitate to answer. “I mean— yeah.” 

“Let me fuck you then,” he murmurs, tracing the backs of his fingers down your arm. “You won’t have to think about anything, won’t have to do anything— just gotta take it. Super easy. Sounds fun, huh?” 

“I… I don’t know,” you just barely whisper, shifting in your seat from all the nerves, looking like a deer in headlights.

“I think you do know.” He continues to toy with you as he waits for you to say anything else. Surprise: you never do. 

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

You look like you’re about to have a panic attack and it’s adorable. “Stop what?”

“This.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss right under your ear, humming against your skin, not missing the way it makes your breath hitch. Then he presses another one on your jaw, then another, getting closer to your lips and pulling back right before he does, meeting your glazed over, half lidded eyes. 

He snakes a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in, making your lips meet his. The first kiss is slow and gentle, letting you warm up to it. You put your legs down trying to get closer, not expecting for it to grow more heated, too. 

An arm wraps around your waist and you're being pulled in to straddle his lap. His big hands roam around your hips and ass as you start to full on make out, grinding you down against something long and hard until you’re desperately panting against each other. 

He gives your ass one last squeeze before finding the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up over your head, rushing to unclip your bra and tossing it in whichever direction the shirt went. A soft gasp slips through your lips once you feel the wet heat of his pierced tongue drag a slow stripe over your nipple, not thinking much about the way Sukuna smiled at you afterwards. 

You should’ve braced yourself for the level of greed you were about to experience. 

Many minutes later, your tits are covered in spit and you’re failing to bite back moans out of self preservation. 

And it’s fucking hard. 

Sukuna’s groaning and dragging a heavy tongue over each nipple 1, 2, 3, 4 times before wrapping his lips around them and starts sucking. He goes back and forth between each, pulling away with a wet, lewd pop before moving on to the next. At first, he’d replace his mouth with his fingers— rubbing, rolling, and pinching on the sensitive bud so it’s not completely neglected while he works on the other one. 

They’re now firmly planted on your hips, because apparently he needs the extra friction. So now your shorts are soaked through and you’re trying not to cum as he continues to push you down back and forth against his cock.

Your fingers are digging into his shoulders, the moans you’re struggling to bite back come out as whines and the one thing that actually pulls one out of you is when Sukuna’s palm cracks down on your ass. 

“Come here.”

He pulls you in by the back of your neck and swallows all the little sounds you try not to make with a kiss messier than the last. 

The air's hot and heavy once he breaks it. A small string of saliva hangs on and then breaks as you pull away, already looking like a mess while trying to catch your breath.  

“Bed?”

“Yeah,” you nod, sounding more desperate. 

“Thought so,” he stifles out a laugh as he suddenly gets up, easily taking you with him as he makes the short walk to your bedroom. 

He sets you down on the mattress before pulling his shirt over his head. The buckle of his belt lightly clinks as he undoes it to take his pants off, leaving just his boxers on that leave little room for imagination. He leans forward, hooking his fingers over the waistband of your soaked fucking shorts, taking them off along with your panties in one go. 

You don’t even get the opportunity to be shy around Sukuna because he's immediately grabbing the backs of your thighs and letting out a low whistle while pulling them apart to get a good look at how wet you already are. 

“Shit— look at you,” he groans. 

Without warning, he dips his head down in between your thighs, and he licks a long, fat stripe up your slit, not missing the extra friction from the metal ball on his tongue. There’s a shit eating smirk on his face when his head comes up, teasing you as he pushes you back further up the bed to make more room for himself. 

“Told you this was fun.”

“Shut up.” You giggle as you watch him get settled back in between your thighs, only for it to die out once he dips his head back down. 

He draws a long sigh out of you once he starts to slowly lap at your sensitive clit. He goes at an unhurried pace, just barely using any pressure and you’re sure he’s just doing it to fuck with you. With the way you are right now, the lazily licks are fucking torture, making you squirm around while you clench around nothing.

The more you move, the tighter his grip around the back of your thighs gets, until you find yourself pinned in place as he finally starts to pick up the pace, adding more pressure until that metal ball starts swiping across your clit like you need it to. You focus on it, until it gets ripped away once you finally feel his tongue press flat against your hole and begins dragging heavy stripes up to your clit. 

Your breathing grows sharp and uneven, hand moving down to his head, locking strands of hair in between your fingers as drawn out moans start spilling past your lips. He goes from pressing his tongue against your entrance to pushing past it, dipping further and further until deciding to just stay there and fuck you with it.

The shallow thrusts have you squeezing and clenching, back arching off the bed, desperate for more. You nearly let out a pathetic cry when he pulls away, but then he fills the empty space right back up with not one, but two of his fingers. They’re long and thick, and he’s curling them in. The pads of his fingers rub right up against that spot inside that has you seeing stars. 

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he starts to pump them in and out faster, until a light squelch can be heard. “Oh fuuuck.” 

“You like my fingers?” he asks with a low, amused hum. 

You nod. “Feels so good— oh my god.”

“I bet— look at how fuckin’ soaked they are from you.” He pulls them all the way out for you to see, then stuffs them back in. He starts curling faster, thumb pressing your clit and rubbing little circles until you’re clenching and whining. “Yeahh— that’s it, show me how good that feels.”

He keeps hitting your sweet spot until something in you shifts, making you close your legs out of instinct, only for him to keep them open so he can keep going. 

“Oh my god— fuck— wait!” you cry out. 

“What’s wrong, baby? Gonna cum?” Instead of letting up, he goes faster, letting the room continue to fill up with the filthy sounds of his fingers scissoring into your cunt, pushing you over the edge until you give him what he wants. 

And he gets it quick. You let out a sharp cry as you gush around him, finally cumming after holding it in from earlier.

“Fuuck yeah, there you go,” he rasps, fingers slowing down as he works you through it. 

He waits for you to catch your breath before leaning forward and kissing you a couple times, humming with each one. 

“Tired or you wanna keep goin’?” he asks. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath as you answer. “Yeah, keep going.”

“Atta girl.” 

He pushes himself off the bed to take the boxers off and your eyes widen at his cock that’s bigger than you originally thought it’d be. It springs out of his boxers with multiple piercings and precum smeared all over his darkened red tip. 

And of course, you stare for longer than you should.

“You alright?” he asks, sounding cocky as hell, and actually having the right to be. 

Taking your eyes off feels impossible— 3 rows of barbells on the underside of his shaft right below his tip, and another one on the underside of his tip. It almost feels wrong, he’s already long and thick. 

“Yeah— I just— holy shit.” 

“I know.” He says with full confidence as he gets back on the bed and situating himself in between your legs. “Gonna be fun watching you take it.”

He grabs the backs of your knees and spreads your legs further apart, getting a better look at how wet you still are, fighting back a smile knowing it’s from him.

He gives his cock a couple pumps, then looks at you, not sure whether you’re excited or nervous. “You ready?”

You look at him, then back down to the absolute monster he has in his hand, then back up at him. 

“Mhm.”

He stares at you for a few seconds, then casually shrugs. “Alright.”

You’ll get used to it.

He runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, tapping it over your clit a couple times, making you a bit more nervous after feeling the cold metal ball from his piercing nudging at your entrance. 

He pushes in, and you both have the same reaction to how easy it slides in despite how tight of a fit it was. You take in a sharp breath as he starts to sink in, inch by inch, with no resistance, all while feeling an immediate stretch and the added friction from each piercing. 

Once he’s halfway through, he slowly starts to rock his hips back and forth and you find yourself having to bite back on a moan, realizing those piercings were also rubbing back and forth against your walls. 

“You doin’ okay?” he raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sight. 

“You’re so fucking big,” it almost sounds like a complaint.

“I am,” he hums, leaning down and caging you in with his arms. “I’m gonna push the rest in.” 

“How much is there left?”

“You’ll be fine.” 

He thrusts right in and you're letting out a shattered gasp. At the same time, he’s humming in satisfaction since he got to watch the whole thing.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, giving you a moment to get used to how stuffed you are, stealing a few kisses while he’s at it since he’s not entirely an asshole. “Remember what I said, all you gotta do is take it.” 

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s pulling out all the way and sliding back in, working up a pace as he stuffs you over and over again, dragging those small metal balls right over the spot that made your toes curl. 

It still took you a little bit of time getting used to him though, all words dying at your throat once he started to actually fuck you like it was nothing. Feeling betrayed by your body for letting him stretch you so easily like this. 

Each drive of his cock has you moaning and gasping, making you cover your mouth trying to hold them in— something he did not like since he pushed your hand away. 

Then without warning, he shoves two fingers in your mouth. 

“Mmmh— you look good with my fingers shoved in your mouth like this. Now suck.” 

You do as he says, swirling your tongue around his digit a few times before he presses them down it, making you softly moan as you sucked on them. He pulls them out with a wet pop and starts muttering in your ear. 

“Don’t cover that pretty little mouth again, alright?”

Thrust. 

“Fuck— okay,” you whine back. 

“Good girl.” He gives you another rough thrust, pulling another choked noise out of you. “Don’t try to hold out on me thinkin’ snot and tears are gonna turn me off, cry on it if you have to. I like it ugly.” 

At first you wanted to cry from how fucking mean that was, only to realize that urge to cry may have just been from that one spot he wouldn’t stop hitting, which eventually stopped being overwhelming once you finally get used to him.

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks, though it was more of a condescending remark rather than a question. “Bet this feels good now, huh?”

“It’s been a while,” you say in an attempt to defend yourself. 

“Yeah, no kidding— pussy’s fuckin’ tight,” he says all smug, getting harder at just the thought. “Feels good like this.”

He brings your legs together and throws them over his broad shoulders. Moans start to spill out of your mouth the moment he starts hitting at an angle that manages to hit your clit too. His hips crack against your ass as he picks up the pace, slick spreading past your thighs as he pounds down deeper, bed steadily rocking from all the force behind each thrust.

“Shit— look at how much of a mess you made,” he groans once the wet squelch between you becomes unavoidably louder. “Did you squirt or somethin’? You’re fuckin’ soaked.” 

“No. I don’t— nghh— who cares, just keep going.”

He looks at you in amusement, keeping the same pace as he pushes further back against your legs to go deeper, making you nearly squeal. “Is this what’s got you lying about squirting?”

“I didn’t squirt,” you say with an airy laugh. “Fuuck— just feels good.”

“Right,” he mutters slowly as he pushes back against you even more, slowing down until he’s just grinding against you. “What about this?” 

It’s a full blown mating press at this point.

“Mhm— yeahh.” Your lips curl into a small smile. “Better, actually.”

“Good,” he hums. 

He leans down to press his lips against yours while slowly picking up the pace again, soaking up all the sighs and soft moans he pulls out of you from the deep strokes of his cock, letting the base of it rub against your clit while his tip mushes against that special little spot inside.

The slow, lazy kisses go on for as long as they can, and for you, it’s when your teeth threaten to clash against each other each time his hips snap against you. By then, Sukuna’s going harder. He pulls all the way back, then drives back in— the force behind each thrust growing greater than the last.

“F-fuck— Kuna, that’s—” 

“What? Too much?”

“No, no— keep going,” you damn near start pleading with him, feeling a little bit of pressure start build. “Don’t stop— please, I think I’m gonna—“

Your cunt stretches helplessly around him, feeling every inch and vein he stuffs into you over and over again as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sight’s nothing but obscene as he fills the room with the sounds of him pounding you senseless. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, honeyed and condescending. “Can’t take it?”

“I don’t– fuck– I don’t know.” Your words are cut off by sharp sudden gasps, feeling something unfamiliar build up. It’s not until he gives you one particularly rough thrust when tears start streaming down your cheeks. 

“You poor thing.” If you hadn’t known any better, he sounded quite pleased with himself. He leans down to lick a fresh tear streaming down your cheek before going back to business. “Look at you, getting fucked so good that it’s making you cry. You’re probably close, aren’t ya?” 

You take in a sharp breath, wondering how bad it would be if you did. You already thought you came. Instead, Sukuna’s right and he’s letting one of your legs back down, leaning in close and cradling your head while he continues to absolutely ruin you. 

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to your clit and starts rubbing over it with just the perfect amount of pressure, making clenching like fucking crazy. “Thaaat’s it— c’mon. Give it to me.”

He drags his heavy cock all the way out with a wet schlick, then slams back in— again and again and again— pushing you over the edge until your nails are digging into his back and you’re breaking out into a cry. 

You’re gushing around his cock and he keeps drilling into you like he’s trying to work as much as he can out of you— just powering through it. This is the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life, you’re fucking sobbing and he’s just encouraging it with the way he licks a stripe up your cheek, groaning about how fucking hot you look crying on his cock. 

“Oh my g-god— I-I can’t— ffuck it’s too much—” your nails start to claw down his back as he drives you into overstimulation. 

“I know— I’m so fuckin’ close,” he husks out, and you can tell he’s not entirely all here anymore. “Shhiittt almost there— keep squeezing me like that, baby— yeahh just like that,” his hips desperately slam into you, deep groans start to rumble out of his chest as he chases his own relief. “Fuck— ffuuck.”

He lets out the most drawn out guttural groan once it hits him. He slams in, burying his cock deep inside of you and flooding your walls with so much cum that it starts to spill out while he grinds every last drop of it out. 

He pulls out but keeps you caged in underneath you, pressing lazy kisses against your lips with short uneven breaths in between, skin damp and glistening from sweat. It takes a moment to come back to reality, and for someone that doesn’t even know where to start, you’re surprisingly comfortable with the silence between you. 

It eventually ends, though. You’re the first to break it. 

“Did you still want me to go out on those dates you were talking about?” 

Immediately he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you don’t mind me trying to fight them, then sure.”

. . . . . . 

Six Months Later 

You walk step inside Sukuna’s office, giddier than usual with the small pink cake you bought after handing in your resignation letter to Yaga. His feet are kicked up on the cherry oak wood desk and you doubt he’s doing anything work related. But he’s the boss, who’s going to yell at him? He does sit up straight once he sees you, though, ready to hear the news. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to hear it right away since you just had to look at the wall shelves and catch sight of something that wiped the smile off your face. 

“Why is Yuji’s face crossed off in that photo?”

He rolls his eyes, “don’t worry, it’s whiteboard marker.” 

“But why would you do that?” you continue to interrogate Sukuna, because unlucky for him, you two are the best of friends now. 

Jin visited him earlier today and brought Yuji along. He started off the visit strong by pointing to Sukuna and asking his father ‘Does Uncle have a reezding hairline, too?’ and eventually took a look at the protein snacks he had in the corner, which made him look Sukuna up and down, and go “you eat too much.”

Sukuna rubs his temple as he grows annoyed again. “He called me fat and bald, so I told him we weren’t family anymore and crossed his face out to prove it.”

Despite the words that come out of Yuji’s mouth, the kid loves him in all of his grumpiness. 

“So you made him cry?” 

Yuji cried so hard that started dry heaving and nearly threw up. “No,” he grimaces. “He just pouted and said sorry.” 

The apology being, ‘No, PLEASE! I’m sorry, I'm SORRY,’ and, ‘I LIED— huhuhuhu my tummy hurts, yuji gonna frow up— I’m sorry’.

You look at him rather suspiciously as you grab a couple forks from his little snack station in the corner, but let it go this time. 

He takes your silence as an opportunity to change the subject completely. “How’d your boss take the news?” 

“Oh my god, he was distraught,” you reveal, still surprised over how panicked he looked when you turned in your resignation letter. 

He waves a dismissive hand, believing it’s the least he deserved for not trying to meet you halfway when trying to cut some of your hours down and refusing to demote you. 

“You’ll forget all about it after sleeping in tomorrow,” he reassures you before taking his first bite of cake. 

“Yeah— I,” you give a nervous laugh, “okay, so about that.” 

He stops chewing and just stares at you. 

“I’m gonna stay with them.” 

“What?” he almost snaps. “We’re going on vacation in a few weeks. I— what the fuck? What did you get a fuckin’ cake for then?!”

“We’re still going! He’s giving me that time off.”

“How charitable of him.” He snorts out a bitter laugh, then goes back to be mad. “I thought you hated that fuckin’ place?!”

“I did! But he offered to shorten my hours and said I could work from home.” 

That piece of information does nothing for Sukuna, who is grumbling profanities under his breath, acting like he’s the one being forced to stay there. His words start going in one ear and out the other after telling yourself he’ll get it eventually, and take a bite out of the victory cake since you also got a small raise, despite the decrease in hours. 

“Are you listening?”

“What?” you look up and ask, still chewing on the food. 

“Tch– nothing.” Sukuna takes his aggression out on the cake by stabbing the damn thing when getting more. “He shoulda’ given you all that before you tried to quit if you were that important. Hell— he shouldn’t have dumped all that work on you in the first place.”

“He’s a greedy old man that’s hungry for money,” you remind him. “What else would you expect from him?” 

Sukuna’s delusional and does this thing where he just assumes the world sees you the same way he does, and then when it doesn’t, he gets offended. Last week at the grocery store, someone reached for the produce in front of you and he snapped at them for not saying excuse me. Then he snapped at them again for not having any patience, given how you would’ve eventually moved.

“Whatever,” he gets up from his seat to grab a water from the mini-fridge and takes a sip, but before sitting back down, he stops next to you and gets at eye level. “If Mr. Crabs calls you while we’re gone, I’m ripping that phone out of your hand and cussing him the fuck out, you hear me?”

You suppress a laugh. “Loud and clear.” 

“Good,” he says, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Proud of you.”

The sincerity in his tone pulls a smile out of you. “Thanks.”

He glances at the door, notices it’s locked, then places a hand on your thigh when the sudden realization that there was no one that could fire him hits him. 

He gives it a squeeze. You already know what he’s thinking.

“Seriously? You can’t wait until we're at home?”

“I’ll make it quick.”

And five. Mydeimos is kind. You feel a little guilty for assuming otherwise at first — mistaking his silence for indifference, his stoicism for coldness. But you soon learn that his consideration is quiet and slips past far too easily unless you’re paying attention. He notices the details. Like the time when you were stuck inside the booth and he offered to help you get water from the drinks bar. Or the way he wordlessly holds out his hand to take yours and Hyacine’s bags whenever you need to go to the washroom. 

He shifts his chair to give you more room when the space is tight. He slides a napkin across the table before you’ve even realized you need one. Small things, unremarkable in isolation — except for the fact that he always seems to notice before you have to ask. Platonically, it’s an attractive thing to notice. Platonically. 

Aside from that, though, you wouldn’t say that you know him all that well.

So, it’s a bit of an awkward affair when Phainon asks him to send you home.

The four of you had ended up at a late night diner after catching an action movie Phainon insisted on seeing, and ended up lingering over milkshakes and fries for longer than you’d expected. By the time you checked your phone again, the last bus was long gone and the ride-hailing apps were being painfully uncooperative. Hyacine had decided to give Phainon a lift home (like the girlboss that she is), but the two of them live on the other side of the city and…

“You’ve got a motorcycle, don’t you?” Phainon says as he slaps his friend on the shoulder. Mydeimos narrows his eyes at him, before he glances at you. An unreadable look flickers in his golden eyes before he nods with a hesitation that you’re not sure whether to interpret as reluctance.

“Alright then!” Hyacine claps her hands together, as if that settles everything. “It’s been a long night. Get home safe, you guys!”

You’re not quite sure how to feel about this. You’re grateful to have a ride home, that’s for sure, but you’ve never really… hung out with Mydeimos without Hyacine and Phainon around. And now, the two of them have already headed off, leaving just you and him in the dimly lit parking lot behind the diner.

The air smells faintly of asphalt and cooking grease, and the only bright shape in the lot is what you assume to be Mydei’s motorcycle. Sleek and black, with crimson accents that catch the neon glow from the sign above the diner, it looks fast even when it’s standing still. The engine rumbles quietly, a low hum that thrums through you when he presses a button and the machine comes alive.

He hands you the only helmet. “Have you ridden a motorcycle before?” When you shake your head, his lips twist almost imperceptibly upwards. “You look a little nervous.”

“I kinda am,” you admit, turning the helmet over in your hands. “Never been on one before.”

“Oh.” You’re not quite sure what to expect from Mydeimos. Maybe a teasing remark, a laugh, something casual. But he doesn’t. Instead, with the same quiet steadiness that seems to define him, he asks, “Of anything in particular?”

You take a moment to think about it. “The… noise?” you ponder aloud, frowning slightly. That sounds kind of stupid. “The cars and the honking and the— uh, you know.” He just looks at you with those unflinching, steady eyes, and you feel a little guilty for the hold up you’re causing. “Don’t worry about it. The ride back shouldn’t be more than… fifteen minutes, I think? I can deal with it.”

Before you can put on the helmet, though, he stops you. “Here.” He holds out a pair of AirPods. “I’ll play some music. Noise-cancelling. Should help, right?”

For a second, you’re caught off guard by Mydei’s quiet thoughtfulness once again. Really, you should have learned by now, the type of man he is. You look down at the offered Airpods. The sight of them makes your heart skip a traitorous beat in your chest.

Hesitantly, you slip them into your ears. Mydeimos reaches over to take the helmet from your hands, before helping you settle it onto your head, adjusting the straps carefully beneath your chin. You try not to fidget when his fingers accidentally brush your throat, all too aware of how nerve-wracking yet strangely steadying his methodical touch feels.

When the helmet is secure, he swings a leg over the bike with practiced ease. You step up behind him, hands hovering for a moment before you place them tentatively on his waist. 

Mydei glances back over his shoulder. There’s a faint, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The knowledge that it’s aimed directly at you almost makes you fall off the back. 

“You’ll need to hold on more tightly if you don’t want to fall off,” he tells you, voice low and steady. “Don’t want to arrive at your home only to realise I’ve dropped you on the highway or something. May I?”

You nod wordlessly. He takes you by the wrists and guides your arms just a little tighter around his midsection, shifting them so that you're gripping his front properly rather than just resting your fingers on his sides. The heat that bleeds through the thin tee he’s wearing is almost scalding.

The engine rumbles to life between your legs. Mydei gives the throttle a testing twist, and the machine responds with a predatory growl. You instinctively tighten your grip on his waist, fingers pressing into the firm muscle at his waist.

“Ready?” he calls over his shoulder. You nod shakily, too scared to let go, and he kicks the bike into gear. The world lurches forward.

The first few seconds feel like a sensory overload. The wind is a constant, pressing force against your body, whipping at your bare arms, your hair. The lights of the city streak past in smears of gold and white. And the cars — they’re suddenly enormous, loud, and far too close. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, arms tightening involuntarily around the only solid thing in this chaotic, rushing dark.

He must feel it, because he shifts, one hand leaving the handlebar for a moment. You barely manage to make out his voice, slightly raised but calm, cutting through the wind. “Siri, play my driving playlist—” A car honks loudly from behind, jolting you in your seat. “—on Spotify.”

“Playing ‘jogging playlist’ from Recorder…”

Instead of the expected thumping bass or strumming of an acoustic guitar, an entirely different sound floods your ears. Thump-thump-thump. It takes you a moment to figure it out, but this is the sound of someone’s shoes against the pavement. Jogging. There’s quiet, heavy breathing. And then his voice, slightly breathless, too close and melting like candy in your ears.

“—need to just… ugh. Saw her again today at the library. Third floor, near the history section, next to the window. Hyacine was talking up a storm and she was just nodding along. I think she was drawing something in the margins of her notebook. Wanted to see what it was. Wanted to go over. What would I even say though? ‘Let me see what you’re drawing’? That’s just rude. Idiot.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at the back of his leather jacket, unable to string together a coherent thought for a second. This is… a voice memo. A private thought. About you.

“Mydeimos—” you start to say, but your voice is muffled by the helmet, utterly lost to the wind and the noise of the engine. He feels you move, though.

“Save it for later!” he calls over his shoulder, misinterpreting your squirming for more anxiety. “We’re almost on the highway!”

The jogging sounds continue. There’s another deep breath, then his voice comes through again, raw and unfiltered. 

“Phainon’s setting up another lunch with Hyacine tomorrow. I know he is. He thinks he’s being subtle. I should be annoyed, but I’m… not. It’s kind of pathetic, maybe. That I need a whole lunch engineered just for a chance to sit across from her for an hour and maybe say like three words. She’s just so… quiet. Not in a bad way. It’s like she has a whole other world in that head. I want to know what’s in there.”

The bike leans into a smooth curve, turning onto the ramp for the highway. The city lights open up around you, a dazzling panorama, but you can’t focus on any of it when you’re trapped in a confessional booth with his voice. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic beat completely out of sync with the steady rumble of the motorcycle.

The earbuds go quiet. For a moment, you think that the heavens have finally decided to have mercy on you when the next audio loads. A different day, different background noise, and his breathing is more laboured this time.

“Okay. Sprinted like five miles without stopping and all I could think about is the way she ties her hair when she needs to focus. Hair tie between her teeth and everything. That’s it. That’s the whole thought. Five miles for one hair tie. This is becoming a problem. This is already a problem. A good problem? I don’t know. How do you even talk to someone who makes your brain shut down? You’re afraid that you might open your mouth and say something stupid and then poof— all of your chances, gone down the drain like that. I can’t do that.”

That makes your face heat a little. It feels… wrong, to continue listening, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. The careful, quiet man who you’d thought was politely tolerating your presence… he’d wanted to talk to you. The quiet vulnerability in his voice now is unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him.

You try again. You tap his side, raise your voice as much as you dare. “Your phone!” you shout, but he just pats your hand where it’s clenched against his stomach. It’s a gesture meant to be reassuring. His long fingers practically fold over your hand. “I know, the cars are pretty loud tonight! Almost there! Just hold on!”

Another voice memo. He sounds calmer here, his pace even.

“Figured it out today. I think I’m… yeah. I’m definitely into her. It’s not a crush. I can’t believe I actually owe Phainon something for his stupid schemes… I just need to find a way to tell her. I need to… I just need to be brave. Next time. Next time, for sure.”

The memo ends. And then there’s only the hollow rush of wind, dampened by the ANC. The silence is more deafening than the roar of the engine beneath you.

The bike begins to slow, taking an exit ramp. The suburban streets are dark and quiet. You’re hyper-aware of every point of contact, your arms around his waist, your knees pressing against his thighs. The person you’re holding is no longer just Mydeimos, the mechanical engineering student, the basketball player, Phainon’s friend. This is Mydei — the man who struggles to find the right words to speak to you, who runs five miles thinking about you, whose quiet thoughts you’ve just been privy to.

Is he trying to be brave, even now?

Mydei pulls up to your curb and kills the engine. The ensuing silence is suddenly too much, ringing in your ears with the dampened chirp of the cicadas at night. He rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his wind tousled hair, before turning to look at you with those steady, golden eyes, completely unaware that his soul is sitting in your ears.

By the time you’ve fumbled the helmet off your head with clumsy fingers, Mydei is already standing next to the bike. He holds out a hand to help you off. “See?” His voice is reassuring when your feet touch solid ground again. “Not so bad. You survived.”

You don’t know what to say. Or to do, actually. The Airpods are still sitting in your ears and you pull them out. The world comes rushing back in its full, mundane clarity. You hold them in your palm, finding them suddenly too heavy.

Mydei’s brow furrows at your prolonged silence. “You okay? Did the ride make you nauseous? You look a little—”

“I heard it,” you blurt out. The words are too loud, echoing down the empty street.

He freezes. “Heard what?”

Your heart is beating too quickly in your chest. “Your… your voice memos. Siri played them. Instead of music.” You watch the words land, see the slow, dawning horror break over his features. The casual ease drains from his posture, just as the faint smile he’s wearing vanishes, replaced by a stark, pale shock.

For a long moment, Mydei just stares at you. His golden eyes are wide. You can see the frantic calculation behind them as he blinks, the rapid replay of every private, vulnerable word he’s ever recorded in his memory. The five mile runs, the lunches engineered by Phainon, his fears, his want. The colour drains from his face, before it floods back almost immediately in a swift flush that creeps up his neck.

“Oh.” It’s the most expressive sound you’ve ever heard him make.

The two of you stand there in silence. He looks down at the ground, at his bike, anywhere but you. You, on the other hand, can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but him. His jaw is clenched, fingers gripping onto the helmet you’d been wearing just minutes ago tightly. He looks utterly mortified.

“I…” he starts to say, and then stops. Swallows hard. “I am… I’m sorry. That was private. I didn’t mean to… I would never have…” He takes a half-step back, towards his motorcycle. “I’m so sorry. I should go.”

The nervous energy that has been coiling in your stomach throughout the entire ride transforms into a single, decisive bolt of courage. You step forward, curling your fingers around his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

“No.”

He looks up at you, startled, eyes wide with a mixture of shame and confusion. You don’t give him time to process it. Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, free hand pushing back him back by the chest until his shoulders meet the brick wall of your apartment block with a soft thud.

Mydei lets out a small sound of surprise. His entire body is rigid with tension, parted lips hovering just inches from yours. You can see the faint track of dried sweat at his temple, the bewildered flicker in those golden eyes.

“You talk too much,” you whisper, and the steadiness in your voice surprises even you. Then, you fist your hand in the soft leather of his jacket, and before he can react, pull him down until his mouth touches yours.

It’s as much of an answer as it is a kiss. The culmination of every quiet look, every accidental brush of hands, every mile he’s run thinking of you. It’s you telling him that you’ve heard every word — and that you feel the same, terrifying way.

For a heartbeat, he freezes beneath you. Then a shudder ripples through him, and one hand comes up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your knees weak. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and then he finally, finally kisses you back.

The way Mydei kisses you is nothing like his quiet exterior. He’s hungry, desperate, full of the words he’s been too afraid to say aloud. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and then some more, like none of it is ever quite enough for him.

When you finally break apart, you have to take a moment to catch your breath. You glance up at him. The flustered embarrassment is gone, replaced by a dazed, wondrous shock. His lips are kiss swollen and pink, and gods, it’s a beautiful colour on him.

“You…” he starts to say, voice rough.

You smile, and your heart suddenly feels too big for your chest. “Next time, for sure,” you whisper teasingly, echoing his own promise back to him. A slow, breathtaking smile breaks his face — the first unguarded one that you’ve ever seen directed at you. It transforms him completely.

“No,” Mydei breathes, resting his forehead against yours as if even that small distance is unbearable. “No more next times.”

Khaslana is not gentle. That’s the truth he never stops carrying. Heat, pressure, something vast and burning is just under his skin, waiting to slip free. He tells you again that he shouldn’t. That you don’t understand. That he won’t forgive himself if something happens.

You put your hand over his chest, feel the heat even before the change, feel the way it hums like a living thing.

“I trust you,” you say. “And if it hurts, then I’ll endure it.”

That breaks him.

Because it’s you. Because it’s always been just you. And because Phainon has never learned how to say no to you—not really.

The transformation is blinding and awful and beautiful all at once. When it’s done, Khaslana looms where Phainon stood, massive and radiant, heat rolling off him in waves. The air itself feels thick, like you’re breathing fire instead of oxygen. Your skin prickles. Your heart pounds.

You don’t move away. You climb.

Over hot armor-skin, over muscle that shifts beneath your hands, careful and unafraid. He watches you the whole time, eyes wide, hands hovering like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you. Everything about him is warm—no, hot—but it’s familiar. It’s still him.

“This is a mistake,” he murmurs, voice deeper now, resonant, shaking the air. “You’re burning.”

“Then hold still,” you say, breathless, smiling up at him. “I’m almost there.”

When you reach his face, you don’t hesitate. Your lips meet his.

It hurts—there’s no point pretending otherwise. It scorches, like pressing your mouth to living flame. The heat is immediate, sharp, and blooming across your mouth like you’ve kissed the heart of a star. You gasp into him, breath hitching, and Khaslana freezes in horror.

“No—” His hands come up too fast, hovering at your waist, at your shoulders, afraid to touch, afraid to press. “Stop. Please. You’re in pain, I can feel it—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again.

Longer this time—like you’re trying to remind him of something he’s forgotten. Your lips sting, your skin feels too tight, too warm, but beneath it all is him—his presence, his familiar pull, the way your chest aches when you’re this close.

“I’m fine,” you breathe against him, even as your skin protests, even as the heat threatens to overwhelm you. “I’m here. I want this. I want you.”

You don’t pull away, even when it hurts—especially when it hurts—because this is Phainon. This is Khaslana. And you love him—in every form, in every fire. And if you say it’s fine, then—to him—it has to be.

Khaslana stares at you like you’re something impossible. Something precious and doomed and unbearably brave. You feel the moment he stops trying to pull away; feel the moment he gives in just a little.

And he gives.

Khaslana exhales, long and trembling, and when he kisses you back, it’s careful only for a heartbeat. Then it deepens—warm, consuming, almost desperate. The heat surges, but it no longer feels like pain alone. It’s dizzying now—like being wrapped in something far too powerful but utterly devoted to you.

His hand settles at your back, reverent and steadying, as if anchoring himself through you. You feel it everywhere—his warmth, his need, the way he leans into the kiss like he’s been starving for it. The fire doesn’t lessen, but you endure it, clinging to him. Every touch leaves you lightheaded; every breath tastes like fire and him.

You kiss until the burn fades into something heady and breathless.

Until the pain becomes warmth.

Until Khaslana forgets to be afraid.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and you feel the moment he finally loses himself. A soft sound slips from him—something almost human, almost desperate—and it sends a thrill straight through you.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because you have to breathe.

Your lips throb, warm and sore, the heat lingering like an afterimage. Khaslana’s forehead rests against yours, his breath heavy and uneven, his fire settling into something quieter now—something contained. His hands still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Then his eyes drop, and his expression changes.

“…Your mouth,” he murmurs.

You’re smiling when he lifts one careful thumb, hovering near your lips but not quite touching. The skin there is marked now—faintly red, kissed too long by something too hot. A burn, shaped by where you refused to pull away.

“I did this,” he says, voice cracking with guilt.

You catch his hand and press it to your cheek, leaning into his warmth without hesitation. “It’s okay,” you say, the words familiar. “I told you I’d endure it.”

Khaslana looks at you for a long moment. Something soft breaks through the fire in his eyes.

You’re glowing faintly now. Warm—singed at the edges—but alive.

He looks at you like you’re rewritten the laws of his existence.

“…You’re beautiful,” he says, quietly, like it’s a truth he’s only just realized. Like the mark doesn’t mar you, but proves something sacred instead. Proof that you chose him—that you stayed despite everything.

He lowers his head and presses the lightest kiss just beside your mouth, careful not to touch the burn, as if honoring it. As if honoring you. And when he pulls away, you lean in again before the moment can settle into stillness.

This kiss is softer; quick—almost shy—but it lingers anyway, a gentle press of warmth against warmth. It doesn’t scorch this time.

Khaslana stills completely, like he’s afraid to breathe it away.

I love you, he says without voice. I love you, written plainly in his eyes. And you smile, because you know. Because you have always known him, even when the words stay unspoken.

And I love you, as you press your forehead to his.

...𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀 𝓢𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊.

© 2026 kominigiru.

end note: if anyone is confused, when i wrote “you climb”, i didnt mean you actually climbed on him; it was more like you pushed him down and then you sat on top of him. IT MADE SENSE IN MY HEAD I PROMISE AKFBWOFBJS

hopefully with this, i get to write lots more this year (and finish my other wips) and perhaps even broaden my horizons. no matter how much i love phainon, i can’t just write for him forever 😭 i need to find a new character to fixate on (highly unlikely but a girl can dream)

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity. 

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.” 

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?” 

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself. 

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you. 

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination. 

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband. 

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him. 

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in. 

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest. 

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace. 

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal. 

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down. 

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. 

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality. 

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve. 

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you. 

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent. 

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him. 

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place. 

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena. 

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent. 

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side. 

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone. 

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit. 

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters. 

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence. 

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner. 

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts. 

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses. 

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—” 

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain. 

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing. 

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.” 

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—” 

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you. 

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry. 

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself.  she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward,  “take her away.”

 “y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction. 

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it. 

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly,  as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips. 

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words. 

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth. 

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters. 

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development. 

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?” 

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite. 

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat. 

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall. 

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either. 

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble. 

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?” 

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear. 

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. 

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena. 

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching. 

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince. 

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout. 

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident. 

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway. 

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it. 

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears. 

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip. 

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal. 

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought. 

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want… 

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back. 

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see. 

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it. 

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. 

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands. 

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

Phainon's laugh is light, airy. Disarming, like everything there is to the man. Alarm bells begin to ring in your head, your hand tightening around the teleslate. This is exactly why you find him so troublesome to deal with.

"I need a favor."

"No, you don't," you say. But even then, you're aware that this is futile resistance.

You consider the merits of hanging up on him. Phainon would understand. He isn't a man to put on pressure, not that he's ever needed to. The everyday Okheman looks at him with stars in their eyes. He gets offered freebies all the time; something you're still a little sore over, knowing you've had to haggle most of your life.

Old ladies at the Marmoreal Market adore him more than they like you, and they've known you since you were about the height of their hips.

This man has his pick of the entire lot, so why is he so fixed on you? He is well aware that you're resistant to his brand of charisma, not taken in by the smile that seems to pull down unseen barriers.

Resistant doesn't mean immune. This is unfortunate for you, and everything to bank on for him.

He's too entwined in the minutiae of your everyday life, a river that wore down grooves in stone until they flowed smooth like they have always been there. Whoever else would accompany you to pick ironwort? Patiently sit through disasters of your own creation?

He doesn't even give you the grace to let that refusal settle before he carries on, unhurried. "Mydeimos is in heat." He lets you take in the sharp breath this warrants, then: "But the Council of Elders are staging yet another one of their inane discourses, and I can't…" A helpless laugh. "Lady Aglaea and Castorice deserve a break from those vultures."

Always taking on far too much, this one.

You've always been of the opinion that Phainon is far more dangerous than his companion. This comes in handy, at times like these. It helps to brace yourself for the way his anger, real and not just outbursts of passion, manifests—the chill of someone walking over your grave, given voice. A slow death from a knife in the dark. Or a kettle left to boil for ages, and now too volatile to approach.

How no one sees this, learns to fear it—

Is entirely because of this man's unhealthy emotional repression, your mind supplies. Great.

It's not directed at you, but you shiver all the same. Well, alright then. "He needs the usual infusions and oral medications, then? I've recently made some, so I can swing by and drop them off." Do you remember where they live? You run through your few visits to their place. Officially, the Chrysos Heirs have their own designated quarters at the Marmoreal Palace. This, you know.

But considering Mydeimos's unique circumstances…

You're sure you can still find your way, even on your own.

Belatedly, you add, "You can pay me later."

The tension, it—unwinds, for lack of a better word. A breath held for far too long, released just a beat before the asphyxiation would have set in. Even through the teleslate, you both feel it.

"That would be great," Phainon exhales; despite yourself, you feel your resolve weaken. It seems like the past few days have been rough. "But more to the point. He asked for you."

You nearly drop your teleslate, cursing aloud. Phainon waits until you've finished fumbling with your basket; you've already begun packing the essentials for the trip. "Wait, seriously? Why?"

A hum, stretched out in such a way that you scowl. "Who knows?"

At some point in your lengthy acquaintanceship, you've begun to suspect Phainon does this on purpose. He knows just how much it annoys you. You consider the merits of rejecting him, again, and just as immediately discard it. Mydei, for all that it boggles the mind that the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos is now counted among your few contacts, is too… precious.

Now, that's one word that you wouldn't have described the warrior prince as, considering the man used to be the stuff of tall tales told to Okheman children to ensure they behave. This is before you, one balmy afternoon, saw the good prince crouching—with all the gravitas of someone receiving the highest of accolades, from Lady Aglaea herself—to let some gutsy kid braid flowers into his hair.

His image had never quite recovered in your eyes, since then. Especially when he kept eye contact with you, once he caught you staring. Throughout the entire thing. A Caprist scholar once told you once that lions did that to establish dominance. You didn't understand what it meant until that day. What you don't understand is how in Kephale's name did Mydeimos manage to make the act look endearing and terrifying at the same time.

You can't just, in good conscience, leave him to endure alone. And he would do that, if given half the chance. A quick look at your calendar, and you've got nothing else booked. The Month of Evernight is always on the slow side.

"You owe me a few herb-gathering trips," you murmur, spreading your palm over the materials you've gathered, now lined up neatly on your desk. Infusion of ironwort, bay leaf… topically applied ypericon paste, for soreness and aches. What else? You huff. "And lunch. Preferably something else than dromas steak this time. Even if the Professor isn't due a visit anytime soon."

Your ears still aren't the same after the enlightenment a certain Grove's esteemed sage gave you, the last time he was about the city, ostensibly to some political function.

Privately, just between you and Phainon, you think Professor Anaxa basks a little too much in the Lady Goldweaver's ire, or her attention. You never understood it—the drive to be the sole object of someone else's undivided focus. It looks exhausting, but if it makes your old professor happy, then who are you to say anything?

The little joke startles a laugh out of Phainon. If his voice is a little less burdened than before, you don't mention it. "Deal. You do know that Mydeimos can solve the problem of lunch for us, don't you?"

A quint past Parting Hour, you manage to find the right house.

Mydeimos's scent hits you with the full force of a stampeding dromas. Considering the incidents Phainon dragged you into back in the good old days as the Grove's students, you have first-hand experience. This might just be more life-threatening than the dromas. Fuck. You choke on a lungful of saffron and honey, earthy and sweet and far too potent, and make a noise rather like a steaming pot. If panic had a sound, that's you right now.

You nearly smack face-first into his chest. Thankfully for your dignity, or unfortunately for the part of your brain rapidly devolving into chimera-like barking, the good prince catches you by the shoulders before you do.

"Get back inside," you hiss. "If even I can smell you right now, you do know that's dangerous, right?"

He takes a good long while to answer. You catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, the flush to his cheeks, extending to his ears and creeping down his neck. Perhaps it extends even further down, but you're not going there. Nope. Those golden eyes of his, pale warm honey shot through with sunlight, don't quite look as sharp as they usually do. He's less oh fuck, a big predatory cat is looking at you and more who put the big cat on the Grove's 'meditational' herbs? right now.

Concerning.

"Relax. I'm the most dangerous thing out here," he says, and well. You can't even refute this. "Why are you wearing your ex-lover's robes right now, and at our doorstep?"

You give this question the bewilderment it deserves, when you realize just who you're dealing with. Possessive bastards. Phainon wouldn't take well to traces of another alpha, no matter how faint, in their residence—especially now that his mate is in heat. And Mydeimos is Mydeimos.

Rubbing the back of your neck, more than a little sheepish, you mumble, "… My bad? I can change out of it. When you get back inside. Please."

He gives you another long, narrow look, then lets go of your shoulders. The faint sourness lingering along the edges of his scent lightens, your only reliable indicator for Mydeimos's moods. "I'm preparing dinner. It might just be the two of us, he hasn't told me how long the meeting will last."

Almost imperceptible, you exhale in relief.

Unlike Phainon, who's a flighty bastard with his words—but wearing that bleeding heart of his on his sleeve—Mydeimos is the inverse. He has bearing of a king, unclaimed though his throne may be. You haven't even known the guy for as long as Phainon has, but it's easy to tell that the life he led before Okhema was not an easy one. He bears his pain well. A crown on his brow, carved of a thousand years of legacy and expectations, his hands bound with the chains of fate. Head held high, through it all.

Oftentimes, you forget just how the two Chrysos Heirs are closer to myth than men.

You shake yourself out of a stupor, stepping in as soon as Mydeimos moves back to let you in. When the door slides shut, you feel the tension bleed out of your shoulders and take in your surroundings. Mydeimos stalks off towards the bedrooms, leaving you to your own devices.

Unlike their more luxurious Marmoreal Palace quarters, this private home is cozier than it has any right to be. Located close by the market, it's supposed to be a refuge for the two, away from the central hub of nearly all social activity in Okhema. It lacks the fine amenities that the palace offers, but makes up for it in the way their personalities have room to breathe and just be in the limited space. And perhaps that's on purpose.

The hideous rug you tried to convince Phainon not to buy is still the proud centerpiece of the living room, dromas-patterned embroidery and all. You've grown begrudgingly fond of it, despite how the purple clashes against the cheery yellow curtains framing the large windows. Atop the low table, you spot a half-eaten pomegranate. A book, open midway, one of the pages dog-eared. You recognize it as one of Phainon's poetry anthologies. And last, a cup of goat's milk, close by, glinting with moisture at the rim.

At least Mydeimos is staying fed and hydrated, unlike some omegas you know whenever the heats begin. 30% training, 70% diet indeed.

You've only just lowered your woven basket onto the kline, when Mydeimos comes back. Before you could say anything, your vision is blocked by a loose red fabric. Saffron and honey, thick enough that you could drown in it. And so intoxicatingly sweet. He's not always this overwhelming, but you figure it has to do with his heat.

Your mouth waters, but you manage to speak. "Okay, let me get changed."

Titans, but he must be awful aware of how Phainon doesn't like the scent of strange alphas in their safe space. These subtleties pass you by sometimes, considering you've never had to worry about it as a beta.

Grabbing his spare robe, you yank it off your head and trudge off towards the guest bedroom.

The guest bedroom is the same as the last time you were in it. Someone, likely Mydeimos, kept it pristine. Perhaps Castorice recently visited. One of your peplos, that pretty lavender one you forgot last time, lies neatly folded atop the bed. It smells like the soap they use to launder their own clothes, a clean scent that speaks of domesticity suiting two men who aren't destined for it. Or made for it, yet they managed against all odds to find this little slice of Era Chrysea.

You ignore the strange warm flush this sends through you, and change into the clothing your host offered you. At this point, it would just be rude to refuse it.

When you've finished changing garments, you're left with an interesting conundrum. If you could call it that.

Mydeimos's robe is made for a man of his bulk and height. That is, a man who is nearly twice your size. You're engulfed in the red fabric, almost swimming in it, when you emerge from the guestroom. And judging by the way he stares, you're even more self-aware of how ridiculous you look.

Feeling helpless, you decide to focus on what you came here to do. "Experiencing any aches yet? Nausea? I brought my kit for you."

He exhales, a lion's chuff. You focus on the subtle weariness you catch loosening the set of his jaw. "It's bearable."

You're an optimistic person, by nature. You tell yourself that this is a great improvement from the first time Phainon implored you to be their personal apothecary. Back then, Mydeimos would have told you something like, "Think nothing of it. It's unnecessary." And it wouldn't have been some asinine bravado talking, either, like with the few Kremnoan soldiers you've had the misfortune to treat. Those people with something to prove are always a pain to take care of. With Mydeimos, he speaks the plain truth.

Or 'truth' however he perceives it, anyway.

It took you and Phainon a long time to work on this trait of his—how it's a basic right for every human to be free of pain and discomfort, if they ask for it. That's what Lotophagists would espouse, anyway. Well, you try. It's really above your paygrade, playing therapist to a Chrysos Heir. They could have asked that Twilight Courtyard fellow of theirs, but Phainon insisted on you.

Perhaps it was awkward to ask a comrade for that, and less if it's an old schoolmate.

The silence stretches on, as it does whenever there's no Phainon to fill it. And it's not heavy, no. Mydeimos is gentle, even if his softness is hard-won after lifetimes of violence. More honest, simply because of the price it took to earn it. His gaze doesn't pierce into you, not after you've known each other this long, and you've seen him at some of his awkward moments.

"What did you make tonight?" You break it first, falling into step beside him as you both make way for the kitchen.

Out the corner of your eye, you spot the faint curve tugging at the edge of his lips. It seems that this question of yours has evoked amusement from the taciturn man.

"Epityrum, with fresh bread," he murmurs. You try not to stare; you find it hard not to, considering the way his face transforms when he talks about cooking. It's one of the few times you get the sense that his pride in himself is genuine, and not just the quiet self-assurance that comes with his skill in all areas of warfare. Despite the red dusting across his cheeks, the discomfort that he must surely be feeling as his heat symptoms progress, Mydeimos looks radiant.

It's easy to see why your old classmate would go to war for this man, even in areas he isn't always comfortable in. Such as the political arena, when the Kremnoan detachment first joined the city.

The prince's near-imperceptible smile widens. "And honey-glazed mushrooms."

His sweet tooth is in full effect today, it seems. As it does whenever his heat comes, and the edges of him soften enough, allowing him to indulge.

You brighten, latching on to the familiar topic. "You tried the recipe I sent you?"

"The very same," he agrees, nudging you with a warm hand between your shoulderblades. You step into the kitchen with him, instead of hesitating at the threshold as you would have, years ago. "I adjusted a few things to taste, but I expect that you will enjoy it."

The two of you settle into a familiar routine—if it could be called that, since you've only been here a few times a year. You don't think too deeply on it, grabbing the plates and cutlery as he prepares to serve dinner for two.

Phainon and Mydeimos prefer to dine in the kitchen, where there is a small table and three stools. This makes setting up relatively unfussy, a far cry from the designated dining areas at the palace, with all those reclining couches and the enforced segregation between alphas and omegas. Your mother would call it improper, but this suits you much better.

"How has work been, lately?" Halfway into your dinner, after he's seen you relish his food with satisfaction simmering in his eyes, Mydeimos leans back and watches you.

The question has you stiffening, fingers seizing for a fraction of a heartbeat. You force yourself to relax. "Same as ever. Slow and steady, unless there's the rare emergency."

A part of you wonders why he even asks, knowing you're more of an apothecary for ails that aren't life-threatening. You tend more to persistent aches and sprains. Headaches and indigestion, insomnia and anxiety. Things that make the average Okheman's idyllic daily lives inconvenient, which just wouldn't do in this lovely city's idea of perfection.

You are not the physician people would go to when it comes to serious illnesses. That is more the purview of the outsourced members of the Twilight Courtyard, the one or two usually assigned here. But you do have the credentials to work, if such esteemed people are too booked to take on more patients.

"You don't look well-rested," Mydeimos cuts to the heart of the matter, the way he always does. He's careful about it, but he doesn't hesitate.

Your smile comes out as more of a grimace. "Aidonians," you say simply, vindicated by his answering frown.

Rivaling the Kremnoans in difficulty as patients, the Aidonians are similar in a sense. A gentle fatalism, in the way they embrace death's inevitability. The recent outbreak of the flu is particularly… troubling. Despite the advancements in medicine at the Grove, a particular minority in Okhema still refuses to get innoculated against the common illness. Which can be surprisingly deadly, for children and the elderly.

Shaking your head, you shove more mushrooms in your mouth. He recognizes an end to the topic when he sees it; you recognize when he's choosing to let it go. For now.

A swallow later, you keep your tone light as you ask, "You adjusted the garum, didn't you? It's a little less…" You lick your lips, trying to pinpoint the change. "Salty."

Mydeimos tilts toward you, a faint upwards crease at the corners of his eyes. You take your victories wherever you can. "Good tastebuds." His scent thickens, deepens until the saffron crocus and wild honey flowers with the lactonic scent of full-bodied milk. You feel your stomach lurch, and grab the cup of pomegranate juice he has so graciously set aside for you. Just a fortifying sip, you tell yourself.

The distinct feeling of being lead, chased into a trap, whispers to the quiet corners of your mind.

You shake it off, to be unpacked later, and accept the goat's milk when Mydeimos pours it into your cup.

On the whole, you're cognizant enough to know that your presence is not exactly… essential, despite Mydei asking for you.

He's the most self-efficient omega that you have ever seen. This isn't your first time, substituting as a heatmate to an omega. But with his self-preparation so impeccable, does he even need you?

As the evening lengthens, Phainon's absence felt yet unacknowledged, the two of you busy yourselves with cleaning house. You insist on clearing the table and washing the dishes, nudging him into the bath. This is the sole 'luxury' that the couple gives themselves in the privacy of their second home. Most middle to upper-class Okhemans converge at the Marmoreal Palace for their daily cleansing, yet Phainon has insisted on letting his partner have a safe haven.

Steam rises from the basin, which is enough for two men of their sizes to fit into comfortably enough. You avert your gaze as Mydeimos disrobes, far too aware of the rustle of his clothing.

When he calls your name, you force yourself to maintain eye contact. It's not the best decision, as he undoes his braid and drags fingers through his sunset hair. He looks at you, honeyed eyes unreadable, and curls a hand around your forearm. It's all you can do to stay still when he leans in, nose pressing into the junction of your wrist. He breathes in, rubs his face against it like an overgrown cat. You think you hear a quiet huff, warmth against your skin almost like the steam that's clinging to your hair and clothes by now.

He likes his little treats, Phainon once told you. Mydei prefers to savor, instead of devouring everything all at once. He didn't get a lot of chances to do that, before Okhema. Before me.

It seems to extend to how he draws out his heats. The need for scenting, marking something, doled out so carefully like the delicate way he takes bites out of his desserts.

Betas typically don't smell like anything, which is part of why they're such popular thirds or heatmates to established couples. They don't leave traces, no indelible stains on the storied pages of true love matches between alphas and omegas. Easy to slip in and out, without consequence.

You've been told that you smell like larkspurs—that is, almost nothing, which is the story of your life at this point. Tabula rasa, as Professor Anaxagoras would say, waving his hands around and impressing you and Phainon until you remember that Lady Hyacine probably dosed his tea again with a calming draught. You are convenient empty slate where others can leave their traces, even if those don't last.

And you enjoy it that way. Being the sole central figure of anyone's life is too much of a burden on your shoulders. You can hardly stay afloat most days.

When he's satisfied nuzzling all over your wrist, Mydeimos pulls back. Your pulse thunders in your ears; you wonder if he felt it against his mouth, pressed so tight against it as he was. You stand there, waiting to see if he needs anything else more. A flicker of something approaching disappointment bleeds through his gaze, fast enough that you can dismiss it as just your imagination.

With light (strained whisper-thin) laughter, you reach for his hand and press his wrist against your neck.

Beta scent glands are so ineffectual, the Grove has papers debating on whether or not to consider them a vestigial feature. What little scent there is could hardly be considered enough to form the scent-bonding that omegas and alphas are able to bind each other with. You consider this ritual—scenting a beta—to be a mere placebo, meant to soothe the omegas who share their heats with you, like giving a teething toy to a fretting babe.

Likening the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos to a needy child doesn't do any wonders for your sanity, so you decide to leave your train of thought at that.

You expect him to be mollified, after a few swipes of the inside of his wrist against your neck to smear his scent along your skin. As you feel the tension begin to bleed out of him, you start to let go of his hand and step away.

He steps towards you. Mydeimos doesn't retract his wrist.

Your neck feels hot enough, already. You stumble against the archway, nervous titter in your throat, the heavy press of his skin against yours. Heart a trapped bird inside your ribcage. But you don't fly, you don't flee. Why is that?

"… Something wrong with the way I smell?" You took a bath today, but the heavy petting—the aggressive, if ineffectual scenting—is almost enough to make you feel embarrassed for both yourself and Mydeimos.

It's his turn to act like he's caught: Mydeimos's hand stills mid-air, and you think you see the ruddy flush staining his skin deepen. His heat symptoms are progressing rapidly... Impaired judgement? He clears his throat, reaching to rub the back of his own neck. "No, you smell fine."

Interesting emphasis on the no part. You raise a brow at that, and he looks near-chastised as he could possibly be.

He looks at you, pained, that familiar soured-milk scent at the edges of the usual spiced-sweetness. "Your robe earlier. They left a trace."

Heightened sensitivity to intruding alphas. Of course.

"Phew, okay. I'll make sure to wash that one thoroughly, next time." You're almost embarrassed that you missed that. "Valerian root tea while you bathe, then. I'll even throw in some honey," you add, a playful lilt to your voice as you spy his exasperated scowl, though it's soft at the edges. It makes you want to spoil him, which is as dangerous a thought as any.

Phainon owes you, after this. You're going to milk that man within an inch of his life.

The disgruntled prince slips into the bath without much more fussing, and you retreat to the kitchen to clean up. As soon as you get a space to yourself, you press your palms to your face. The skin is clammy with sweat. You can't tell if it's from your palms, or if you sweated earlier.

Maybe it's the steam.

This isn't your first time being a heatmate. It's just awkward, you tell yourself, to do this with your old schoolmate from the Grove. Even more so, when he and his partner are the two foremost Chrysos Heirs. They lead the charge against the black tide, an undertaking far too large and far too important for someone like you.

You're just—A bit overwhelmed. That's all. But you knew it was coming, back when Phainon asked you to be their personal apothecary.

Just business. A transaction between old friends.

A quint before Curtain-Fall hour, and you two have done all you could to while the wait away.

There's no sign of Phainon coming home, not anytime soon. You snuck glances at your teleslate earlier, pinched and worried looks at Mydei as he begins to look more and more… frazzled. As close to it as he could be, you don't think you've ever seen the prince worry and gnaw at his bottom lip like this before. The fullness of his scent makes it hard to speak around the honey sweetness coating your throat. He's a particularly potent omega—the type whose very presence seems to carve out space for himself, no matter the place.

Even the most nose-blind betas would sit up and pay attention.

You're also an apothecary trained to have a keener nose, it helps with your job. At the moment, it certainly doesn't feel like it's making it any easier.

Watching him wear the skin of his bottom lip down, a faint glint of gold at the corner, you finally crack. He's been sneaking looks at you, hands twitching as if to reach out, then retracting them again. They curl into fists against the edges of the kline he's reclining on. Before he could mangle his lip further, you stand up and make the short distance to him. He stiffens, caught, as you push a thumb between his lips.

The tip of your thumb catches at his canine. "Stop it," you murmur, your knee resting on the side of his kline and pressed against his thigh. With a sigh, you press your forehead against his. He's near-scaldingly hot—had he been any normal person, you'd consider him mildly addled by fever. Alas, Chrysos Heirs and their unique biology, made even more convoluted by being alphas or omegas.

"You've been very restrained and respectful," you tell him. Mydeimos has either forgotten how to breathe, or you're staring into the lion's maw, and all the academic honors you got during your time at the Grove were for nothing. Just like that one time when you tried to insert your hand into a Verax Leo's mouth. On a dare from Phainon.

It all comes back around to that man; you know that even Mydeimos has been roped into these inane stunts. You've seen it.

At this point, you wonder if Aquila's the limit. They haven't considered testing to see who'll pass out first at the hottest bath in the palace yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Speaking of. You don't know when Mydeimos will bite down, so you hasten to continue.

You grin. "I appreciate it, Mydeimos. But you don't have to." While he soaked in the bath, valerian root tea service as promised, you had given yourself a pep talk. It's a skill you mastered after nights with bloodshot eyes as you, Phainon, and Castorice hurried to finish your papers to the threat of Professor Anaxagoras giving everyone a failing mark. You can do this with your eyes closed.

He stares at you, caught between uncertainty and the need lurking behind the tempered amber of his gaze. Neither of you are fools—if Phainon doesn't return until the early Entry Hour, Mydeimos is in for an unpleasant time. You're here, a warm body to paw at, even if you lack the necessary equipment to give him a satisfying knot. And they're literally compensating you for your time.

"You asked for me, didn't you?" Your breath gently mingles with his as you settle closer, finding the firm cushion of his muscled thighs surprisingly… comfortable. It's not your first time wondering why he always has to hide them under those shiny greaves of his, Phainon emphatically agreeing; considering they're partners, maybe he's a little biased.

Didn't he recently nominate his partner for Most Beautiful Face of Amphoreus? Why did no one but you notice that letting him vote was enabling his bias, there?

Your fingertips brush the edge of his jaw, feeling it tense. "Phai already promised me lunch, don't worry about it."

The heat of his hand sends you near leaping off his lap when you feel it rest on the small of your back. "You refer to him as Phai," he begins, and you go still at the lowered timbre of his voice; is it truly such a sore spot, for him to sound like this? "And yet you insist on never calling me by Mydei. Care to explain why?"

"No particular reason?" You don't understand why this is a particular sticking point for him. "Your name just sounds real pretty, rolls off the tongue. Did Phainon never tell you that?" You settle your palm against his chest, perhaps checking for his heart beat, and truly not because you're trying not to look down. Between his eyes and chest, there is nothing on Mydeimos that isn't a hazard to your mental fortitude.

You tilt your head. "… Still, Mydei is pretty too."

… Well, the look on his face now—widened eyes, parted mouth, and ears burning crimson—might be a contender.

Placid and unhurried, absentminded—and confirming that there might be nothing between your ears—you swipe at the sticky gold marring the firmness of his lower lip. It's been bothering you for a while. You think it's healing already, but you check still; you miss (you don't) the sharp intake of breath. When you stick your thumb inside your mouth, it's not the first time you've tasted ichor, no.

The Chrysos Heirs's blood doesn't taste like rust and iron—there's a heady, saccharine quality, almost like brewed ambrosia, and what you can only begin to describe as sunlight gracing your plebeian mortal tastebuds.

Not that trying to describe it like that on one of your joint projects with Phainon had ever helped you get a higher mark, but how else were you to describe it?

"Unbelievable. You truly—" A laugh of disbelief. You're broken out of your distracted reminiscing just to catch the growl rip out of Mydei's chest, vibrating under your palm and jolting you out of your ill-timed tangents. "Are you unaware of what you do to me?"

You give him a flash of teeth, a quicksilver grin. "That's your heat talking, friend, so let's get started." You begin to rise from his lap. It's only with another firm press of his hand against your back that your redirection is, once again, stymied. The both of you stare at each other, then your gaze darts to where his arm refuses to budge an inch.

And then you lean in, the soft wet warmth of your mouth against the shell of his ear. "Mydei, do you want me to fuck you or not?"

Up this close, you feel him when he shudders. The satisfaction you get may be bordering on unholy, at this point. Surely this is considered hubris, by some priests—what are you doing to this man, golden-armored and undying Mydeimos, with divinity in his blood and godly strife as his birthright?

Would Phainon take offense and rain down punishment on you, should he return to see the mess you may yet make of Mydei?

(Focus. This isn't about you.)

"Do you want to?" His throat bobs as he swallows. "Fuck me, that is. And not just out of obligation."

You are going to get stoned to death by the masses who worship this man. All because you made him say fuck. It's not that you believe him incapable of it, but despite the brutal image he presents? He's always been more given to measured words.

And then there's that surprising shyness, his sidelong looks like tender buds you need to carefully hold in your garden. Like the flowers you press between your books, to hold on to their startling flashes of beauty for a little while longer. You know for sure, when once you caught Phainon mouthing in his ear and were certain that the silver-haired hero said something obscene, that the furious red flush staining Mydei's face wasn't your mere imagination.

(Why were you even watching them, in the first place?)

He falls back against the kline, heavy breaths loud in the silence as you lean into his neck. Like any good heatmate, you pay attention to his scent gland, nipping at the heated skin. "I wouldn't be here, if I didn't."

Mydei whimpers—a strange, sweet sound, rough and almost pathetic, less great big cat and more kittenish—and your own legs begin to wobble, knees weak until you perch atop of him. A part of you reminds yourself that his nest is just steps away, that the two of you should make it there. He deserves to be knotted and sated in the comfort of their bedroom, where he could be surrounded in the scent of his absent mate.

But the two of you prove more distracted than you should be. He throws his head back against the incline of the sofa, hips bucking up and rocking you forwards as you suck dark, motley bruises against the apple of his throat and along his scent glands. A large hand tangles in your hair, and you can't help making some mewling noise in return.

"… Get up here," he rasps; exhaling, fractured, the syllables of your name. His other hand plants itself on your hip, dragging you up the span of his body with no more strain than it takes for you to pick up parchment. The juxtaposition between that effortless strength and the needy, faint gasps he's letting escape has you surging up.

You're slick between your legs, thighs coated in wetness at this point.

There's a brief—moment, of hesitation as he tries to angle you towards a kiss. You don't do this, not with people who ask you to share their heats with you. Scenting is fine, cuddling them in their nests as some safe, easily disposed-of substitute is doable. Knotting them with their fancy toys, putting on a strap if they ask for it? Fine.

But kissing? Kissing implies taking a part of them inside your mouth, it feels almost like cannibalism and the Lotophagist in you just screams about how parts of that person will live on inside you, Mnestia's golden nymphs making a home in Cerces's unmoving wooden body, desperately seeking a long lost haven in unresponsive crevices—

You're desirable because you leave no traces on them. Why should you let them leave parts of themselves inside of you?

"I can hear you overthinking from here," Mydei's molten gaze holds you captive. He presses down, large hand easily grasping your neck. And the quailing, gnawing, gnashing in your head begins to ebb, blood drawn out along with the poison from a purposeful cut in the skin.

He grounds you with his touch. It would be terrifying, if you aren't so relieved to have a reprieve from the loudness of your mind sometimes.

With steady, easily trackable movements, he draws you in towards him. His lips don't find yours, instead seeking your sweat-slick temple in a feathered kiss. Part of you gives; like soft, overripe fruit bitten into, even the gentlest pressure is your undoing.

"Let's start again," Mydei says, and you nod against his neck. Your breath slows in time with his. "And take our time."

The two of you do manage to make it to his nest, after all that.

Unlike the other parts of their home, the curtains are drawn to provide some intimation of night-time. Lamps flicker along one wall, casting a drowsy glow about the place. You're keenly aware of Mydei's gaze on your face, as you take it all in. A large bedframe, clearly a work of exquisite craftsmanship, even if the material is the sturdy, plentiful wood that you can easily find anywhere on Amphoreus. It's still at an incline, as is classic for the klines people sleep on, here in Okhema. Layered on top are piles of soft throw blankets and cushions, all in colors that you expected.

You can see Phainon in the azure hues of the pillowcases, and imagine Mydei seeking his likeness in them, especially now.

A familiar fabric catches your eye, placed on the corner of the bed. "Sorry, it seems I keep forgetting to take them back from here." You pick up the chiton. It's unmistakably yours—you recognize the familiar wear and tear, this is the one you often wore whenever you went herb picking with them, when they had the time to spare.

It seems it's been here long enough that it no longer smells much like you, however. You're unsure what to make of this.

"You don't have to," Mydei says, lowering himself first.

The tension of waiting settles between the two of you, but it's less fraught with nerves unlike before. You follow him, alighting between his thighs like a bird come to roost. The loose, rust-red chiton he's wearing slips off of one sculpted shoulder; your fingers soon chase it, tugging it lower, a titter half-caught like your tongue between your teeth as you hear his anticipatory keening. Those red markings on his skin glint, lit from inside as he makes himself more comfortable.

You both take a deep inhale. It smells of Phainon in here. Of fields of wheat; a sea of rippling flaxen-gold stalks, so dense you could get lost in them. You can see it, if you close your eyes and try hard enough. Past the wheat, there's rich earth, a scent you're so intimately familiar with, as one who tries to grow some of your own herbs and blossoms.

It's a good scent, a reassuring one.

You can imagine flourishing in him, if you're to be reborn as a flower. Roots would grow deep without fear of needing to limit the space they take up.

Mydei moans, plaintive and imploring, as you take your time exploring the lively crimson marks along his body. First, with your fingers, followed by your mouth. He whimpers when you take a detour to focus on his wrists, stimulating the scent glands there until you can taste saffron and honey on your tongue. That's how rich his pheromones have gotten; yet despite the supposed urgency of this, he waits for you with a patience you're not used to.

You flick at his nipple with your index finger, your nail gently scraping along the areola until the peak stiffens.

"Sensitive?"

Instead of saying anything, he arches into your touch. You indulge him, fingers digging into the firm bounty of his chest, mouth latching on to the other one so it doesn't languish in neglect.

When he's winded, already this close to fucked-out just from nibbling and pinching at his tits, you let him off to catch your own breath. You're panting, just a little—not as much as him. His breasts look tender now, the peaks a puffy dark brown, ripe dates glinting with your spit.

Beautiful, you can't stop yourself from thinking any longer. And you can't wait for long, either.

Take your time, you remember Mydei saying. As you watch the quickened rise and fall of his chest, you wonder what to do next.

"Where are your toys?"

It takes him a moment to gather himself, wetness clinging to his lower lashes as he looks back at you. Half-lidded eyes dilated dark with hunger. "On the bed," he says, scarcely dragging his gaze away from you as he reaches into the mass of cushions and blankets. And curses, when he doesn't immediately find it.

You snicker to yourself a bit, and join him on his search.

Mydei sighs at you, eyes narrowing. "He's a horrid influence on you."

"Don't know what you're talking about," you say, with a straight face, as your fingers close around what feels like a girthy, phallic-shaped lump. You fish it out, lips twitching as you behold the nicely molded imitation. It's made of material that feels as close to flesh as it could get—and as warm as skin, like it's self-heating. An expensive toy, and a new one. You have an idea of whose cock it's modeled after. "Did Phainon really get his measurements taken? Pff—"

You find yourself laid flat on your back a moment later, blinking up at him and questioning how it happened.

"You can test it for yourself," Mydei says, an eerie calm despite his heavy breathing. "We can compare notes, when he gets back."

Riveted on the spot, you watch as he undoes the cord holding your borrowed robe together. He peels it off of you with an air of satisfaction, unwrapping you like a gift.

"I've yearned to do that since earlier," he mutters, making your face heat.

He drags a moan out of you when he dips a finger, then two, into your slick entrance, his callouses dragging against your tender folds. You whine, caught between wanting to shut your thighs around his hand and bucking up into his touch. He circles a thumb around your clit, and the decision is then made for you.

Mydei's lips twitch as your cunt parts open for his scissored fingers, eased by the fact that you've been so wet and ready for a while.

"Seems like a good idea, doesn't it?" With his other hand braced beside your head, Mydei watches as you squirm underneath him. Pinned in place by his stare. The gleam of amusement in his eyes doesn't bode well for you. "Try it out for me, before I use it."

He wants you to—fuck yourself? On his toy?

You can't exactly verbalize this. You're too busy trying not to claw at his blankets, his fingers reaching places inside you that your own couldn't reach. "Mydei—" Gasping, short and sharp. He makes curling motions with his fingers, seeking that one sweet spot until you find yourself nearly flying off the bed, stars lighting up in scattered constellations behind your eyelids.

And you don't remember when you closed your eyes, only that the sharp nip of teeth against your neck has them snapping open again.

"Please," you choke out, tightening around his fingers. He purrs against you, soft and pleased, canines catching on your useless scent gland. Seeking what you couldn't give him. What you wouldn't give, to have it. Helpless, you reach up to stroke the back of his head.

Around you, the scent of wheat is almost a taunt. You hope that Phainon can come home soon enough.

Mydei exhales against the crook of your neck, licking and sucking as your fingers thread through his hair. Not a single patch of your throat is left untouched. You feel unmoored by his attentions. Captured, a fire kindling the path along your perspiring skin, sparked by the embers that pass for his eyes.

When he deems you pliant enough from his preparation, you whimper as he pulls out.

"None of that, now." He holds your gaze as he brings his fingers to his mouth. "How does it feel, to be the one being baited?"

"You—" What could he possibly mean? You exhale, shaken, but try to counter. "Well, wouldn't you know that? You're with the boy savior, after all."

A half-smile curves his mouth, transforms it into something sharp, a spearpoint aimed at you. "The Deliverer's tricks? He puts up quite a good chase, I must admit. Gives back as good as he gets, too. You, on the other hand—" He presses the tip of the toy against your slickness, your hips jumping as your folds spread against the flared head.

It's... a larger toy than you would usually choose for yourself.

For a single, aching moment, you don't breathe.

Mydeimos's words feather gently across your lips, catching your wheeze as he works the fake cock further in. "You don't seem to understand how much we want this."

He eases it into your cunt with a murmured reassurance against your temple, the Kremnoan words lost to your hearing. Not that you'd understand, even if you could hear them. Your back bows upwards, thighs trembling with the stretch and burn.

Mydei carves out a space inside you, spearing you taut on a facsimile of his mate's cock.

It's obscene, how you get off on this knowledge. You gush with every plunge, slick dripping onto the sheets below. You're pretty sure you begin babbling, Aidonian curses in response to Mydei's husky praises from his own language.

This is—unprecedented, your fraying resolve tries to remind you. You're the one supposed to be servicing this man, he's supposed to be an omega in heat. But he hasn't acted like the ones you've known before him. He fucks the toy into you in careful strokes, as if he actually spares more than just a passing thought for your pleasure.

You don't last long. As your body begins to seize, lightning sparks of bliss shuddering through your spine, Mydei moves fast. He slips the toy out of your twitching hole—you keen, the edge of climax dancing just inches away, so unfair—and hoists your thighs atop his shoulders.

His lip close around your clit and you yowl. Your thighs lock around his head, every slurp causing them to tighten. He'd probably suffocate, if he was just some lesser man. Instead, you feel him growl into your cunt, almost as if he wants to be choked. He holds you to him as your release splashes, coating his chin as he moves away from your bud to bury his tongue inside your entrance.

Shivering, insensate, wrecked and boneless—you flop back down, caught prey now being savored with the intent to draw it out.

He's supposed to be an omega, you think. You barely twitch as Mydei's tongue drags along your drenched opening, cleaning out every drop of your essence. What have I agreed to?

"… Hand me the toy," you pant, when you've regained enough feeling in your legs. Your thighs still rest on his shoulders, flush to his ears, your knees captive in his grip. You test your limbs, try to move.

Mydei's hands tighten on you, parting your thighs.

He rests his cheek against your mound, regards you with the languid satisfaction of someone who just ate his fill. Depravity in his eyes, enough to drive you insane. But you're here for one reason. Kephale damn him. Who is he fooling? The scent of the crocuses, the honey, his heat is enough to make the nearest alpha bolt to his location.

"It's your turn. Come on."

You truly thought that Phainon was the scary one, but you're beginning to reconsider this years-long knowledge.

It takes a concerning long time before Mydei considers you. When he lets go, you're left with the distinct impression that he's humoring you, and that's just… You're not going to go there.

He reclines back against the bed, beside you, with far too much grace for someone who smells like he's all but begging to be knotted. To be bred. With a raised brow, he hands you the toy he fucked you with.

For a long, long, moment, the both of you stare at each other. You don't know what to do with the way Mydei looks at you. Like there's a truth in your face, if he looks hard enough, that he could pry from between your sealed lips or tease out of your avoidant gazes.

"Lay back," you breathe. With some success, you manage to sit up and get on your knees, nudging his own apart. He sucks in a breath between his teeth as your gaze settles on the apex of his legs, where, as you had suspected, he's leaking. Dripping, the head of his cock near-purple from how long he must have been waiting. His own thighs are similarly drenched, smeared with the slick from his entrance.

You click your tongue as you brace your hand against his stomach. It flexes under you, distracting you for a brief second, before you press the toy—you try not to think of how it's been inside you, mere minutes ago—against his hole.

His face changes, as soon as you breach past his entrance. Pent up, isn't he?

"Ngh," Mydei keens, flinging an arm over his face as his hips jerk up. He grunts as you work the toy inside him, his rim fluttering around the intrusion.

Part of you is tempted to tease him. After the way he utterly dismantled your expectations of this evening, the way he had you melting—like metal in the blacksmith's forges, reshaped in his hands—this sudden coyness, it's something. His eyes like flickering candles, the flames leaping away from your attention? It opens some ravening, hungry pit inside you.

Wreck him, it tells you. Fold him in half and—

But then he makes such a sweet, pleading noise, a tiny whimper caught in the back of his throat. That hungry pit is forgotten, awash in the longing to hold him.

You work the toy inside him, inch by inch, your gaze flickering to his face to take in his reactions. Checking for any signs of discomfort, of pain. But he must be pretty used to taking Phainon's cock.

That immortal body soaks up damage like a sponge. I've tested it myself.

Mydei seems to relax, the more of the toy you push in. Still, you pet his stomach, encouragements flowing like ambrosia from your lips.

"You're doing well," you whisper, the both of you tensing as you bury the toy to the hilt, only the flared base remaining. His arm falls back at your voice, golden eyes wet. "So good, and just for me?"

He exhales a fractured little laugh, strained and yet so warm.

"For you," Mydei agrees, groaning as you bully the toy further against his walls. His eyes grow wide when you twist your wrist just so, spit-slick lips parting on a choked moan. "T-there— please…"

You tilt your head, then push. "Here?"

A thick sob. Your eyes widen at the sound, even as Mydei flings his head back. "There."

"Anything for you," you laugh, more than just a little broken yourself. You focus all your attentions on that one spot, hearing his breath hitch and stutter with every push and twist of your arm. It's almost perfect, almost—and then you remember his neglected cock, the way it twitches with each thrust.

He's dripping so much that there's a little pool of his precome gathering on his stomach.

As you work the toy in and out of his quivering hole, you lower yourself and wrap your free hand around him.

Mydei shouts, caught between a sob and a moan—and you watch, entranced, as more precome froths out of his slit. You notice, now, how he's glistening with sweat, the elaborate red marks along his body glowing with an inner light.

The sculpted muscle of his body ripples with strain as you move, fucking the toy in and out of his hole while you stroke and squeeze his straining cock. And you begin to fuck him in earnest.

All the while, you wonder at the words that fall from his stammering mouth. You wish you'd studied his language, back when you were at the Grove, if only to make sense of the look in his eye as he speaks to you with a voice that could melt Aidonia's frozen landscape.

You notice when he's close, and the words come out before you can stop.

Come for me, Mydeimos—you're doing so good, let me fuck you loose, ready you for taking his knot later. Let me feel you come against my fingers—

He arches, the curve of his back and the dip of his waist holding you bewitched—and comes so hard that he shakes, a sturdy tree battered by gales of wind. You feel sticky warmth, splattering between your fingers and against your palm as he twitches and throbs in your hand. His legs tremble, the muscles in his thighs clenching.

With a flick of your thumb, you press the button at the base of the toy. Mydei mewls as it begins to swell at the base, locking it inside him.

As he shivers through the aftershocks, you straddle his waist. He reaches for you, blindly taking you into his arms, and nuzzles against your neck. Trying to scent you, to leave his mark again. You sigh into his touch, letting him nip and lave at your skin. Indulging his impulse.

When you lean back, cupping his face and pulling him towards you, you don't know who is more surprised. His lips part against yours, caught between a question and an exclamation. Neither of which make their way out. He sighs into the kiss, and you try not to think about how it sounds like relief.

As if he's come home to a face he's long-missed, when he—like you, like Phainon—are people whose homes are filled with more ghosts than there are family members.

You don't think about it.

Instead, you move back a little bit, and titter as he tries to chase after your lips. "Hang on." You lean forward, nip gently at his ear. "You're still hard, aren't you, Mydeimos?"

He gasps at you, like he's witnessing an apotheosis, when you sink down onto his cock. You're too focused on taking him in, inch by inch, to flinch from the way faith paints itself across his face like the sky cloaking itself in the colors of the dawn.

The size of him isn't much different from Phainon's cock, comparing it to the toy. It nudges little gasps from you, half-heartedly bitten back as you grip Mydei's shoulders for purchase.

Your nails digging into his skin tears a snarl from him, low and intent. He draws you towards him again, hand cupping the your nape, holding you against his neck. A part of him seems to understand that this isn't just something you do, for any of your other partners, other omegas that you've bedded as a heatmate.

It feels like admitting defeat, a little like surrender, the way you let him sink inside you.

You're admitting that you want something, when wanting isn't in your nature. It shouldn't be, until Phainon stumbled in on you all those years ago, with your empty stare, ink smudged across your cheek, your dreams in the tattered parchment at your feet. Knowledge all around you and yet knowing even less of what the world is. Reason, after all, is little more than pure cynicism with the absence of romance.

What use is knowledge, what use is wisdom, when you've lost the only thing that's driven you so far?

His hand tightens around your neck, drawing you back towards him. Mydei wraps one arm around your waist and holds you down. Body split open around his cock, the rest flayed open under his gaze.

It's less about the sex, now—

It was never about the sex, or the 'personal apothecary' excuse that Phainon kept on using, all to keep you tied to them.

"I know what haunts you," he says, his voice wrapping around you like a warm hearth after being battered by cold northern winds. "But inside here, it's just us. Me, and him. And you, if you would just stop and pay attention."

"You speak as if I don't know that," you murmur, ducking under his chin to burrow your face against his neck. That's exactly why you're not paying attention.

Mydei growls, the sound reverberating through you. "And you speak as if you're omniscient, and know what we want."

"Don't I—?" You tremble as he pushes up and into you. You're so full. "You want to— to save the world. You'll be demigods. I don't think there's a place for, for life as us three—"

Your voice breaks on a cry. He moves you up and down on his cock with an arm wrapped tight around your waist. This is Mydei, at his closest to being mean, like this. Without pausing in his smooth, ruthless motions—grinding his tip into that one spot that makes you sob, as soon as he finds it—he tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs back.

"Stop mourning us before we're gone," he pants, his own voice strained—a plea laced in it, devotion entwined with muted agony. Agony for you, he's hurting for you. How selfish can one be, to find his grief beautiful, to drink it in when it's for your sake? He—they—are the ones with everything to lose, and nothing to gain.

He presses his forehead to yours. "We're still here, for as long as you'll have us. Before the Flamechase takes everything."

You close your eyes and let yourself believe in this. That perhaps you won't lose them, not to their mission, not to the black tide, and not to the divinity that they will one day lay claim to.

That they won't claim godhood for themselves, and come out changed, perhaps a passionless husk—Professor Anaxagoras burning himself, the ashes after alchemical fire, just to elicit the barest wisp of human emotion from the Goldweaver. You told yourself that you'd never be like that, never have cause to watch a flame burn itself out while you've gone wretched with grief.

The two of you move as one, Mydei pushing into you with unforgiving thrusts. He keeps on whispering praise, more talkative than he's ever been in daily life—scattered phrases in Kremnoan, interspersed with what you could understand.

They fall with the same softness as snow during Aidonia's gentlest winters, landing on your cheeks, your ears, your shoulders. Everywhere his lips can reach.

You spend the following hours with you on his lap, the knotting toy locked in his hole. He fucks himself on it with the slow, inexorable pace of one who intends to draw this out as long as possible—even if it costs both of your sanities. Of course Mydeimos the Undying has more energy than the usual omega. Even after one or two 'knots', Mydei is still energetic. It's all you could do to keep up, and even your wits leave you upon the fifth time he made you gush, split open around him. You soon begin to drift off to the feeling of your cunt milking his cock dry, head lolling against his shoulder as you're no longer able to keep your eyes open.

When you wake up, it's to the sound of a hushed voice above your head. Phainon's familiar smile greets you, brilliant as dawn—if a little worn at the edges, but only you or Mydei would have been able to tell.

The prince's breath tickles the back of your neck, soft and unhurried. His arm tightens around you as you try to move, discontent rumbling through his chest. With a look of abject resignation—one that makes Phainon snort—you snuggle back against the slumbering beauty, scowling at the man who looks far too cheerful for someone who didn't get any sleep.

"Good morning," he leans in and drops a lingering kiss to your forehead. When you don't move or push him away, Phainon brightens even further. "The two of you look like you've had a pretty good time, without me."

It is far too early for this.

"Morning," you say, grumbling against his mouth as he finally gives in to temptation and goes for your lips. He chuckles as he draws back, the tension melting from his shoulders.

You don't always look out for it.

But in the early quints past Entry Hour, your mind still half-stolen by the land of dreams, you notice more than you usually allow yourself to. His smile always has that subtle tinge of sadness, of grief—he has never been alright, never been normal, not since the day you first met him.

Loss recognizes loss, no matter how many layers of snow you've buried it in. The only reason you've ever even stuck with each other, since the day he first saw you, is because he kept persisting after he saw you at your lowest.

So you watch, through eyes softened with the haze of sleep, as Phainon unbuckles his armor and removes his coat. The scent of him, of those distant fields he would tell you about in your student days, settles around you. A warm blanket over your shoulders.

He carries his lost home with him, a ghost of it carried by the wind every time it kisses his skin.

Phainon smiles. "Which one of you wore the other out?"

Oh, you're going to end this man.

… Just as soon as you regain the ability to lift a finger.

It's going to be a long week.

You make way for the ridiculous man as he slips into the nest. He chuckles, and you roll your eyes. When he wraps an arm around Mydei and yourself, you pretend not to notice the content growl that shivers through the air.

Outside their home, Okhema's unfaltering fake sun carries on, ushering in a brand new day.

Dawn, or what passes for it in this world of wavering yet persistent light, is always to be welcomed with open arms.

A/N: Cross-posted this from my AO3 for backing up on another site. Formatting on Tumblr doesn't always agree with me, so if there are any typos or weird italics/bold, I apologize in advance. Okay, on to the more fun part:

This is my first go at writing omegaverse. I've always found the premise interesting, but it's betas in particular that hold my fascination. Where do they fit in, in a world where alphas and omegas are considered perfection, as two halves of one whole? Amphoreus's obsession with the number three was too good to pass up.

Title of this series is taken from Sleep Token's Take Me Back to Eden. Because that's my current musical fixation.

If you finished reading up to here and enjoyed it, cheers and thank you. I wanted to include Phainon in the smut, but I like to stick to a certain chapter length. There's more coming, of course. Just might take a while since I'll be busy this month and next.

and then sukuna left.

not dramatically. not with some sentimental goodbye. he just packed up after graduation and went off to college out of state—far, far away—leaving you and yuji to finish growing up without him.

you didn’t think about him much after that. or at least you told yourself you didn’t.

until today.

you walk into yuji’s house the same way you always do—kicking off your shoes, calling out that you brought notes for the class he skipped again—and then you freeze.

because someone else is standing at the end of the hallway.

sukuna's home.

and looking at you like the past few years didn’t exist at all—like he just stepped out for a minute instead of vanishing into adulthood and coming back built like a warning sign.

you freeze.

because he isn’t the same person who left. not even close.

he’s taller now—like he grew an extra inch or two just to spite you. broad shoulders filling out the doorway, chest built in the intimidating way that says hours in the gym, not a single selfie to prove it. his hoodie clings to his arms in a way it never used to, sleeves shoved up to reveal thick forearms covered in black ink that wasn’t there before. sharp lines trailing up his veins and disappearing beneath cotton.

and his face—god.

there’s a new weight to it. a grown-man kind of sharpness. jawline hard enough to cut your breath in half. cheekbones more defined. his mouth softer than it should be on someone who looks like this.

plus the metal.

an eyebrow piercing splits the dark line above his left eye—subtle, but impossible to ignore. a thin silver hoop sits snug on his bottom lip, glinting every time he shifts his expression. a couple more studs line his ear, climbing the curve of cartilage in a way that draws your eyes before you can stop yourself.

he went from “yuji’s older brother who never talks” to “the man you’d cross the street for, just to look at again.”

he doesn’t say hi. doesn’t smile.

he just tilts his head a fraction, eyes dragging over you in one slow pass that feels too intimate to be accidental—like he’s comparing you to old versions in his head and finding the differences one by one.

“you got taller,” he mutters, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges.

your pulse spikes. “no i didn’t,” you say too quickly, heat crawling up your throat.

his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, right behind the silver hoop in his lip, and the faint sound he makes could be a laugh or a warning. you can’t tell which.

he steps closer. slowly.

the hallway shrinks around him like the walls are trying to pull away first. he’s buffer now—thick chest, defined arms, long legs moving with that confidence he never had when he was younger. his presence alone makes the air feel heavier.

“sure you didn’t,” he says, voice dropping into something low enough to curl at the base of your spine. “go on and lie to me.”

you swallow hard. “is... yuji inside?”

his eyes don’t leave yours—not even for a second. “kitchen. he’s been whining that you’re late.”

you try to step past him, but sukuna doesn’t move.

not an inch.

he stands there like a wall you’re meant to run into. like he’s doing it on purpose. like he wants to feel you brush against him, just to see what you’d do.

he’s always been like this—annoyingly still, annoyingly composed, annoyingly aware of how much space he takes up.

but now?

he’s all that, plus the tattoos, plus the muscle, plus the piercings, plus the kind of grown-man weight that makes your breath hitch.

you barely manage to slip past sukuna—your shoulder brushing his chest as you squeeze through the hallway. he doesn’t move, doesn’t step aside, doesn’t even pretend to give you space. he just watches you go, silent and heavy-eyed, like he’s cataloguing the way your breath stutters when you pass him.

you pretend you don’t notice. you pretend a lot of things. you step into the kitchen with a too-bright smile, dropping your bag onto the counter.

“ok,” you exhale, forcing lightness into your voice, “lecture notes time.”

yuji lights up like you just handed him free money. “finally! dude, this professor hates me, i swear.”

you snort. “he doesn’t hate you, he just knows you don’t shut up in class.”

yuji splutters, offended, and launches into a rant about how the classroom was “way too quiet” without him and how he’s basically “providing a public service.” you roll your eyes. you’ve missed this.

you spread out your notebooks on the table, walking him through everything he missed—slides, examples, the weird tangent your professor went on about life choices and statistics. yuji listens, nodding furiously, asking questions in the loudest voice anyone has ever used in a kitchen.

it’s normal. comfortable. easy.

but your head?

not easy. not comfortable.

because you can’t stop thinking about the man standing in the hallway.

the way sukuna looked at you like he was trying to match this version of you to the one he left behind.

the way he took up the entire hallway without trying. the way the metal in his lip caught the light. the tattoos. the build. the voice.

you try focusing on the material. you really do.

but yuji is halfway through copying something when you completely lose your train of thought, brain short-circuiting at the memory of sukuna stepping closer, the hallway shrinking around him, his arm brushing yours.

“uh… hello?” yuji waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to braincell.”

you blink. “sorry, i—just tired.”

“you should be! bro, you’ve been explaining this for like an hour.” yuji glances at the clock. “holy crap, it’s actually been an hour.”

you laugh, rubbing your eyes. it has gotten later than you thought. the sun’s gone down, the kitchen’s dimmer, warmer. the house feels too quiet.

yuji scratches his cheek and looks sheepish. “hey… uh… you wanna stay for dinner? i was gonna make something anyway, and it’s already late.”

stay.

the word sinks in. you open your mouth out of habit to decline—because you always do, because you have homework, because you’re busy—but you don’t say no.

because you know who else is here. who else you’ll end up near. who else is still lingering somewhere in this house with a pierced lip and a stare that won’t get out of your head.

you swallow. “yeah. sure. i can stay.”

yuji brightens again. “sweet! i’ll throw something together.”

you nod, biting back a smile as he rummages through the fridge.

you tell yourself it’s just dinner. just catching up. just a normal night. but your pulse tells a different story.

you don’t know what game sukuna’s playing now that he’s home…

…but you’re pretty sure he expects you to play it too.

yuji is humming to himself as he cooks—off-key, loud, cheerful in the way only he can be. pans clatter, spices get overused, something sizzles a little too aggressively, but it’s comforting.

you sit at the kitchen table, chin resting on your hand, pretending to scroll your phone. pretending to be normal.

but your ears are tuned to the hallway.

and when you hear slow, heavy footsteps approaching, your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

sukuna enters the kitchen like he owns the space—tall, broad, tattooed arms visible where he shoved his sleeves up again. his lip ring catches the warm kitchen light as he presses his tongue against it, like he’s distracting himself from saying something.

or from staring.

he doesn’t say anything right away. he just pulls out a chair. right across from you, of course.

your heartbeat jumps. you’re grateful yuji is too busy murdering whatever’s in the frying pan to notice anything weird.

sukuna sits slowly, legs spread under the table like he’s claiming territory. his posture is relaxed—leaned back, arms loose—but his eyes?

fixed on you.

not soft nor nostalgic—but assessing and curious in a way that makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

you try to look away first. you don’t succeed.

he breaks the silence with a low, too-casual, “he’s really makin’ you do his classwork for him?”

you blink. “i’m not—i’m just helping him catch up.”

he hums under his breath, that amusement back in his voice, coating every syllable in something mocking. “helpin’ him, huh. you always were too nice.”

“am not,” you mutter.

“yeah,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “you are.”

your stomach flips in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

before you can snap back, yuji turns around with triumph in his eyes and a plate in each hand.

“dinner is SERVED,” he declares proudly.

you and sukuna both watch the plate hit the table with a little too much force.

“you didn’t burn anything this time,” sukuna notes.

“shut up, bro,” yuji grins.

bro.

right. they’re brothers. the kind with the same house and the same history but completely different worlds carved out inside them.

yuji sits beside you—your usual seating arrangement—leaving sukuna directly across from you.

it’s torture.

you try to focus on dinner, but the food tastes like nothing. you’re too aware of the man in front of you. of the way his hand dwarfs his fork. of the tattoos that crawl up his veins, ink meeting sinew. of the metal on his face catching light every time he shifts. of the quiet way he eats—unlike yuji, who practically inhales his food.

at some point, sukuna leans back, eyes still on you, elbow resting on the back of his chair. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt yuji’s excited retelling of a stupid class story.

he just watches you. until you squirm.

you hate that he sees it. you drop your gaze to your plate.

but then, under the table—something brushes your ankle. you jolt subtly, knee bumping the underside of the table.

yuji doesn’t notice, but sukuna smiles. a slow smile that feels like it’s meant to unravel you one string at a time.

he doesn’t pull away.

his foot stays there—resting against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you try to move your foot back. he follows. pressing gently.

your breath stutters. your fork pauses mid-air.

“you okay?” yuji asks through a mouthful of food.

“fine,” you choke.

sukuna’s eyes drop to your throat, watching it move as you swallow. then he tilts his head and mouths something silently—so only you can see it.

don’t run.

your heart slams. you force yourself to finish your meal, though you don’t taste a damn thing.

yuji finally exhales loudly, rubbing his stomach. “okay, i’m gonna grab the drinks—don’t eat my dessert while i’m gone.”

he gets up and disappears into the fridge.

the moment he’s out of earshot, the tension in the room snaps tight.

sukuna leans forward just slightly, voice low enough that it feels like a touch on your skin.

“you’re real bad at hiding shit,” he murmurs.

you grip your fork. “hiding what?”

he raises a brow. “the way you’ve been lookin’ at me since you walked in.”

your breath falters.

he smiles. “didn’t look at me like that when i left.”

you want to deny it. you want to throw something at him. you want to run.

instead, all you manage is a tiny, pathetic, “…shut up.”

his eyes soften for half a second—amusement, victory, something else you can’t name—and then he drags his foot lightly up your calf under the table.

your pulse jumps.

yuji returns a moment later, completely oblivious, carrying three drinks like he’s hosting a banquet.

“okay! i got—hey, why are you two so quiet?”

you choke. “no reason.”

sukuna doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

yuji doesn’t even make it to dessert.

one minute he’s talking through a mouthful of food, and the next he’s curled sideways on the couch in the living room, face pressed into a pillow, snoring softly like someone unplugged him mid-sentence.

you stare at him for a second and sigh. “…he lasted longer than usual.”

from behind you, sukuna’s voice is low and way too entertained. “don’t give him that much credit.”

you ignore the way your stomach flutters and start clearing the plates, stacking yours on top of yuji’s, gathering forks, pushing crumbs into your palm. it feels safer to have your hands busy—something to do besides think about sukuna or how his eyes followed you all dinner.

the kitchen is dimmer now, warm under the stove light. quiet except for the clink of dishes. yuji’s muffled snoring drifts in from the living room. the air feels thick, heavy with end-of-night softness.

you bend over to load the dishwasher, reaching for a plate on the bottom rack…

…and that’s when you hear them.

slow footsteps behind you.

you feel him before he speaks—heat at your back, the faint brush of air as he exhales, the subtle shift of the room around someone as big as him.

“you really doing the dishes?” he says, voice low enough to curl behind your ear. “yuji’s not even awake to witness it.”

you roll your eyes at the plate in your hand. “i’m being nice.”

“you always were.”

your stomach dips.

you reach farther into the dishwasher, bending a little more, muttering, “it’s fine, i don’t mind—”

that’s when it happens.

you feel it—a slow nudge at your backside. a hip bump. not subtle. nowhere near being accidental. you gasp and straighten halfway before you even think about it.

“the fuck—?”

you turn, and sukuna is standing right behind you, way too close, one eyebrow piercing lifting as he drags his hips back a couple inches… only to roll them forward again—slow, exaggerated, mocking in the rudest possible way.

a fucking air-hump. right into your ass.

you choke on your own breath. “what—what are you doing?” you hiss, eyes wide, hands still gripping a fork like you’re about to duel him with it.

“correcting your form,” he says casually, gesturing at the dishwasher. “you’re bendin’ like you want attention.”

“i was not bending like that,” you whisper harshly.

he steps forward half an inch—just enough to feel the heat of him against your back.

“you kinda were,” he murmurs.

your pulse hits dangerous levels.

you turn to shove him away—at least that’s the plan—but he catches your wrist, grip firm but not tight, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second before flicking back up like he didn’t mean to.

“relax,” he says, voice dropping into something warm, amused, and infuriatingly soft. “if i wanted to actually fuck with you, sweetheart… you’d know.”

your knees nearly give out. you pretend they don’t.

you rip your hand back. “yuji’s in the next room.”

sukuna lifts a brow. “and?”

you glare. “so don’t be an asshole.”

“can’t help it.” he leans closer, voice brushing your neck. “you bring it outta me.”

you swallow hard, turning back to the dishwasher because looking at him is dangerous.

he watches you for a moment with a silent, heavy gaze, dragging across your back as you finish stacking plates.

then you feel his breath near your ear again. “finish up,” he murmurs, something darker slipping into his tone. “i’m not done with you.”

you grip the dishwasher door until your knuckles ache. and yuji keeps snoring, completely unaware that his older brother is behind you, smirking like he knows exactly how fast your heart is pounding.

you wipe your hands on the dish towel, fingers still slightly trembling from whatever the hell that “airhump” was supposed to be. you tell yourself it was stupid, meaningless, not worth thinking about—and then your stomach twists, proving you wrong immediately.

yuji is passed out on the couch, one arm over his face, snores muffled by the pillow he stole from your house. his soft breathing fills the otherwise quiet house, the kind of nighttime silence that makes everything else feel louder. heavier.

you sling your bag over your shoulder, take a steadying breath, and tell yourself you’re fine. you survived dinner. you survived sukuna staring at you like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or laugh at you. you can survive saying a polite goodnight.

you move down the hallway, footsteps soft on the carpet. you pass the bathroom, the closet, the familiar creak in the floorboard near yuji’s door, and then—you reach sukuna’s room.

you only mean to look in. just a glance. just a “later” or a “bye.”

you don’t even get that far.

a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks—not painfully, but efficiently, like he’s practiced the motion a thousand times. you stumble forward, and before you can catch your balance, he pulls you into his room and shuts the door with a quiet, final click.

your back hits the wall. not hard. just enough that you gasp, the shock traveling all the way to your knees. when you blink up, sukuna is standing inches from you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still loosely around your wrist as if waiting to see if you’ll run.

his room smells like soap and darker elements—cedar, smoke, warm skin. it hits you all at once, settling under your ribs, making it far too hard to breathe normally.

“you were really gonna leave without saying anything to me?” he asks, voice almost amused.

“i—i didn’t wanna wake yuji,” you manage, even though you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you can’t look him in the eyes without feeling too much.

“that so?” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly. “’cause you walked past my door real fast. almost like you were trying to escape.”

you try to step to the side, but he shifts with you, blocking the one direction you might’ve slipped away. his body doesn’t press into you, but it hangs close enough that you feel the heat of him, the quiet intensity that wasn’t there when he was younger. everything about him feels deliberate now. intentional.

“i wasn’t escaping,” you say softly. “i was leaving.”

“mm.” he tilts his head just a little, eyes dragging over your face. “and here i thought you’d at least say bye before running.”

“i wasn’t runni—”

“you were.” the faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he adds, “you still do that.”

you swallow hard. “do what?”

sukuna’s gaze slides from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. “get shy.”

the breath you take isn’t steady. not even close. he notices—of course he notices—and his fingers release your wrist only to settle at your waist instead, warm and sending a rush of awareness straight through your core.

“i’m not shy,” you whisper, even though your whole body betrays you.

his smile grows—not cocky, but like he just solved some puzzle that only he was working on. “yeah,” he says, voice dropping, lips brushing the edge of your cheekbone as he speaks, “you are.”

his hand slides up your hip, light but purposeful, guiding you just the slightest bit closer until his chest nearly touches yours. only an inch of air separates your bodies, and it’s unbearable.

“you didn’t look at me like that when i left,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your jaw.

“like what?” it comes out barely audible.

“like you want me to kiss you.”

your stomach drops. your face heats. your throat tightens with something impossible to name. you almost deny it—you should deny it—but the words won’t come.

and something in your silence tells him everything.

sukuna’s thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow enough to make your breath catch. “say it,” he whispers.

you shake your head. your heart is pounding too fast to speak.

“didn’t think so,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “good thing i don’t need you to.”

before you can react, he closes the distance—letting you feel every second of it. his mouth brushes yours once, soft, testing. your breath rises sharply. he waits, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

you don’t.

your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, and that’s all it takes. sukuna kisses you fully then—deep, warm, devastatingly slow. the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been many years overdue. the kind that steals your breath so quietly you don’t notice until you’re gasping into him.

he hums against your mouth, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, tipping your head the way he wants, his lips moving against yours with ease that makes your knees weak.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he stays close, forehead brushing yours, breaths mingling. “there you go,” he murmurs, voice roughened by restraint. “finally got you to stop pretending.”

your eyes flutter open.

his are already on you, hungry for the next bite.

“you should’ve said goodbye earlier,” he adds softly. “i wouldn’t have let you leave.”

the first kiss is nothing compared to the second.

the moment he hears your breath hitch right against his mouth—sukuna cups the side of your neck, fingers sliding under your jaw, and pulls you back into him. no hesitation this time. no testing. he kisses you like he’s been denying himself the thought of it for years and finally gave in.

your back presses harder into the wall as his mouth moves against yours—slow at first, savoring, learning every tiny sound you make. his lips part just enough to taste you, and when your tongue brushes his, something low and electric shoots through both of you.

he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. you feel it more than hear it.

his free hand slides to your waist, then your hip, then down to the curve of your thigh, gripping just enough to pull you up into his kiss. your hands rise on instinct, fists curling in the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

you don’t even realize you’re trembling until he notices.

“easy,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, impossibly gentle for someone who looks like him. “breathe.”

you try. you fail.

and he clearly likes it.

he catches your wrists when you try to pull him closer, fingers wrapping around both, guiding your hands up over your head and pressing them into the wall above you. the movement is slow, controlled, the kind you could fight if you wanted to… but you don’t.

you let him pin you there, wrists held in one of his hands, bodies flush, heat rolling between you in waves.

“that’s better,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheekbone as he drags a kiss down to your jaw. “keep ’em there.”

your breath stutters again, a soft, pathetic little exhale you can’t swallow down fast enough. he hears it. he smiles against your skin.

“knew you’d be like this,” he whispers. “knew it.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—then dips lower, to the side of your neck. his lips are warm at first, barely pressure, barely there… and then he sucks.

your knees threaten to buckle. he feels it, and pushes his thigh between yours—not hard, just enough to keep you standing, enough to drag a shaky breath out of you.

“still shy?” he asks against your throat.

you shake your head, even though you definitely are.

he laughs quietly, the sound rumbling into your skin, before kissing lower—along the line of your neck, down your shoulder, back up again like he’s mapping you with his mouth.

your hands flex uselessly against the wall, wrists pinned in his grip. you can’t touch him. can’t pull him closer. can’t do anything except feel him.

and he takes full advantage.

he kisses up the column of your neck, slow and unhurried, until he reaches your ear.

his breath is warm when he speaks. “come here.”

he lets go of your wrists only so he can slip his hands around your waist and lift you—not fully off the ground, just enough that your balance shatters. he turns you easily, guiding you away from the wall and toward the bed behind him.

your back hits the mattress before you fully process the movement. sukuna stands over you for a moment, chest rising and falling, eyes dark, pupils blown.

you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he’s looking at you now. he leans down, bracing one knee on the bed, caging you in with his body.

“been thinkin’ about this all night,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek before kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. “the way you looked at me… the way you kept pretending you weren’t.”

your fingers finally find his hoodie, grabbing it, pulling him down until he’s almost on top of you.

his hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, across your stomach, leaving heat everywhere he touches.

your breath is shaky, your heart out of control.

“just say it,” he whispers against your mouth. “say you want me.”

you don’t say it, but you kiss him like you do. and he takes that as an answer.

his hoodie comes off first.

you don’t even realize you’re tugging at it until he shifts, helping you peel it up over his head, revealing a solid, cut chest inked in black—tattoos wrapping his torso like armor, crawling up his sides and disappearing into the shadows of his collarbone.

he looks unreal in the low light, all sharp lines and sculpted heat, muscle flexing as he braces his hands on either side of you.

your eyes trail down without permission. the slope of his chest, the flex in his abs when he exhales, the deep cut of his hips narrowing into the waistband of his sweats. his lip glints when he smiles—barely there, cocky, knowing.

“that look better than you imagined?”

your breath catches. “shut up.”

his smile widens. “you didn’t say no.”

he leans down again—kisses you slow. your hands map over his chest now, feeling the warmth of him, the weight, the way he moves under your palms. he groans low when your nails scrape lightly across his abs.

“you tryna kill me, sweetheart?”

you grin against his mouth. “maybe.”

he chuckles. he kisses you again, this time harder, his tongue sliding against yours until you’re gasping. then his mouth moves down—neck, collarbone, sternum—lips dragging over skin like he’s starving for every inch.

his hands find the hem of your shirt. “this comes off,” he says, already tugging it up.

you arch slightly to help him. the shirt lands somewhere behind you. his eyes rake over your chest, and you swear he breathes deeper just looking at you.

“fuck,” he murmurs, mouth already lowering. “i missed a lot.”

he wraps his lips around the swell of your breast, tongue flicking once before he sucks. you jolt, hips twitching, a gasp spilling out of you before you can stop it. his teeth graze, soft but suggestive, before he switches sides—mouth worshiping, hands roaming your waist and hips like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone.

“kuna—” your voice cracks. “s-stop teasing.”

he laughs against your skin. “thought you were shy.”

you shove at his shoulder. “not that shy.”

his eyes flash. “good.”

his hand slips down—under your waistband, fingers pressing between your thighs through your underwear. his touch is warm, rough, perfect.

you jolt. “oh my—”

“that’s more like it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours again as he starts to rub slow circles over the damp fabric. “been wondering how you’d sound.”

your fingers dig into his arm, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his hand. he watches you—fascinated, like he’s trying to sear the image into memory.

he drags the fabric aside and sinks a finger in. your mouth drops open, a soft, choked sound escaping. he groans low in his chest, eyes darkening.

“fuck, you’re soaked.”

you can’t answer. can’t think. can barely breathe.

he pumps his finger slow, then adds another—stretching you just enough to burn, just enough to make you whimper and clutch the sheets.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “take it. knew you could.”

your hips stutter. he curls his fingers, and your whole body lights up.

“kuna—please—”

“what do you want, baby?” his mouth is at your ear again, tongue flicking the shell before he nips at it. “want me to keep playing with you? want more?”

you nod frantically. “yes—yes, more, i want—”

“say it.”

you whine, breathless. “i want you.”

he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours. “good girl.”

he shifts lower like he’s been waiting all night to get between your thighs.

your breath catches when he drags your pants down alongside your underwear, slow enough to make you feel every inch of the fabric leaving your skin. he tosses them somewhere behind him without looking—eyes locked, laser-focused, hungry in a way that makes your whole body throb.

he spreads your knees with two fingers hooked behind them, guiding you open until you feel exposed in a way that isn’t embarrassing—just intimate. like he’s letting you know he wants all of you, every inch, every tremble, every breath.

“look at you,” he whispers, voice dark with awe that he’d never say out loud. “fuck.”

his thumb drags up your inner thigh, slow, reverent, as if he’s got all the time in the world and he’s choosing to spend every second right here.

you feel the heat of his breath first—right where you want him—before you feel his mouth.

he kisses the inside of your thigh, once, twice, lips warm, breath shaky like he’s the one barely holding it together. his fingers press into your skin like he’s steadying himself.

“been thinking about this,” he murmurs, kissing closer, “since dinner.”

your toes curl. “k-kuna…”

“shh.” he smiles against your skin. “i’m getting there.”

he moves in slowly, purposefully, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. the motion is smooth, easy—he’s strong enough that he barely has to try. your breath skips.

his thumbs spread you open. his eyes drop.

he groans. audibly. “fuck… you’re perfect.”

and then he lowers his head.

his tongue slides through your folds in a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt off the bed. your hand flies to his hair without permission, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gasp.

he groans again, deeper this time, like the taste of you just punched the air out of his lungs.

“shit, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled. “no wonder you were actin’ shy.”

he licks again—long, slow, savoring every inch—and you swear your vision fades at the edges.

you’re shaking. your thighs tense around his head instinctively, but he just smirks against you and presses them wider.

“keep ‘em open,” he murmurs, tongue dipping lower. “lemme eat.”

and then—then he really gets into it.

his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in a rhythm that feels too good too fast—your back arches, hands flying to the sheets.

“kuna—fuck—”

he moans like your voice is feeding him. the vibration makes your hips jerk.

he slides two fingers back inside you at the same time his tongue circles your clit—slow, curling right against that spot that makes your stomach twist.

your gasp turns into a broken whine.

“yeah,” he grunts softly, pumping his fingers deeper, “right there, huh? that’s where you start shaking?”

you whimper. that’s all it takes. he chuckles into you—a hot, smug, god of a sound—and curls his fingers harder.

your thighs tremble. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growls, dragging his tongue up before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “give it to me.”

your hand clamps around his hair. your whole body goes tight, and then you break.

your orgasm crashes through you so violently you cry out, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head. sukuna doesn’t pull away. he holds you there, mouth working you through every wave, swallowing every sound you make.

“that’s it,” he whispers when you finally slump back, breathless, shaky. “good fuckin’ girl.”

you’re panting, still trembling as he kisses the inside of your thigh again, slow and soft now, letting you come down.

but he doesn’t move away. he crawls up your body, mouth warm, breath hot, chest brushing yours as he hovers above you.

he grabs your jaw gently, thumb rubbing your lower lip as he leans in, lips ghosting yours but not kissing yet.

“think you’re done?” he murmurs.

you stare at him, flushed, breath shallow. “i—i don’t know—”

his mouth curls into a slow grin. “you’re nowhere fuckin’ close.”

he kisses you finally—letting you taste yourself on his tongue, letting you feel exactly what he plans to do to you next. his hand wraps around your thigh, dragging it up around his hip.

you feel him—hard and heavy against you through his sweats. your skin burns with it. he doesn’t even have to move and you’re already clenching around nothing.

“‘m not stopping,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low enough to vibrate in your chest. “til you beg.”

he catches your stare, eyes narrowing slightly like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. then he shifts back onto his heels and leans against the wall beside the bed, thighs spread wide, hand dragging down the front of his sweats.

your breath catches. he palms himself slow, watching you.

“c’mere,” he says, nodding down. “if you’re gonna be a brat about it, least you can do is put that mouth to use.”

your stomach flips.

you slide down to the floor, onto your knees between his legs, palms resting on his thighs. he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, jaw tense like he’s holding himself back from saying something filthy.

you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats and pull them down just enough to free him.

your mouth parts.

he’s thick. flushed and heavy at the tip, veins trailing up the length, a glisten of precum already beading at the head. He wraps a hand around the base and gives it one lazy stroke before tapping it against your lips.

“open up.”

you do. immediately.

you wrap your lips around the tip and suck—slow, dragging your tongue over the underside. his groan is immediate,.

“fuck, that’s it,” he grits. “take it slow—lemme feel that tongue.”

you do.

you move down, inch by inch, working him deeper. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, his cock stretching your lips, pressing hot against your tongue. your hand wraps around what you can’t fit, stroking in time with your mouth.

his hand slides into your hair, not forcing—just holding, thumb brushing your cheekbone every time you take him a little deeper.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he mutters, voice ragged. “mouth full of cock, eyes all glassy—shit.”

you moan around him, and he bucks, hips twitching.

“you like that, huh?” he pants. “like suckin’ me while your pussy’s still throbbing from bein’ teased?”

you nod, tongue flicking over the tip when you come up for air. your lips are swollen, your chin wet, your breath shallow.

he grunts, tightening his fist in your hair. “shit—gonna cum if you keep that up—” and then he pulls you off, panting.

you blink, confused, lips parted.

“no,” he rasps. “not yet.”

he drags you up by your arms, effortlessly. his mouth already finding yours again as he pushes you back onto the bed. his cock, still slick with your spit, presses against your inner thigh.

“wanna cum inside you,” he murmurs between kisses, “wanna watch your face when i do.”

your breath stutters.

he parts your thighs with both hands, wide and greedy, and settles between them, cock dragging over your entrance—just once, just enough to make you gasp.

then he pushes in. stretching you open inch by inch until he bottoms out, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged in your ear.

your back arches off the bed. your nails dig into his biceps. he’s so deep.

“fuck,” he groans. “this pussy—always meant to be mine.”

you gasp, hands scrambling to hold him closer.

his hand catches your jaw, tilting your head just slightly so he can see every shift in your expression.

“eyes on me,” he whispers. “wanna see you fall apart.”

and then he starts to move. his hips roll into yours with control that makes your toes curl—his cock dragging against every spot inside you, his mouth brushing yours every time he thrusts in.

“look at you,” he pants, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “already fucked out and i haven’t even gotten started.”

you whimper, thighs shaking around his hips. “kuna—”

he hushes you with a kiss, and keeps fucking you through it, one hand curling around your waist, the other tangling in your hair.

“wanna see you cum like this,” he breathes. “right here, lookin’ at me. fallin’ apart on my cock.”

you’re already close. he knows.

his hips drag back just enough to make you whimper, then roll forward again, deep and heavy, grinding the base of his cock against your clit each time.

“you feel that?” he murmurs against your mouth. “feel how deep i am?”

you can’t answer. your eyes flutter. your thighs twitch. your breath keeps catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

he dips his head lower—kisses along your jaw, down your neck, tongue dragging lazily over your pulse.

“don’t go quiet now,” he growls. “wasn’t so shy with my cock in your mouth.”

your cheeks flush hotter. your hips buck up instinctively, chasing friction. he groans at the way you clench around him, hips stuttering.

“goddamn,” he mutters, pulling back to look at you. “you’re gonna cum just from this, huh? from me fuckin’ you slow and talkin’ to you?”

you nod, frantic, desperate, gasping when he changes the angle just slightly—grinding deeper, bottoming out again, your walls fluttering around him.

his hand slides down your side, firm and possessive. he grabs your thigh and pushes it up, folding you open even more, cock slipping in deeper than before.

your moan breaks right against his mouth.

“there,” he says—almost to himself. “that’s it. that’s where you like it.”

your hands clutch at his back, fingers sliding over warm skin, over shifting muscle, nails digging in when he thrusts just right again.

you feel it building. it coils low and hot, right behind your navel, pulsing with every drag of his cock, every filthy sound he makes in your ear.

he sees it too. his eyes lock on yours, dark and full of something you’ve never seen from him before—raw.

“close?” he asks, breathless.

you nod. “kuna—please—don’t stop—”

his forehead presses to yours, and he fucks you harder—still deep, but less controlled now, pace picking up.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants. “cum on my cock like a good girl?”

you nod again—choked, messy, right on the edge.

“look at me,” he growls. “when you cum, look at me.”

you do. and when he slams in one last time, angle perfect, pressure perfect—your whole body locks up.

the orgasm hits hard. your mouth falls open, breath shattering, eyes wide and glassy as you squeeze around him, wet and pulsing and uncontrollable.

“fuck—fuck,” he groans, losing rhythm. “that’s it—fuckin’ perfect—look at you—”

you cry out again, grabbing at him, trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious. he doesn’t stop moving—not until he’s right there with you.

“gonna cum inside you,” he mutters against your mouth. “want you full, dripping—”

you whimper, too far gone to answer. he thrusts once, twice—then buries himself deep and groans, low and animal, as he spills inside you.

he stays there, deep and still—chest heaving, arms shaking with the effort to keep himself from collapsing on top of you. your hands trail up his back, shaky and slow, fingertips ghosting over the ink there.

you’re both silent for a moment. just breathing. just existing. and then— “you really weren’t gonna say hi to me?” he whispers, nose brushing yours.

you blink up at him, lips swollen, voice nearly gone. “you didn’t say hi either.”

his mouth twitches. he kisses you again—softer now, longer. like he wants to keep tasting what he missed.

then he pulls out slowly, careful—and groans at the mess you’ve both made. his cum spills out of you, sticky and warm against your thighs.

he watches it. a little too long.

you shift beneath him, flushed and spent, and mumble, “you’re being weird.”

he doesn’t even look up. “you’re leaking. my work here is done.”

you slap his chest. weakly. “stop staring.”

“stop leaking.”

“kuna.”

he finally lifts his head, grinning—messy hair, flushed cheeks, smug as all hell. “don’t look at me like it’s my fault you can’t hold it in.”

you gape at him, mouth falling open. “i just got rearranged like damn ikea furniture—maybe give me five minutes?”

he laughs, head dropping to your shoulder. “you’re so dramatic,” he murmurs into your neck. “you loved it.”

you try to smack him again, but your arm flops back down instead. “shut up. i’m sore.”

“you’re gonna be more sore tomorrow.” he sounds pleased about it.

you groan, tossing your head back into the pillow. “you’re the worst.”

he hums. “mm. you came so hard you forgot your name. i think i’m the best.”

you glance down at him, raising a brow. “i did not forget my name.”

“you whimpered,” he says, kissing your collarbone. “like five times.”

“not the same thing.”

he snorts. “sounded like you were glitching.”

“i hate you.”

“you sucked my soul out through my dick twenty minutes ago.”

“okay first of all—”

“it was an honor,” he says, hand rubbing slow circles into your hip. “salute.”

you burst into laughter, and so does he.

he collapses beside you, both of you a mess—sweaty, flushed, glowing in the aftershocks and still tangled in the sheets. the room smells like sex and sweat.

his hand finds yours between the blankets.

you go quiet for a moment. breathing. existing. then—

“…so do we tell yuji or just make it weird forever?”

he groans and throws a pillow over his face. “my god, just kill me now.”

He bellows orders, cutting down another soldier that charges, but the tide is against them. The line collapses. War banners fall to the mud. One by one, his comrades vanish beneath the enemy’s press until Phainon realizes he is the last.

A spear grazes his helm, and agony bursts white-hot across his skull. His vision reels, the world washing red. Blood spills hot down the side of his face, searing his eye. He staggers back, fighting only to keep his legs moving.

The battlefield is lost. To stay is to die.

He turns and runs. Through smoke, through brambles, through the jeers and shouts of pursuit, he forces his battered body onward. Each step is heavier than the last; each breath feels like fire. The enemy’s shouts echo behind him, but the forest swallows him whole, branches clawing at his armor as he crashes deeper into the shadows.

The forest is deep and strange—the deeper he runs, the quieter the world becomes, as though the trees themselves conspire to swallow sound.

He is alone, save for the thundering of his heart and the wet drip of blood from his helm. His sword slips from his hand, forgotten. The world tilts and Phainon collapses onto the forest floor.

His vision blurs, and just before the darkness takes him, he hears the soft crunch of leaves close by. Then, a gentle meow.

And, nothing more.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

He wakes to silence.

His eyes open slowly. A wooden ceiling looms above him, beams dark with age, the air tinged with the scent of herbs. He doesn’t recognize it—doesn’t recognize anything.

More than that, he doesn’t remember who he is.

His chest tightens as he searches the fog of his mind for something—a name, a memory, a place—but it’s like reaching into smoke: everything slips away before he can hold it.

He swallows against the dryness of his throat. He’s in a bed, blanket heavy on his chest. Around him, there are shelves sagging with jars and bottles, books are stacked haphazardly, and there are strange trinkets laid out everywhere. None of it sparks recognition.

He sits up too quickly. The room tilts, his skull throbs, and he grips the blanket bunched at his waist until the dizziness fades.

A sound draws him out of himself. Meow.

He turns his head. An orange cat sits on the windowsill, its yellow eyes fixed on him, tail flicking lazily. They regard each other for a long moment, as though the creature expects something of him. Then, without ceremony, it leaps down and pads out the door.

His body protests as he pushes the blankets aside, muscles stiff and uncooperative. He staggers when he stands, catching himself against the bedpost. His legs are heavy, but the need to follow propels him forward. Each step is unsteady, but he manages, trailing the soundless paws through the narrow hall and down a creaking stair.

The cat doesn’t wait; it moves with a purpose, leaving him to stumble after, forcing his pace to match.

At last, a door yawns open onto light. He blinks against it, squinting as the cat pads outside. He follows, and he emerges into air crisp with pine and soil.

What he sees makes him stop in the doorway.

You stand at the heart of a small clearing, bathed in the dappled light that falls through the trees. Birds perch on your shoulders and fingers as though you were a branch. A fox lingers at your feet. Rabbits, a deer, and a dozen other forest creatures circle you in attendance. Your lips move, and though he can’t hear the words, he knows you are speaking to them.

The orange cat trots toward you and lets out a sharp meow. You turn at the sound.

Your gaze meets his across the clearing. For a moment, the world holds its breath. His heart lurches in his chest, stuttering in a rhythm he doesn’t understand.

The animals scatter at once, startled by his sudden presence. Birds lift onto the trees, the deer bounds into the shadows, and rabbits vanish into the bushes. In their wake, only you remain, standing alone at the center, the cat padding to your side.

Your hands lower slowly, and then you turn to face him fully.

“You’re finally awake,” you say. “That’s good. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks. Actually…” You tilt your head, frowning faintly. “Why are you here? You should be in bed still.”

The words are simple yet he barely hears them. His heart stumbles against his ribs, as though it recognizes something his mind cannot. He can’t look away from you. He doesn’t know who he is, but standing beneath your eyes, he feels anchored, as though some missing piece has found its way back to him.

You stride towards him with quick steps. Before he can speak, your hands press lightly against his arm, his shoulder, steering him back toward the house. The touch makes him jolt more than the cold air outside, small and unassuming but somehow enough to stir heat into his chest.

You push him gently through the doorway and into the living room with the small couch. “Sit,” you insist, ushering him down.

He obeys clumsily, lowering himself into the cushions. His body sinks into them, but his gaze drifts back to you, searching, wondering.

“I followed your cat,” he says at last, voice rough with disuse. The words feel inadequate, almost foolish, but they’re all he can manage against the pull inside him.

“Ah, yes,” you call from the kitchen. A moment later, you return, a glass of water in hand. You press it into his grasp and he accepts without protest.

“His name is Mydei, short for Mydeimos,” you explain, settling opposite him. “He keeps an eye on you when I can’t.”

As if summoned by the mention, the orange cat leaps onto the low table between you. Mydei sits with practiced elegance, tail curling neatly around his paws.

“Oh. Thank you?” he says, though the words sound uncertain, like a question.

Mydei blinks slowly, then offers a soft meow, as if in reply.

You hide a faint smile. “Aside from disorientation, what else are you feeling? Is your head aching? Any nausea? You lost a great deal of blood.”

He takes a long sip of water, letting the coolness ease the dryness in his throat before lowering the glass to his lap.

“My head…” he hesitates, pressing a hand to his temple. “It aches, yes, but not… unbearably.” His brow furrows as he tries to chase the thought further. “Everything feels… heavy. Like my body isn’t mine yet.”

He falls quiet, eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. A moment passes before he adds, “I don’t remember much. Hardly anything at all. Not even my name.”

“Hm… how inconvenient,” you say, thoughtful but not unkind. “That means we have no way of knowing how you came into my forest looking as though you’d just walked away from a battlefield.”

At the word battle, something stirs in him—sharp, jagged pain flickering behind his eyes. He winces, a hand lifting instinctively to his temple. And just as quickly as it comes, the ache fades, leaving only the echo of something he cannot grasp.

You watch him carefully, noting the shadow that passes across his face, but choose not to press. Instead, your voice softens, “But I do know your name.”

His head lifts, hope in his eyes.

“Your broadsword carried an engraving,” you continue. “Phainon. I believe that’s your name.”

The name strikes something inside him—a resonance, like the toll of a bell. He mouths it once, tasting the syllables, then again with more sound. “Phainon…” The word feels both foreign and familiar, like a garment he once wore but has long since outgrown.

“I had a little trouble carrying your sword back with me,” you admit, a faint crease forming at the edge of your brow. “It’s a good thing Mydei was there to help while I carried you.”

Phainon blinks, gaze sliding toward the orange cat perched on the table. Mydei is calmly licking a paw, utterly unconcerned.

A cat—carrying a broadsword. He can’t wrap his head around it. The image his mind conjures—this small, sleek creature dragging a weapon nearly as tall as he is—strains against reason.

“What a strange thing,” Phainon mutters.

You tilt your head at his remark, an amused smile flickering at your lips. “Strange as it may be, but it’s true. Mydei has his ways.”

Then as fast as it came, the smile on your face vanishes, replaced by a more solemn look. “Listen… you’re still in no state to be wandering. You’ve lost too much blood and your memories are—” you hesitate, choosing the gentlest word, “—foggy.”

“Foggy,” he echoes.

You nod, and continue, “I have room here. Stay—at least until you’ve recovered your strength. Until your memories start to return.”

The offer hangs in the air. Phainon looks at you as if the world had shifted beneath him.

“You want me to… stay?” he repeats. “And that’s fine with you? I… I’m a stranger.”

You nod once, and the corners of your mouth lift into a reassuring smile. “Yes. Stay.”

Something flickers across his face—relief perhaps, though he’s not sure himself. With quivering lips and a shaky breath, he says, “Then… thank you.”

Mydei hops down from the table, tail swishing, and curls up at your feet as though sealing the agreement.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

He learns the days by the way the light moves across the floor. Morning begins when the window fills with golden light, when the air smells faintly of herbs and boiling water. Evening comes when the shadows stretch long enough to touch his bedpost.

At first, he only watches.

You move through the house with quietness and certainty, hands always busy with something—stirring, pounding, pouring, stitching. He studies the rhythm of your motions, how even your smallest gestures seem to have purpose.

He tries to mimic that quiet. He sits when you tell him to rest, eats what you place before him, drinks the bitter teas you prepare without complaint. But still, there’s a restlessness under his skin. His body remembers movement, command, duty—even if his mind has lost the names for them.

Sometimes you catch him standing by the doorway, staring at the forest beyond. His hand will twitch faintly at his side, as though reaching for something that isn’t there. Other times, he startles when you enter a room too quietly, muscles tensing before he realizes it’s only you.

Once, you find him outside before dawn, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s been trying to split a fallen branch with a knife far too small for the task. The effort leaves his hands trembling.

“You should be in bed,” is what you say as you approach him from behind.

He freezes mid-motion, then turns to look at you—like a child caught stealing bread. “I thought… I could help.”

“You’ll help by healing,” you say, taking the knife gently from his hand.

He hesitates, then nods, slow and obedient. When you turn to leave, he follows you back without another word.

After that morning, he still rises early. But now, when you catch him watching the light through the window, he stays seated—if only for a little while. He tries to rest, but rest does not come easily. His wounds are healing, and his memories remain unsteady, yet idleness feels wrong to him.

Before long, he begins to move again.

He knows what it is to serve—to repay debt with labor—so he volunteers for small tasks.

At first, you refuse him. You tell him he’s still healing, that his hands should hold nothing heavier than a spoon. But the more you insist, the more it seems to ache in him. One morning, he follows you out to the clearing, eyes earnest.

“Let me help,” he says. His voice trembles with something close to pleading. “I can’t just sit here while you work. Please—give me something to do.”

You study him for a long moment—the way his shoulders hover between tension and apology, the way his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as though already reaching for a task. Finally, you sigh, gesturing toward the axe resting by a stump.

“Fine,” you relent, “If you insist, start with that. But take it slowly. If you reopen your wounds, I’ll make you drink every bitter tonic in this house.”

He nods—too eagerly, too grateful—and moves to take the axe. When his hands close around the handle, his posture shifts into something almost reverent. He runs a thumb along the grain of the wood as though it was something more than a tool of work.

The first swing is clumsy. The second lands better. By the fifth, the rhythm begins to find him. And though sweat beads at his temple and his breath comes hard, there’s certainty in his motions, like something dormant has remembered its shape.

When the pile at his feet grows, he looks toward you, expectant and seeking approval. And you only nod, smiling faintly. “That’s enough for now.”

But later, when you find the buckets by the well filled to the brim, or the latch on the cupboard newly repaired, you don’t comment. You only notice the way his shoulders ease when you pretend not to notice.

And soon it becomes habit—his way of contributing, his way of belonging.

However, he is not alone in these routines.

At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence—the way Mydei always seems to appear wherever he goes. The cat follows him everywhere, always just a few steps behind.

Even at night, he’s there.

The first evening, Phainon nearly trips over him on his way to bed. Mydei is already settled on the doorway, tail curled neatly around his paws.

“Are you keeping watch?” Phainon asks, but the cat only blinks.

The next night, it’s the same. On the third, Phainon tries again. “You don’t have to guard me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mydei’s ears twitch, but he says nothing.

Phainon sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Right… You only respond to her, don’t you?”

The cat tilts his head slightly. Then he curls into himself, and the glow of his eyes fades in the dark.

After that, Phainon stops trying—he lets the silence stay between them. So now, when Mydei pads after him at dusk and settles in his usual spot, Phainon simply lets him be. There’s a strange comfort in that quiet surveillance, even if the cat doesn’t feel like opening himself up to him.

And eventually, the days fall into rhythm.

At dawn, he shoulders the axe, splitting logs until the ache in his arms feels almost right. His palms blister, but he swings as though they’ve blistered a thousand times before. At midday, he hauls buckets of water from the well, stride steady but gaze far away. In the evenings, he mends what he can: roofs, fences, tools. His fingers fumble over the smaller work, but when they curl around a hammer’s grip, they fall into familiar certainty.

The quiet is a kindness, but also a cage. The hush of the forest presses in on him, and though the air smells of pine and earth, he feels his muscles twitch for an enemy that never comes. His hands ache not only for work, but for the heft of a blade, for the moment of strike and counterstrike.

At night, he lies awake staring at the broadsword propped in the corner of his room. You had cleaned it for him, oiled the leather of its grip, and even polished the steel until it caught the sunlight in sharp glimmers during mornings. Beside it rests the armor you had stripped from him when he first stumbled into your care—dented, scarred, but whole again after your diligent scrubbing.

The sight always stirs something in him. He cannot recall the battles that scarred that armor, cannot name the men who might have stood by his side, but his body knows. The urge to stand guard through the night, to patrol the forest, to protect this small house and the one who sheltered him—it thrums in his chest as if written into his blood.

Perhaps he was a knight once. The thought explains much: the impulse to serve, the hunger to protect, the restlessness that drives his muscles even in peace. Yet the longer he gazes at the steel, the heavier his chest grows.

A knight without memory is little more than a stray dog—trained to bite, yet wandering without a master to serve.

One evening, over the simple fare you’ve prepared—stew and bread—he sets his spoon down. “You never cook meat,” he observes. “Do you not care for it?” His tone is casual, but his eyes search for you carefully, as if gauging whether it’s want or scarcity that keeps it from your table.

“I could hunt for you,” he adds after a pause, almost eager. The thought of the chase, the draw of the bow, the kill—it would give his restless muscles something to do, something they know.

But you decline immediately, shaking your head. “No. Thank you, but I don’t eat meat or poultry.”

He frowns faintly, confused. “Why not?”

“Because land animals are my friends,” you say simply. “I will not ask one to die for my plate.”

The words settle heavily between you. His shoulders ease, and though the hunger for action still coils within him, he swallows it down.

“I see,” he murmurs, glancing down at his hands—hands that probably (surely) once lived by killing—and does not press further.

Sometimes, like today, he pauses, standing in the clearing with the axe poised above the wood, and the thought comes unbidden: I could split a skull just as easily. And the image lingers too vividly in his head.

His grip tightens on the handle. Then, something flashes behind his eyes.

He’s no longer in the forest, no longer holding an axe. The weight in his hands is heavier. The air reeks of smoke and oil, and the light is wrong—it comes from fire, not sun. Around him, armored figures move through around a narrow room. There’s a table overturned, and he hears a child crying; a woman’s voice is pleading from somewhere behind the door.

But Phainon’s eyes are fixed only on the man before him—kneeling, trembling, faceless. Then, his arm moves before he can think. The blade arcs down.

Then the vision is gone.

He staggers, and the axe is heavy in his hands again. The forest is quiet and his pulse hammers against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He doesn’t notice at first that Mydei has been watching from the fence post. The cat’s yellow eyes never waver, tail flicking. And when Phainon grips the axe too long, when his breath grows heavy, Mydei meows, and it pulls him back.

Phainon exhales, and then he goes back to work.

The pile at his feet is already enough for weeks, but he keeps swinging, each crack and thud a way to drown out the darker images that slip too easily into his thoughts. For a moment, he grips the axe too tightly, staring at the blade as though it might turn on him.

Slowly, he sets the tool aside. For a long while, he just stands there, palms raw, trying to shake the violence from his body. He wipes his hands from his tunic, as though the gesture might wipe away the images too.

“Phainon.”

Your voice pulls him away from his thoughts. He startles slightly, caught off guard, and he turns toward the sound of you.

“You’ll wear out both axe and arms if you keep at it like this,” you say, walking toward him. “The forest can only give so much.”

His expression falters into sheepishness. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, then rubs at his neck. “Sorry. I just… want to be useful.”

“You’ve split enough to last me a month,” you reply. “There are better ways to be useful.”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“You can come with me to town today. I haven’t gone in some time—too busy making sure you don’t fall apart under my roof.”

His brows rise. “Town? There’s a town nearby?”

An amused smile makes it way to your lips. “Of course. Where else would I get fish and flour? You didn’t think I pulled them out of thin air, did you?”

“I thought…” he hesitates, “I thought you just made them appear. You are a witch, aren’t you?”

That earns him a laugh. “You’re a funny one, Phainon. Yes, I am a witch, but I don’t conjure what I can craft and gather. I could, but I’d rather make things than have them simply appear.”

“Sorry. It’s just—” Phainon shifts awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck again. “You’re probably the first witch I’ve ever met.”

Your smile tilts, and almost teasingly, you say, “Probably? We wouldn’t know, would we? Not with your memories still fogged over.”

Before he can answer, you turn briskly. “Come on, then. To town. My apprentice is likely wringing her hands by now, wondering where I’ve gone again.”

He hesitates. “Wait—what about the house? Won’t you need someone to guard it while you’re away?”

“Mydei can handle it,” you say, as though it’s obvious. Right on cue, the orange cat slips from behind your skirts with a little meow, brushing against your legs. Phainon blinks at him, incredulous.

First, the creature can drag around a broadsword. Now he’s expected to stand sentry over a house?

You catch his expression and suppress a laugh. “Mydei is a magical cat. He can do anything a person can do—sometimes even better.”

Phainon gives the animal another long look, but Mydei only flicks his tail and yawns.

“And besides,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “this forest is spelled. Anyone with ill intent who tries to cross the border won’t make it far.”

His brows furrow. “What happens to these people?”

“They get lost,” you answer, too calm, too uncaring. “Until the forest swallows them whole.”

The words echo long after you’ve spoken them.

Phainon can’t quite shake the thought of the forest, and of those who would enter it with dark intent. And what it might do to him, should the forest ever decide his heart was not so clean.

Even as you set off together, the sound of your voice lingers in his skull, heavy as the axe he left behind. The path out of the woods is easier beneath your lead, but he cannot help glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see eyes in the trees.

By the time the trees thin and the road spills into a village, the shift is jarring. Voices rise and tumble together—market cries, children’s laughter, the thud of cart wheels on earth. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the scent of bread and roasting meat hangs heavy in the air.

It should feel safe, yet Phainon’s chest stays tight. There are too many people—too many voices overlapping, too many faces he doesn’t know, too many bodies moving in patterns he can’t predict. In the forest, it was simple: just you, him, Mydei, and the animals. It was a world he can hold with his hands.

Here, everything is too much and too loud. A child darts past, laughing, and he tenses. A shopkeeper calls out prices, and his back straightens. Someone jostles his elbow in passing, and his hand twitches and aches for something akin to a weapon.

He keeps close to you, shadowing your steps as though your presence alone is a tether. You are the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers.

You lead Phainon toward a quaint shop draped in hanging plants and vines. When the two of you step inside, something white blurs past the shelves and barrels toward you. It collides with your chest in a soft, squeaking impact.

Phainon reacts instantly: his hand shoots to his back, grasping for the familiar weight of his broadsword, but only air greets him. His other hand curls into a fist as his shoulders tense, but you lift a palm to still him. A subtle shake of your head halts his instinct.

There’s no enemy here.

His jaw tightens, though his stance relaxes slightly. He lowers his hands, still watching the odd being as though it might bite.

There’s… a creature nuzzling against your neck. Plump and round, with soft white fur tinged in pink and turquoise, its tiny wings flutter uselessly against your shoulder. It makes a plaintive, piping sound, halfway between a whistle and a squeak.

“Yes, yes,” you murmur, your hand smoothing over its mane comfortingly. “I’m back now. You can stop crying.”

“What… what is that?” Phainon asks.

“This is Little Ica,” you reply, tone far warmer than it had been earlier in the forest. “They’re a pegasus and my apprentice’s familiar. Speaking of…” You glance around the shop, scanning the shadows beyond shelves. “Where’s Hyacine?”

As if on cue, the sound of hurried steps come rushing through the backroom. Then a voice, light with relief, exclaims, “You’re back!” Hyacine rushes, her curls bouncing with each step. She stops short when she sees Phainon, but her worry swiftly overtakes her surprise.

“You were gone so long! I thought maybe you’d forgotten to eat again.” Her gaze flicks over you, searching for signs of weariness. “You didn’t, did you? You always lose track when you’re mixing stuff, and—oh, never mind, at least you’re safe and alright.”

Her eyes soften further when they land on the pegasus nestled against your shoulder. “And Little Ica found you first, hm? No wonder I heard them crying.” Then her eyes fall on Phainon again, who’s all tall and stiff behind you. “And you’ve brought someone with you. You never even come to town with Mydei, yet here you are—walking with another man.”

Hyacine’s voice takes on a teasing tone, and you sigh at once. Her words, however, make Phainon’s head tilt curiously.

Another man? Is she hinting at someone else in your life? But he has never seen another soul in the forest besides you, Mydei, your animal friends, and himself. Who is Hyacine talking about?

“He’s a stray I picked up not long ago,” you answer lightly. “He’s the reason why I’ve been absent.”

Hyacine’s brows lift with interest. “Are you taking him in as an apprentice too? Ica and I wouldn’t mind another friend!”

“Oh, no,” you say quickly. “He’s only here for a short while.”

“Aw, that’s too bad.” She juts her lips, pouting. “What brings him here with you today then?”

“A change of scenery,” you reply. “He’s been shut away in the forest for days. I thought the bustle of town might do him some good—help clear his mind. He’s lost his memories, you see.”

Hyacine’s face softens. She glances at Phainon, expression turning gentle, almost pitying. “How awful. What happened to him? And how did you even find him?”

“Mydei found him actually,” you explain. “Just at the edge of the forest. He said Phainon looked like he was running from something. But whoever—or whatever—it was, they’ve probably already lost their way.”

“Oh, Phainon? Is that your name?” Hyacine tilts her head toward him.

He shifts slightly, before giving a curt nod. “Apparently.”

Her lips twitch, and a small giggle escapes. “Well, it suits you. Lucky you stumbled into our forest. Not all who dwell in the woods—witch or not—are half as kind as my teacher.”

“Are you speaking ill of Anaxa again?” you ask with an amused smile. “You know you would’ve been his apprentice if Ica hadn’t liked me better.”

Anaxa. A man’s name, and it snags in Phainon’s mind. Is that the man that Hyacine must be hinting at? The other man?

Hyacine huffs. “If I’d known you were such a stubborn and neglectful teacher, I would have accepted Mr. Anaxagoras’s offer instead!”

“Of course you would.” You shake your head, smiling faintly as though you’ve had this argument before. “But enough of that. I didn’t come here just to banter. I brought new wares for the shop.”

At that, Little Ica finally detaches from your shoulder, wings fluttering as they drift toward Hyacine. You lift your hand, and with a casual flick of your fingers, the air beside you ripples. A pocket of space yawns open, and without hesitation, you slide your arm inside, as if reaching into another world.

Phainon stiffens, heart thudding hard at the sight of your hand disappearing into nothingness. He surges forward, hand shooting out to seize your shoulder before the void can swallow you, but before he can touch you, your free hand lifts and presses lightly against his chest. The touch halts him more effectively than a command.

“What are you—” His voice is harsher than he means it to be, the tension audible.

“Relax,” you murmur. “It’s only a space pocket. A safe place to keep what I can’t carry on my own.”

The warmth of your palm lingers through the fabric of his tunic, and he finds himself frozen there, caught between embarrassment and the urge to insist you step away from the rippling darkness.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to still. His eyes, however, don’t leave the pocket of space that devours your arm with casual ease.

A moment later, you withdraw, arm still intact and holding neat bundle of herbs and jars. You brush the dust from your hands as though you’d done nothing more extraordinary than fetch something from a shelf.

You hold the things out to Hyacine, and she stretches her arms to take them. Phainon lingers behind, watching the exchange.

“You could have used me to carry them for you,” he says.

Because he would have. He would have if you had only asked. For you—his savior, the one who let him stay even though he had nothing to offer but a name he didn’t even remember and a sword he can’t quite recall how to wield—he would carry far heavier things. That’s what a knight does, isn’t it? They pay their debts with their own body, their own service, their own small pieces of loyalty chipped away until they belong entirely to the one who spared them.

A knight serves. A knight owes. And what is he now, if not a man shaped to serve?

“You’re still recovering,” you answer. You don’t even look at him as you say it, which makes it worse, as though the matter is already decided and he doesn’t get a say. “You shouldn’t even be chopping wood at all, but you insist on chores. You are a very hardheaded patient.”

At that, Hyacine bursts out laughing, her curls bouncing as she hugs the bundles to her chest. “Finally,” she says, bright and teasing, “you’ve met someone who can go toe-to-toe with your stubbornness!”

You roll your eyes, but Phainon blinks at the words, tilting his head slightly, as though he’s unsure whether to feel stung or proud or both. His mouth opens like he might protest, then shuts again. He looks away instead and curls his fists, as if silently promising himself next time, he’ll carry the burden before you even get the chance to deny him.

When the two of you finally leave the shop, you guide him through the streets toward the wet market. The air is damp and heavy with the smell of fish, blood, and mud, and there are voices calling out prices and children darting between stalls.

Phainon notices the eyes—not just glances, but lingering looks that follow wherever you walk. And he hears whispers too, words he cannot make sense of but knows must be about you, because they never started until you appeared.

And you don’t say a thing. Maybe you don’t hear it, or maybe you’ve grown used to it—so used to it that it slides right off you. But Phainon can’t let it slide; it scrapes against him like grit in an old wound.

Why do they look at you like that, as though you are something to be feared and mocked all at once? Why do they whisper with so little care, as if you aren’t standing right here among them? And the vendors—the boldest of them all—jeer openly when you pass, muttering under their breaths as though you were powerless, as though you weren’t a witch, as if you’re less than them when he’s certain it’s the other way around.

It builds in his chest—that hot, bristling urge to step in front of you, to bare his teeth, to silence them all. And he almost does, but you just keep moving, intent on the stalls, so he forces himself to match your pace.

At a cart piled with pale cabbages and spotted apples, you pause. He leans down close, words caught between clenched teeth, low enough that only you can hear.

“Why do they behave like this toward you?”

You’re turning an apple over in your hand, examining its bruised skin. “Because I don’t belong here,” you answer simply. “They’re always like that. Just ignore them.”

“But how could they be so… crude?” His voice carries the disbelief of someone who still doesn’t understand how people can bite the hand of someone who has never even done them wrong.

“That’s just how ordinary folk are,” you murmur, putting the apple back with a faint shake of your head. You mutter something about the fruits not being fresh, before moving on to another stall. “It’s not as though they can do anything to me anyway. This is the most they can do—whisper, sneer, look away when I pass. I’m fortunate enough to even set foot in their home. And if they did try to drive me away…”

Your voice tilts, even quieter, “Well. They’d lose the one thing I can give them that they need most—which is medicine.”

Phainon frowns. “They don’t have doctors here?”

“No.” You shake your head. “This town is poor, though it may not look like it at a glance. They have too many mouths, but not enough coins. They would all be dead if not for me.”

You say it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Phainon almost misses the weight of the words. His frown deepens; he wants to say they should be on their knees before you for that. That they should build shrines to your name if you’re the reason they’re even breathing.

Instead, you add, “Hyacine helps too, of course. She knows how to heal, how to prepare salves and teas. But she’s still learning, and I won’t let her rely on magic for curing sickness.”

Phainon tilts his head. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

You shake your head again. “Because magic can fail, or worse—it can hurt if used carelessly. Herbs, remedies… those are reliable. A cure has to last longer than a spell. Hyacine is clever, but she still has much to learn before she can craft medicine without error.”

You turn another piece of produce in your palm, and mutter something about rot and poor harvests again. Phainon doesn’t say anything anymore, because he’s thinking about the eyes that lingers, the whispers, and the jeers circling endlessly in his mind.

He shadows over you as you move from stall to stall. And though he’s silent, his hands keep twitching at his sides, as though itching for a sword—or something, anything—that could cut sharp enough toward anyone who dares linger too long in their staring.

The walk back is quieter.

The sun hasn’t moved much—still hanging somewhere between noon and after—but the streets are emptier now, and the voices from the market have faded into the distance. The air smells of pine again, of damp earth and dust.

Phainon walks a step behind you, carrying the bundle of things you bought: produce, cloth, jars, and even the small pouches of salt and spices you insisted was light enough to carry yourself—until he looked at you as if you’d insulted him just by suggesting so.

You’d argued, of course. You’d said, “I have a space pocket. It’s far more convenient and easier.” And he’d said, “But you told me earlier there were other ways to be useful. This is me being useful.”

You’d gone quiet after that, lips pressing thin before you muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like stubborn man. So now, here you are, walking through the road that leads back to the forest while he shoulders all the weight like it means nothing.

“You know,” you say all of a sudden. “You behave so much like a knight sometimes.”

Phainon blinks, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “In what way?”

“Apart from the sword you carried and the armor you wore when you came here, I can also sense it in the way you can’t sit still,” you answer, looking straight ahead. “You always need to be doing something. Helping. Chopping. Fixing. Carrying things that aren’t yours to carry. You get anxious when you’re idle. You want to be useful.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, not because it’s funny, but because the words land too neatly in him. “That sounds accurate.”

“I thought so.” You tilt your head. “You’re like a dog, really.”

The word hits him like a strike. He stops walking.

Something moves behind his eyes—a flicker, a flash, a sound. A voice, deep and cold and too familiar though he’s certain he’s never heard it before.

My knight.

My beast.

My hound.

The words echo through his skull, and the world seems to lurch with them. The road blurs, and for a moment, he isn’t standing on dirt beneath the dappled light of the noon sun. Instead, he’s kneeling on marble, head bowed low, and wearing his armor—he also feels a hand, heavy and pressing, resting on his head as though he were some animal that needed taming.

The weight of that imagined touch burns through him.

He sucks in a breath, and his shoulders tense. The bundle in his arms shifts, jars clinking faintly. His skin has also gone cold, yet his pulse races like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.

You notice instantly. “Phainon?” you call his name, stopping in your tracks as well and turning to him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard, but the words don’t come right away. His mouth is dry. The memory dissolves quickly as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the words lingering like an aftertaste.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, “Don’t… don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“A dog. I don’t…” His throat bobs. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

You study him for a moment—his pallor, the way his knuckles whiten around the things he’s carrying, the faraway look in his eyes, the strange stillness in his face as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Alright,” you say, softly, kindly. “I won’t call you that again.”

He exhales, a small, uneven breath that sounds like it’s meant to be a thank you but gets lost somewhere before it reaches his tongue. The silence that envelops between you is fragile—like something that could break if either of you spoke too loudly.

When you start walking again, he follows, though quieter than before. His mind hums with the ghost of that voice, that hand, the word that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

Once you arrive back at your home, Mydei is the first to greet you.

He’s waiting on the porch, tail curled neatly around his paws. The moment he spots you, a soft meow slips from his throat. He rises and stretches, then pads down the step to brush against your leg. His fur carries the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“Missed us, did you?” you murmur, stooping to run your fingers through his coat. Mydei purrs, low and content, circling your ankles once before glancing up at Phainon.

His gaze lingers. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turns and follows after you as you step inside the cottage. He doesn’t brush against Phainon.

Behind you, Phainon lets out a short huff that sounds like laughter. “He still doesn’t like me,” he says. “So I don’t think he missed me as much as he does you.”

“Yes,” you agree without a second’s hesitation.

Phainon stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can’t decide whether to feel offended or amused. “That was very quick.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I wasn’t going to lie. Cats can be quite territorial, you know.”

He hums, pondering. “He must think I’m going to steal you from him.”

You laugh, sudden and melodious—one of those bright little sounds that seem to catch him off guard every time, as though he hasn’t quite learned you’re capable of making it. And maybe that’s because you don’t laugh like that often. Most days your amusement comes out quieter; just a small puff of air through your nose paired with a smile, the kind of understated warmth one only notices if they’re paying close attention.

But this one—this clear, unguarded laugh of yours—is rare enough to feel like a gift. So rare that Phainon goes absolutely still for a moment, as if unsure whether he’s meant to hold it, treasure it, bow to it, or simply let it wash over him.

“Now I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “Mydei is just protective.”

“Of you?” he manages to ask, feigning neutrality.

“Of the house. Of the forest,” you say, trailing off. “And yes, perhaps of me, as well. He’s like the guardian of this forest. He protects everything and everyone here.”

“Even me?” he asks.

“Yes. Even you.”

The words hit him strangely—like something heavier than reassurance, lighter than a promise, and yet somehow both. Phainon rubs the back of his neck as if trying to hide the warmth gathering there.

He thinks back to all the times Mydei has stalked behind him (which is always, really). The soft pad of paws trailing a few steps behind, the quiet little huffs of breath, the occasional meow when Phainon’s thoughts spiral too far into places they shouldn’t go.

He remembers the nights when he would sit up in bed, palm pressed to his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Mydei would hop onto the foot of the bed and simply stare at him.

Stop, the stare always seems to say. Don’t think of it. Don’t think about anything at all.

And somehow, it works. It helps. He helps. Though Phainon doubts the cat does any of it out of affection; more likely, it’s obligation. Or maybe, just like you said, it’s out of territorial instincts. Or maybe… the cat thinks he does it out of protection of you.

Protection from what? From whom? From himself?

That possibility feels uncomfortably plausible.

He wouldn’t put it past himself to hurt someone. He has the hands for it, the instincts for it, and the memories—though he could only recall half of it. But you? No. He could never deliberately hurt you. Not you—not the one who pulled him from the edge of death, the one who gave him a home before he even remembered who he was.

You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel stained.

Maybe Mydei is indeed magical like the way you claimed. You’re a witch; you produce pockets of space out of thin air and murmur words that make plants grow faster. So why not a magical cat? Why not a cat that can drag broadswords through forests or curse intruders or—he snorts quietly to himself—transform into a person if he wanted to?

The image almost makes him laugh. He can imagine it: Mydei as some unimpressed, sharp-tongued man, flicking his tail in human form.

“I really still can’t see how Mydei can do so much with his tiny body,” Phainon says, chuckling.

You smile. It’s the kind of smile that looks like you’re hiding the punchline to a joke the world isn’t privy to. “You have no idea.”

Your smile lingers for a heartbeat too long. And his gaze lingers on you for two heartbeats longer than that.

The house is warm behind you, with the smell of herbs drifting through the open doorway. The trees sway lazily, and Mydei sits between you both, tail twitching, as if monitoring the entire conversation.

It’s peaceful enough that Phainon’s shoulders lower without him realizing. Peaceful in the way a wounded animal might exhale when it recognizes that, finally, it will not be hunted today.

You turn first, heading toward the cottage, Mydei following suit. And Phainon trails after you—the same way he trailed after you into town, the same way he trails behind you whenever you lead the way.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the moment on the road when you called him a dog and he froze flickers. But now, in the warmth that follows you both toward home, that memory slides off him like water. It’s not gone, but it has dulled—tucked into a corner of his thoughts where it can’t bite.

He catches his reflection in a window: tired eyes, longer hair, and face still bruised at the edges. But then he looks at you again, and the heaviness in him eases.

He wonders if that is magic, too.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

Days with you slip by almost unnoticed.

Phainon wakes each sunrise to the same rhythm: the scent of herbs steeping, the air filtering through the windows, and the distant chatter of birds gathering near your porch as if waiting for you to come greet them.

He falls into that rhythm without thinking, the same way a stray animal falls into step with the one who feeds it.

He still chops wood every morning. You tell him the pile is large enough already, that the shed won’t fit another log, but he keeps at it anyway. It’s habit. When he’s not swinging the axe, he’s repairing what needs fixing—the latch on the gate, the crack in the basin, the cupboard that hasn’t loosened in years. Sometimes, you suspect he breaks things just to mend them again. And he still carries water for you. Always insists on two buckets at once, even when you tell him the well isn’t going anywhere.

(And always, there is Mydei, watching.

Always, there is you.)

But lately, he’s begun to do other things too. He helps you tend to the herbs in the garden—kneeling awkwardly in the dirt, too big and stiff for such delicate work, yet careful, almost reverent when he’s handling the leaves. Sometimes he forgets how gentle he has to be, snapping a stem or bruising a sprig, and he looks so stricken you can’t help but laugh and tell him it’ll grow back.

(He notices, too, how you laugh more now. He remembers the early days when your laughter had been quieter, almost like you weren’t sure he could handle too much warmth at once. But lately—ever since that day the two of you first returned from town—your laughter has been different, looser. As if being beside him no longer requires caution. As if something between you both unlatched itself without either of you speaking about it out loud.

And perhaps he notices more than he should. Because now, whenever he fumbles with a sprig or accidentally uproots an entire seedling, you laugh openly and he tries to pretend it doesn’t strike him straight in the chest. He ducks his heads, pretends he’s checking the soil, pretends he’s not memorizing the way the sound curls around him like the light from the sun.

He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much. He only knows that he could grow addicted to it.)

He helps you cook too, though “help” is generous. He cuts too precisely, stirs too rigidly, like he’s following orders no one gave. He asks if he’s doing it wrong, and you tell him he can do whatever he wants as long as it’s still suitable for cooking.

He goes to town with you every now and then—to visit Hyacine, to restock your supplies, to carry the heavy things you insist aren’t heavy. The villagers still whisper when you pass, and Phainon pretends not to hear them. He doesn’t realize that sometimes, his silence is more of a comfort than his anger could ever be.

And then there are the forest animals.

At first, he only watched from afar as you fed them—the foxes, the deers, the flock of birds that perch on your arms as though you’re just another tree. Now, he feeds them too, though never alone. He says he’s afraid he’ll scare them off. You tell him the creatures like him, that they sense his good intentions. He doesn’t quite believe you, and the doubt sits quietly in his chest.

He knows what still sleeps inside him. The thirst. The edge. Whatever part of him remembers blood and command and killing. He fears that if he ever lets his guard down, if he ever reaches too fast, too hungry, he’ll harm something—someone—you hold dear. So he never feeds the animals without you.

When that fear starts whispering too loud in his head, Mydei is always there. The cat watches from afar, silent, orange, and unblinking. Never close enough to touch, but close enough to pull him back to himself. It’s strange—it’s been over a month, and the cat still hasn’t brushed against him. Not even once.

It doesn’t hurt him—at least that’s what Phainon tells himself. It’s just something he’s noticed. Especially since the forest animals seem to like him well enough when you’re near. Rabbits nibble on his boots, and once, a bird landed on his shoulder. He stood frozen for a full minute, afraid to breathe in case he startles it.

When he told you about it later, you only smiled and said, “See? They trust you.”

He thinks, sometimes, this must be what peace feels like. Not the grand kind—the kind the bards sing about—but something smaller and quieter. A hand brushing against his when you both reach for the same jar. The sound of your soft laughter spilling through the house when he hits his head over something. The faint smell of mint that clings to the sheets.

He catches himself watching you too often. The way your sleeves slip down when you knead dough, the small wrinkle that appears when you read, the way you hum to yourself while tending to herbs. It’s not that he means to stare; it’s that everything about you catches his eyes. You’re steady, like gravity, and everything about you feels natural. He doesn’t know when it started, but your presence has become the thing his mind drifts toward whenever it goes quiet.

Once, when you handed him a bowl of stew and your fingers brushed his, something in his chest stuttered—like when he first saw you after waking up from his injuries. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Gratitude was what he felt when you saved him. Now, this was something else.

The stray in him is beginning to settle, to rest its head.

He realizes, with a sort of frightened tenderness, that he’s been dreaming of this for a long time—long before he met you, maybe even before he lost his memory. The dream of belonging somewhere. Of having someone to come back to, to protect not out of duty but out of want.

But the dream has edges.

Sometimes, while he works, something flashes behind his eyes. A street, narrow and cold. The taste of hunger. The sound of a girl’s laugh, light and tired all at once. He sees her—his sister in everything but blood, small hands clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Her smile when she splits it in two.

He always shakes it off and keeps chopping. But the memories always return like waves, merciless.

He remembers the guards’ shouts. The blur of armor. The day he was caught with his hands full of the king’s silver. How strange it was, to kneel before a man so terrible and live.

The king had looked at him and smiled. Said something about sharp eyes and quick hands. Said he could use a creature like that.

And so, Phainon became what the king wanted—a hound that learned to bite on command.

He was fed, clothed, and trained. He rose through the ranks not out of pride, but out of survival. Each order he carried out, each throat he cut, each village he burned—he told himself it was for her. For the girl who still called him brother. For the one who deserved better than hunger.

He became his king’s favorite, his lapdog, his executioner. And with every life he took, his own slipped further away.

He doesn’t remember when the love of his sister’s laughter turned into pity of what he’d become for her sake. Only that he kept going, because stopping meant she could starve.

Now, when he dreams, he hears the king’s voice again. And in the dream, the voice follows him home.

Not your home, not your house, but theirs. The one he built long ago from stone and spite and blood, where the walls gleam faintly of red, as if still remembering the men he felled to pay for them. A house bought with his master’s coin, built from the bones of his enemies, yet raised with love for her—for his sister, his tether to what little of him remained human.

The door is open when he arrives at their home.

At first, he thinks she’s sleeping. The way she lies on the floor, hair spilled like ink across the floor, one hand curled loosely as though still clutching a dream, but then he sees the blood seeping beneath her.

His body moves before thought does. He falls to his knees beside her, calling her name—Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene!—until the sound breaks. His hands are useless against the stillness of her body. He doesn’t know where to press, what to hold, what to fix—all he knows is how to strike, what to break, what to snap. There is too much red, but none of it are his or his master’s enemies.

When the fire from the hearth flickers, he looks up and knows exactly where to go.

He storms through the marble halls of the palace, sword still strapped on his back. Guards scatter like birds before a storm, for even they know better than to bar the way of the king’s beast. The throne room yawns open, and the king is there, as he always is—calm, immaculate, cruel.

“Your Majesty,” Phainon rasps. “Someone murdered my sister. I need your leave to find them. I—”

The king doesn’t even look surprised. He only tilts his head, voice as smooth as oil. “There’s no need to look. I gave the order myself.”

Phainon stills. At first, he doesn’t understand. He only stares, chest heaving, waiting for the jest that never comes. Then, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“She was a distraction,” the king says, amusement curling at his lips. “A hound does not need a sister. A beast does not need a home. You are mine, Phainon, and I am your master. You will serve me until there’s nothing left of you.”

The memory shatters there.

He wakes drenched in sweat, heart hammering, half expecting to find blood on his hands. But when he sits up and looks around, it’s only the faint glow of the candle on his nightstand. Only Mydei’s eyes, glowing yellow in the dark. Only your soft breathing from the other room.

And the contrast between the two worlds—the one he lived and the one he’s living now—gnaws at him. Because here, in your small house at the middle of the forest, he’s learning what gentleness feels like again. He’s learning to speak softly, to hold things that break easily. He’s learning what it means to be seen as something other than a weapon once again.

And every time you smile at him, every time your hand brushes his shoulder, he feels something bloom that he cannot name. Something that hurts and heals in the same breath.

He wonders if this is what redemption looks like; not a cleansing, but an illusion—fragile and fleeting. He wonders how long he’s allowed to have it before the world remembers what he is.

Afternoon comes, and you’re both in the garden, knees dusted in soil. Phainon’s fingers, broad but careful, move between the roots as if he’s afraid of breaking them. He’s learning how to tell weeds from the herbs now, though he still hesitates sometimes, glancing toward you for confirmation.

There’s peace in it. The small sounds, the rustle of leaves, the buzz of insects, the distant lap of water somewhere. And you hum under your breath, something tuneless.

Then he stops. Abruptly. A stem snaps between his fingers, hanging limp. His shadow falls over the patch of rosemary.

“What if my memories return,” he speaks, sudden and quiet, “but I don’t want to leave?”

You blink, turning towards him. His eyes are somewhere far off, and there’s soil in his cheek, a smear like paint that doesn’t belong there.

You don’t think before you answer. “Then don’t leave.”

He breathes out a small laugh, half disbelief, half something else. “Really? You’d let me stay? Even though my stay was only meant to be temporary?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “And honestly… I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

The words drift out like a sigh, unplanned and unpolished, but they catch in the space between you and hang there. It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need an echo out loud to still reverberate.

Phainon doesn’t move for a long time. He only stares, as if your words were something he needed to memorize before the air could take them away.

I’ve grown quite fond of you.

It isn’t a confession, not really, and he knows that. You said it like one might admit the sun’s warmth or that the rain falls where it wishes. Simple, natural, true. But gods, it’s close enough to make something twist in him.

The words dig in, take root, and the warmth that spreads through his chest feels almost unbearable. Because if kindness could be fatal, it would sound like that. It would sound exactly like you.

He turns back to the soil before you can see the way his expression softens—because if you did, you might realize that those simple words have already undone him. The ache in his chest isn’t the old kind anymore; it’s gentler, the kind that he doesn’t want to fade.

He works in silence after that, slower this time. You get back to work too, humming once again. And though nothing else is said, he feels the shape of your voice in his head—circling, settling, steadying.

Then don’t leave.

He won’t. Not if he can help it.

𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆

“Go and take a break.”

From the soil, Phainon stares at you like you’ve just cast him out. His hands are still half-buried in the dirt, wrists streaked with soil. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to understand a language that shouldn’t apply to him.

“Why? I’m not tired. I can still help—”

You shake your head, shushing him before he can finish. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you need to go outside every now and then, Phainon. Don’t be a hermit like me.”

He blinks again. “Outside? But aren’t we—” He gestures vaguely at the sky, the trees, the garden that is quite literally outside. "—already outside?”

He’s pouting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You sigh, pulling off one glove. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. And our trips to town don’t count. You need… enrichment time.”

“Enrichment,” he says flatly, as if it’s a punishment. “What do I even do while I’m on break?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Take a walk. Lie in the sun and pretend to be a rock. Anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or chores.”

He exhales a small sound that’s almost a whine. “Then I’ll take a walk.”

“Lovely.” You clap your hands in delight. “Get back before sunset.”

He lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for you to rescind the order. When you don’t, he dusts his palms on his trousers and straightens, a little stiff. He hesitates, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods once and turns towards the trees.

The forest receives him the way it always does—too quietly, as though listening. He walks without direction. The world is still; only the sound of water in the distance, a bird calling, and the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots can be heard.

A break, you said. But rest feels foreign, like a word from a tongue he’s forgotten. His hands itch for work, for something to hold, something to guard. The axe, the bucket, the rhythm of doing—those are easy. This, the wandering, the having-nothing-to-do—it gnaws at him.

He keeps glancing behind him, half-expecting Mydei to appear, silent and judging, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you’ve sent him to make sure Phainon really does rest. The thought makes him huff, amused despite himself.

The path slopes upward until he finds himself on a small ridge overlooking the glade. The air here smells different—warmer and faintly of wildflowers. He sits down, awkwardly at first, like a man trying to remember how to sit. He closes his eyes.

It feels like he can hear the forest breathe. He hears the wind through leaves, a frog croaking by a creek, and even his own pulse, slow and steady for once. For a long moment, he lets himself sink into it.

Then he hears something crack—a branch somewhere behind him—and instinct surges before thought does. He’s already on his feet, shoulders squared, gaze snapping toward the sound. There’s no sword, but his stance remembers one.

He prepares himself for an attack, but when only a doe comes out from behind a tree, blinking at him innocently, Phainon exhales shakily. He forces his body to ease, hands unclenching one finger at a time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice softer than he expects.

The animal watches him a while longer before flicking its ear and turning away. After the doe disappears, Phainon stands still for a moment longer. He exhales slowly, then straightens, scanning the woods. He decides to keep walking.

You had said to take a break, and he supposes walking counts as rest if he pretends hard enough. Besides, the forest is vast and he’s still learning its edges. If he means to protect this place, he should know its bones as well as his own.

He moves deeper into the forest. The air grows cooler the further he goes, the light dimming where the trees thicken. He marks the way as he walks—fallen birch, hollow trunk, crooked pine—and imagines how a blade might catch there, how a man could vanish behind that ridge, how once could defend this place if it ever needed defending.

He doesn’t notice the sound right away. It starts fainly: metal against metal, faint and stuttering. He stills, listening. Then comes another sound: the low murmur of men’s voices.

His breath catches. Phainon turns toward it instinctively.

The forest dips ahead into a narrow clearing, and between the trees, he glimpses movement—a cluster of figures in armors gathered around a small fire.

Knights.

He recognizes their bearing even before he sees their faces. The stance, the way they hold themselves, how their swords rest close to hand even at rest.

He should leave, he thinks. But curiosity—or perhaps the ache of recognition—roots him in place. He edges closer, silent as he can be, until he can see them clearly.

Five men, all armored in the same style. The sigil painted on their breastplates is faint, scraped by battle and time, but the mark is unmistakable—a lone tower wreathed in flame. The paint has peeled away in places, yet the shape endures: proud, ruined, unyielding. It is the symbol of the king’s dominion. The brand of the beast he once served.

His throat closes. That symbol burns behind his eyes, familiar as the weight of a sword hilt.

Phainon doesn’t remember their names, but he recognizes their faces. He’s seen them before—fought beside them, maybe. Bled beside them even. Before he can decided whether to step forward or vanish back into the woods, his voice betrays him.

“Who are you?” he calls out, and his tone is sharper than he means it to be. “Why are you here?”

The men jolt up at once, startled. Hands fly to hilts, blades drawn with the rasp of steel. For a moment, the clearing brims with threat. But then, one of them speaks. His voice cracks around the edge of disbelief. “Commander?”

Another lowers his sword, eyes widening. “Sir Phainon—by the gods—it is you!”

The rest follow, faces lighting with something between awe and relief. They drop to their knees before him, blades pointed down in salute.

Phainon doesn’t move. The sound of his name—his title—rings hollow in his chest. Commander. The word fits him like an old wound reopening. “I…” He swallows, searching their faces. “Do I know you?”

The question makes their joy falter. They look at one another with confusion. One of them—a younger man with a scar beneath his jaw—takes a hesitant step closer. “Of course you do, sir. We’re your men.”

Phainon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks at them—these ghosts of a life he’s certain he doesn’t want back. “I remember your faces,” he admits. “But not who you are.”

The men exchange uneasy glances. Then one of them speaks again, almost reverently, “Commander, we’ve been searching for you for weeks. We thought you’d died.”

Another one poses a question, tentative. “None of our other comrades had made it when we came to check the battlefield. How did you survive? Have you been living here all this time?”

Phainon doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because the truth—that he woke beneath a witch’s roof—feels too strange to speak aloud.

When he stays silent, another knight fills the space with words. “The king sent us to find you,” he says. “Dead or alive. He said the kingdom couldn’t lose its hound just yet. You were his best, Commander. His right hand.”

That word lands like a blade. Hound.

Phainon feels his pulse stutter. Images flash in his mind—marble floors, cold as stone. Then a gloved hand pressing down on his head, forcing him to kneel.

My beast.

My hound.

My creature of war.

He inhales sharply, and the forest tilts back to normal.

“I’m not his anything,” he finally says, low and certain.

The knights exchange uneasy glances once again. Then one speaks first, laughing, as if to cut through the tension. “Sir, surely you jest. We can return together—tell His Majesty you’re alive! The king will be overjoyed to have you back.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, sharp enough for the smile to fade. “No.” The word startles them. “I’ve seen what he is. What he makes of men. I’m not going to kneel to that beast again.”

Their faces harden. “You… would defy His Majesty?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch. “I will no longer serve him.”

There’s a pause, before one steps forward and draws his sword. His voice is strained, almost pained. “Then you leave us no choice.”

Another shakes his head, eyes full of regret. “You taught us loyalty, Commander. You told us a knight without his king is a blade without purpose. Don’t make us turn ours on you.”

Phainon huffs, almost amused. “Then perhaps I taught you wrong.”

The knights exchange one final look, grim, before they raise their blades in unison.

“Then you must die for such treachery,” one of them says, and the sentence carries all the weight of a verdict.

For a moment, neither side moves. The forest waits, silent and breathless. Then the first knight lunges. Phainon ducks the first swing, feels the wind of it graze his cheek, and moves instinctively. He grips the knight’s arm, twists, and bone cracks beneath his hands. The man drops his sword, but Phainon doesn’t bother picking it up.

Another charges—younger, faster, but clumsy with fear. Phainon sidesteps, grabs the back of his neck, and drives his face into the earth. “You shouldn’t hesitate,” he says, too calm. “Did no one teach you that?”

Someone shouts something—an order—but it’s drowned in the sound of metal striking bark. The next blade skims across Phainon’s ribs, opening a shallow line that burns hot and wet. He hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowing.

A third swings high. The tip catches his cheek; though shallow, it paints his mouth red. He tastes iron, laughs low and breathless. With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lip and smears it across his jaw.

“Did I train any of you?” he mocks. “None of you move like your lives are on the line.”

They circle him, three blades catching the light. He moves through them like shadow and muscle—less a man than a reflex. He takes a blow to the shoulder, catches another’s wrist, and wrenches it back until steels clatters to the ground. He drives his knee into a stomach, his fist into a jaw. He hears the crunch of something breaking, and something in him exhales in relief.

This, his body remembers. This is what I was built for.

But even as the fight unravels into chaos, another thought threads through him. He isn’t doing this for the king, or the crown, or the memory of command. He’s doing it for something smaller, gentler, kinder. For the quiet house in the woods. For the one who said then don’t leave.

A knight swings wildly at him, and Phainon catches the blade barehanded. Blood spills between his fingers, but he only smiles. “You should find a new master,” he says, shoving the man back, voice low and rasped with laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d actually care whether you live or die.”

The knight staggers, gasps. “And you? Who do you serve now?”

Phainon’s grin fades, eyes darkening. Someone worth dying for, he thinks, but what leaves his mouth is far different— “You should worry more about your lives.”

The last two come at once. He meets them head-on. The world blurs into motion and noise—boots slipping in mud, armor crashing, the hiss of breath through teeth. He drives an elbow into a throat, hears the wheeze, feels a blade glance off his arm.

By the time the silence returns, it’s thick with the smell of iron and pine.

Phainon stands alone in the clearing, chest heaving and hands slick and trembling. The fire the knights have set is still alive and crackling. His knuckles are raw and his tunic—torn. This is what his hands are made for; what the king carved into him. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he’s learned how to use that curse for something good.

He wipes his mouth again, smearing the blood across his face again, then he starts back toward home.

You are waiting outside the cottage, entangled in conversation with the birds and a bold red fox who refuses to mind his manners. The animals cluster around you as if you are a tree with fruit, and the fox keeps yipping—short, sharp sounds, tail swishing as he tries to startle the songbirds from your shoulders. They scold him in return, fluttering just out of reach, and you laugh softly at their quarrel.

Then the heavy scrape of boots over leaf sounds through the forest, and everything stiffens. The birds that were on your shoulders flutter once and go. The fox tucks his tail and runs off. Even the rabbits that had been lackadaisical in the grass bolt into the bushes. They do not scatter because of you; they scatter because of him.

Phainon steps into the clearing like a thing that has been pressed through a grinder. He is all torn cloth and the smell of iron. There is a thin line across his cheek where the blade kissed him; the corner of his lip is dark. His eyes are wide, lit at the edges with something like hunger. For a moment, the look is almost feral—it is the look of a man who has found what his hands were made to do and will not stop until they are still.

You don’t recoil from the stench of iron or the hunger in his eyes. You only watch as the animals skitter away, as the clearing empties itself of gentle things.

He halts a handful of paces from you and breathes, long and ragged. His fingers flex at his sides, as if still aching for more.

“What happened to you?” you ask. “You scared away my friends.”

He exhales. The sound is brittle. “Your spell isn’t very effective against people who change their minds.”

You pause, humming. “Hm… I suppose you’re right. Is that what happened?”

His answer is simple: “I killed them.” The words are delivered without flourish, like he hadn’t just admitted he committed something immoral. Then he drops to his knees, head lowering toward the earth in a soldierly bow. He doesn’t look at you as he asks—asks as if testing, “Did I do a good job?” There’s a faint, needy tremor in his voice, a whine dressed up as obedience.

There is a hand on his head before he can taste the mercy of your reply. It lands there the way it once had, long ago, by a different hand—heavy and owning. For a moment, the past flashes behind his eyes: a gloved palm, a crown’s amusement. But your touch isn’t the same. Your fingers are softer, and the pressure doesn’t claim him.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk. He allows himself that small thing: to be steadied by the one who steadies him. Instead, he folds into the touch.

“You’re acting quite like a dog right now,” you murmur, fingers combing through his hair as if you’re ruffling the coat of an animal. “You told me you don’t like being compared to a dog. And yet here you are.”

For the first time since he arrived, the edge in his eyes melts. Adoration pours in like warmth. He lifts his head and looks at you, and the feral light in his eyes shifts into something gentler, more worshipful. The hand on his head trembles; he wants—wants so small, wants so large—to kiss it, to press it to his cheek and seal the gesture there. But he fights it, fingers curling just enough to catch your palm without taking it.

“Yes,” he says, earnest and raw. “But if it’s you, then I don’t mind.”

You let the silence make itself then, and he drinks the sound of it. And when you draw your hand away, he instantly misses your touch. It’s visible in the slump of his shoulders—in the small twitch of longing at his lips.

“Stand up,” you say at last. “Show me where you left them.”

He rises, obedient as a man trained to obey. Though he lingers. “Why?” he asks, the eagerness leaking back into his tone. “I can dispose of them myself. Just say the word.”

You shake your head, slow and certain. “I would like to bury them properly.”

He hesitates, incredulous and almost petulant. “Even when they tried to kill me?”

“Yes.” You tuck a stray curl behind your ear. “I believe giving them a proper burial would be their last and greatest mercy.”

His mouth opens to retort, but then closes it immediately. He nods his head just slightly and, without another word, turns toward the path that leads away from your cottage and back to the clearing he left.

Phainon’s footsteps drag heavier the longer he walks, as though the earth itself is trying to pull him down. His breaths are shallow and he keeps his eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of letting them rise.

It makes no sense.

You’re not angry. You didn’t recoil from the sight of him returning, with blood on his face and running down his arms, chest heaving with the aftermath of killing, and eyes blown wide from the adrenaline. Yet the silence between you gnaws at him—it burrows into the hollow places inside him like something alive.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s done wrong.

And he has. He definitely has.

The forest doesn’t judge him. You didn’t judge him. But he judges himself.

He killed people—men who once followed him into battle, who once trusted him enough to put their lives at his back. Even if he can’t fully remember their voices, even if their names are like dust in his mind, their faces still tug at something buried deep within him.

He slaughtered them with his hands.

And the worst part is that some part of him felt relief when it was over. Relief that the violence had someplace to go; relief that the hunger in him had been fed, even for a moment.

Phainon has always been hungry. The kind of hunger that isn’t for food, but for survival. For purpose. For something to strike, to break, to destroy before it destroys him.

He remembers stealing bread for his sister with shaking hands. He remembers stealing coins from the king, and how that single act shaped the rest of his life. He remembers the moment the king looked at him and saw not a boy but a weapon.

His guilt began there; and it only grew sharper, heavier, uglier. But today it feels different.

“It’s up ahead,” he says, voice strained.

You keep walking until the trees open into a clearing.

And there they are—five bodies, scattered where they fell. Their armors are dented and darkened with drying blood, and their swords lie discarded in the ground.

Phainon stops at the threshold of the clearing, breath caught in his throat. You step past him, skirts brushing the grass.

Watching you walk toward the bodies—toward the carnage he caused—tears at him. He watches the way you kneel beside the fallen men, brushing dirt from their armor, and straightening their limbs with gentle hands. And something in him collapses. Because now, watching you give them the tenderness he never could, something new forms inside him—

Shame.

Not for killing them—that part he understands, that part he can justify—but for how quickly and easily he did it. And for how you treat the dead better than he ever treated the living.

Is that why his guts twist? Is that why his throat feels constricted?

The thought coils tight, tighter, until it hurts to swallow, to breathe.

Would you have shown him the same mercy? If he had died out here, would you have buried him too? Would you have cared?

If he hadn’t killed them, they would have killed him. And then they would come for you. They would have torn through this forest, through your home, through you, without hesitation. And he can’t—will not—imagine that.

You are the only thing in his life untouched by blood. The only salvation he has left. The last thread tying him to the person he wants to be instead of the creature he was made into.

So why—why are you burying them? Why do you give them peace when they came here to retrieve him? When they didn’t hesitate on killing him for breaking his oath to the king? Why do you care enough to kneel beside their corpses?

The questions claw at him until they finally break free from his mouth, “Why are you doing this?”

You pause. “Doing what?”

“Showing mercy,” he says. “To men who tried to kill me.”

You brush soil from the gauntlet of one knight, studying the cracked metal with dried blood. “Because death is still death and they were still human,” you reply softly. “Someone raised them. Someone will grieve for them. Even if they came here with violence in their hands… they still deserve rest.”

Phainon stares at you like he’s seeing you in another light. His throat bobs almost painfully. “If I had died that day when you found me…” His mouth feels dry. “Would you have buried me too?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to rot.”

His chest tightens so sharply he almost mistakes it for pain. He stands rigid, and for a moment, he looks less like a warrior and more like a man who’s been struck by something he never learned how to guard against.

You lift your head. “Will you help me dig?”

He nods before he can think. His body moves clumsily at first, as though the guilt has made him heavy. You step back from the bodies, life your hand, and with a small twist of your finger, your space pocket emerges into existence. From within the pocket’s glow, you reach in and draw out a shovel. You offer it to him readily.

Phainon stares at the tool, then at you, still bewildered by how easily you conjure magic like it was as natural as breathing. He takes the shovel, his fingers brushing yours, and his heart stutters. He doesn't dwell on it too much; instead, he walks to a patch of soil near a tree and thrusts the shovel into the earth with a thunk.

He doesn’t speak anymore the moment he starts digging. The soil is loose near the roots, but the deeper he goes, the heavier it gets, and you can hear how strained his breathing is. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his wrist, but he doesn’t stop working.

You don’t speak either. Somehow, it feels wrong to make any noise.

He keeps going until the grave is deep enough. You help move the first body, slow and careful. He barely looks at the faces. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.

You both place them on the ground. Then more dirt, then another grave, and another.

Phainon doesn’t rest. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are bleeding a little from gripping the shovel too tight. You try to take it from him once, but he jerks away like the touch seared him.

“…I can do it,” he mutters, voice rough and low. He’s not angry. Just… tired.

So you let him.

By the time the last mound of dirt is in place, the sun is low. The light is soft and warm and it hits the graves in long strips. Phainon stands there with the shovel planted in the earth, head bowed. When he finally lifts his head and turns to you, he’s pale. Too pale.

“Let’s go home,” you say.

He nods, but it feels like he barely hears you.

You walk side by side, though he drags a little behind you. His steps are slow and heavy, and sometimes you hear his breath stutter. You keep glancing back, checking to see if he’s still upright. He is, but it’s like he’s walking because he doesn’t know what else his body should do.

No animals cross your path. Everything is silent.

When the house comes into view, something changes in him. Maybe it’s the relief of seeing it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up. But when he steps up into the porch, his foot catches a little and he stops completely right in front of the door.

He stares at the wood, and then his knees give out.

It’s like watching a tree slowly tilt and finally topple. He catches himself with one hand on the knob, but they tremble badly. His breath is shaky—like he’s trying not to let it turn into a sob.

“Phainon—” you rush to him, grabbing his arm before he can fall forward. “It’s alright. Come on.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at the ground beneath him. Dirt sticks to his palm and his clothes, and there’s blood drying on his knuckles.

You slip an arm around his back, trying to steady him. “Let’s just go inside.” You guide him in slowly. He leans heavily on you, and you can feel how cold his fingers are.

Inside the house, it’s dim and warm. You lead him to the couch and ease him down. The moment he sits, his shoulders sag, and he looks like he’s sinking into the cushions without meaning to.

You kneel in front of him, brushing dirt off his hands with your thumb.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

For a second, his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but the only thing that leaves him is a shaky exhale. Then he lets his head drop forward. Not onto the cushion, but onto your shoulder.

You don’t leave.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓

When Phainon finally wakes, it’s slow—like surfacing from deep water. His body feels heavy, almost numb, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s really awake or just stuck somewhere between dream and memory.

The first thing he sees is the ceiling.

He knows this ceiling now, but his mind still does that small, confused stumble, like it’s trying to compare this moment to the first time he opened his eyes here.

Back then, everything felt new. Confusing. He had no name, no anchor, nothing to hold onto. He remembers sitting up too fast, gripping the blanket, and the world spinning while he tried to make sense of anything.

It feels weird thinking about it—like remembering something from someone else’s life. Like it was a whole lifetime ago, but also kind of like yesterday.

He blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog of his mind and in his eyes. His wounds don’t hurt as much now, but his body still feels like it’s been squeezed dry and left in the sun.

He turns his head, and there he is.

Mydei.

Perched on the windowsill again, in almost the exact same spot he was the first time Phainon saw him. Light behind him, tail curled neatly around his paws, and staring at him with those bright yellow eyes like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Phainon doesn’t say anything. He just laughs, though nothing is funny. Something inside him loosens at the sight, something warm and kind of embarrassing. He didn’t realize how much he missed that little face until right now.

Mydei blinks once, slow. Phainon blinks back. It feels stupid, but he does it anyway.

They hold eye contact for a while. Then Mydei lets out a meow, before hopping down from the sill. His paws barely make a sound as he lands. He gives Phainon one last look and then pads toward the door. He slips through the gap like he always does, tail swaying behind him as he disappears without another sound.

Phainon watches the doorway long after the cat is gone. He breathes out and sinks deeper into the mattress. He lies there for a while before the room starts to feel too quiet without Mydei in it.

It’s silly, he knows that, but the silence presses at him in a way he doesn’t like. So he pushes the blanket off and sits up.

He regrets it instantly.

His whole body aches—like his muscles are reminding him that he hasn’t used them like that in a long time. Not since before he came here. Not since before… everything.

He presses a hand to his side, where the knight’s blade had caught him. The wounds have closed, thanks to your care, but the memory of the fight still thrums under his skin. That sudden burst of violence—after weeks of calm, of chores and menial tasks—had knocked him. He’s not used to being idle, and though his mind aches for it, he’s also not used to being that monster anymore, either. His body feels caught between two selves.

He stands anyway.

He steadies himself on the bedpost, like he did the very first time he woke here. It’s strange how easily the memory returns—how he remembers the spinning room and the ache in his skull.

And how he had followed that same meow down the hallway.

“Mydei…” he murmurs, more to remind himself that he’s not dreaming.

He steps forward. His gaut is uneven, but Mydei is already waiting in the hall, sitting like he knew Phainon would follow. When their eyes meet, the cat flicks his tail once and turns around, walking ahead.

Phainon huffs a weak laugh. “We’re doing this again, huh?”

Mydei doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He just keeps going, trotting ahead with that almost smug walk of his.

So, Phainon follows. Down the hallway, down the stairs. Each step is familiar but also feels new because he’s remembering the last time. But this time, the uncertainty isn’t there. There’s only that soft ache, the echo of what he used to be and what he doesn’t want to return to.

The sunlight spills in from the the door just like before. Mydei pads out into the clearing without waiting for him. Phainon stops in the doorway, and it’s exactly the same.

You’re standing there again—in the clearing, surrounded by animals. Birds are perched on your arms, a fox is pressed against your leg, rabbits are scattered around your feet. A deer lifts its head when it sees Phainon, as if acknowledging his presence, but it doesn’t run. None of them run this time.

And somehow, that makes his chest feel even tighter.

You’re smiling at something one of the birds is doing; he can see your lips move as you speak to them even from where he is, and it makes the whole scene looks unreal—like it’s been pulled straight out of some dream he once had. He feels the same sudden stutter in his chest that he felt the first time he saw you like this.

His heart jumps, but it’s not painful—just… loud. Like it’s calling out to something. Like it remembers something even if the rest of him doesn’t.

He thinks back to that very first moment, when he stood here confused and disoriented, and you had turned toward him. How his breath had hitched without him knowing why. How something inside him had reached out.

Maybe it had been a sign.

Maybe his heart had already known back then—when he didn’t yet know his name, when he could barely stand, when everything was just fog—that he would come to love you. Maybe that’s why it reacted the way it did. Maybe it was already trying to tell him something.

Maybe falling for you was always going to happen, no matter what path he took.

His fingers curl lightly against the doorway. His legs feel unsteady again, but it’s not because of exhaustion or his wounds this time.

And then you turn—hearing Mydei’s meow, or maybe you just sensed him like you always do—and your eyes meet his.

His heart jumps again. Just like before. Just like it was always meant to.

And then you smile.

Not the polite ones you give to the townspeople even when they sneer at you. Not the teasing one you shoot him whenever he messes up a chore. Not the fond one you save for Little Ica when they fly into your arms every time. No, this one is different—like something you kept tucked away, something you didn’t think anyone would see. Something only he gets to see now.

And Phainon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that hits him. It’s sudden—like warmth blooming in his chest and running all the way up his neck until his ears throb.

This time, he moves first. His feet carry him before he even finishes thinking about it. Last time, it was you who approached him first, walking toward a stranger who couldn’t even remember his own name. But now he remembers enough to choose.

And he chooses you.

You, who he’s decided is the safest thing he’s ever seen.

You, who he thinks looks even more beautiful when your eyes are on him and only him.

He’s so focused on your face—your smile—that he forgets to watch his step. His heel catches on a root, and he stumbles. He braces himself for the impact, for his knees to hit dirt, for humiliation, but he doesn’t hit the ground.

Instead, you catch him.

Your hands come up quick, holding him by the arms just like the first day—except it feels different this time. He’s no longer a stranger with your hands pressed against him as you lead him inside your home. He’s just… Phainon. A grown man tripping over nothing because you smiled prettily at him.

He feels stupid. He feels warm.

“You should be in bed,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

It’s the same thing you’d said the very first time too—except now there’s a faint laugh in your voice, like you know exactly what you’re referencing. Like it’s an inside joke the two of you have shared for weeks. And Phainon can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him.

“I followed Mydei here,” he says, almost breathless. His face is still burning, but the words come easily. Like they’ve been waiting.

You shake your head in amusement. “Of course you did.”

He huffs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck even though your hands haven’t let go yet. “It’s becoming a habit, I think.”

“It is,” you agree. “Every time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I find out you’ve wandered after that cat.”

“Well,” he mumbles, eyes lowering before lifting again—slowly, shyly, wanting desperately to keep looking at you, “he usually leads me to you.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Phainon seems to realize what he’s said only after it leaves his mouth; his hand lifts to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck again.

“…Oh,” you murmur, and it comes out far too soft. You clear your throat quickly, trying to smooth the fluster from your voice. “Well… he does have a talent for finding me.”

Phainon watches you, puzzled by the sudden shift in your demeanor. You avert your eyes, looking at everywhere else but him.

“You must be hungry,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”

You slip an arm beneath his, steadying him at the waist with your other hand, and his breath stutters—not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

You help him upright, guiding his weight with ease. His body leans into yours without resistance, as though the simple act of touching you turns his bones to water. For a moment, he stands there, closer than he normally allows himself to be. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. Close enough that when he lowers his head, he can smell the faint scent of herbs clinging to you.

But then you step back.

The moment your hands leave him, Phainon deflates. You pretend not to notice, though your eyes soften imperceptibly.

“Come on,” you say. “Inside. You should sit before your legs give out again.”

He nods, but the stiffness in his jaw betrays him. He tries to straighten his posture, tries to pretend he didn’t melt the second your warmth left his skin. His hand hangs awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching once, as if resisting the urge to reach back for you.

Mydei meows and pads ahead, trotting toward the house with the confidence of a small prince. You turn toward the cottage as well, and Phainon follows you instantly.

Not because he’s weak, not because he needs to be led, but because following you feels right in a way nothing else in his broken memory does. Because he feels steadier with you in front of him. Because the ghost of your touch still lingers on his arm like something he already misses.

The forest closes behind him, peaceful and green.

The house waits, warm and familiar.

And Phainon trails after you through the door, shoulders relaxing the moment he steps inside once again—as though he hasn’t just returned to shelter, but something else entirely that is close to belonging.

Phainon wakes in the middle of the night that same day.

For a long moment, he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Moonlight spills across the floorboards, guiding him to the corner where his old life rests—the armor you cleaned for him when he was still unconscious, and the broadsword propped beside it like a soldier.

He crouches slowly. His fingers brush the cool metal.

It should feel familiar. It only feels heavy.

Phainon stays like that for a while, hand on the breastplate, and staring at the blade that once answered every command except his own.

He huffs a quiet breath. Then he hears a meow. Phainon turns.

Mydei is awake on the windowsill, body a small silhouette against the moon. His golden eyes are open and fixed on him, unblinking.

Phainon lifts the armor slightly, voice low. “Sorry for waking you.”

Mydei’s tail flicks once.

Phainon gestures toward the door with a nod. “I was just about to go outside.”

The cat doesn’t move, nor does he make any sound. Then, as if his attention drifts, his head dips, eyes flicking to the armor in Phainon’s hands.

Phainon lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, this?” He turns the breastplate a little. “I was thinking of burying it, that’s all. I have no need for it now.”

He pauses, then adds lightly, “Do you want to come with me?”

Mydei yawns—a long and slow yawn that nearly splits his tiny face in two. Then he curls his tail around himself and settles back down, closing his eyes like the affair is beneath him.

Phainon smiles. “Okay then.”

He tucks the armor under his arm, takes one last glance at the sleeping cat, then quietly slips out the door and into the cool night.

Phainon steps off the porch, careful not to let the armor clatter in his arms. The cottage behind him glows faintly with the warm candlelight from your room—the only star in the forest that never seems to dim.

He heads deeper into the forest, barefoot in the grass, toward a place where the forest breathes differently. Where you once told him the land grows thick with roots.

It just feels right to go there.

The armor in his arms feel heavier now—not because of the metal, but because of the memories it drags with it. The weight of commands. The weight of kneeling. The weight of everything he did because someone else told him to.

He sets the armor on the ground.

For a long time, he just stares at it.

On any battlefield, it would have marked him as something to be feared—something deadly. Here, under the rustle of leaves, it looks small and lost. Like a relic of a life that no longer fits him.

Phainon exhales slowly. He kneels, digs his fingers into the soil, and begins to carve out the first handful of earth.

It isn’t burial like one does for a corpse.

It’s burial like one does for a curse.

When the pit is deep enough, he rests back on his heels. For a moment, he hesitates, fingers brushing the sigil painted on the breastplate. The mark is faint, shaped by years of blood, years of being the hound of another beast.

“…But not anymore,” he murmurs.

Then he slides the armor into the earth.

Metal thuds softly as he settles it into the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just stares, half expecting the armor to glow with some remnant of his past—rage, violence, loyalty that tasted like rust. But there’s nothing; only silence.

Phainon releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He covers the grave with slow motions. Soil over steel. Dirt over duty. Earth swallowing a past that nearly swallowed him. And when he finishes, the mound looks like nothing more than a soft rise of ground.

There’s no marker—no trace, no legacy.

He sits back, knees bent, arms resting loosely over them.

For the first time since he woke in your house, he feels… light. The kind of lightness that makes his chest ache. That makes his eyes sting. It makes him almost laugh at the strangeness of it.

He tilts his head back. Above him, the stars blink at him. And for a brief moment, Phainon feels the forest shift around him—like it, too, recognizes what he’s done. Like the earth has finally accepted the weight he has carried for too long.

Then he stands, wiping dirt from his palms. When he turns to walk back home, the cottage glows faintly through the trees.

Your light.

His direction.

His reason.

He moves toward it without hesitation.

© 2025 kominigiru.

end note: the “man” hyacine was talking about is mydei; she knows mydei can shift into a human. i didn’t write a scene where he reveals himself to phainon as one bc i feel like it wouldn’t match with the vibes or whatever i was going for in here, but he was in his human form when he carried phainon’s broadsword :3 ALSO I DID NOT MEAN TO MAKE THE LAST FEW SCENES SO SOFT AND FLUFFYSVDJEBFJD the fluff writer in me just had to make an appearance ig 😔 it may have ruined the vibe i was going for a little but at the same time it felt as if the last act was begging for me to write some romantic shit so there’s that. this fic was self-indulgent anyway (just like the rest of my works tbh) so pls no bashing 😣 /lh

anyway! writing this was so fun and even though i struggled a little with it, it was still such a wonderful experience! i mean, what’s writing without a little challenge, right? i usually don’t like most of the things i write because i always feel like i could’ve executed them better, but i honestly think this might be my magnum opus LMAO. it still needs improvement of course but i really like how this one turned out yk!! it’s also the most i’ve ever written for a one-shot! and even though it took me a while before i could finally post this fic, i’m pretty proud of it :’]

if you’ve read some of my works, you probably know i often stick to fluff and whatnot, but i really really REALLY enjoyed writing phainon in a different light this time. he’s such a versatile character and in a way, this fic just made me love him even more hahahaha. though yes, i did still write him like a fool in love but i love it when he’s silly

"kremnoans are all about having a good taste in such things." he chuckled under his breath, a bitter nostalgia laced with his tone which wasn't so prominent in your presence, fixing up another flower crown, putting it on the pile he'd already made.

"you're strangely good at this," you spoke softly, pulling your hands back so you could marvel at your work, different shades of flowers adorning his hair, the colour akin to molten, glowing with the rays of sunlight that seeped into the shop through the parted windows. a serene afternoon. "you should quit and join me here. we'll make bouquets together."

the sheer genuineness of your words made him pause, his head tilting so he could assess your face, the shy quirk of your lips and the mischief in your eyes. so beautiful and incredibly unfair.

"that doesn't sound so bad." he hummed, his voice dipping a tone lower in a way that was achingly close to tenderness, something you couldn't help but notice. his body shifted around after he stood up from the stood he'd been seated upon, leaning against the counter, now facing you properly. "i suppose our teamwork is decent."

"only decent?" you let out a theatrical gasp, crossing your arms. "i'm never braiding flowers into your hair again. how selfish!"

mydei laughed, a deep endeared sound that made you pause on your dramatic jabs, eyes widening slightly. how could one begin to describe the squeeze your heart did at that sound, the way your fingers curled up into a fist? mydei's laugh was a rarity you seldom got the privilege of hearing, something you wanted to preserve for centuries, solely for yourself.

"my, didn't know these wildflowers were coming with the price of making me an employee here." mydei's hands left the counter, grasping a lone dianthus, twirling it amidst his thumb and index. the flower of the gods. he was well familiar with it, having heard aglaea speak of it.

they reminded him of you.

"do you like those?" your fingers brushed against his as you gently took the dianthus from his hand, leaning up on your tiptoes to tuck it behind his ear. moments like these made you impossibly envious, or perhaps incredulous, towards his height, your balance wobbling a bit.

mydei's hands found themselves ar your waist to steady you, his touch not invasive but rather grounding, causing your cheeks to warm up. you huffed and finally managed to neatly put the dianthus behind his hair, the petals tickling his skin.

"they suit you." you whispered. mydei saw the shift in your demeanor, noticed the way your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with one another while your eyes roamed over his face with an expression so adorning, a gaze no one ever had looked at him with before.

"you will soon make me into a flower as well." he grumbled a bit, brows drawing together but not in offense, rather from the frustration that bloomed from the way his heart rate had spontaneously increased. you smelled like flowers and home, and though mydei had long been trying to find the latter, the scent was well reserved within you.

"you are." you snickered, hand shooting up to cover the toothy grin on your lips.

"don't do that." mydei huffed, stepping closer, so close towards you, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away from your face.

"what…?"

"don't cover your mouth." he repeated himself. it was something you'd done subconsciously, and yet somehow the rawness of his voice made you want to prod at him, question him about why it bothered him, traverse deeper and uncover anything and everything about mydei.

how could a battle-hardened chrysos heir be so unbearably soft?

you didn't respond, instead distracting yourself by gazing upon the afternoon sky through the window. "i'm going to the hills tomorrow, studying about different flowers and such." it was an unsaid invitation, almost like a plea whether you admitted to it or not.

mydei, on the other hand, could barely make out a word you said, instead enamoured by the way sunlight fell on your skin. more ethereal than any gold or otherworldly beauty. "yeah?" he croaked out, taking another step closer, a man so doomed.

"well, you could join me if you'd like. not forcing you though, just a suggestion, y'know, i could even show you some of the rarer-" your ramble was interrupted when you saw the close proximity you both were within, mydei towering over you. "mydei?"

"i will, if you promise to braid some more flowers into my hair." his jaw was tightened, twitching. you could make out the dark blush that had covered his cheeks when he stepped into the sunlight alongside you, and you realised that you had never seen him blush before. or perhaps had never noticed it.

"then i will listen to anything and everything you've to say," his hand, trembling the slightest, tentatively reached out to brush some stray strands away from your face which you'd forgotten to tuck back after being done with his hair. "no matter how mundane." he added, a weak attempt at jest, his pupils shaking as they danced through your face.

mydei was not skilled with painting or photography, and he could only hope that his memory wouldn't fault him as he memorised your face from such closeness.

"flowers are not mundane." you retorted lightly, unconscious of the way your breathing had picked up, more shallow. "you resemble a flame under the sun." you blurted out, impulsively tracing the red marking on his cheek. mydei didn't stop you, instead bending down so you could trace his face properly.

"your hair looks like fire, and your eyes too… brighter than the sun. i think they're beautiful." you whispered more to yourself than him, both hands soon cupping his face. his face. some of his hair strands slipped through your fingers, his skin warm to your touch.

mydei didn't have a scowl which usually adorned his face, no. he looked at peace, achingly fond.

"what are we doing?" you asked, somehow breathless.

"can i kiss you?" he asked back, his hands tightening around your waist. for someone who never hesitated from a spar, never backed down from any disorder that would occur within the city, mydei seemed strangely shy.

you almost choked on your own breath at his words, ears overwhelming hot, the loud noise of your own heartbeat blurring everything else out.

"is this your price for letting me braid your hair?" you laughed, giddy.

"yes." he groaned, capturing your lips with his as soon as you nodded.

mydei, as you soon realised, was an unsure and rather clumsy kisser. it wasn't that he lacked experience, or maybe he did and you were simply unaware of it. his hands were holding onto you with desperation yet gentleness, as if handling something precious to him, something irreplaceable.

his tongue probed at your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth, earning a surprised noise from you, frowned by his mouth, your fingers trailed upwards and found themselves tangled into his hair. he gently spun you around so you were comfortably pressed against the wall, the fervor of his kiss draining into something softer.

you were soon unable to kiss him back, mouth hurting from how much you were smiling and messing it all up. "let me breathe!" you squeaked, blood rushed to your face and all, giggling while your hands still clung onto him.

mydei panted softly, a stupid grin present on his face as he pressed a kiss on your nose, and then a firmer one on your cheek, as if holding himself back from biting you. "you taste better than any honey brew." he whispered hoarsely, propping you up on the counter with ease.

"mydei!" your laughter was drowned out by his kisses once again, his hands tenderly lacing with yours as his mouth claimed yours over and over.

In the Month of Gate, it is customary for people to toss away objects from their past that bear bonds to their memories. Widows would toss away their rings given to them by their deceased lovers, mothers and fathers would throw out old clothes their now grown children used to wear. To sever old bonds, remove themselves from the past, and step forward into the vast future’s infinite gates. A voluntary act in efforts to clean the slate.

And now, you are doing the same. Tossing away the ring your fiance has given you as you gazed over the statue of Kephale forlornly, trying to dry your tears of the painful memory. You couldn’t see how or why he would do this, why he decided to forsake every vow the old titans and new gods have put into place by laying with another in your bed no less. And you couldn’t fathom why it had to be you of all people in Okhema to have to be the one to find out. 

So here you are, wallowing in your grief and pity before the old Worldbearer’s statue as you uttered prayers after prayers, hoping the gods would hear your pleas. To Aglaea, goddess of romance and your patron goddess, in hopes that you may yet understand why this romantic relationship has faltered so violently. To Anaxagoras, god of reason, to give you answers as to just why it had to be you. But the two gods you’ve prayed to the most are not ones who would give out answers or mercy; Mydeimos the god of strife, and Khaslana the Deliverer. To Mydeimos, in the hopes that he would grant you enough burning fury to strangle that little vermin to death. And to Khaslana, in the hope that he would give you deliverance for thinking of such things. 

These prayers circled in your mind, and you barely noticed the passing and going of others nearby. So stooped in your thoughts that you didn’t notice a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“You know, I figured you’d be here. Not many in Ohkema come to this spot to partake in this ritual,” the old bishop sighed, standing next to you and joining in gazing upon the old statue. “Though I suppose, in the many bodies of Tribios, the goddess does not care where the ritual is done. Only if it is done with sincerity in the people’s hearts.”

You turned to look at her, cheeks still stained with tear marks from however many minutes of crying. “Does she also care whether or not the participant is in heartbreak?” You mumbled softly, voice hoarse and spent. “Does she care if I only do this out of rage and sorrow, with the hopes that that filth is burned through?” 

The old bishop of Tribios sighed, and merely motioned you to walk with her. “Dear child, the goddess of passage does not worry over the intentions behind the ritual. She recognizes that there are different reasons behind the cutting ritual, whether they be heartbreak or fury,” she spoke gently, leading you through winding market streets and quiet shop stalls. “Your pain is just as valid as your heartbreak, your heartbreak as valid as your fury. Who am I or anyone else to judge why you cut your bonds?” 

She sat you down on a bench in the Garden of Life, shaded by the vibrant sun and by the cool garden waters. “I do not doubt that the infinite faced goddess would have questions about what ails you so, but she would no doubt give you mercy all the same,” she hummed, gazing out at the little chimeras so hard at play. “The gods do not fault the reasons why we mortals do things, nor can we strive to understand the gods’ actions in mere prayer alone. It is only through us walking amongst each other could we ever hope to understand each other.” 

You only stared out with gentle somberness, letting a chimera kit hop up into your lap and curl into a ball to sleep. Perhaps it sensed your woes, seeking to comfort you in such rough times. 

“Merely think about this, dear child. I have no doubts that the gods will punish that manchild for his wrongdoings to you, be it the Chrysalis of Gold or the Lance of Fury, and you will be healed,” the old bishop of Tribios patted your cheek gently, a smile on her face only a grandmother would have. “Have care, my dear. The gods will smile upon you soon.” With that, the old bishop hobbled away, off to do either more of her duties or give more elderly wisdom to another poor soul. 

You sat there for a moment, thinking about what the old bishop said. The gods will smile upon you soon, she said. 

“The gods will smile upon me… What a comforting yet vague answer,” you whispered, drying your tears one last time before setting down the little chimera and wandering out the Garden. If what the old bishop said was true—that the gods would smile upon you soon—then what signs would you have to look out for? How could you possibly see how or when they would grant you mercy or peace? 

A quiet sigh left you. Another question for another day, for Curtain Fall Hour was drawing near, and the nonstop crying had made you weary. You figured you would know when the gods have graced you, eventually. 

In the depths in Amphoreus, in a realm only the gods could come and go, a thundering voice was heard. The rage within it was palpable, the waters of the Vortex of Genesis quivering in its wake. For the voice belonged to none other than the Lance of Fury, the god of strife, Mydeimos in his golden armor and permanent scowl as he stared down at the sight of your tears. “The little rat deserves to burn for what he did. I should have the Titankin skin him alive,” he rumbled furiously, gripping his spear with disgust. For months, he had put aside his interests in you in the decision that you needed a mortal lover, and watched you give yourself to that shell of a man; your life, your heart, your very soul. All of it, crushed in an instant because the bastard had no ability to keep it in his pants. If it had been Mydeimos in his place… 

“Come now Mydeimos, still your fury, if it’s even possible,” a calmer voice rang out, threads of gold trembling quietly. Aglaea, the goddess of beauty, moved with such a grace that it was near impossible for it to belong to a mortal. “We both know that this is an angering situation for us all, but let us refrain from destroying a city state in your rage.” 

The god of strife scoffed, still enraged but heeding the goddess’s words. She was right, in more ways than one as always. But it did little to quell the fire within, not when it came to you. “It’s easy for you to ask this of me, as nonchalant as you are. One would think you’d be just as angry as I,” Mydeimos grumbled, crossing his arms with a sigh. “Isn’t the one thing you despise most after liars those who commit infidelity? Had this been Castrum Kremnos, he would have been skinned and fed to the lions.” 

Aglaea chuckled, a smile on her face that did not quite reach her eyes. Those swirling pools of turquoise and gold held only plotting contempt, a gaze reserved for cheaters and homewreckers alike. “Even if I do not voice my anger, Mydeimos, rest assured I am just as furious. To see such a beautiful soul such as my disciple be taken advantage of makes me crave to usher the sweetest of punishments unto him. But even I know that the two of us cannot act within a city state that is not our own.” The goddess moved next to him with quiet anger, staring down at the scene of you looking up at the old statue of the former Throne of Worlds. “You and I know that we need permission from Khaslana, you more than I, considering the bond the two of you share.”

Mydeimos couldn’t help but snort at the latter sentence. To say that he and the Deliverer had a bond was putting it lightly; he hadn’t stopped pestering him since they were human once upon a time, to the point that Mydeimos was no longer immune to Khaslana’s antics. Aglaea called it ‘a romantic conclusion to rivalry’. Mydeimos simply called it a solution to Khaslana’s nonsense. 

“Of course, we can get permission from him… He’d be just as furious as I am,” the god of strife sighed roughly, gripping his spear just a bit tighter. When it came to you, the Lance of Fury and the Throne of Worlds were your biggest protectors, even if you did not know it yet. To them, it mattered not what lengths it took to achieve your happiness. “But just how do you intend to make this plan of yours a reality? I doubt your own lover would see reason in this, pun fully intended.”

To say that the smile Aglaea wore sent chills down even Mydeimos’s hardened shell was an understatement, for he knew exactly what that meant. “No… no you cannot be serious. You did not use that trickster of all beings to put this into action,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “You know she’s going to see this as one of her games, or worse—expect payment.” Aglaea merely shrugged at this notion, that smile on her face not loosening up as she turned away from Mydeimos. “You would think that as a part of the gods of calamity, you’d be all for having Cifera be a part of this plan. Matter of fact, you didn’t seem to be against it when she had already made her move.” 

A soft cackle resonated in the cavern, the sound of coins clinking together in a whimsical jingle. “Aww, have some belief in me, little prince. Who could say no to a little bit of mischief, hmm?” Cifera, the goddess of trickery, pranced over to the spirit basin with a mirthful grin. It seemed the thief was in good spirits, if she was more than willing to indulge on the romance goddess’s offer. “A chance to humble a little upstart like him, and have the seamstress get out of my fur? It’s just too good of a deal.” 

Mydeimos grumbled, rolling his eyes at Cifera’s rambles. For the sake of duty, he had tolerated the Coin of Whimsy. Not hatred or approval, just… tolerated. “Such noble reasons for your involvement. Tell me then, how did you make your stake in Aglaea’s plan, thief? Surely you’re not going to just steal from him and dump him off in some desolate corner of Amphoreus, are you?” He snorted, looking down at the trickster. “That would be too boring even for you.”

Cifera only chuckled, a sound bordering on cackling rather than laughter. “Oh, don’t you worry about it! You’re right, that would be too easy. So the seamstress gave me a better idea. But I’m not gonna tell you anything about it, little prince. You’ll just have to figure it out for yourself!” 

With that, Cifera sent Mydeimos a grin and tossed up that accursed coin of hers, and she was already gone before anything could be said. 

Aglaea only chuckled, shaking her head as she walked past Mydeimos. “She hasn’t changed a bit, has she? As quick to leave as ever,” she hummed, taking a glance at the basin once more before speaking once more. “... Mydeimos, tell me something. Why are you and Khaslana so enamoured with this one particular mortal? There are tens if not hundreds of thousands of them in Okhema alone, and countless more in Amphoreus. So why them?” 

The god of strife thought for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say the reason before letting out a deep sigh. 

Subject K was once a man, a laborer if I am to guess, for he has that sort of a constitution, hearty and hale yet a touch underfed. His hair is pale and his eyes, upon inspection, are a blue shade not unlike veronicaflowers; I am sure that in his life, he must have been quite admired. Ah, what a pity, then, that he died so young! My own heart does pang when I look upon him, but I cannot afford to be so distracted by the feebleness of my empathy. The good professor does not take kindly to delinquency, either.

How slowly the time did pass in Professor Anaxagoras’s class — even you, ordinarily so fascinated by the theories he described, found yourself frequently bored by the mundane, frigid monotone of his lecturing. It was worse for the others, you supposed, many of whom only attended out of compulsion, not choice, and thus could hardly remain focused as he rambled about the concepts of Nousporism. Abiogenesis, he would tell you all, and at your side Mydei would yawn, though he tried very hard to hide it, covering his mouth and giving you one of those gentle, hapless looks of his. ‘Life’ was once ‘not-life.’

Occasionally, someone might raise their hand, might ask him to clarify meaning or vision, but inevitably they were met with the same response: a blank, pinched look, the professor’s lips pursed into a frown, his singular eye narrowed as he considered the inquiry carefully. By the time he mustered up a response, it was well past the time for anyone to care what it might be, and besides, he spoke in such a winding, insufficient manner that one was only ever left with more questions, anyways.

“I don’t understand what interest you find in Nousporism,” Mydei said to you once, after a particularly dry session in which Professor Anaxagoras had explained the construction of the gaseous compounds he had used in his most recent experiment. “There’s far more exciting research to be done in Helkolithy, and far better professors, at that.”

“You’re only saying that because it is your own discipline, and so you are bound to convert as many promising candidates to its pursuit as you can,” you said. He gave you a sheepish grin, and you rolled your eyes. “You’re better off persuading someone else.”

“It’s not persuasion if I’m only pointing out the truth,” he said, holding open the door to the dusty lecture hall for you, waiting for you to wave at Professor Anaxagoras as was your custom, though he never reciprocated. “I can’t fathom anyone more deserving, more dedicated, but the only Nousporist lab is Professor Anaxagoras’s, and everyone knows he doesn’t accept assistants. You’re wasting your potential, that’s all. It doesn’t have to be Helkolithy, but…you know.”

“Thank you,” you said when he trailed off with a shrug. “I appreciate it, Mydei, really I do, but it’s alright. Studying Nousporism has been my dream since I was young, even if it is a slog at times, and I am willing to wait if that is what it takes. I will wait years upon years if I must, but I shan’t be dissuaded, not by your good intentions or the professor’s bad temper.”

“Well,” he said, patting you on the shoulder. “Let us hope it does not take nearly that long.”

Had he shown any continued skill at prophecy, you might’ve told him to become a Venerationist, but unfortunately this was his one and only divination, in that the very next day, when the two of you made to leave as you always did, Professor Anaxagoras looked up when you waved at him. Then, slowly, with a twisted sort of comprehension dawning upon his sallow face, he held out his hand and motioned for you to wait. 

“You can go, Helkolithist boy,” he said to Mydei, who had paused when you had. “I only wish to speak with her.”

Perhaps you might’ve been excited, but indeed all you could think was that you had done something wrong, that you had acted overfamiliar or otherwise offended he who had such peculiar sensibilities. Your stomach dropped, and you glanced desperately at Mydei, as if he could do anything but look at you in return, as bewildered as you were anxious, before you nodded at the professor.

Nousporists did not believe in gods, but you found yourself praying to some unknown entity as the door shut behind Mydei and you were left alone in the great, looming cavern of the lecture hall. It was an entity which was not exactly a deity but would, if you had to guess, resemble one, should you give further thought to the matter; as it was, however, you could only repeat your frantic pleas in your mind and wait, frozen, for Professor Anaxagoras to speak.

“It has come to my attention that you have some notions of becoming a Nousporist in full,” he said. When you were silent, he raised his eyebrows. “Did I misinterpret you? My hearing is keen, but I suppose advanced age catches up to us all.”

“Not — not at all, sir!” you said. “Yes, it was — it is my dream. Ever since I was very young, I’ve wanted to be a Nousporist. That’s the entire reason I came to this university, you’ve always — I mean, I really admire you and your work, is what I’m trying to say—”

“Enough,” he said, mercifully cutting you off before you could continue to stumble and worsen what was no doubt already a poor impression. “Very well. Come with me.”

He was a long-strided man, walking with a clear and distinct purpose, and you felt rather like a little chick toddling after its mother as you raced to keep up with him through the winding, candlelit halls of the university. Even after so many years in attendance, you and Mydei frequently found yourselves lost in the twisted mazes of the academic buildings — sometimes together, mostly apart — but Professor Anaxagoras navigated them with such a haunting, careless ease that you were impressed, having never expected it from him of all people.

“What do you know of the principles of Nousporism?” he said, cutting through the silence with the dulled knife of his voice. He was livelier now than he ever had been in his lectures, and for a moment you were simply taken aback at the thought that these two aspects were of one and the same man.

“Very much, sir,” you said, eager to impress him now that he was giving you the chance. “The foundation is the phrase ‘life’ was once ‘not-life.’ All of Nousporism stems from it.”

“Good,” he said. “Then, assuming the theory is correct, there must be a natural process for ‘life’ to be born of ‘not-life’, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, it’s true,” you said. “Though no one has ever managed to learn what it is…”

You entered a small, dark room, a flickering lamp in the corner serving as the only source of light. When your eyes adjusted to the bleakness, you found that it was all but empty save for an operating table in the middle, upon which a single form lay, the length and breadth of it covered by a white sheet.

“What makes ‘it’ different from you and me?” Professor Anaxagoras said, gingerly rolling back the sheet to reveal a smooth, handsome face, its expression frozen in repose. You gawked at it for a moment, unable to entirely comprehend what you were looking at, and when you understood, you flinched backwards. “‘It’ was once a ‘he’, after all. In this way, death is the inverse of Nousporism.”

A million questions brimmed in your mind — whose body was it? How had Professor Anaxagoras come across it? How was it preserved in such flawless condition, untouched by decay and rot, as if it were merely trapped in slumber, not kissed by death? But one glance at his firm, cautious expression made you falter, for suddenly you recognized this for what it was: a test. If you showed any fear, any uncertainty, then you would prove yourself unworthy of the designation of Nousporist. So, swallowing down your hesitation, you banished your alarm and nodded at the professor.

“Death is ‘life’ becoming ‘not-life,’” you said, and when he smiled — only slightly, but surely — you were heartened to continue. “That’s why ‘it’ is different from ‘us’ — it isn’t alive. It can’t think or feel or understand, not anymore. It’s no different than a statue.”

“Very good,” he said. “So what would it take to restore it to its original condition? That is the basis of the experiment I want you to take over for me.”

“What?” you said, because everything was moving so fast and you could hardly comprehend it. A part of you — and not a small part, either — was still on the first floor, leaving the lecture hall with Mydei, unacknowledged by the professor yet again. So what did it mean, this entire concept of taking over his experiment? What was he saying?

“Make ‘life’ from ‘not-life,’” he said. “That is my condition, if you are serious about Nousporism and wish to join my lab. Resurrect this corpse, and turn ‘it’ into ‘him’ once again; only then will I accept you as worthy of working alongside me.”

“When we no longer look at an organic being as a savage looks at a ship, as at something wholly beyond his comprehension; when we regard every production of nature as one which has had a history; when we contemplate every complex structure and instinct as the summing up of many contrivances, each useful to the possessor, nearly in the same way as when we look at any great mechanical invention as the summing up of the labour, the experience, the reason, and even the blunders of numerous workmen; when we thus view each organic being, how far more interesting, I speak from experience, will the study of natural history become!” (Ruan Mei, The Origin of Species).

“He wants you to bring a dead body back to life?” Mydei said incredulously. Of course, to he who was so interested in the study of anatomy and physiology, Helkolithist as he was, the very thought must have been nothing short of blasphemous, but you could only shrug in the face of his shock.

“Nousporism is that kind of a field, after all,” you said. “I know you must view it as a sort of desecration, but that’s not exactly the case. The body is being used for advancement and progress. Isn’t that something that its owner’s spirit should be proud of?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said. “How are you supposed to manage that? Such an impossible condition he’s given…you’d almost think he doesn’t want you to succeed.”

“He would never do that,”  you said immediately, in what he would, if he knew, likely dub a reflex. “Why would he go to all of that trouble in the first place? He could have just as easily ignored me. I don’t argue that this is meant to be a test of the utmost difficulty, but certainly it is possible. He would not have asked it of me if it weren’t.”

“If it is possible, then why hasn’t he done it himself?” Mydei challenged. You sighed, because he always was such a contrarian. It had been optimistic of you to expect him to take this victory at face value, not when he was so prone to this — this — this arguing, this fault-finding.

“Perhaps he is simply too busy to dedicate the proper time to research,” you said. “Such undertakings are not light, after all.” He opened his mouth to argue again, but you gave him a withering glare, cutting him off before he could. “You might be happy for me, if you were so inclined.”

“I am,” he said. “Really, I am. Wasn’t I the one who said you deserved it, before the professor even took note of you? I just didn’t expect it would come about in such a manner.”

“I didn’t, either,” you said. “But this is a rare opportunity. I cannot let it go, even if it isn’t the most favorable. Professor Anaxagoras has extended me his hand, and so I must endeavor to take it.”

“Alright, alright,” he said. “I won’t speak against it anymore, so don’t be angry. Tell me about this dead body of yours.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you said when he burst into a fit of laughter right afterwards, ruining his contrite image entirely. “It’s quite strange, actually. I can’t figure out what must’ve happened to it; it’s in entirely perfect condition, at least based on my preliminary examination.”

“Is it a man or a woman?” he said.

“A man,” you said. “Oh, Mydei, you’d gasp if you saw it. I can hardly believe how beautiful it is. He must’ve been so charming when he was still alive.”

“Beautiful isn’t exactly the first word I’d use for a corpse,” Mydei said, wrinkling his nose. “Or the second. Or the third.”

“I didn’t think I ever would, either,” you admitted. “But like I said, this one is odd. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, dead or alive. It belongs in a painting or a story, not an operating table or lab. Actually, it makes me quite sad whenever I happen to glance upon it; I don’t think he was any older than you or I when he died. What a horrible life he must’ve led, to end up like that, without a single person there to mourn him.”

“It’s a shame,” Mydei said. “Well, maybe his second life will be better than the first.

“Second life…” you said, trailing off in thought before giving him an earnest, worried look. “So you think that I can do it, is that what you mean?”

“Naturally, I don’t think anyone can do it,” he said, but then his brow furrowed into something sweet and pondering. “It violates the very basics of Helkolithy, wherein that which is dead must remain dead. But, if it is possible, if it can be done…then the one to manage it will definitely be you.”

07 OCT 79 — I cannot quite fathom where to begin in the resurrection of Subject K, so I have instead thrown myself into the careful and methodical categorization of the body. Perhaps this is ultimately an exercise in redundancy, but at least it wears the guise of productivity, and so I do not feel nearly as guilty as I would’ve, were I wasting my free time simply reading textbooks.

It is dead and yet undying at once, which is an inexplicable thing to say but is true nonetheless. Sometimes, I can delude myself into imagining the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart beneath my palm — but, then, the skin of the corpse is cold and it is motionless in a way no man ever would be. I have never heard of anything like it, not in all my years of study, and none of the books I reference describe such a phenomenon. Ruan Mei, Ratio, Screwllum, Yang…if none of these great minds have encountered something like this, what does that mean? Doubtless Subject K is special; I wonder if Professor Anaxagoras understood this when he chose the body, if that was why he chose it, or if it is a mere and happy coincidence.

Without fail, you would cough upon entering the lab where Subject K — as Mydei had jokingly dubbed the corpse – was kept. It was dark and dusty and matched Professor Anaxagoras’s dour countenance exactly, but for someone like you, who was not yet used to such conditions, it was a valiant fight to accustom yourself. Yet you persisted, for if you could be vanquished by dank air and dim corners, then how could you ever consider yourself a proper researcher?

It was eerie, being alone in that room with only a body to keep you company. You liked to pretend that it was a sleeping man instead of a dead one, for it comforted you a little to think that there was someone other than mice and spiders huddled in floorboards alongside you as you pored over the various journals Professor Anaxagoras had left opened on the desk he had bequeathed you in the handing over of the lab. Once or twice, you considered begging Mydei to come and sit with you, you even came close enough to asking him for a favor with that intention, but at the last moment you grew wary and simply told him to make dinner for you, if he was not opposed.

What would the professor think? How could he accept an assistant who clung to a Helkolithist out of fear of her own experiment? Subject K was yours, so you ought not to be frightened of it, and you doubly ought not to be so reliant on someone whose philosophy was so opposite to your own. You had to learn to stand by your merit, and so you did not dare ask Mydei to stay by your side, knowing he would relieve you too well and thus would stunt your development too thoroughly. So, instead, to ward away the complete and total seclusion of the lab, you took to speaking with him: Subject K.

“Good evening,” you would say when you entered, smiling at the table through your coughing fit, a stabbing pain in your throat and lungs, tears welling in your eyes. “I hope you have been well in my absence, Subject K.”

Of course he did not answer, he very well couldn’t, but you imagined he might, if he had the capability, say something like this: I have been well, yes, albeit a little lonely. And what of you?

“Hm,” you would say, and then you’d launch into a recounting of your day as you settled in your chair, lighting your lamp and arranging your things around you. “Today was not so horrible. Mydei said he would leave dinner at my house for me, so at least I have one less thing to worry about and can spend longer here. I am near to a breakthrough, I have complete faith…do not worry, you will be back soon, and then Professor Anaxagoras will be forced to acknowledge me.”

Sometimes, you would complain to him, for few were as sympathetic of listeners as he was, and even fewer could keep secrets quite as well as he could. Perhaps no one in the world existed like that, and indeed there was a sort of freedom to this: you could speak as you wished without fear of judgment or reproach, and you abused the privilege, laying every petty grievance at his feet as you updated your records.

“Professor Anaxagoras has asked after my progress again,” you said once, punctuating it with a particularly harsh stroke of your pen. “I don’t know what to tell him. You are the same as ever, which in and of itself is a mystery, but one I am no closer to solving than I am to bringing you back to life.”

He continued his slumber, that pale-haired figure, unwitting of your distress, and with a sigh you got out of your chair and began to pace. What would it take? What were you missing? You could still hear Professor Anaxagoras’s clipped voice ringing in the back of your mind — ah. Not done yet? Such a pity. A disappointment, that was what you were, though he had not said as much. You had been entrusted with such a task, and instead of proving yourself capable, you had only served to fail repeatedly. How could you ever become a Nousporist now? If you were Professor Anaxagoras, you would never accept yourself, not after so many botched attempts, not after so many chances left unfulfilled.

“What if I ruin you?” you said, a new fear striking you as you pulled Subject K’s covering down his torso, taking his limp hands and moving them so that they were folded over his stomach. Such large hands he had, the skin worn and rough, littered with cuts and callouses, but arranged in such a way, they seemed princely and fine, as if clasped in wait. Despondency rolled over you in waves the longer you stared at him, imagining him rotting away, lost forever to worms and flies because of your own ineptitude. “I might ruin you. Oh, I will ruin you, I will ruin this experiment and you will become just another mound of dirt in the ground — I never should’ve accepted Professor Anaxagoras’s offer, I never should’ve believed I could do it — how you must hate me! If it were him, if it were anyone else, you might already walk amongst us once more, but instead you are here, trapped with me as your only hope.”

You did not know when the first tear fell, only that suddenly, you were kneeling with your face in your hands as you began to bawl, heaving and fitful. You could not do it. You could not do it. Why had you ever dreamt of becoming a Nousporist? It was too difficult, it was too difficult, you did not know how anyone managed, you should have given up long ago. You should’ve listened to Mydei, you should’ve become a Helkolithist — well, you still could, couldn’t you? But the thought of going to Professor Anaxagoras and telling him you were giving up was the most agonizing thing you could conceive of, so you allowed yourself only one more minute of tears, and then, wiping at your face, you straightened, brushing off your knees and arms.

“My apologies,” you said, adjusting your clothing so that it sat just so, professional and gathered once more, as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. “Let us continue, then, shall we?”

“The Lament for Khaslana” by Sunday Oak

Work Type: Painting   

Medium: Oil on canvas

Measurements: H 182.9 x W 155.6 cm

“This picture shows the dead Khaslana from Amphorean mythology. He is surrounded by lamenting sea-nymphs. His mother, the tailor Aglaea, made wings out of wax so that she and her son might escape from the island of Okhema. But, overcome by pride, Khaslana flies too near to the sun, the wax melts, and he plunges to his death. This is Sunday Oak’s most famous picture. He belonged to the generation of Penaconian artists that was influenced by Belobogian Impressionism, but Oak devoted himself to the historical and literary themes of Lushakan artists such as Mikhail Char Legwork.” 

There was something held under his tongue. You found it many days into your research, when you had given up hope and resorted to simply gazing at his face, willing him to give you some answer, some clue, one hint or several about what you had to do — if not the entirety, then at least the next step. His face belied nothing, not at first, but the longer you stared at it, the louder that persistent nagging in the back of your mind grew, that insistence that something was off, something was wrong about him. It took you a while to realize what, but then, in a flash of clarity, you understood: his mouth, his pretty mouth, curved into an unnatural crescent, just shy of a smile.

“Forgive me,” you said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, your fingers itching with discomfort before you took his cheeks in your hand, prying his jaw open slowly, cringing back as you prodded about in the dry cavern, trying to remember to breathe so that you did not faint. You were somewhere else. You were a Helkolithist. You were in the library with Mydei. You were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. “Forgive me, please, forgive me—”

There it was, a stone the size of your thumb, gleaming crimson with an intrinsic fire that no ruby or garnet could ever hope to possess. You did not dare pull it from him, not when you recognized it immediately from the illustrations in one of Professor Anaxagoras’s journals: a philosopher’s stone, which did not, as was claimed in the myths, grant eternal life, but which did, according to the professor’s research, have extraordinary preservative properties. You did not yet understand how it worked, but you were sure, as you gently nudged his mouth closed, that this was the reason why he remained in such perfect, pristine condition.

But for him to be exactly as he was at the moment he had died, the stone would’ve had to have been placed right then, pressed under his tongue with precision at the very second he passed away. What did it imply? You didn’t want to think it, not of a man you had always so admired, but you could not stop your mind from ending up at that natural conclusion: Professor Anaxagoras had — he had — Professor Anaxagoras had —

You could not even make it to the wastebasket by the door; you threw up on the floor, hunching over as your stomach spasmed, gripping the edge of the table for stability. You counted to five — one, two, three, four, five — and then you pushed yourself up, wiping the corners of your mouth and your fingers with a handkerchief you produced from your pocket.

Then you retrieved a mop from the corner and began to clean the sick up, scrubbing at the stone until your hands were raw, as if that could do anything, as if this was something you could ever possibly hope to efface.  

14 OCT 79 — ‘Subject K’ is such a clinical name, is it not? It feels so detached when I am speaking to him and must refer to him as that. And to think it is short for ‘Subject Killed’...such a cruelty, poking fun at his unfortunate state! I ought to have chided Mydei my colleague for the suggestion. No, no, it cannot do. I will give him a different name, a better, more apt one.

He is like a tragic hero from old. I am quite sure, now, that there was some foul play involved in his death, foul play that Professor Anaxagoras no doubt had a hand in, but I do not dare confront anyone, not as of yet. I am frightened, and besides the philosopher’s stone, I do not have enough proof — only a strange feeling, a protectiveness over his body, as though by bringing him back I can defend him from whatever happened to him in the first place.

Mydei My colleague did suggest, upon learning of this experiment, that perhaps his second life would be better than his first; that perhaps I could, in this way, save him from his horrible fate. How did he end up in Professor Anaxagoras’s clutches, anyways? Maybe it is that he was once like Khaslana, flying too close to a sun meant to burn him, always meant to burn him…

Khaslana. Yes, that name is familiar to me, I saw him in a painting once, his golden, winged form, his fine, seraphic features. Ah, now that I think about it, he was not so different from Subject K, was he? Well, perhaps it is fate, then, that even their names begin with the same letters. Henceforth I will know him as such, as Subject Khaslana — or, if I may be so informal, as simply Khaslana, like I would if we were close and particular friends.

“I worry for you,” Mydei said, and then you felt it, the ghost of his palm against your cheek, traveling to your shoulder and shaking you until you awoke, blinking up at him and wondering when you had ever fallen asleep in the first place. “When was the last time you slept for an entire night?”

“Hm?” you mumbled, your mind slow and groggy from exhaustion. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know?’” he said.

“The night is the only time I have to myself,” you said. “Thus, it is the only time I have to spend with him.”

“Him?” Mydei said. “Who? Do you — have you been courted, really?”

“Courted?” you said, and now it was your turn to give him an incredulous look. “Whatever do you mean? I speak of Khaslana — er, Subject K, as you know him.”

“Khaslana?” he repeated. “You mean…your dead body has a name now? And you are losing sleep because you are…spending time with it?”

“I don’t know why you act like he’s a puppy I’m raising,” you said. “It’s a genuine scientific undertaking. Professor Anaxagoras has already asked after my progress twice, and each time, I’ve had nothing to show for it but a few textbook articles that I thought might be of some relevance. Of course I have to spend time with him. How else will I figure out how to bring him back?”

Suddenly, it was as if every bit of compounded exhaustion you were feeling was suddenly thrust upon Mydei, leaving you light, leaving him overburdened. He raised his hand as if he might touch it to your brow, but then he did not, he only ran it through his hair and closed his eyes, like you were some great disappointment he could not understand how to fix.

“Very well,” he said. “If this is what you think is the best path, then of course I will believe you. Shall I leave dinner in your room once again?”

“If it doesn’t trouble you,” you said, and he did not seem angry, but you could not help wanting to tip-toe around him anyways, for although you had never once seen Mydei snap, that did not necessarily make him incapable of it.

“It doesn’t trouble me,” he said. “But in exchange, please promise you will rest.”

“I can’t promise that,” you said, which made you feel pitiful, but you could not bring yourself to lie to him, to give him that empty reassurance. His face fell, and how peculiar it was, that you were growing more and more tenured to Professor Anaxagoras’s dismay, but Mydei’s still brought you to fumble for an explanation. “He only has one body, Mydei, so I have to proceed with the utmost of diligence. What if I ruin it?”

“You are the one who is still alive. There will be other corpses, there will be no shortage of them, but there can never—” Mydei broke off with a heavy exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Never mind.”

The callousness was so unlike him that you were visibly taken aback, which caused his eyes to widen, too, but he did not move to reassure you as he once might’ve. He only waited as you gathered your thoughts and your things, carefully placing each book in your bag before clearing your throat.

“There may be other corpses, but they won’t be his,” you said. “He is the one I have been trying for so long to resurrect. I don’t care about the others, Mydei. He is the only one I want to bring back.”

“Grandfather’s funeral was today. Mama has been crying and crying since we left the parlor, but when I looked at him in his casket, I was just a little curious. He didn’t look any different than when he would sleep on the sofa-bed at home, though when I tried saying that, Papa told me to hush. It made me very angry that he did that, but Mama was already close to tears, so I decided I would be good this time and listened very quietly.

“When we got home, I asked my uncle why it is that dead bodies resemble sleeping ones so greatly. He is always more willing to answer my questions than Mama and Papa alike. Both of them are so unreasonable, I am cross again thinking of it! But my uncle is different, he always tries to think over my questions and answer them seriously. 

“He said to me, ‘Darling, it is because death is not separate from slumber — rather, it is a form of it, the eternal kind.’ So I asked him what eternal means, and he said it was some vast quantity beyond my imagination. I said — greater than one million? He nodded and said — many, many times greater.

“‘So if death is only a form of slumber,’ I said to him, because of course this new fascination he has introduced only made me more curious, ‘So if it is a form of slumber as you say, then could you not bring someone back as easily as waking them up?’

“He squinted at me, can you believe it? The thought of me confusing him! Well, he squinted at me, and then he sighed out his response the way Papa might, which would’ve made me cross again but it is not as offensive, coming from him: ‘You sound like a regular Nousporist.’

“A Nousporist! I have never heard of such a thing, and I tell him as much. He pats my head and tells me that of all the people in the world, only a Nousporist would ever ask as many questions as I do — although they are praised for it, where I am scolded.

“‘You would make a right proper Nousporist, thinking of it,’ he said, and now I am entirely taken with this idea of a place where I can ask as many questions as I want without Mama crying or Papa yelling or my uncle sighing at me. So I will be a Nousporist, then! It is settled, and in truth I feel a little relieved to have this plan for my future, since I have been unsure until now.” (Unknown Author, “A Girl’s Diary”)

“Khaslana,” you said. “This is what I have named you. Are you opposed to it? Do you know the story? It’s an old Amphorean myth, so there are nearly as many versions as there are stars in the sky. I guess you may have heard it, but heard a different version than the one I know.”

You moved your chair so that you were sitting beside him, propping your journal in your lap and continuing to take notes as you spoke idly, boredly. It was comfortable, the easy conversation, and more than a little unfamiliar, too, for you were used to your audiences cutting you off before you could complete your thoughts. Khaslana never did anything like that; he listened to you kindly, silently, without coldness or boredom with your rambling, winding ways.

“I suppose the story doesn’t matter as much as the ending, which is always the same,” you said. “He flies too close to the sun, and then he falls to his death. What a fool I have named you after! I am sure that is what you must be thinking to yourself, but that is not why I have dubbed you as such. Well, really, it’s a silly reason, I’m almost embarrassed to tell you…”

Khaslana did not say anything, and when you glanced up from your notes on one of Dr. Veritas Ratio’s papers, you found him as he always was, smiling slightly around the philosopher’s stone tucked away under his tongue, his body cold, his face set.

How had Mydei done it the other day? You extended your hand, patting Khaslana’s cheek, skimming it along his neck so that you could take him by the shoulder and shake him. Gently, barely, afraid of hurting him as you were, but you still did it, you still shook him as Mydei had shook you, out of some childish hope that maybe, maybe it would be enough. Maybe you had wasted your time thus far, maybe the secret really was just this, maybe all you had to do was beg him to wake up until he did.

But Khaslana did not stir, and eventually you gave up. Heat flushed your face, and you shrank back into your chair, hugging your journal to your chest and laughing miserably, wretchedly.

“How could you have allowed me to do that?” you said. “Now I look a greater fool than Khaslana himself.”

What would his laugh sound like? You figured it would be a handsome noise, musical and rich, befitting his stature and expression. You wished that you had already succeeded, that you had already brought him back to life, so that you could make these jokes and listen to his amusement in full, instead of relying on your imagination, which could never properly capture reality in any meaningful way.

“I don’t think Khaslana was a fool, though,” you said finally, your voice meek and downcast. “Who amongst us would not keep going, were we in his place? How could he ever be satisfied with the mediocrity of the clouds when the grandeur of the sun was within his reach? I cannot imagine which is a worse fate, failing in the pursuit of that greatness or contenting yourself with mediocrity. Well, I don’t know. If it were me, I would never accept either option.”

You paused, looked up at Khaslana, and then smiled yourself, your lips forming the same crescent-curve as his own mouth. Perhaps you were biased in loving that old story, when the rest of your classmates had preferred more romantic myths, but it was not such a bad bias to hold, or so you thought.

“They said he was terribly beautiful, which is why in some myths he was the sun’s lover, instead of just its victim,” you said. “They paint him as they paint angels; there is no other symbolic meaning for why I gave you this name. It is only because you are the only man I have ever met who comes close to resembling him.”

21 OCT 79 — Something of an idea is forming in my mind. I must consult some papers which our university does not hold copies of, so I have sent mail orders and eagerly await their arrival. Until then, I must continue as I have been, with what materials I have had access to thus far. Of course, I am too nervous to do anything to Khaslana himself, not when he is so delicate, so rare, and so I have resorted to finding little dead birds to experiment on. There is no small amount of these creatures, they are perpetually running into windows and doors and finding themselves in such a mess! I apologize to them when I find them, and then I cradle them in my hands and bring them to the lab. 

I must work quickly on the little birds, because they do not have the philosopher’s stone preternaturally slowing down their decay as Khaslana does, and so they go bad quickly. Thus far, I have not managed anything, but I think that I am growing closer and closer to a potential solution, although I am loath to write it down in case it does not work and I am left looking like something of an idiot.

Maybe it is a strange comparison to make, but in a certain manner, Khaslana reminds me of those little birds. The bones of his face are exactly as fragile as those of their wings; the strands of his hair are as soft as the down of their chests; the slope of his nose is not unlike their beaks, just as straight, just as small. I wonder what he would look like with the wax wings of his namesake….if only I had the time, I might fashion a pair…but alas, the day is only so long, and I spend much of it in the lab as it is. I have other priorities, that is to say, and so I will have to content myself with picturing the ‘Lament for Khaslana’ and pretending that it is him in that hero’s place.

“Wait,” Mydei said when your lecture was dismissed and you shot out of your chair, preparing to hurry to the lab, to walk down the hallways you had long ago memorized, your feet traversing them without reliance on your mind’s commands. “Hey, wait!”

You had not realized he was talking to you until that second dictation, barked out with a sort of desperation. Furrowing your brow, you turned to look at him, because you could not fathom why he might be asking you to wait for him, and when you saw how crestfallen he looked, you did falter.

“Yes?” you said. Your response seemed to embolden him, for he moved so that he could stand beside you — you had not realized until he did how long it had been since you last walked like this, and somewhere deep within you, something like sadness brewed. You buried it, though, because what did you have to feel sad about?

“Why do you keep running off?” he said softly. “Is that body so important to you?”

“He is,” you said promptly, because of all the halfwitted questions he had ever asked, this was the most halfwitted of all. Was Khaslana so important to you? He was. Undoubtedly he was.

Mydei shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, like he was steeling himself against something, and then he took a deep breath. You watched him curiously, passionlessly, finding yourself unable to understand what he might mean by.

“Am I allowed to see it — him?” he said.

“What?” you said, and his encouraging grin felt akin to the first peek of sun through cloudcover, a dawn breaking through the fog of your mind. Momentarily you thought to yourself, what am I doing? Really, what am I doing? But you pushed these thoughts aside, because if you gave in now, when you were so close to the end, then you would never forgive yourself. 

“I want to see what you’ve been working on,” he said. “You don’t tell me much when I ask, but I’d like to know. This experiment is important to you, and you—”

“Okay,” you said, surprising even yourself. Professor Anaxagoras had never explicitly forbidden visitors, and anyways the lab was under your jurisdiction now, so his opinions mattered little, but you had never considered taking anyone to meet Khaslana. For one, you were not so beguiled as to think that another person might not be appalled by him; for another, the thought of anyone else coming near him made you feel distressed. You wanted to keep him in the lab forever, safe from that cruel world which had killed him once, which would surely, if given the chance, kill him again. But Mydei was not anyone else, was he? He had always known the truth about the experiment, the body. Mydei did not want Khaslana to die again, not anymore than you did. So you did not mind as much, not if it was him, and you nodded to affirm this to the both of you. “Yes, I can show you, and explain it if you’d like.”

“As long as you are willing,” he said.

“I want to,” you said, and you meant it genuinely. You really did want to. “It’s not so complicated, really, but you have to understand a little more than just the basics of Nousporism that we discuss in lecture…”

You spoke the entire way to the lab, explaining the things you had written in your journals, what you had read and reviewed and pored over for the past few weeks, the minute details of Khaslana’s body and even the philosopher’s stone under his tongue. Mydei took it all with a level, quiet calm, interjecting with questions only when he truly did not understand. It was nice, and you wondered if this was how it used to be, if he really had always been so straightforward without your noticing.

“Here we are,” you said, opening the door for him, feeling a sudden and girlish nervousness. What would Mydei think? You did not know, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know. What if he told you that you had been dramatic in your recounting? What if he considered Khaslana to be painfully average? You could not bear the former, and the latter might shatter you. Still, you led Mydei in after you, and you decided that this once if never again, you would trust him.

“I can hardly see anything,” he said, and on your left, he began to blink rapidly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. You lit the lamps for him with a soft chuckle, and in the candlelight, he appeared all but spectral, shadows flickering over the planes of his face, deepening in the angles and paling along the edges. Then you motioned him over to the desk; he tiptoed towards you, taking each step carefully until he was peering over your shoulder at the flock of birds propped up neatly along the wall.

“I’m still too worried to do anything to him,” you said. “So whenever I have an idea, I test it on them first, just in case. Good thing, too, because as you can see, I haven’t been very successful yet.”

“Where do you find them?” he said.

“Ah, just around,” you said. “They’re not exactly in short supply.”

“I see,” he said.

“But you’re not here to look at birds,” you said. “You’re here for him. Khaslana.”

Mydei did not move from his place by the desk as you swept over to the center of the lab, where the table and the body were as undisturbed as ever. You murmured your typical greeting under your breath, for you did not think Mydei would take kindly to it, and then you removed his covering with as much tenderness as the brusque motion allowed, revealing him to the world once more.

“Come closer,” you said, beckoning Mydei over. He had gone white, whiter than usual, but still he trudged over, though he remained nervously behind you, looming over your back like an enormous shadow as he looked upon Khaslana’s still figure for the first time. “Isn’t he the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

“I didn’t realize how dead he would look,” Mydei said, his voice turbulent with unease. “I mean, he’s really just a corpse, isn’t he?”

“He’s not dead,” you said, looking up at him, stroking his arm to soothe him — and then you were overcome by how warm he felt, his skin blushing beneath your petting in a way Khaslana’s never could. “He’s just sleeping, and I will be the one to wake him up.”

He looked rather like a puppy, his eyes large and trusting, an agreeable tilt to his head as you continued to hold onto his arm, because you could not bear to let go of his heat just yet. So animated was he, a furnace in the cool of the lab, and you looked at Khaslana even as you clutched Mydei, wishing that it was him who had this vitality, wishing it was him who stood beside you.

“Do you want to touch him?” you said, and you did not wait for Mydei’s response, your palm moving from bicep to forearm to wrist, interlocking your fingers over his and guiding him to lay his hand against Khaslana’s cheek, holding it there in a gentle caress.

For a moment, none of you moved, and you began to shiver, because you could feel the blood spiderwebbing beneath Mydei’s skin, his pulse, every minute twitch of his muscles, the sound of his breath and the fever-pitch of his hand in your own — yet it was not him you were so consciously aware of. It was Khaslana you attributed these things to, Khaslana whose ardor you could suddenly conceive of with an aching closeness. Khaslana, Khaslana, he was alive, you could sense him begging to be freed from the confines of his slumber, Khaslana was waiting for you to save him from that which had been done unto him. There was no one else, there was no Mydei, there was only him, only Khaslana, you could feel it. You could feel it. You could —

Abruptly, Mydei wrenched his hand away from you, and without another word, he turned and left the lab. For a moment, you did not react, did not even comprehend what had happened, but then you startled, spurring yourself into action and racing after him, calling his name over and over.

“Mydei! Mydei, come back, please, Mydei, I didn’t mean to scare you—”

There was no answer. Mydei, who had always waited for you; Mydei, who had always listened to you; that Mydei, he did not respond. You stood in the doorway for you could not say how long, and then you closed it after you, collapsing into your chair and hugging your knees to your chest.

“You are the only one I have left,” you said to Khaslana’s slumbering form. “Please wake up soon. I am so lonely…”

“Abiogenesis, the idea that life arose from nonlife more than 3.5 billion years ago on Earth. Abiogenesis proposes that the first life-forms generated were very simple and, through a gradual process, became increasingly complex. Biogenesis, in which life is derived from the reproduction of other life, was presumably preceded by abiogenesis, which became impossible once Earth’s atmosphere assumed its present composition.”(Veritas Ratio, Encyclopaedia Intelligentsia).

You stared at the small thing in your palm in complete astonishment, tears welling in your eyes the longer you gazed upon it. The bird blinked at you, and then it chirped, ruffling its wings cheerily as it hopped about before pecking you slightly, ostensibly famished as it was.

“You’re alive,” you breathed. The bird chirped once more before pecking at you again, a little more demanding this time; you ignored it in favor of clamping your fingers over its wings and tearing off towards Professor Anaxagoras’s office, taking the steps two at a time in your haste.

You had done it. After all of the meetings he had called you to where you had had nothing to show, you had done it, you had resurrected this songbird, and soon would be Khaslana. Khaslana! He would be alive, he would be a person again, he would be yours and you would never be as lonely as you were now, as you had been for some time.

“Professor Anaxagoras!” you said, bursting into his office, out of breath from how fast you had run, hardly even remembering to knock. He was sitting at his desk, a pair of glasses low on the bridge of his nose, and he hardly looked up from the papers he was grading to greet you.

“What is it?” he said, and to anyone else, even to you on another day, it would’ve seemed unnecessarily curt, but as it was, you were too dizzyingly overcome with intoxication, too inebriated on your own success to care

 You held your hands out before you proudly, brandishing the bird and waiting for him to say something. He narrowed his eyes at it, took off his glasses, narrowed his eyes even more, rubbed his shirt along the lenses as if to clean them, and then put his glasses back on, poking the bird in the chest before leaning back.

“You’ve brought me a bird,” he said. “Why have you done that, exactly?”

“Not just any bird,” you said. “A dead bird.”

His countenance shifted; suddenly, it was dark, malevolent almost. “What?”

“I did as you asked, sir,” you said. “I have resurrected this bird. I have made ‘life’ from ‘not-lie’ — now, I only have to replicate the same experiment on Khaslana — on the body you gave me, and then…”

“Vain girl,” Professor Anaxagoras hissed, and then he was snatching the bird from your hands, holding it up fearfully to the light. “Vain, arrogant, imprudent girl, you were never meant to succeed!”

“What?” you said. “But you said that if I didn’t, you wouldn’t allow me to work as your assistant?”

“It was a test!” he said, and then he opened the window and cast the bird from it without even waiting to see if it could fly. You shrieked as it fell and he began to pace the length and breadth of the room, his face in his hands. “A test, you simpleton, I wanted you to accept your failure. I wanted you to learn from it!”

“But isn’t it better that I have succeeded instead?” you said, genuinely confused at his reaction. 

“Who are we to decide who lives and who doesn’t?” he said. “Who are you to go around bringing people back from the dead at your whim? No, it’s not any better. It’s worse! I only wanted to see how you might react when faced with an impossible task. The moment you accepted that it was too difficult for you…I would’ve taken you as my assistant then and there. Irresponsible, mindless, laughable girl!”

“You ought to praise me!” you snapped, struck by a sudden flash of irritation. So many nights you had spent laboring away, so many days you had wept, all out of fear — fear of him! Professor Anaxagoras, who had held your dreams in between his careless fingers, who had dangled them above you like bait on a fishhook, and now he was saying it was for nothing? Now he dared to say that there had never been any risk, that you had never needed to care about him or Khaslana or any of it? “What I have done is impossible, and you — you —”

He grabbed you by the shoulders and glared at you with such frightening intensity you almost cried out, though you knew that no one would hear you and, even if they did, they would not dare venture into his office to see what was the matter.

“It is impossible for a reason!” he said. You shoved him away from you, and he stumbled backwards, though he remained uncowed. “Do you think there aren’t people I wish to bring back? But we cannot go about acting like death is unnecessary, like we are the ones who allow it or don’t. You have to understand that!”

“You say that I cannot resurrect people as I will,” you said. “But how am I any different from you, professor? I know what you did to him.”

“And what, exactly, do you mean by that? Pray tell,” he said.

“The man in the lab,” you said. “I found the philosopher’s stone under his tongue. You killed him, and you preserved his body at the very moment he died. How can you say that I am in the wrong for restoring life, when you take it away for nothing but an experiment that was never supposed to succeed in the first place?”

Professor Anaxagoras did not say anything for a long while, before, all of a sudden, he burst into laughter. You watched him warily as he cackled and cackled, tears streaming down his face, the sheerest joy that you had ever seen lighting up his demeanor as he howled without acknowledging you until, finally, he exhaled in defeat.

“Oh, you really are an imbecile,” he said. “I went to the hospital and asked the head nurse which patient was the closest to death. She took me to the room of a laborer sick with consumption and told me it was him; I asked the man if he cared what happened to him once he was gone, and he told me no. So I instructed the nurse to place the stone under his tongue as soon as he died, and to call me afterwards. I didn’t kill him — he was already dead.”

“I will bring him back,” you promised. “I will not fail him.”

“You will do no such thing,” Professor Anaxagoras said, and there was no hint of humor left in his expression, not any longer. His grip grew gentle, but his words grew steelier as he took you back by the shoulders, impressing his seriousness upon you through the force of his hold. “Listen to me. Promise you will destroy that body tonight. Destroy the body and your research and never speak of any of this again. I will take you under my wing, I will teach you everything you need to know about Nousporism, but you have to promise me you will do that.”

“Very well,” you said, your tongue heavy with lead and lying. You did not know if he believed you, but you continued anyways, even as he took one step backwards and then another, incredulity etched across his face. “As you wish, Professor Anaxagoras.”

28 OCT 79 —  Professor Anaxagoras is waving Nousporism in front of me as if it is some great incentive. He tells me he will teach me, but what is left for me to learn? I have made ‘life’ from ‘not-life.’ I have touched the philosophy’s core, and I have come back unscathed. He cannot take this from me. He cannot take Khaslana from me. Khaslana, who is the only one I have left…I will do it. I will bring him back to life. This I swear, here and now: I will definitely do it.

He is larger than a lark, so I will have to adjust the measurements. That accursed professor! If only he had not cast that bird from the window, I could’ve been exact and precise in my work. But as it is, I must estimate using the bird’s brethren. I do not think I have much time before the professor grows suspicious and comes to check on me — I am not as much of an idiot as he claims. I know he didn’t believe me when I swore I would destroy all evidence of my research, so I must work quickly and bank on his continued underestimation. 

I would like to practice on a few more of the smaller creatures before daring to touch Khaslana, but again, I do not have the time for it. Even now, I write this in haste, for I am ever wary of the professor’s impending approach. I must simply have faith in my theory, in my experiments, in him. He will wake up for me, I am sure of it. He will wake up for me, and I will never, ever be lonely again.

Khaslana’s eyes, when he opened them, were no longer the same shade of veronicaflowers that they had been in his death. It was the first thing you noticed, that where once there was blue, now there was gold, as warm and incandescent as lamp-light, framed by the black flutter of his lashes. His hair, too, had darkened with the stain of alchemy, the pure white soiled by the resurrection, softened into a glistening cream shade. Yet beautiful he remained, and if anything, he resembled that mythical Khaslana even more now, forever touched by the eternal sun of his undoing.

“There’s something under your tongue,” you said when he gave you a wide-eyed, panicked look. You tried to sound reassuring, so that he did not shy away from you, and you must have succeeded, because instead of flailing about he simply waited for you to continue, watching you while taking fast, sharp breaths. “Can you open your mouth? I can remove it for you. You won’t be needing it anymore.”

He dutifully obliged, parting his lips and allowing you to press your middle finger against his tongue, nudging it out of the way and pinching the philosopher’s stone between your index and thumb. Carefully extricating it, you held up a glass of water to his lips, pouring it down his throat and watching to ensure he swallowed each drop.

“Are you able to speak?” you said. He scowled in thought, but you waited, giving him the time to consider it until, finally, he coughed and rasped something out.

“Who are you?” he said. The words came out slow and unhurried and scratchy, but now that he was alive, you had all of the time in the world to do with as you pleased, so you did not rush him.

“I’m the one who brought you back to life,” you said, offering him the glass of water. He took it in shaky hands, the contents sloshing about as he raised it to sip on, but the more he drank, the steadier he became, until he could hold it without wavering in the slightest. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Back to life?” he said. “I was dead?”

“For at least a month, yes,” you said. He lifted his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally, blinking at the way they bent and then straightened again. “Do you remember any of it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s as if I’ve just awoken from a long dream, the contents of which I can hardly recall. Even my life from before is growing dim, and I think I am soon to forget it entirely.”

He took your hand and held it to his cheek, which was so warm you nearly sobbed, running your thumb along the firm bone without worrying about whether it might shatter. Closing his eyes, he leaned into you, and this did make you pause, because you hadn’t expected it — though it wasn’t unwelcome, exactly. The sweet kiss of his breath against your wrist made you feel unreasonably flustered, so, tentatively, you used your other hand to comb your fingers through his hair, trying to distract yourself but ultimately only worsening the effect.

“You aren’t distressed by your amnesia?” you said. “Don’t you miss the people you used to love? Don’t you wish you knew who they were?”

“I cannot miss what I don’t know exists,” he said, and the unimpressed flatness was your first indication that he was lacking something a bird would never have in the first place, your first indication that you had not brought ‘him’ entirely back, whoever ‘he’ had been before his death. “I should, right? There are people in the back of my mind, begging to be remembered, but yet I cannot manage it, and it does not hurt me as it should.”

“You were a laborer,” you said. “Sick with consumption. That is all I know.”

“A laborer,” he repeated. “I know nothing of it, but it seems a miserable existence, if I died so young.”

“It was,” you said. “I am sure it was, but you will never have to go back. I will take care of you. Your life is mine, my greatest experiment, and I will defend it from the world if that is what it takes. I promise you I will…Khaslana.”

“Khaslana? Was that my name?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” you said. “But it is the name I gave you in the absence of any further knowledge, and I have grown used to it.”

“Then it is better,” he said. “I will keep it as a gift from you. Khaslana.”

“We should leave,” you said, because suddenly the blankness in his eyes made you more nervous than awed. You had brought back something, but whether he was a man or not, you were not quite certain, and leaning towards the negative — which begged the question of what exactly had you created? “Khaslana, the professor may yet—”

“Can’t it wait?” he said. “I have only just stepped into this realm of living for the second time, and I am so numb to it all, it’s like the world doesn’t exist — except for you. Your hand is the only warmth I have felt since you roused me from my slumber…everything else is freezing, and I am so unsure…”

Before you could reconsider, you embraced him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding that shell of a man — because now you knew for sure that he was not whole, that you had only managed a partial success and left the greater piece of him to rest, either in peace or in agony — close to you, his bare chest against the material of your shirt, his hair silky where it grazed your neck. With a soft, nearly inaudible whimper, he wound his own arms around your waist, clinging to you tightly as the gooseflesh along his back finally faded.

“What have you done to me?” he whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to come back like this, was I?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I was going to run more trials before I attempted anything on you, but Professor Anaxagoras commanded me to destroy your body and my research alike, and Khaslana, I could not bear it. I could not bear the thought of discarding you like that, and so I gambled, and I supposed I lost. I brought only this piece of you back, but…”

“But?” he said, nuzzling against the hollow of your throat in a manner that felt like an instinct more than a proper and conscious decision.

“But some of ‘you’ is better than none of ‘you,’” you said. “Even if it was the smallest fraction of ‘you’, I could not bring myself to regret it if it meant I could have that fraction with me forever.”

He lifted his head only slightly, batting his eyelashes at you, and then his arm snaked from your waist to your chin, which he held without any real force, gazing at you contemplatively. You did not dare move, and anyways his other arm was still around you, so you waited to see what his next action might be, finding that that aspect of unpredictability was nearly as exciting as it was agitating. You did not know what he would do; you did not want to know, either. You just wanted him to do it.

For a while he only studied you as you had once studied him, carefully, methodically. Then, with a brazenness that could only come from someone so overeager and long-deprived, he brought his lips up to meet yours, the hand on your chin moving to your neck. He tasted a little like how you imagined death might, but this was not a bad thing — it was coppery and minty and sweet, so sweet you did not ever want him to pull away, although of course eventually he did.

“I am a little more alive now,” he said as he caught his breath, and then he kissed you, again and again and again. “And still more, and even more.”

You had been standing before him, but he pulled you into his lap so effortlessly you forgot how weak he had been mere minutes ago. It was gone, all concept of that earlier man, who had been debilitated and puny. Now he was neither man nor decrepit, and when you adjusted your position as best as you could in the midst of his searching, searing lips and their quest for your own, you brushed onto something hard that drew a gasp from the both of you.

“I didn’t know you could still—” you began, which only made the pink of his face darken until his cheeks resembled twin apples. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting it to — to feel so—”

You broke off, because you found no value in continuing, and instead ground into him again. And perhaps he had lost his soul in death, but he could still understand pleasure and shame as well as any other man, so he did hide his face in the crook of your neck even as his hips bucked up into yours in response.

“I’m sorry,” he said in an endless refrain as he continued almost frantically, like he might wither back into death if you made him stop. “I’m sorry, is this — is this what it’s like to be alive, it feels so wonderful, thank you — thank you for bringing me back, thank you for letting me — I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

You wanted to tell him that you should be the one apologizing, but how could you? When he was bare save for the thin sheet his body had been covered with and he was so intent on proving his existence, how could you not allow him? You had never felt this way, and briefly you thought — might it have felt nearly this nice if it had been Mydei against you? Your old friend, who had not spoken to you in so long, was surely frightened of you now, there was no other reason for the continued avoidance…you wondered if it would have been anything like this with him, with a man instead of a monster beneath you.

Then Khaslana’s fingers sought permission just below your navel, helping you out of your pants, pulling aside the lace of your undergarments when you did not resist, and any thoughts of Mydei, of anyone or anything, were all forgotten. You did not care that Khaslana was a monster of your own making when he pushed inside of you, too overcome by the size of him; you did not care that his eyes were gold and empty, that his hair was stained and he tasted like death. You did not care for any of it, you only knew that he was alive and he was inside of you and he was yours. He was yours and he always would be, he groaned as much against you, and you — you did not say it aloud, but you could not deny that you thought about it until you could think no longer, the world turning as white as the sun when you came around him and collapsed into his waiting embrace.

“Khaslana, my Khaslana, how beautiful you are; how tender is your flesh, warm and flushed with vigor; how golden is your blood, now that it flows unfettered; and how terrible you are, too, a man — if you can even still be called that — returned from the dead without soul or mind, a heartless husk of a thing. Oh, Khaslana, how you frighten me so! Yet I love you, I am sure of it, for whenever I do think of destroying you as I ought to, I find I am unable.” (Unknown Author, “Letter to a Cherished Experiment”).