stardust archives

Something nudges your knee.

There's a dog.

Caleb remains at the threshold of your apartment only because a surprisingly well-behaved Golden Retriever is sitting neatly beside his leg, their leash looped around one hand.

With far less tact, now that you have acknowledged their presence, they shove their nose against your leg fully and sniff you with great professional interest, intrigued why no one is moving even an inch. Sitting back, they look up at you — tongue sticking out as they pant, tail wagging — and look entirely clueless.

There's something about the earnest tilt of their head that makes you glance back at Caleb — Caleb, who carries almost that exact same look.

Your mouth moves before your dignity can stop it.

"...You know how they say that a dog and their owner look alike?"

For a moment, Caleb only blinks. Then, he looks down at the dog. The dog looks up at him. They both look back at you.

There's something enamouring about catching Caleb out of all people off-guard, about seeing him be at a loss for words for once. He never is. He always has everything under control, unless you know exactly when to slip in the right words, how to get the timing just right (and oh, you do).

"That's the first thing you say to me?"

"It's an observation."

"It's slander."

"It's affectionate slander."

The dog chooses that exact moment to sneeze against your leg.

You laugh — it comes out rougher than you expect, small and cracked at the edges, but it is still a laugh. Caleb's expression shifts at the sound, just enough around his eyes for something to soften.

“Peanut,” he chides mildly, giving the leash a small tug. “Manners.”

“Peanut?”

“That’s him.” He looks down at the dog, who looks entirely unrepentant. “He usually makes a better first impression.”

Caleb finally steps inside, guiding the dog in after him with a quiet click of his tongue. He toes off his damp shoes, shuts the door with his heel, then passes you the leash while shrugging out of his jacket. A packet of snacks lands on the coffee table as he moves further into the room.

"Alrighty," he says, glancing at you again. "So you're still alive enough to insult me. And here I thought you were having a life-threatening emergency."

"I told you I'm fine," you remind him. "...You thought it was an emergency and the first thing you thought of was to bring a dog? What kind of emergency needs a dog?"

He shrugs lightly. "This one. Don't complain."

Having him here should make you feel worse. You expected it to make you feel worse, which is why you avoided the mere thought of it for so long before finally giving in and texting him. There is a specific kind of humiliation in being looked at too carefully when you already know something about you is wrong. But Caleb doesn't look at you the way Rafayel would.

Rafayel would notice everything. He would make no sound at first, would stand there with those impossible eyes and take in the uneven pieces of your hair, the damp shirt clinging to your collar, the towel around your shoulders, the blotchy embarrassment on your face. Even if he said the right thing afterwards, even if he was gentle, you would feel the shape of his attention like a hand around your throat.

Caleb has already seen it all too. You know he has. But instead of letting his gaze remain on you, he turns his attention to other things — settling the dog, asking where he can put the leash, accepting the glass of water you bring him without looking at your hair again until you are ready to talk about it. He makes his attention useful before it can become unbearable.

(find the full chapter on ao3!)

"What do you think of this one?" Rafayel asks, emerging from his bedroom with a subtle roll of his shoulders, twisting at the waist to show off the second outfit of the afternoon. "Or do you think it'd be too— What?"

Caleb already notices her eyes sparkle before the corners of her mouth even quirk up in a sorry attempt to hide her laughter — it's enough for his own composure to crack too. The muscles in his lower face tense as he tries to subdue a wide grin.

"Come on," Rafayel whines, exasperated. "It's not that bad, is it? I just bought this last week. I literally just took the tag off."

He fumbles with the bottom hem of his shirt and looks down at himself, trying to figure out how terrible his choice of clothing can possibly be. There's an obvious pout settling on his lips and Caleb knows he's about to start complaining. Really, the top isn't all that bad. Not at all. But before Rafayel even manages to open his mouth again, she breaks first, and Caleb’s barely concealed amusement follows a second later.

"Well now I'm just hurt. If I look that ridiculous, you can just say so, you know?"

"It's not about you," she tries, because in a way it isn't.

Or well, no. It is. But it's not about him right now.

"What do you mean? It clearly is," Rafayel says, still offended. It's only now that he spots the various photos splayed out on the coffee table in front of the two. "What are you looking at?"

"Pictures from college." Caleb clears his throat to get his laughter back under control. He's preparing to defend these old photos, because he knows how Rafayel gets about these kinds of things. No one copes worse with embarrassment than he does. Within the next ten seconds, Caleb might just have to protect these small fragments of their shared history with his very life from their inevitable journey to the trash. "The ones from my memory box."

Rafayel only groans and settles down on the floor nearby without actually grabbing anything to straight up chuck. He's surprisingly well-behaved today.

For a moment, Caleb lets himself enjoy the oddness of it: Rafayel folded into the present with them, the old photos spread out between all three like something shared instead of hidden away. Usually, the box belongs to Caleb’s side of things — college, late nights, versions of Rafayel she never got to meet. But now she’s here too, laughing over the evidence as if she has been invited into a room Caleb had not realised he’d kept locked. It should feel strange. But mostly, it feels good.

As Rafayel leans over the coffee table to inspect the safety of showing something so intimate to her, Caleb takes in his outfit properly now — he knows they will still be asked for a genuine opinion later before Rafayel heads out with her. It's not that Rafayel is insecure about his looks. Really, if anything, he's annoyingly aware of how attractive he is. Maybe it's all the compliments he gets at work, or maybe he just knows exactly what he’s working with. But because of this, it's still a rather endearing habit of his to always double-check new outfits with Caleb. Not that Caleb himself can be of much help, most of the time. But he can give a thumbs up or question the other's choices. Today, it's easy to agree with his selection — the loose black shirt sits well on him, soft fabric slipping off one shoulder whenever he moves, the thin silver chain at his throat catching the light. It's this exact style of Rafayel's that always makes him look like he's never trying too hard while very obviously knowing exactly what he's doing.

"You're just baring all of our deepest secrets like this?" Rafayel asks.

"The ones worth sharing, anyway."

"Why are you laughing then? Which one is it?" Spotting the photo she's holding to her chest (good catch on protecting that one, Caleb has to admit), Rafayel narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Cutie, whatcha hiding there, hm? Mind sharing that one with me?"

"Arms behind your back," she insists. She still barely manages to suppress her giggles, and it's infectious — Caleb has to press his own lips together in an attempt to not start laughing again himself. The picture itself is not even that funny, but they've started this already, and stopping now seems impossible. "And you're not allowed to move. No snatching, no scrambling."

"Yes, yes." Obediently, Rafayel places his arms behind him, leaning back onto his palms. "Now show me."

After a short moment of anticipation, she turns the photo around. Rafayel starts out with a small squint, attempting to decipher what exactly is portrayed on the dark and blurry picture. Caleb can practically see the gears turn in his head, and his own cheeks ache from how wide he's smiling by now while waiting for a reaction.

And then it hits Rafayel.

As always, his ears are what turns red first. The look of horror that spreads on his face is almost comical — his brows lift first, then his eyes widen, then his mouth falls open around words that never arrive. He looks, for one glorious second, like a fish dragged onto dry land.

It’s enough to break them again. She folds over the photo, Caleb loses the last of his composure, and even Rafayel’s outrage starts to look doomed.

"Why the hell do you have that?" Rafayel asks Caleb, frantic.

"We've gone through this box before — did you just forget about it? Or were you not paying attention?"

"No, I mean— like—," Rafayel scrambles and does now reach for the photo to snatch it out of her hands. But she's faster, leans back where she sits and places it far behind herself amidst triumphant laughter. "Why would you show that to her? Those days are long over... Come on!"

"What, so I'm not allowed to know how silly you look passed out after having had too much to drink?" she pokes. "With toothpaste covering half your face?"

"That was one time!"

"Enough for me to snap a picture of you drooling all over yourself."

"Caleb, you traitor!"

(find the full chapter on ao3!)

Rafayel knows his dreams only equal reality for as long as he lets them. Of course he does — but when he witnesses the lonely reality after having dreamed of home, it's hard to rely on even his most protective beliefs.

He wakes in sweat after seeing everyone leave. He remembers the feeling in his hands, between the gaps of his fingers: these hands that are meant for delicate brushes and vibrant pigments, and how they felt clumsy and heavy when he tried to mend the broken spirits of his people.

He has always felt he could paint beauty, but he doesn't know how to preserve it, even in his art.

Especially in his art.

Dreams, paintings — both are attempts to hold onto what refuses to stay. But neither are reality. They're only reflections of it.

What is real is his name —  despite being such an abstract thing. It is something that carries no meaning unless it is spoken by another. By her. But oh, how it is spoken by her: how her lips curl around the name as if it was the most precious thing in this world. Perhaps to her, it is. He is still trying to figure her out as much as he is trying to understand himself. Why did she break their promise? Does she love him? How much does he love her? Would he die for her? How can he keep everyone from leaving, time and time again?

Although the most pressing one these days remains, what does a name mean to a human like her?

Is it a means of getting what she wants, especially now that she's learning about how their bond equals his ultimate weakness? Or is the care lacing her tone when she speaks those syllables the only thing she is trying to convince him of?

Rafayel supposes that their bond itself is the answer to all of his questions. If she didn't truly love him, he would not even be in the position of needing to question his autonomy like this. Her love is real, and it is true. There is no point in running himself into the ground with endless what-ifs incited by his fears.

Instead, he focuses on the hazy paleness of light surrounding the two of them in the garden. A singular dark cloud sits haloed at the horizon past the treetops, outlined by the dip of the sun. Hard contours of liquid gold streak across the blue sky until, above them, it dilutes the sky into a pale mint. A flock of birds circles — flies this way and that, disperses, rejoins one another.

Even here, the wind is a warmth carrying him through lifetimes. It contains all memories of the sea. From his dreams to the very tips of his fingers: no matter where he is, how much he has lost, or who he is with — the sea reaching for him, he will never lose.

Though recently, it is not the wind nor the sea that have been putting him at ease, but her presence. For days now, his weakness has been showing. And truthfully, Rafayel is embarrassed by it — would she tease him for it; would she outright make fun of him if she knew the whole truth? He is convinced she would be kind about it — she is with everything, after all —, but the smallest bit of doubt naturally lingers. He isn't immune to wounded pride.

"What do you see around us?" she asks.

Hand intertwined with his, they walk through the garden overflowing with all sorts of fragrant blooms. Rafayel is acutely aware of the warmth of her palm in his, the gaps between his fingers filled with life.

"The same as you. Flowers, butterflies..."

This doesn't seem to answer her question. It doesn't deter him, even as she lets go of his hand — she remains right by his side, crouches down. Her fingertips brush against ocean-blue petals, and Rafayel's gaze lingers. It travels from the curve of her lips to the fragile petals and back again, as though he wishes to commit both to memory. Some part of him is always trying to preserve her. Not on canvas, not in pigment, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere no loss can reach.

Perhaps that is why he looks at her the way he does, why he commits every fleeting expression and every shift of light to memory without even realising it. 

He has no other way of conveying his love than through observing her, and observing the world.

Because the world, at its core, is unbearable in its beauty. It's too great for his small heart to hold — and yet he tries. He takes everything in with a patience that perhaps belies someone who often finds himself detesting the very life he inhabits, especially when alone, especially at night. But it's beautiful here. It really is. He's failed to bear it so many times before, but he's stronger now, and braver. He has his beloved even if he's still unsure how much of her he is allowed to keep close. And for how much longer.

But it doesn't matter. If she sees how his worries edge themselves into his face, she will pity him which would only hurt him more than his own feelings already do — because he's used to them. But he's not used to seeing them mirrored back at him with such genuine care and love that it might just break him. 

She inevitably always looks at him that way, and he can never deny her when she does.

"Do you remember your first impression of me?" Rafayel asks.

"Why this all of a sudden?"

"Oh, cutie, come on... Are you trying to say you don't even remember something that has happened not all that long ago? Your memory is worse than that of a goldfish."

When she huffs, it's with a soft indignation that shows him that no matter his fears, she will accept all of him — annoying as he can be at times.

"Of course I remember," she insists. Her gaze wanders across the sea of flowers as she thinks back to days gone by. "I don't know what the first thing I had an impression of was, but I do know what I thought about the most after."

"Which was?"

"Your eyes," she states simply. "How attentively you observed the little fishies, and then me. How you make someone feel like they're all that matters to you while they're held by your gaze."

Rafayel has to avoid her eyes when she stands and looks his way. Sometimes being seen feels unbearable. He feels the weight of her words, and the honesty in them — a slow pulse warms the skin just below his collarbone.

"And how I wished to see your eyes in a brighter light, rather than during sunset," she continues, and Rafayel catches the golden rays that now, too, blanket everything around them. "I really wanted to take in their colour and then, when I did get a closer look later, I just fell for their siren call, I guess... They constantly shift with your moods or the light or even just the smallest tilt of your head. It's really intriguing. They're very pretty."

For a long moment, the only sounds surrounding them are those of nature — evening birds singing their quiet song, the breeze travelling through the leaves. The compliment hangs in the air, unmoored and luminous, striking a chord in Rafayel that resonates deeper than his dreams could. With her, they can never touch him entirely.

He meant to tease her and poke at her a little — revenge for the constant summoning of the past days. But he didn't expect for her to be so genuine, so vulnerable. Stripped of teasing and wrapped in the quietude of the warm evening, her words feel sacred. She sees his love, and returns it.

Rafayel feels a lopsided smile grow on his lips and lets out a soft breathy sound — one that is achingly tender.

"Funny," he says, his gaze now searching hers, "because when I first saw you, the colours didn't matter at all. Everything else was just... noise. All the shades of the sky, all the lights of the city... They all paled in comparison to the way you looked standing there, soaked in golden pink. It was like the world suddenly gained a hue it had been missing for a very, very long time."

Rafayel reaches for her hands and lifts one to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right to her palm. He lowers his gaze for but a moment, suddenly flustered by his own honesty, before holding her within it once more.

"If my eyes are so beautiful, it's only because they were reflecting you."

Her particular shade of pink fans out in front of his eyes once more until it surrounds him entirely.

The sound of her responding groan — part exasperation, part overwhelmed affection — is music to his ears. Rafayel can practically feel the heat rising to her cheeks himself. Avoiding his gaze, watching her retreat without actually going anywhere, brings a triumphant, wicked little grin back to his face.

He has her. He has successfully dismantled her composure, and he intends to savour the victory.

"What?" he teases. "Was it too much truth for one single conversation? You started it, you know?"

Relenting, Rafayel wraps his arms around her waist. He lets her step into his space first and then draws her in until there is no daylight left between them.

"You can't just drop a bomb like that and then hide, cutie," he murmurs against her hair, even as he shelters her from the consequences of her own actions. "Now you've gone and made me want to say even more ridiculous things. Or is this your way of telling me to shut up?"

"If I wanted you to, I could just tell you to, right?"

"That's not how the bond works... But sure. Let's say you're right. Would you?"

She seems to think for but a moment. Rafayel can tell she is merely pretending.

"It's nice to have you give me food or carry me. But I don't ever want to cage you like that."

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it before any word can leave his lips. His face melts into a small smile of solemn acceptance.

He wants to tell her.

I know it is a cage. And it's more than terrifying, letting myself be trapped like this.

But for you, I will be brave.

For you, I will let myself be loved.

"...I won't mind," he offers instead, voice quiet. "Not if it's you."

Her presence feels like the cool wetness of wind after a downpour: caressing his skin like summer; stealing his breath like spring — by entering him, by eviscerating him.

And he lets it.

He inhales the feeling so deeply it might just take him back to the reality of his dreams. If he waits for the sting in his lungs to settle into that familiar sore ache, then maybe the novel colours of the sky can replace the dulled tint of his heart.

Truly, golden light glows; another day ends.

In his eyes, he holds his beloved. And beneath his fingers isn't the blood of love, but the warmth of her body. With worship, they reach to brush against her jaw. A tremor in her breath signals her surrender to the moment. Her body leans in instinctively, and his follows her summoning without even meaning to.

Their lips meet in the softest whisper of a kiss — because Rafayel long knows that holding onto anything too much means he will inevitably lose it. And yet, some part of him leans into her all the same. It's an exquisite, fleeting little thing that feels less like a physical act and more like a shared secret, the body remembering what the mind hasn't even caught up to yet.

She's art — and just like his dreams, she too is real if he makes her real. And with his name falling so freely from her lips, even if it is to tease him, she is the one singular manifestation of comfort in a world that he wants so deeply to be held by, and to love. Because it really is so beautiful here, all around — even more so when there is someone who calls out your name.

They will remember you, no matter what shape or form you take, forever.

The first time they met again after college was on one of those nights in late summer where it was far colder than it should have been given the heat of the season still lingered. The daily rain had just cleared, and Rafayel was freezing his ass off handing out flyers by Lemuria when Caleb passed by with a group of his friends. Rafayel had just started taking up work there, and despite him not feeling particularly ashamed of his job, he winced the moment the other's eyes met his — his job was a difficult one to explain. As much as he had been enjoying it so far, prejudice ran deep and people coined opinions before he even managed to so much as open his mouth to introduce himself by name first. Luckily, Caleb had never been one to be uptight like that.

"Rafayel?"

"Oh, hey," Rafayel said, instinctively turning the flyers in his hands face-down. A useless gesture, really. Caleb had probably already seen enough of the dramatic costumes and carefully posed photographs to draw his own conclusions about the kind of place Rafayel worked at now. "What a surprise to meet you here."

"Wow, yeah, it's been ages. How have you been?"

Caleb spoke with the kind of enthusiasm Rafayel still remembered from their college days — easy and natural, like curiosity carried him everywhere and each new fact or connection left him quietly satisfied.Socialising had always come easy to him like this. It's something Rafayel had always envied. After all, he himself was the kind of person to leave an impression, yes, but never to linger physically. He was easy to remember but difficult to hold onto, slipping quietly out of people’s lives before they could ask him to stay,and he was okay with it. It'd always been this way.

"I've been alright," he replied after a few beats of debating on whether this was a situation calling for small talk or honesty. He decided for the former. They hadn't seen each other since graduation — a year and two months had passed, somehow. "Night out with friends, huh?"

"Yeah," Caleb agreed and watched as his friends — Gideon, Rafayel still recognised — slowed and turned to see why he'd stopped walking. 

"How have you been? How's your shoulder?"

"My shoulder's all good. Stress makes it flare, but the surgery— Oh, I had another one, shortly post grad. I'll spare you the details, but it's helped a lot. I take it easier now. I can even play basketball again."

Caleb gave Rafayel the kind of assured smile that flooded him with nothing but pure warmth, and that he couldn't help but reciprocate despite how the whole situation felt like a punch to his gut. It's contagious like that. He'd missed it, missed seeing the other's face light up in such an easy-going manner, even if he'd never admit to it out loud. He wasn't the kind of person for it, and Caleb knew.

"That's good to hear." It really was. "Well, I don't wanna keep you. Have fun."

Caleb's friends were starting to grow impatient, but no one was saying anything. Rafayel felt awkward: some kind of weird messy feeling in his stomach that he didn't like. Even though he'd trained well under Talia to know how to entertain guests, with friends... with former friends, rather, he still felt like a fish out of water. 

"It was great seeing you. You look good—," Caleb said but caught himself. Rafayel saw his gaze dip briefly to his outfit — and felt suddenly grateful for the slacks, even if the rhinestone-studded sheer top still left little of his torso to the imagination — before Caleb forced his attention back to Rafayel’s face. "I mean, in general. I'm glad, after— I mean... You know. I'm glad. Really."

Rafayel tried for a smile but knew it appeared as more of a grimace — to Caleb, if he could still read him just as well as he'd used to, anyway. "You too."

"Do you still have your old number? I'll text you and we can meet for coffee some time."

"Yeah. Coffee sounds good. I'll see you around."

"It's chilly tonight. Don't catch a cold standing out here."

Before Rafayel could decide whether to nod or wave goodbye, Caleb had already turned on his heel, jogging after the somewhat impatient little group of his friends. Rafayel pulled his gaze away, didn't need to see everyone's eyes linger on him as the other man made up excuses for the kind of place Lemuria might be (no one ever got it right on first glance) and explained their relationship. College friends who had lost touch after graduation — it's a common story after all. Despite everyone having made promises left and right to stay in contact, to meet up every now and then for little reunions, and to ensure everyone would be doing well, Rafayel hadn't spoken to anyone in over a year.

"Do you not care about being seen as a loner?" Talia asks as she settles into the bar stool next to him with a sigh — the kind of sigh that sits somewhere between disappointment and concern. But with her, it also always has that slight lilt of teasing to it. Bullying, even. There's a reason Rafayel's own banter is filled with playful taunting.

It's also the exact kind of tone she uses when she 'has things to discuss', which never is something you want to be confronted with.

"I'm not a loner," Rafayel retorts, nursing his whiskey sour — tart and just sweet enough, exactly how he likes it. A mere month into him having worked for Lemuria, all bartenders had already stopped asking for what he wants anymore. They just make the drink without any further comment, alcoholic or non-alcoholic, and Rafayel appreciates not having to waste his energy on socialising before work even starts. Even Caleb, on the odd occasion that he comes over, knows exactly what drinks to order for Rafayel. It's easy. It's nice.

"You're not a loner," she repeats, her tone amused. "Right. I've actually been your cousin this whole time — has anyone ever told you?"

"Some people are introverts, you know?"

"Even introverts have friends."

"I have friends."

"Yeah? Who?" Talia's voice carries a challenge, like daring her nephew to spill all of his secrets — of which there are very little with her. She knows him better than anyone. "Caleb?"

"Well, yeah. For one."

.....

The only thing worse than a breakup is being blamed for causing it. When your boyfriend had dumped you, it was with the accusation that you were a misfortune to anything you've touched in your relationship — once you showed concern for the stress at his workplace, he ended up getting fired; after expressing a friend of his seemed like an asshole, said friend betrayed his trust; after mentioning his landlord was shady, his apartment flooded three days later.

Any time you stuck your nose into his affairs, he ended up losing that part of his life to what he could only explain as your influence.

You know it was just a stupid attempt to project his own faults onto you to make things easier for himself.

Of course you know.

A man like him is setting himself up for failure all on his own — but that doesn't make the breakup any easier. With his love, he also took everything you had offered him: trust, secrets, a part of yourself that you can now no longer reclaim. And so you know that, while rationally there's nothing to mourn, emotionally, you mourn yourself.

But your friends are good to you. Even with all of this misery looming over you, you've been invited to a birthday celebration — and you appreciate the distraction, really. Though it will be hard to fully fall into it, a night out with some drinks and music will certainly lift your spirits a little, at least for a few hours.

"You've never heard of it before?" your friend asks once your little group comes to a halt.

You shake your head, glance up at the sign glowing softly in muted gold: LEMURIA.

"I don't think so."

Winter still clings to the nights these days. The fine drizzle misting the air makes you shiver as you wait in line, patrons slowly passing through security one by one. You can't say this place appears to be entirely exclusive, but it's small, warm, and appears deliberately hidden — it's the kind of place you will only really find when you're brought here.

Above the entrance, next to the stylised lettering shaped like a flowing tide — the L curving beneath the remaining letters — a lantern encased in blue-green metal hangs. The breeze coming into the quiet side street from the canal makes the light rock softly, and where it bumps against the brick wall, soft clanks echo through the alley. They're drowned out as you push forward to head inside.

It all feels strangely sacred.

Everyone enters this same place, bodies lit by a soft glow, as if following the light of a lighthouse guiding home those lost at sea. The image makes you smiles despite yourself. It’s terribly cheesy, but there’s something intriguing and comforting in that bit of imagination at play. You can let yourself believe in a little magic tonight, can you not? You've more than earned it, after all.

"It's one of the best Ladies' Clubs ever," your friend remarks as you hand off your coats. "Apparently the owner is a woman herself. She definitely knows what the ladies like, so it's no wonder they're doing so well."

"Money-making is money-making though," her friend remarks.

"Oh, she definitely knows what gets girls to spend everything they have in here. Have you seen their Insta?"

"Do you think that one guy is gonna be here tonight? The one I sent you. Tight black shirt."

"God, I hope so."

You'd seen the videos that were shared in the group chat — routines performed beneath low light, bodies moving along poles and without them. Some dancers wore fitted shirts half-unbuttoned at the throat, others enough jewellery to distract from how little clothing remained under it. The clips never showed enough to fully explain the place, only enough to invite curiosity.

And so at first, you'd assumed Lemuria was some upscale strip club.

Now, stepping inside, it becomes obvious that it’s something far more intricate than that.

.....

Caleb is fairly sure it's against Rafayel’s code of conduct to take customers home with him.

Hell, it'd be against his own. Work stays work, private life stays private — it's the kind of balance Rafayel only remembers when Caleb is asking him to do the dishes or is pointing out, politely, that he hasn't willingly socialised in weeks.

But somehow, over the past two months, the girl Rafayel has been seeing has become an exception neither of them seems interested in correcting. At this point, Caleb can't remember the last day she wasn't sprawled somewhere in the apartment.

Because she settles into their space easily. Quietly. Like she belongs here before anyone thinks to question it. Her mug ends up beside Rafayel's magazines in the kitchen; her charger is permanently tangled with the others near the sofa. On Rafayel's days off, sometimes Caleb comes home from work and hears her laughing before he's even unlocked the door, and mixed with his roommate's own giggles, something in him just loosens on instinct no matter how tiring his own day was.

The place feels lived in differently now. Softer, maybe.

And then there's the problem of her face.

Not in an overwhelming way at all. Worse, probably — in a way that catches him at the most inconvenient moments, his mind pulling back to it when he's idling. He’ll be halfway under a car, hands black with grease, motions focused — and then there it is: her smile, traced into the patterns above him like it belongs there. It's the way her eyes light up before the corners of her mouth even lift; the kind of smile he appreciates in anyone (the kind of smile Rafayel has, too). Caleb tries not to get distracted by any of it.

He doesn't always succeed.

More than once, he’s nearly cracked his head on something because of it.

When the first knock sounds, his room is dark in that way where familiar silhouettes of his furniture are visible even as his eyes adjust — still hazy, everything fuzzy and disorienting. Past his window, the sky’s that same washed-out grey it’s been for days. He’d take Gran’s sun over this any time. She’d been going on about it on the phone before bed earlier, how he should come down to get some last rays of sun to kiss his skin before autumn fully rolls around.

The thought lingers just long enough for summer's warmth to pleasantly spread through him too, from his gut all the way to—

Another thump cuts through the wall.

Right.

That’s why he’s up.

Waking his phone on the bedside table, the time shows a miserable 3.41 a.m.

He should have expected this.

Before the first moan even starts, Caleb flips onto his stomach and yanks the pillow over his ears. Because, god, does he need it — any attempt at trying to ignore the inevitable. He'd rather not think about it. Except he doesn’t really get a choice, so here he is: his bed pressed up right against the shared wall of their rooms, with nowhere to escape to. Not at this hour. Not in his own home.

His bedroom is cold enough that the next deep inhale pleasantly stings his throat. Maybe it won't be so bad; maybe they'll keep it down. This time, it's just normal sounds of people settling into bed at night, and maybe they're a little tipsy — and extra clumsy because of it. He knows the girl's place is a bit farther from Lemuria than theirs, so Rafayel has been bringing her home to crash here as is. Given the late hour, sleep is something anyone would be after.

The wall gives a faint knock as Rafayel’s mattress shifts.

Their sounds settle into something familiar — the pauses disappear first, and then the rhythm starts.

Of course.

.....

The sunset suffuses everything with a pale yellow haze and it’s beautiful and feels like coming home, yet Rafayel knows he will never arrive anywhere and will feel out of place on whichever ground he stands — and that no amount of love he is given will ever make up for that he failed to receive. He could take his life right now and would feel no different about it ending than he would in five or ten years. Alone, he watches time pass by day-by-day and the grief remains insurmountable, only grows heavier, as if there were always more of it than he can carry. It becomes an unbearable weight that he cannot be absolved of for he is the sole reason it exists to begin with.

Rafayel doesn’t think he will ever be loved in a way that would matter. Nothing has ever passed before — nothing he could hold — except for the traces of love he now is no longer privy to. Was the love still there, he would have something to hold onto, to hold out for — but with it long gone, all that awaits is the dull absence of everything that once was and never will be again.

He inhales the salty air slowly, forces it deeper than it wants to go, until his lungs sting with the stretch.

Basked in gold by a sun that touches everything on this planet, his body settles. He's grown softer towards his grief over the years, has let it soak in warmth to the point that darkness no longer scares him — but light does. And as every evening spent like this, the setting sun unravels him entirely, strips him of any defences and his insistence that he can continue standing on his two feet when really all he wants is to finally lay himself to rest. Twilight is when he feels raw enough to create. But where the sun still touches him now, his shadow extends; behind Rafayel, no light reaches.

Nowhere feels like home.

Not the city and its artificial brightness and noise and people amass walking around always having places to be, always having loved ones to return to; not the sea with its cradling warmth akin to a mother's embrace filled with the vivid colours of his childhood and the scent of a life lost; not the shore, of which he will forever remain the sole inhabitant.

No matter where he is, the light exposes all he lacks, puts his faults and the holes of his being into stark relief. Should Rafayel ever be allowed to watch the sun drown in the sea and not be overcome with a longing so deep he wishes for the darkness to crest and crash into him with solace, he is certain it could only be a dream.

But at least in his dreams, he can still see rainbow-coloured schools of fish swim past his home; he can still feel the excitement of slipping away to swim to the surface with all the might a little boy can muster and see the sun — warm, real, yet oh so far. In his dreams where he is not yet scared of the light, where he is still able to be assuaged by love, he reaches his small fingers towards this brilliance that makes him squint. He has never seen anything as bright in his short life and feels that, if only he could reach that light, he might be able to take it with him and bring it back home as a souvenir, to show everyone that the land isn't as scary as they try to make him believe. Only in his dreams, he can still look forward to the next and the next and the next day of possibilities of exploring the intertidal zones and the beach where critters are existing in more nooks and crannies than his eager eyes can take in.

Awake or asleep, Rafayel remembers the freedom of this time vividly — it was an utter ease of existence. He knew returning home would mean the promise of tomorrow, where he could still encounter a new kind of love, and would ensure he would hold onto it for as long as he possibly can.

By now, Rafayel is certain he no longer can.

Even love offered to him on a silver platter — by his kin, by admirers of his art, by strangers during mundane encounters that once were filled with the marvel of novelty — has lost its shine, has become something he can only feel guilty over. It is given to him so freely and yet it lacks all meaning to him. What is he supposed to do with any of it — all these feelings of other people weighing him down, leaving no room for his own. And even when he does have the space to truly feel — there is nothing left but pain.

And so he avoids love, as much as he avoids the small hours surrounding sunrise and sunset nowadays. He paints, he converses, he throws himself into what he deems productive and to be helping him towards some sort of grander goal (what goal?) — all in order to be able to quiet the inevitability of succumbing to his grief. Because Rafayel knows he will, eventually. There's only so much a single person can hold.

After all, for now, he's not just a single person. He has to push back against what tries to drown him. He is more than a single life, bears others as his, and needs to ensure his job is one well executed before finally returning to the sea. It's all he can do, which arguably isn't very much, and he hates himself for it. Although he has vague plans, there should be more, right? There should be certain things he can do to bring back that which has been lost; there should be certain words he can speak to revert everything to the past.

Perhaps a prayer.

Prayers to gods who would listen to a god, though would they care? When the sea dries out, leaves behind nothing but death and tidal ripples edged into the sands, who will fill its basins and take care of its very heart?

There should be a version of him that can become very small and very insignificant to allow for him to enter the rivers of time and live his life (and all the others) again. It's but another current he could surrender to, as he once did the sea. Perhaps this time, he wouldn't fall for the vague promise of attachment. Perhaps then, he could turn his back to his heart and rule with his head and avoid all the pain that inevitably follows.

It's stupid.

He would never truly wish for it yet it is in moments like this that he finds himself ruminating about a version of himself that, really, wouldn't be Rafayel at all anymore — which is impossible, considering how love so often changes a person for the worse.

Is it truly so horrible of him to wish for things to be easier? Whenever he catches the conceited perception of his self declaring that he has never once had an easy life (because had he not?), Rafayel cannot help but shut any further thoughts down.

He has had it easy. Like any child, he was scolded for not listening to his elders — yet he still possessed that freedom of seeing the world through pure wonder. The kind of wonder that only a free-spirited child could possess. He's long lost it now, but surely those days must have been easy. They were tranquil and bright, they were warm, and they were home. And they'll never return.

The only one he has to blame for it is himself. Because he refuses to let love in again, refuses to go home— wherever this might be now. Many of his kin have found it, so it is certain to exist, yet here he is.

Alone.

At dusk.

The sun has sunk below the horizon, but still soaks the sea in the remaining opulence of gold and purple. Just above the horizon: a single star, a glimmer in the darkening ink of the sky. Reminiscent of sea sparkle, at least this he can still pin his hopes too. Just like the sea once did, the darkness of the world will cradle him tonight. Rafayel turns, back warmed by the lights of diluted royalty, and heads inside.

To bless a soul is to bestow upon it the promise of death. For an immortal to finally be free, certain sacrifices have to be made — but love shall never be one of them.

"Sylus," she said, her voice suffused with tender care, "you're no longer an existence that no one wants."

The cool touch of the rose to his forehead, its petals as soft as silk, lingered. Even the strain of his existence did not manage to dissipate the sweetness filling the cathedral. And so Sylus, too, remained. For once, he didn't retreat — not from beauty nor from fragile attachment. For once, he told himself to trust the solemn promise made to him, for it was made by his beloved. Fools had believed more heartless vows than this.

"I'll remember that."

He let her words settle, held them in his heart as something that might endure beyond the moment they were given.

They do not.

The sudden freedom following her breaking their linkage leaves him gaping, disoriented by the dullness of absence.

It isn't a fool's attempt to hold onto the belief of their connection outlasting this magic, is it?

From the depths of Sylus's heart, the void shifts and an ache emanates that he has not felt in a long time. During his time with his Countess, he had altogether forgotten an ache like this had been his norm prior to his summoning — for a moment after the linkage dissipates, his confusion makes him believe she has withdrawn from him, that she has chosen to finally leave him behind. It's the pain of isolation, and of betrayal. Usually able to handle pain in whatever way it presents itself to him, this time, it's different: he knows of relief now; he knows of safety. In many ways, being trapped by her — with her — has felt more freeing than any boundless skies ever could have.

The freedom she is now granting him, after all, means nothing to him. All it has left to offer is an emptiness vast enough to echo that which he had once endured, which had first taught him to long for mortality — and how lucky of him to have finally achieved it for such a splendid cause; yet how unlucky to have achieved it so late, when his time with his beloved had already begun to see its end.

With freedom now returned to him, what is he to do?

The word feels almost unfamiliar in his mouth. Freedom — it should feel like release. Yet if anything, Sylus has long come to learn that freedom means survival; freedom means continuing alone. Now that he has learned to know the comfort of companionship and love, he doesn't think he is able to return to his previous life as he once knew it. His beloved has rendered most of his defences obsolete, and he fears that if left to his own devices, he will wither and decay from the harsh winds and the rotten soil of a life past. His soul may endure — it always has; it always will. He has no choice or say in this. But his heart? Oh, his heart... Just how many more goodbyes will it have to face?

Sylus senses his beloved's heartbeats falter and forces his weakening arms to envelop her more tightly. Though still in his embrace, he already feels her imminent absence. Ultimately, he holds onto something that has already begun to leave him — and only in that awareness does he notice the roses, dense and unmoving, eternal. Their opulence surrounds them; their brightness forces their bodies into a uniform sweetness of crimson stillness. Even without any regrets lingering, she surely must be scared of death. Truthfully, he is unsure whether he might not be himself. But her warmth soothes him too much for him to care about something as abstract right now. And perhaps she feels the same way.

In his arms, she rests peacefully. Her chest rises with slow and steady breaths beside him, even if a little shallowly; her soul reaches for his, mirroring their physical embrace. His beloved's scent — ever-sweet and intoxicating — has mellowed. 

Sylus pauses.

A soul as unique and fierce as hers shouldn't lose its vitality, even in death. Especially not then.

He turns his head, lets his face brush against the top of his beloved's head, her hair feather-light where it touches his skin: it's not that she is losing the incentive of her saturation — it's his appetite that is fading.

Sylus tries more intently to sense his hunger, tries to breathe in more of her — but it's all wrong. The sweetness of roses turns into a sickening stench, and the perfume of a former life suffuses her warmth. His flesh gives to the sharpness of a blade manifested by their union, splitting him into two. Consciousness and the burden of physicality both collapse under the strain of his being, of all his greed, of all his rage. But even then, the metal piercing him feels kinder still than whatever it is he sees on his Sorceress's face — and yet with her grip so close to his very heart, even the searing pain of annihilation feels like an embrace all the same.

Trembling arms cradle his dissipating form as dewy droplets kiss his cheek. The pain spreads from his chest out into each of his limbs, and his beloved's face is so close that Sylus can practically taste the tears of terror on her flushed cheeks.

Or is that fear his own?

He cannot tell whose hands are trembling around the grip of the blade.

He cannot tell whose face he is looking at.

His heart inevitably surges with the rage of betrayal.

Seeing her like this — he should have been more honest about his fears, about his adoration. Sylus should have hidden less of his feelings behind his anger towards inevitable betrayal at the hands of just another human. Death would have found him either way, after all. Then again, more honesty would have undoubtedly led to more of her suffering, and it is in his secrecy that Sylus can keep her mourning minimal — had he let himself express his love any more openly, her grief would certainly have turned out to become insurmountable. His love would have lingered and lived on inside of her, only to fester into hurt.

When forced to die, whose soul had truly been blessed? His — granted the death he chose in her stead? Or his Sorceress's — spared from it, only to remain and bear what he left behind?

Is the one dying into flowers not the one afforded mercy, fleeting as it may be? Or is it the one left standing who has been burdened with the greater blessing?

After all, the flowers were but a meek attempt to soothe what now brings nothing but pain and decay to her soul. He cannot give her anything that will remain, anything that will not wither in time. Once he does, there will be nothing left for her to hold on to but the memory of what he could not carry himself. And it will be his fault.

So in the end, the illusion of a field of flowers was all he could offer her — and still, it was not enough to ease the burden of his death that she has to bear alone.

If the roses shall be their final resting place, will their blessing not sour into another curse?

It is his role to bring ruin to everything he touches — worlds, civilisations, kin, and even love itself. He can attempt to defy fate as much as he wants, but the pain he will bring those closest to him cannot be avoided. Perhaps love itself is the greatest curse of all for a being like him. To attempt to experience it is undeniably equal with inviting suffering and death itself for the one and only person that matters to him.

The heat deepens, floods his veins and numbs any remaining sensations and thoughts. It does not arrive as pain — not at first. It spreads too evenly for that, too quietly, as if something within him has decided to finally loosen its hold all at once. His limbs grow distant in increments. They don't vanish entirely, but recede, melting away as if soaked in lava. 

What had spread now draws inwards — to a single, inevitable point. His mind follows without resistance, yields without confusion or hesitation.

"Sylus, I curse your soul...," his beloved says, her voice wavering in time with her soul. "I curse your soul... to never fade away..."

The tremor of her voice does not affect her words — they fall with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt, one that tightens her conviction around his soul like two white-knuckled hands. There is nothing he can do but receive them as they are given.

"You'll always be tied to me. Forever."

Curse or promise — it settles into him as something immovable. It does not feel like comfort. It does not feel like a choice. But neither does it feel like being left behind. It simply is; it's absolute in a way that leaves no space for anything beyond it, beyond death and love.

She inhales, shaking.

"This is my curse... Only I can—" Any word she utters is soaked in the tears of hurt by now, as if it was her own chest that had been pierced. "Grant you a true death."

The air thickens — sweetness first, unmistakable, cloying in its familiarity. He cannot place why it feels so recognisable. The stench settles against his senses with a softness that should have been comforting, but lingers too thickly, honey-gloss on bruised skin. Beneath the floral note, something burns — and steadily, insistently, embers press into him. Yet they neither sting nor burn.

Sylus understands these two scents have never once existed apart, yet he does not comprehend why it all feels so intimately his until it deepens, until it gathers at the edges of his awareness with quiet insistence. 

Not datura or roses.

Not her soul.

But him. His soul.

It's terrifying, being confronted with all that he is without warning. It should scare him. But it's gentler this time, here, in the casket — the scent of roses diffuses that of a soul no longer filled with the anger of grief, but love.

And so, there is no fear, only the same warmth of his beloved's embrace. Sylus feels like there should be fear. He remembers it, hazily, as if coming back to him in heated patches of tranquil panic — but it's calm here, with his Countess. Her breath fans gently against his neck, slowly, steadily.

The flowers do not press in on him as they once might have. They do not claim him nor his soul, do not demand to be acknowledged as anything more than what they are: beauty that won't last; a love that is certain to decay, and be reborn.

Sylus grows aware of the space the roses leave amongst themselves — the absence of intrusion, the space for permission. There is no sense of being overtaken, no suggestion that they will root themselves into him and bloom at his expense. They remain where they are — contained, patient — as if they understand something he is only now beginning to grasp.

For the first time, he does not feel as though he is being consumed by what surrounds him.

He is simply within it.

Where before, he was not allowed to stay, now, he has a choice — he is not afraid to leave. This time, there shall be no loneliness for either of them: she chose to let him go, and they're still together. There is nothing sweeter than it.

The pain returns with a familiarity that should have made him recoil. His body recognises it before he can name it — it's in the same place, has the same origin, the same inevitability. For a fleeting moment, Sylus braces for it. He remembers the rupture too clearly — how it had torn through him without restraint before everything turned dark.

What follows instead is something slower.

The sensation spreads outwards rather than inwards, diffuses through him in a steady, measured release. It does not cut; it does not divide. Sylus is not being forced apart, but instead unravelled almost tenderly, as though something within him is sighing in relief. The strain that had once defined his pain is absent, is replaced by a quiet yielding instead.

Sylus finds that this time he does not want to resist it.

Her scent is as sweet as is it soothing, and it settles to the inner linings of his lungs as if it could grow roots in there, extend brambles through every last vein of his being and sprout forth fresh flowers from his soul. Even as his body gives way, they extend to hers, vines tangling and intertwining, the lingering warmth of companionship permeating their bodies.

Even when separated, he will know of the absence she left behind — and follow her blessing, forever.