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@scrubpapa
Chk-chak. PEW PEW PEW!

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You can feel it now, right?
linkon mc: ? i asked when is your bday, not HOW you were born
the twins: oh
sylusmc fluff 2

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random piece
The crow's song
Chapter 1 - Early goodbyes
Chapter 2 - Unfulfilled wishes
Chapter 3 - Broken fate
Chapter 4 - New moon
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
They throw away their wedding ring mid argument
Caleb
âAm I not important to you?â
He regrets it instantly but the damage has already been done. You stare blankly at the spot the ring is lying on. Suddenly everything feels heavy. He can't bring himself to move or pick up the ring. But what hurts most is the necklace around his neck that has been hanging since forever, which he never once took off let alone throw it away still hanging still while the ring which was a sign of your eternal bond was lying on the floor, once again reminded you of your place in his heart. It made you think that maybe the apple of his eye wasn't you.
Xavier
He leaves the tense atmosphere to calm himself but his actions had consequences. The ring which you preciously picked out, the stone on it heavily resembles a precious stone from Philos, his home. To make him feel like home was always near with you but now home seemed farther away. When he returns he sees a note from you saying you need some space and your own ring with the same stone lying beside it. That's when he felt the heaviness you felt seeing the ring detached from his hand. A reminder once again that how granted he took you for. And the tassel on his sword that hung everyday, mocking you, was a reminder of how fleeting you were in his life. âThen maybe we shouldn't be together,â was what he said to you before he threw it all away.
Rafayel
Papers and paints scattered everywhere as Rafayel desperately searched for the shining band that was meant to be on his finger. A ring made from the ancient jewel remnants of Lemuria. He never got to know how you got your hands on it but you told him it didn't matter, that binding your vows with something from the place of his birth was the only right way and that it would be eternal. But now, now it was lost Lemuria knows where and he has turned the whole studio upside down in search of it. You still had your ring on your finger which was a stab to Rafayel. The ring was the only thing you shared with Rafayel unlike the red flamulla, which was a terrible reminder that maybe eternity with Rafayel was not meant to be.
âMaybe you are not the one I was looking for all this time.â
Sylus
Sylus had a terrible temper despite his somewhat calm demeanor, which now resulted in the white diamond ring lying beside the bedside table. Hurtful words were exchanged which shouldn't have been and a lot of them being from Sylus himself. âYou're insane, you think you know everything? I do it for you, for the both of us,â he never shouts, never raises his voice, but the fury in his eyes says everything. âNo. No you don't! You do it for her!â That was the fire to the fuel and the next thing you see is his ring rolling on the ground. The ring you exchanged your vows with. Thrown away like it meant nothing. But the brooch with the precious red gem, he still proudly wears it. Your rings didn't have red, no. It was pure diamond white because he associated you with them. It was different. At least you thought it was. But the ruby still stands while the diamond falls.
Zayne
âShe will always be more to you than I ever was.â
Zayne stops himself halfway, about to remove the ring and comes to senses with the horror of his actions. You weren't blind, you saw what he was about to do and it hurt you deeply. It's like for the first time you didn't understand him or worse, know him. The jasmine shaped stone on his finger is a pair to your snowflake. Two different bands. Yet they hold the same meaning. Maybe you were different after all, fleeting like a snowflake. Falling too easily on the ground, slowly. And maybe the jasmine bloomed somewhere else. Somewhere or someone you don't want to mention. And so you walk away from him before he could catch you. Maybe he should just let you fall like the countless snowflakes formed in his hands.
How it feels to find a fanfic where your favorite character is going through literally the worst horrors you can imagine
Guess my main

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I have so many doodles of him omg (I have more btwđ€đ€)
I would let him ruin me (lovingly)
đđĄđ đ§đđ«đđąđ§đđŹđŹ đŠđđđđ« ; aka the least to most nerdy lnds men !
5. zayne
Oh I realise what you must be thinking... gifted child academic weapon master workaholic Zayne being the least nerdy of them all...? But what if I told you that his strict, unforgiving day to day routine is precisely what's holding him back from unleashing his true nerd esque potential... Zayne simply doesn't have enough free time on his hands to fully engage in any sort of energy consuming hobby nowadays. However, if you manage to spot a past interest of his (such as that one time back in college when he suddenly grew obsessed with bird watching for some unknown reason), you better get ready for a thirty minute long mini lecture AND a mandatory pop quiz at the end </3
Additional nerdy notes:
collects cat figurines (which are regularly dusted and some even polished)
can sew and likes to embroider in his free time to relax (think coin purses, bookmarks, pillowcases...)
takes his feng shui VERY seriously. if you move anything in his house, he WILL be crashing out
grows various herbs (both for cooking & medicinal purposes)
appreciates a good old classic romance novel every once in a while... does he have a clothbound collection that includes all of Jane Austen's books? feel free to find that out
4. rafayel
The key to understanding Rafayel's (mostly accidental) nerdiness would probably be realising just how much of his time is spent in almost complete solitude. In order to fill out the silence while painting, sculpting or actively avoiding Thomas' frantic calls, Rafayel has obtained a bunch of more or less obvious hobbies. Take video essays for example â the more obscure, the better â or even podcasts; anything that allows him to let out a shocked gasp every once in a while will have Rafayel sat and focused. The majority or his nerdy interests also stems from his craft (I mean this man makes his own paints. What are we expecting here even), given the impossibly high standards he has for materials, fabrics and everything in between. He's also extremely proficient with languages â something you find out by complete accident â which proves to be useful in more ways than one (just like that one time you came by the studio to bother him a bit and Rafayel was watching some niche conspiracy theorist talking in literal Mongolian).
Additional nerdy notes:
whole tons of opera (and ballet) knowledge permanently ingrained in his brain
had a whole episode with pottery and generally speaking working with clay. so now you have two full sets of dinner plates, bowls of all shapes and sizes, like 16 mugs and a bunch of flower vases handcrafted by the man himself
speaking of episodes; Rafayel had also gotten quite heavily into divination at some point in his life â tarot reading, chiromancy, those type of practices â so now you can spot some remnants of that time scattered around his house (crystals, pendulums, runes and sigils, various books on the subject)
does indeed read quite a bit but audiobooks are more of his thing due to their potential for being used while multitasking. if you recommend Rafayel a book, better be ready for him to come back to you with a full blown review after 3-5 business days
every once in a while he makes it his life mission to research some old, long forgotten court case. in fact, he's slowly becoming quite prominent in criminal law simply because of investigating particular, niche topics to such an extent (which can be shocking to some)
makes his own candles (scented or not). they're usually put in vintage containers / jars / fancy crystal glasses
can handcraft a wooden painting frame like it's nobody's business
had once gone to Italy just to learn how to make a violin from scratch. hasn't even used that skill yet
3. xavier
If you asked Xavier whether or not he considers himself a nerd, heâd probably say no â believing that there are people more devoted to the nerdy lifestyle than he is and therefore more deserving of the title. But even though he generally disagrees with the statement, the real life evidence proves otherwise â especially when it comes to his favorite media and Xavier has a bunch of those. From tons and tons of books heâs (re)read over the years (and let me just tell you that the sheer speed he can achieve while reading is more than enough to put a casual literature enjoyer straight into a coma), all over to his most beloved video games â Xavierâs brain is filled with carefully (and lovingly) gathered information.
Additional nerdy notes:
a devoted figurine collector. has a whole shelf designated just for those
every once in a while he will attend a calligraphy course to learn a new handwriting style, simply to see "if he still got it"
PLEASE invite him to a stargazing date⊠this man can spend countless and countless of hours laying on the grass next to you with wide eyes, teaching you how to recognise constellations
enjoys mangas / manhwas / comic books in general. is also very opinionated when it comes to the art style â so even when the plot is great, he refuses to touch it because he thinks it looks ugly
WILL read encyclopaedias when heâs bored. and the craziest thing here is that theyâre never normal encyclopaedias either, but some bizarre ones instead, like detailed descriptions of wine making in 16th century Greece or modern methods of fabric printing or something. (you even catch him studying codex seraphinianus once and end up needing a glass of ice cold water afterwards)
the absolute best, 10/10 cosplay companion. will do his absolute best to adjust to your vision. the first time you witness him getting up at 4 in the morning to help you get ready for an event, you tell him to pinch your arm because youâre so shocked (and he does. hard)
I feel like heâd accidentally get really into watching racing. he doesnât even care for the drivers or teams, heâs just invested in the races themselves
definitely knows how to forge a sword (is also yet to make use of said knowledge)
2. caleb
The ultimate nerdy ass loser trapped in a hot body⊠Caleb is most likely the closest to a statistical image of a nerd (interest wise, definitely NOT visually), having naturally accumulated all sorts of typically nerdy interests over the years. Aircraft related knowledge & lore would probably be the first thing that comes to mind â especially given that itâs a hyperfixation which lasted well into adulthood in Calebâs case. He's also obsessed with finding out how literally everything works; once you come over to his place in Skyhaven and he's casually deconstructing his kitchen sink just to see "what's going on in there".
Additional nerdy notes:
an absolute science fiction nerd. he'll consume anything related to it, doesn't matter how poor reviews it got. sci fi is also probably the only genre of books he has physical copies of (not counting his aircraft textbook collection). goes online to debate whether Star Wars is a space opera or a space western (he thinks it's both)
anything that includes building things is immediately getting Caleb approved. be it model planes or even legos, this man is LOCKED IN the very second you bring out the instruction sheets
speaking of crafting, Caleb is also really into mechanics â regarding planes in particular, but any sort of vehicle is fair game â and it definitely comes in waves, meaning he'll be gushing about it for a month straight and then go radio silent for the next three
has once fixated on post-apocalyptic media of all shapes and sizes, so now, just in case anything happens, he's more than prepared to survive a literal atomic blast or some shit
genuinely enjoys programming
will never say no to a good old video game either. even though he's not particularly skilled at them for some unknown reason
also good luck dragging him away from an animal documentary btw. (especially when he's drunk. ESPECIALLY when said animal is small. you glance at him from the corner of your eye and he's just tearing up because he saw a pika gathering flowers for the winter)
1. sylus
Ladies and gentlemen, the nerdiest man alive has just entered the premises </3 Did you really think that THE hoarder of all eternity could be anywhere lower on this list... Sylus is obviously a master collector â of anything he deems intriguing enough to obtain â so his beloved treasury is simply filled with trinkets â jewels and crystals, coins, banknotes, vintage candle holders, champagne glasses made of crystal, antique daggers... He also reads A LOT. Sylus doesn't like not knowing things, so he consumes non fiction books at the speed of light. At first it could've been excused as actually useful research but then he began reading old books meant for bartending courses so at this point you're not even questioning his choices.
Additional nerdy notes:
a literal weaponry encyclopaedia (AND a full arsenal)
definitely overeducated on the topic of antique furniture â knows how to spot fakes, how to care for and maintain particular items, how they're made...
has roughly 60 different scented candles. don't ask
LOVES museums. if you value your time, do NOT under ANY circumstances offer him a trip to an exhibition because he WILL read every single thing that's in there
a (semi)casual enjoyer of woodworking. it's always evident when he gets back into it because his hands become as dry as sandpaper (please put some hand cream on him because he will not be doing it)
board games enjoyer (specifically chess, but also scrabble, mahjong, carcassone and monopoly)
a full on audiophile. it's pretty much a given, considering his genuine love for jazz and vinyl records... and listening to ella fitzgerald or thelonious monk using some random setup instead of a properly researched and tested combination of amplifiers and speakers is considered an unpardonable crime in Sylus' book
speaking of quality of sound, he's also one of the most prominent posters on some random ass niche website for audiophiles â one he checked each evening like a newspaper
can craft his own paper and also bind books (he once gifted you a journal that he made himself but because he's not one to brag about such things, you've gone literal months not realising it wasn't just some fancy high quality notebook)
a certified vintage car lover. if you have a modern car, do not even glance in his direction at this point
RIP Everyone's phone storage with this new update! đ Especially with the house upgrade. đ„Č
No Iâm so dead ass Iâm thinking of going to the Apple Store tomorrow and buying an iPad with my Christmas money just for lads because there is no GOD DAMN WAY đđđ
The shit I be doing for Sylus bro
Canât wait to see him on a screen thatâs as big as his dick #11inches
Sylus' dearest wives. Good luckâ„ïžâšđ
Why are you Russian thatâs my thing
Vodka

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Shared Bliss
La Douleur Exquise, Part 1: Sprout
Summary: Your entire life has been your twin sister. Why should your death be any different?
La Douleur Exquise: the heart-wrenching pain that takes over when you know that the person you love can never be yours.
Tags: hanahaki disease, reader being oblivious, sylus and reader being in love, romantic tension, emotional trauma (on both their parts), lowkey josephine bashing
A/N: First time writing free indirect discourse (both character's thoughts weaved throughout the story), so let me know if anything's confusing!
Part 2 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist
Itâs a Herculean task for your coworkers to end your work day. Your mandatory sick leave starts the second you clock out today. And everyone's determined to make that time last as long as possible.
From colleagues taking projects out of your hands to your boss saying sheâll escort you home if thatâs what it takes. You drag your feet through the entire process of getting out of your desk to approaching the elevator. Coffee and artificial scents waft in the air. Youâll miss it when youâre gone.
Who knew that the Hunters Association would be this protective over one little Protocore scientist?
Your chest clenches at the thoughtfulness. You try to ignore the pinpricks it causes in you as you walk to the elevator. Try and try in vain to forget what the blossoming agony means and who they grow for. So you turn to your phone. It glows with messages from two people: your dear older twin sister and the man who made this pain decide to take root inside of you.
You read your sisterâs texts first. Sheâs uncomplicated and predictable. Overprotective and sassy. No struggles; sheâs family. Even if the main reason Sylus wonât love you lies with her.
The tulips within you constrict at the image of him flashing in your mind. Petals try to crawl out your throat as you rapidly press the âclose doorsâ button so that your coughing fit isnât heard by everyone.
Glancing back her messages, you finally read them.
From:Â More Feral Than a Child on a Sugar High But Unfortunately Has Access to Guns
Why are you still here?
I seee youuuu!
Go home!
Workaholic!
And be sure to sleep!
Oh, but eat something first.
And I DONâT mean that shit that you think I donât know is buried in the freezer that you nuke when youâre on a research binge.
I mean real food!
Eat real food and then sleep so that you donât sulk around about having nothing to do.
omg
I think youâre the only person in the world thatâs ever been sad when your boss gives you PAID time off!
No fair. Give it to me.
Actually, donât. Youâre sick.
Again, why are you still here?!
Because apparently Sylus is here for you???
You make any plans with him recently?
You two spend a loooot of time together!
Itâs cute!
But you should tell Caleb about himâŠ
I can only hold him back from interrogating or using The Fleet to find out about the new man in your life for so long.
And neither of us want that.
A bulb threatens to spill out your lips as you struggle to type your response. You fight it off by imagining your sisterâs voice through her texts. Read them over again in her narration.
This is ridiculous. A mere glimpse of his name on my phone or thinking about him is enough to trigger me.
You stare at the reflective surface of the elevator. Deep eyes bags. Discoloration in your cheeks. Body one second away from collapse. Itâs not a curveball; sickness and terrible health are a constant in your life. The tang of blood is whatâs abnormal.
Youâre far gone. Youâve known for a while. No doctor visit needed. You havenât seen Zayne as your PCP since you found that first bit of flower. No one can know, after all. Thingsâll be real if they do. And your world will come crashing down.
Sylus can and will never love you back. Surgeryâs out the question. And the state of your petals signifies that the procedure to be a necessity at this stage of the disease. Youâre going to die. Alone. In silence. With swiftness.
Body-shaking coughs break past your lips. Youâre still in the elevator on your way to the lobby, so no one can hear (never have you been grateful to work on the upper floors of the Hunters Association and the long trips that comes with it). Blood and dark chocolate. A black rose petal than. Your skull rattles with the echoes.
Itâs only after that brief episode and with the clarity of your throbbing throat do you write your reply to your sister.
To: More Feral Than a Child on a Sugar High But Unfortunately Has Access to Guns
Youâre so obnoxious, you know?
I tell you that recently?
I know how to take care of myself, so stop being a nag!
Youâre worse than Caleb
So much worse
And I wish you and everyone else in this damn building would take a page out of his book and LEAVE ME ALONE
Iâm grown!
Hardly need all these people policing meâŠ
Itâs just a small cough
A small cough that may cause a disturbance here and there
But nothing major
Maybe some bug I caught from you and the Wanderer remnants you bring into the house?
Iâm dying
^edit not dying
Read everything here before you freak out over nothing
Thereâs a dark sense of humor to be found in your little âslipâ. Humor your family wonât find when theyâre burying you. When your sister finds that she has another grave to visit, she wonât be able to laugh. Not in the beginning. Itâll take time. Sheâll need to grieve you. But, sheâll forget you. Sheâll move on. Sheâll live on.
Youâre not needed in anyoneâs life. Let alone hers. With all the previous ones sheâs led and all the loves sheâs experienced. Whatâs one annoying little sister in all that?
It hurts. Burns a brand of fire that scorches and shimmers to a degree that it canât be called a flame. Fervor isnât the right word for the internal wound this fact causes.
Yet, you understand it. As you enter the of lobby of the Associationâs bottom floorâthe fancy air freshener is hard to pick up with your busted lungsâthe flowers dance again at the brief sight of a familiar silhouette and car parked out front. Itâs that flutter, the movement of a garden that will cause your demise, that makes you alive. Free. Full of adrenaline and high on a drug that no chemical can nor will ever replicate.
Every time Sylus enters your field of vision and you experience the suffocation in your main bronchus, you get this way. On top of the world. The rush of living without limits or regrets. Any negative emotions you could have as a result of thinking about your sisterâs life without you evaporates when the tulips choke you.
The irony isnât lost on you. You embrace it. Love it, even. So much so that you speed walk to Sylus without reading his message. Him and his familiar car, familiar red and black outfit, and familiar bouquet that he gives you each time you meet.
Thereâs another segment of hilarity in the flowers he gifts you. One that Sylus will understand and maybe chuckle at after your funeral. You donât produce the beautiful white flowerâone with dazzling long petals that fan behind the main bloomed bud; itâs a plant you have no name for. Sylus, in no manner, shows any signs of telling you and smirks at you. You have no desire to shatter the illusion of this little banter between you, so youâll never know.
You do make the purple tulips he gifts with them.
Purple tulips mean royalty and elegance. A bonkers sentiment to describe someone like you. But youâll treasure anything from Sylus. So, on no occasion will you ever voice that opinion.
Part of you believes Sylus knows. Knows the traitorous voices in your head and the malevolent ideas they whisper into your ear. That side of you believes itâs that knowledge that leads him to making this flower gifting of his a tradition between you two.
You give your own flowers to Sylus each time you meet. Except yours are locked behind your ribcage and the chosen vase lies in the lobes of your lungs rather than in your home. All of them are tulips. Have been since your disease first took root.
Purple for your admiration. Black for his strength, mystery, and practice of rebelling against forces who dare to attempt to cage him. Your other two symbolize your love for him: deep pinkâjoy, gratitudeâand redâboundless desire, passion, and perfect love.
Perfect love.
A ridiculous concept conjured by the heart of a ridiculous girl in love with one of her sisterâs past lovers.
A lover who still holds her dear, judging by the fact that he caters to your whims. Listens to your tired rants about Protocores and space and the stars. Baits you with sweets after you spend days on a particular project and smell like the human embodiment of a Bean-Boozaled.
Reads books to you in a hushed voice as you lay in your bed alone in Linkon in the apartment you share with your sister; he reads over the phone, on speaker, regardless of the time. Never makes a fuss about you interrupting his schedule with something as mundane as a nightmare about your time at EVER.
Perfect love.
You were bound to develop for someone as devoted as him. Someone who drops everything for you and your sister. Someone who lets you cry on his shoulder when memories of Josephine and the sacrifice she made for you during the explosion resurface at the worst time. Someone who lets you rant about stupid coworkers and demanding deadlines even when he has his own life to attend to.
Growing flowers for him was always in the cards for you.
âYou trying to analyze the Aether Core in my eye again, sweetie? Because Iâd love to hear your thoughts on it.â
A voice made of the finest symphonies and orchestras put together brings butterflies into your stomach. Butterflies that pollenate the flora in your chest. Another petal tries to crawl out of your throat, and this time, you taste more of it. A red tulip; they have a specific spice to them when youâve thrown them up in the past.
Shoving it back with the experience youâve garnered from hiding your condition from your sister, you roll your eyes at Sylus and take your flowers from him, âNo, S-skye. I know better. Found out during our first meeting.â
Sylus chuckles. âThatâs just too bad. Wouldâve been the best excuse for me to finally take you away from your sister.â
His words press on the wounds on your heart a little too much. You try to hide how affected you are.
Am I that annoying? Are you already done with me?
You move to the other side of his car. He follows you. For he would go anywhere with you.
Why must you distance yourself from me? Why must you hide from me?
Sylus knows you well. Too well, one could argue. The twins tease him about it. Your older sister even quizzes him. He couldnât care less. Heâll take any and all badgering if it makes you smile. Makes you laugh. Brightens your day a bit more.
The two of you are now on the street. Not the smartest decision.
Thereâs a little voice in your head that wills a car to come. That hopes and prays for some wayward vehicle or Wanderer to kill you so that your love doesnât. Sylus will never know your feelings for him; youâll die being his good friend. Your sister will never know your feelings for her dragon; youâll die being her nerdy twin with social issues.
The voice in Sylusâ head says something thatâs darker for a different reason in comparison to yours: âDevour her.â
His Aether Coreâs more incessant these days. Burning and yearning and inside Sylusâ eye whenever he gets a glimpse at you. It desires you in every way.
To have you live with him rather than your family. Spoil you. Hold you. Love you. And itâs not always the physical and vulgar definition of that word that courses through his veins.
Intrinsic things cycle through more often. Breakfast in bed. Showering you in gifts (more than just flowersâitâs what you deserve and Sylus would be damned if he didnât spend at least 7 figures on you every day you grace him with your presence). Small dates. Big events. Grazes against each otherâs bare skin that says, âIâm here.â
He longs to have you be a permanent fixture in his life. Put a ring on your finger. Wed you. Bed you. Make you his any possible manner.
âDevour her.â
I canât.
He doesnât want to scare you. To have you turn your nose at him with disgust and malice like your twin once did. He couldnât survive that.
You both get back to the usual banter to run from whatâs inside your heads, âW-what reason could you have for that?â
âYou tell me, sweetie.â
âYouâre killing me here. Iâm intrigued,â on the inside, you laugh at your own joke.
Sylus notices the shift in your expression. The worst ideas come to mind before he can beat them away. He pretends otherwise.
âThen it seems I have achieved my goal. A good mystery is always the best way to grab your attention.â
âAm I that predictable?â You lean against the passenger side door, staring at the ground as you card your fingers through the petals of the fresh gift.
Beautiful, Sylus thinks.
âYes. Youâre here with me right now, after all,â and he canât help but get closer.
Have your sweet warmth in more of his space. Hear the comforting rhythm of your heartbeat (a background noise that chases away any nightmare and soothes every scar). Inhale the faint perfume you claim your sister likes to spray on herself without a careâand, as an unintentional result, youâevery morning; heâs never smelled it on her.
Is he so consumed by you that he canât? Or did you spin your little story to cover your love floral scents?
Itâs irrelevant.
And he canât forget the sight of you when he gets closer. Your eyes widen a smidge. Your skin with beauty marks and old scabs that you call imperfections but he calls proof of your resilience. The loose clothes that hang on your person.
âDevour her.â
No, he tells it.
Sylus hits your senses as well. His breath. His cologne and the tinge of gunpowder that lies beneath it. The fabric of his clothes shifting as he moves his hand next to your body.
âWhich is a good thing, since Iâm in need of your assistance.â
He doesnât touch you. He wants to (not that youâre aware). But with his Aether Core behaving this way, he canât risk it. Canât risk the self-control he prides himself on failing him for the first time.
He moves you off the door to open it. With his Evol.
âSyâSkye! Youâre gonna get caught!â your squeal and stumble are adorable; you find them embarrassing.
Tendrils of energyâso corrosive and dangerous; ones that render flesh into pulp but touch your skin like itâs pricelessâsurrounds your hips. Sylusâ eyes are on his hands as you squirm at the display of power right in front of your workplace.
Sylus watches you watch his Evol. Curiosity sparkles in your eyes, pupils dart to dissect different segments. Lightness spreads throughout his heart. Another little moment where you show wonder instead of fear. Where you embrace him instead of running from him.
You panic while he smirks. Adoration and anxiety dance between you two. Total opposites. Like everything else about the pair of you.
Does the Association know his Evol? My sister wouldâve mentioned that is they did, right? She wouldnât have forgotten to tell me?
He shrugs at you, unaware of the crisis his presence causes. âA risk Iâm willing to take just to see you smile.â
Cactus needles poke at your heart. The idiotic and duplicitous muscle squeezes under the tenderness of his words. You comply with his request. If you do anything else, you might say something or do something you canât take back.
Like kiss him. Bring his face to yours and kiss him hard enough that he presses you against his fancy car. He'll grab your waist as pushes you further into the hot metal. Make circles on your hips while his mouth devours yours. You'd run your fingers through his hair. Yanking and pulling on the strands in an attempt to ground yourself under the relentlessness of his lips.
Would he stop? Or take you right here, in front of everyone? Or will that famous greed of his get in the way and heâll whisk you away? Will he believe heâs the sole person allowed to gaze upon you in the throes of passion and pleasure? Or would he want to display you?
How fast would he go to get you into his bed? Would his conquest end there? Where would those hands of hisâstained in blood and capable of such violence, yet you know them to be kind ones that soothe you to sleepâwander?
Around your neck? Down your back? Pining your wrists? Between your legs?
And his lips. You can't forget about them. Can't get the idea of them everywhere on you out of your head. How would he taste? More rich and umami like his black tulips? Or sweet like the pink? Maybe even a hint of sourness, like the purple?
Tingles envelop your lips. Tongue vibrates as it imagines a flavor profile you'll never get to sample. Your skin smolders like a flame, and the oak logs are your clothing.
How would I taste to him?
âHere. S-smiling. Now happy?â
Boiling. Bubbling and boiling blood in your veins from your nasty thoughts. You avoid Sylus' hands. And his face. You canât do with more indecent thoughts of him fucking you in his car.
Sylus chuckles. You plea to the universe it's not because of how disordered you are.
Itâs not. Youâre not aware, but Sylus never laughs at you. Finds you adorable, yes. Finds youâre flustered nerves cute (when itâs in bursts and not deep discomfort), yes.
He chortles because itâs better he does that than cup your cheeks in his hands and kiss you. Or rub your face against his like heâs a cat. Moments like this, he wants to hoist you off your feet and spin you. Or put you in his pocket to keep for himself.
Not that your sister would let him.
âI will be. Once you agree to hear me out,â you gesture at him to do so as soon as the words finish leaving his mouth. âI need you for something.â
âForâŠ?â you ask as he opens the door for you to step into his car. You do so and he slinks into the driverâs side.
âTo be my partner,â his full-belly laugh signals that your face sports a strange expression. âNot that way, sweetie. I am a gentleman, after all. I wouldnât dare ask you that question is such a casual setting.â
Stop that. Don't get my hopes up.
Your fingers long to run along his veiny forearms. Steal that jacket of his and wear to enclose his scent around you. Dragons are territorial, right? Would he ever mark you with his aroma like that? To show the world you're his and he's yours?
Or would he bite my neck? Leave deep gashes there and on my collarbones and suck them hard enough so that they linger for days?
Heat pools in your stomach. Without any thought, one of your hands traces the side of your neck. Sylus notices the movement. His breath catches.
You spiral while he preens. You fall apart while he soars.
âDevour her.â
The urge sinks itâs teeth into the logical side of his brain. Biting. Clawing. The fiend within longs to be set free. Sylusâ whole body buzzes, scorches. Hands itch to expore your body. Lips beg him to give in an inch. One little taste. A sample.
His Aether Core hums in his eye. Says it needs nothing more than a portion. One kiss. One mark on your skin. One listen to your whimpers and moans. Itâll be satisfied. Sylus could take his time afterwards.
Itâs a lie. A tale every addict has told. Once would be enough to make him never go back. Keep you in his bed. Cling to you with palms on your form each time you appear before him.
Could he still be gentle after having you that way? Be the soft man you know him rather than the monster everyone else does? He fears becoming possessive. Terrified at the idea of the intrusive thoughts of caging and bruising you becoming reality. Frozen at the notion that, maybe, youâd let him.
Is that better or worse?
You straighten and speak with a jovial tone to break the tension, âW-whatâs the plan then?â
You joke to calm your racing heart. To pretend that your entire being isnât on fire, that your lungs arenât attempting to squeeze what little air you have left in out. Act as if Sylusâ words didnât bring you to cloud nine only to slam you into the harsh concrete. That youâre not breaking on the inside.
You put on a mask. You have to. To keep the flowers inside. To keep the status quo. To stay in your lane.
âWhy would I tell you and ruin the surprise?â the smirk on his lips isnât his usual one. Itâs tinged with something more, roots of other emotions and meanings planted in his eyes. âBut what I will tell you is that in this context, youâd be my partner for a business gala.â
Your heart falls out of your chest and under the seat of the fancy car you have no business polluting with your touch. You attempt to get out the car, to give back the flowers you donât deserve to touch. Thereâs no way you can help Sylus with his request.
Iâm not my sister, your eyes speak as Sylusâ face changes. Iâm not a Hunter. Iâm not a fighter. Iâm not helpful here.
Youâre a fragile nerd, too broken by EVER to stomach the sight of blood or hear a gunshot. Yet another reason you and Sylus would never work. If one excludes all the major factorsâhis love and history with your twin being the most glaring of themâthis âminuteâ detail hammers the final nail into the coffin.
Surviving a life beside Sylus isnât possible for you. Youâre a coward by nature. A runner. A hider. A man with a life like his couldnât stand being romantic with someone like you.
âThe better twin gets off in a bit. S-she can meet you down here. Iâll get going now. I canât help you.â
Sylusâ heart rips open at your words. He wants what he hears to be wrong. But, he clocked the change the second your eyes shifted; long before you spoke.
I donât want her, he begs with his own. I want you.
He wants your heart, one hurt by many but still willing to give.
He wants your eyes, expressive and misted by pain but sharp with determination.
He wants your will; a woman afraid and, at times, not sure of herself but fierce when it matters.
He wants your intellect, that mind of yours able to keep up with his no matter the circumstances. Calculating, but kind. Can be cruel, but more prone to a compassion that borders on naivety. You give that impression on purpose. Allow others to underestimate you.
Once, Sylus did. When he first met you. The less impulsive, more reserved twin. Moments later, he learned how far the depth of that mistake goes. When your eyes locked with his. Direct. No hesitation. Glimmering with an insatiable thirst for knowledge.
Those same irises cloud with sorrow right now.
âThe better twin,â you said. As if it wasnât obvious to everyone around the two of you that youâre equal. As if you believe that rather than love your sister lifetimes ago, he still clings to her.
âSweetie. If I wanted your sister, we wouldnât be having this conversation.â
He leans into your space, grateful you donât flinch away. Tells himself itâs to get you to pay attention, to heed his words.
The core in his eye knows better. Even in this serious time.
âDevour her. Sheâs yours. Consume her.â
Desire thrums under his skin. And heâs thankful you canât hear or sense it any capacity. Sylus runs hotter as he moves over the manual shift stick in his car. The heat of your own body caresses against his.
Iâm too close.
âNot close enough,â his Aether Core supplies.
Not close enough to taste. Have your lips against his. Or maybe his mouth against your neck. Your collarbones. Your stomach. Your thighs. Lower and lower until he reaches his prize. The one place heâll never allow himself to dream about.
Going back from that would be an arduous task. But, he canât depart from you now. He needs this proximity. To convince you. To get you to listen.
He puffs air on your skin as he breathes out. Too sharp for your mess of a brain. Smoke and expensive cologne enters your failing lungs. Heart too loud. Flesh too warm. Your imagination runs wild, and you taste the idea of him on your tongue again.
It's his favorite wine (you've had it before at his place). With a hint of sweetness and exquisiteness that you canât describe any other way but Sylus in his purest form. You wet your lips.
Sylus sweeps away your fantasy, âIf I wanted her, Iâd text her. Iâd call her. Iâd have Luke and Kieran fetch her. I have you here with me because I want you.â
Absentminded, you bob your head in agreement as your body rises to an impossible temperature. Cheeks heat to an uncomfortable degree. Hands sweat so much that youâre surprised Sylus doesnât comment.
Your headâs in fog. Dazed from the weight of the man you loveâs words. What they mean beyond the hints. The reason behind why his eyes are intent on searing holes into you.
Sylus knows you well. Knows how you hide yourself from the world, make yourself invisible in favor of your sister. Knows that it took a while for you to believe to the narrowest of margins he wants to spend time with you.
Knows how you fold in on yourself when strangers stare in your direction for a second too long (he shields you with his large body, and that habit of his became one of the many things that made you fall in love and grow flowers in your chest for him).
Sylus knows how you make your sister the center of your world. How everything you do leads back to her in some capacity.
Even him.
But, at the same time, he knows how to push you. How to move you beyond the box youâre determined to cage yourself in. How to guide your mind towards that specific breakthrough. How to challenge you to see your work from another angle, a different light.
Heâs too good to you, for you. You know that. And for that, youâll taking choking on his love with dignity and grace.
To him, youâre too good for him. Fragile in your health, but strong in your heart. Afraid of what he does, but not of him. Weary and smart and generous, but not jaded. Youâve yet to loose your faith in the worldâin him.
He canât confess. Canât love you the way he wants. You deserve better. Better than him and his harsh hands with countless lives on them and his dark thoughts.
You are not mine to have, you both think.
He buckles you in while youâre still distracted, âKeep that in mind for me, Fenghuang. I never settle for anything less than the best.â
You nod, keeping your head down and fiddling with your fingers in your lap. The tulips in your chest brush against your heart. The muscle pounds at lightning speed and claps like thunder. Not even the plants killing you can slow it.
Sylus drives away from your workplace, smug grin on his face (one he puts on to hide his own complex maze of emotions) as you avoid eye contact with him through the mirrors.
â
With great pain, you detach yourself from Sylusâ side for the umpteenth time to dash to the bathroom. His eyes are on you as you do. Without even looking back, you know his expression; youâve seen the furrow in his brow enough tonight for it to be a permanent fixture in your mind. What it would be like to smooth that crease out with your hands? Bring his forehead to yours as you whisper comforting words to him and peck his cheeks?
Itâs all make belief. Delusions of a dying woman. Thereâs no harm to it. No one gets hurt by them, so you leave your thoughts alone. Put judgement of yourself to the side for a second.
Well, except for me.
You add an addendum; they arenât causing pain to anyone important.
Sylus watches you go, worry snaking throughout his body. He knows that you sometimes get bad allergies. Thatâs not the case here. Suppressed coughs that make your entire body tremble (itâs prominent each time he places a hand on youâwhich he rationalizes to himself and you that itâs necessary to state that youâre his partner and should be treated as such). Speckles of blood on your lips. The air of death that circles around you, thicker and more potent.
Youâve made many trips to the bathroom. Claiming both that youâve had too much to drinkâdespite no even finishing a glass of simple waterâand wanting to give him opportunities alone with his business associates. Each time he tells you itâs not needed. But you flash him that warm smile of yours, and his will to make you stay crumbles.
His eyes follow your retreating form. You stumble a bit, hand on your mouth and back hitching from the force of the coughs you assume he doesnât hear. Heâs heard them all night and knows from even a glimpse of you that theyâre still happening.
He fidgets when youâre like this. Terrified at what it means.
Is it something she ate? Is she sick? Whatâs causing this? Did someone poison her to get to me?
All questions lead to one prevailing notion: he shouldnât have brought you here. Youâre not well. And all the stupid politics and dangers of his life are deteriorating your condition.
When she comes back this time, weâre leaving.
You, on the other hand, remain oblivious to his spiraling just as heâs in the dark about the tulips that nip the back of your throat. Youâre alone when the tides crest. Each session youâve had in the bathroom has been devoid of an audience. This time is no different. No one bears witness to your mess.
Itâs quiet as you expel the plants. No loud retchings sounds. No deafening splashes as handfuls of petals sink in the toilet, weighed by your phlegm and bile. One of a kind you, with the agony that grips your esophagus, and the captivating tulips that spell your end. Itâs poetic, in a way.
Bleary eyed and tired, you sit with your back against the seat for a second. To catch your breath. To think as tears slip on your cheeks, micro bursts of cold that soothe the sizzle of the rest of your face, from the sheer force of what came out of your body. In and out, you count each expansion of your lungs. 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on. Small things help ground you.
When the scratchiness in your mouth and the sear of stomach acid becomes too much, you turn to flush the evidence. You have pause when your eyes begin to register the size of the petals.
Theyâre bigger.
A bad sign. Larger means more progression. Greater growths in greater numbers. Means youâre closer to the end. Taking another shallow breath, you pull the mechanism to make it all disappear.
Deal with it later. You knew this was going to happen. You know youâre going to die. Get over it.
Itâs taxing to leave the stall. A thought crosses your mind to drown yourself here. Get it all over with. Pass away in a humiliating way; a way thatâs crude, sure, but spares Sylus of the insurmountable affliction you know heâs going to have once the flowers engulf you.
Rationale kicks in once you hear the lock of the stall door hit against the little metal piece itâs supposed to slide into to secure it close.
Not here. Donât make things harder for Sylus. Donât stain his relationships with these people with your blood.
Washing your hands and face, you center on your aspirations again. In and out. As slow as possible. As long as possible. Something to latch onto to keep yourself from giving in and doing something stupid.
Whatever calm you gather dissipates when you reunite with Sylus. He gravitates towards you, as if pulled in by the scent of the damned flora growing inside you. He leans into you, exhalation ghosting your right ear and bringing bees to life to buzz in your belly, âWeâre leaving.â
âHold onââ you protest.
âI wonât hear it.â
His command makes your heart pound. Your face flushes and you duck to avoid his gaze. Sylus being Sylus, slides a finger under your chin and raises your eyes back to his. Heâs languid but slow with his movements. Graceful but careful with his brushes.
Elegant but loving with his nudges.
Amusement fills the quirk of his lips, âNow donât go depriving me of the lovely sight of your face. Youâll hurt my feelings.â
âI wonât. If you promise not to use me as an excuse to abandon your duties. Iâm fine.â
Iâd let the world burn for you, but letâs start with the basics, sweetie.
He scoffs and laughs with affection, âThat you are not sweetie. And if youâre so worried about my work, think of us departing as saving my reputation. The host himself has always chastised me about bringing my sick wife here. So let me a doting husband, would you?â
âWife.â
A purposeful decision he made in his mind the second he asked you to come with him. A declaration of everything he wants to say. A subtle jab in your direction of his love.
âWife.â
You were nonverbal from how embarrassed you were when he announced that title for the first time. Will you be the same when he really weds you? Will it fade over time as you accept that position, or will you two be the kind of couple thatâs always like that?
Sylus begins to guide you through the crowd. Canât have that fantasy of his get too vivid. Heâll taste your imaginary wedding cake on his tongue, hear the melody of your first dance. Glimmers and shimmers of a veil on your head. The perfect dressâone more expensive and stunning than the one that hugs your figure right nowâflutters in the corner of his eye.
âWife.â
Thereâs no one in this world, in any life or universe or timeline, he wants to call that but you. Odds are, itâll never come to pass.
âDevour her.â
Meanwhile, the heat of your blood numbs your tongue. You canât even protest when Sylus lays his large palm in the small of your back. Nor can you even muster a peep when he takes you before the host. Honeyed words and pleasantries fall from each manâs lips.
Nothing comes out of yours. Youâre too busy pushing down the petals that threaten to burst forth from them. That, and youâre basking in the rough texture of Sylusâ skin on your bare back. For some reason, the dress he picked out for you (one that matches his suit) opens there.
Youâve been consigned to every brush of his muscled arm or calloused hand setting you aflame throughout the night. Dancing was a hell unlike any other. To have him so close, have his warmth mingle with your cold body every time he got too near. Itâs all oh so overwhelming. Respect and attention and charity that isnât yours to have.
The garden within you has decided to act as it should. Hooked your throat and spilled out your mouth. Ruined this night you had hoped to have with your love, and tainted it with your visceral insides.
Youâre back in the base before you can think about it. At the party one moment, at Sylusâ home the next. Scolding yourself, you try to rush out of the passenger seat of your loveâs car. But, heâs already there: eyes narrowed in suspicion as he opens the door for you and offers his hand to you.
You take it. What else are you supposed to do? Despite how you know you can never be with him the way you want, how you know youâll die. Your heartâs delusion of falling for him. But you also known you can never let him go. That youâll take any opportunity to grasp his hand, to touch him and have him against your skin.
No matter how fuzzy and cloudy your brain gets every time. No matter how many coughs you have to choke back. No matter how many seeds are sown inside of you. No matter how many days are shaved off your short life. Youâll take Sylus in whatever manner you can get.
He does the same. Grips you tight when he can. Touches your bare skin with his whenever he can get away with it. Tiny things. Flashes in a pan.
This is enough, he tries to convince himself. It has to be enough.
Dancing with you tonight. Bringing you to his home. Each millisecond you let him share space with you. Under normal circumstances, heâs too enveloped by you to care about anything else.
Right now, he frets. Notices the wobble in your hands. The way your eyes dodge his. How youâre warmer than usual.
âWhy didnât you tell me before?â sits on the tip of his tongue.
âHow about you get changed, sweetie? I can drop you off at your apartment afterwards if youâd like,â he says instead.
Skimming your outfit, your thoughts spin.
Am I so ugly in this you want me out of it as soon as possible? Or do you not want my sister to know that you bought me it? It has your tastes all over it, after all. Do you want it back? Should I give it to you only to see my sister in it a few weeks from now? Will you give it to her at my funeral?
âNo,â you protest, so quiet youâre sure Sylus doesnât hear you.
He does, âNo what?â
Your eyes flutter towards his against your will. And those soft carmines you cherish are on you as you two walk side by side. They melt you to your core. The flowers decide to torment you less under the caress of his gaze. They hurt less in your chest right now.
âDonât w-wanna go home. Iâll go back tomorrow; the bad thing I ate s-should clear by then.â
The rumble of Sylusâ chest makes the corners of your lips twitch, âOf course.â
He doesnât believe me.
You know that tone heâs using. Know it well. From your sister, to your coworkers, to Calebâall those in your life have given you it. Whenever you did or said something witless. Your cheeks sizzle for another reason, and that reason makes you drop Sylusâ hand as if he had burned you.
âIâm gonna change. Tired of heels and your expensive taste in clothing.â
Voice clipped, and hand scorching from his touch, you sprint to the farthest bathroom in Sylusâ base, not even bothering to look at him again. Youâre too mortified to.
â
Sylus watches you leave with a bleeding heart. Guilt sets in as he pours himself a drink. You ripped yourself away from him. And heâs been so blind and selfish that he didnât know how sick you were until now. Until he got slapped with proof right in the faceâheâs supposed to be better than this.
Itâs so obvious. And I claim to love her.
Your face drained of its usual vibrant color. Eyes dimmed and bags under them thicker. His original belief: nothing more than poor sleep from your research binges (still worrisome, but fixable). But the bit of blood he saw on the corner of your lipsâbeautiful things heâs had to stop himself more than once tonight from kissing, especially with how that dress made your allure stand out even moreâtells him otherwise.
Makes him worry. He wants to lock you away from the world until you tell him whatâs going on and let him help you. Youâd hate him for that. For robbing you of your freedom.
At the same time, the more he notices you wither away, the more the terror of losing you that way begins to get crushed by a greater fear. Watching you lose yourself to illness, to something he could heal, is starting to be more unbearable than your hatred.
He tries to imagine that reality: youâre healthy, full of life and no longer fraught with the burdens of the world. You donât shrink back from everyone around you. Your life no longer centers around your sister. Your eyes donât dull when you think no oneâs looking (heâs always looking).
They only do that when heâs around in this version of events he conjures. Heâs no longer âSylusâ to you; heâs your jailer. The man that stole you. The man you fear above all others. His mind shows the picture of the way your sister once addressed him and twists it to be you. Itâs you with him in Philipâs workshop. Itâs you that he says, âSheâs afraid of you, or⊠disgusted by youâ about.
His face falls. His hand gains a small tremor. And his Evol, wisps of red and black, curl around his finger tips. Even his drink becomes bland. Never has loneliness been so empty. Never has rejection dug so far into his chest.
Her sister stabbed me to death in one life. Yet, this time around, the idea of her fearing me is enough to bring me to my knees.
You have power beyond belief. No Evol. No immortality like your twin and him. Instead, your ability shows in how you bend him and her by existing. A little bomb and a fiend. Beings who can and have destroyed worlds.
Both would buckle with one word from you. Both would die for your smile, and annihilate entire nations over your tears. Sylus grips the wine bottle. The glass strains under his grip.
I could lose her because she gave her heart to the wrong person.
âYouâre back earlier than expected, Boss-man,â Luke provides the perfect distraction.
Sylus kills his earlier train of though with precision. He has no proof of what's ailing you. Blood and bile canât diagnose Hanahaki. No flowers means he can't be certain. He needs more information before he can act.
Would you even give it to him? If he begs and pleads at your feet for something, anything, so that he can help you, would you?
Talking about your problems has never been your strong suit. Will you change that for me? Just this once?
âOr do you not trust me?" he longs to ask of you.
âWhereâs the missus?â
Kieranâs words pull a chuckle from Sylus, even as he circles the drain with his restraint to not teleport to you and demand answers.
Theyâve been calling you that for who knows how long; and Sylus can still recall the first time you âconfrontedâ him to try and make them stop doing so with picture perfect clairty. How you squirmed, not in discomfortâif that was the case, he knows the twins would respect your wishesâbut embarrassment laced with shock.
Shock at the place you hold in their lives. A close friend and maternal figure to the twins. Mephisto has labeled you to be his favorite. The rest of his henchmen that see you in passing have more or less made you out to be their boss' wife; you are to be given the same respect and your words hold equal power.
And to Sylus, of course, youâre his most precious treasure. Mousey, not one to say much, and oh so ravishing. A prize heâs unworthy of. He fears staining your delicate skin with his brutish hands that drip with the blood of countless victims.
Maybe thatâs why he gives you flowers. Why he grows them for you with his own hands in his personal greenhouse. To show youâand othersâthat heâs capable of more than death and destruction. That if he can breathe life into a desolate place like the N109 Zone, one day, he might worthy of holding your heart in his hands. That these strong hands can be graceful enough to hold not just frail flowers, but you.
âSheâs changing. Evidently, she doesnât seem to like the outfits I pick out for her.â
Sylusâ tone is light, but both his boys pick up the pain that floats beneath the surface. Neither comment on it. They exchange some kind of silent conversation before Kieran leaves. Sylus keeps quiet as he does. He sips on his wine again, taking the time to analyze and digest its contents.
Sheâd like this flavor. Iâll offer it to her when she gets better.
â
Kieran drags you out the bathroom to play games with his twin and boss. Said boss keeps a close eye on you in the virtual world. Shadowing you. Quipping with less bite and more concern than usual. Amity and adoration swirl within you at each loving word.
It makes everything all the worse. As you have to leaveâover and over againâin order to not throw up on yourself. Bile eviscerates your throat. Coats your mouth in its disgusting texture that no water or drink can fully drown out.
Bits of reprieve on your tongue come in the form of pink and purple tulips; a bitter candy enters your mouth when they appear. The entire time, your body acts like itâs building towards something.
You get the answer in no time. Not even an hour into the game, you canât hold back the flood anymore. Sprinting to the bathroom without ceremony, your stomach and lungs go on the attack. Itâs awful; the worst youâve ever had.
Sylus exits his pod once you disappear. The twins follow him, concern in their eyes. None of them say anything. Worry sits in their throats. All itch to go after you, but it's clear to all that you don't want them to.
But Sylus can't stand erratic beat of his heart. How the dragon in him calls to go after you. Protect you.
She doesnât want you, he chants while his feet slowly but surely take him to trail after you. She doesnât want you.
Meanwhile, iron envelopes your tongue from the heaps of blood that spills from you. Your eyes are too blurry to tell if you hit your target. You make a mental note to scrub the bathroom before you leave this time. The last thing you need is to infect Sylusâ sensitive nose with the scent of your waste.
Said man hasnât asked any questions. Strange. Off-putting. Do you like things being this way?
No questions. No concerns. Nothing.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Do I want him to worry, to fret over me, or do I want to die in peace?
Do you want him to cry over your body, mourn your passing and live with guilt piling on him like stones for his execution? Or do you want to become a blip in his life, one more fleeting human that crossed paths with the great dragon?
Another swell of flowers comes before you can decide. Obliterates your throat. Ruptures one of your arteries. How else could you explain there being this much blood?
What were those foods I read about that helped with blood loss? Poultry and beans sounds good. Maybe I can get Sylus to cook me some. I love his cooking.
More pools in your mouth. Trying to choke it backâto stop the tides, to stop your pain, or to foolishly try and get a gripâdoes nothing. Taste buds on the back of your tongue forget all other cuisine. You only know blood; they only know iron and fiber.
Eyes still filled with tears, you attempt to glare at the mountains of petals in the toilet. You need to channel your anger somewhere. Why not on the flush mechanism? Over and over again, you pull the handle. Screams well up alongside the garden that wants to push out of your neck.
Teardrops splash pathetically into the sea of your torment. Theyâre insignificant amongst the storm. Not adding anything helpful to your predicament. They land improperly on the edge of the seat to dilute the blood you managed to get on there. Another mistake for the books. Another error.
Another failure on top of all youâve done. The knock at the bathroom door you thankfully locked signals that the universe hasnât stopped messing with you.
Sylus arrives while youâre in this state. Blood and bile flood his nose the second he does. But itâs the floral scents that has anxiety clench a fist around his heart. That tinge isnât part of your usual smell.
No. No, no, no, noâŠ
Composure is something that comes easy to Sylus in tense moments. It dies when it involves you. Withers right now. He hopes that when he speaks, he doesnât waver.
âSweetie? Youâve been in there for quite sometime,â Sylusâ voice makes you sob all the harder.
You're desperate to open the door. Fall into Sylus' arms and confess your feelings and spend the rest of your days pampered by a man who drowns in remorse. The ghost of his strong arms are around your waist. Wonderful drinks that heâd brew for your sore throat linger in your oral cavity and the comfortable clothes heâd swaddle you in brush your skin.
Sylus is desperate for you. To comfort you. Shield you from the world and it's cruelty. Nurse you back to health from whatever is plaguing you.
It isn't Hanahaki, he attempts to persuade himself. It isn't. It canât be. Thereâs an explanation to this.
And if it is, itâs treatable. Regardless of what the internet and doctors say.
âBlood is bad, but big is worse,â they say, meaning itâs better to have bloody petals than large ones.
Blood can come from a multitude of things: scratched throat, or a vein or artery being nicked. Not good; but itâs fixable.
Big means progression. Depth. Roots getting into the chest cavity. Long periods of growth time. Big means itâs harder to remove. Harder to treat.
Not that any of this is his problem. You donât have Hanahaki. You canât.
âSweetie?â
He asks again. There's nothing else to do. He can only hope and pray and plead with the stars to not harm another person he loves. To not take away another treasure of his.
You're sick, though, when your love speaks. Your exhausted brain is aware enough to hear the falter in his words. Self-hatred slams into you for your thoughts, for the dreams you know better to even consider.
Idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You already made a vow to never tell him. Let yourself waste away, become fertilizer for the flowers, without anyone ever knowing. No one will grieve you for long. No one will miss you for long.
Thatâs okay; itâs how itâs supposed to be. You are your sisterâs shadow. You donât exist as a separate person. The world will go on without you. Sylus will go on without you.
Itâs fine. Itâs perfectly fine. Itâs how things should be. Itâs howâ
âSweetie? Answer me,â the tiny crack in his words breaks your heart.
His speech breaks you; your lack shatters him.
What is going behind there that you won't speak to me? How bad is it? Is too late? Are you dying? Are you dead?
His mind provides him a helpful image: you, aspirating silently on bodily fluids, while he stands mere feet away. You're gone before he can do anything. He's this close to breaking the door. His entire body shudders. When was the last time his blood ran this glacial?
The arenas? Finding his sorceress with her memories gone and a child? Or in his first life, when he found out he was all alone? When he almost killed his love?
I don't know. Isn't that frightening?
âIâIâm here,â you finally whimper and the universe inside Sylus holds itself together with duct tape.
Why do you sound so afraid? So broken?
âBecause sheâs dying,â a voice supplies in his headâis it the Aether Core or something else? âSheâs dying and you can do nothing to fix it. You, who promised to protect her.â
Your life is slipping through his fingers, âIâm calling you a doctor.â
Panic shoves itself into your stomach and causes another brief round of vomiting. You try to talk between volleys. Reassure and trick a man you know canât be fooled. A man, that while you canât see, you know is alight with worry.
Normally, youâd be flattered. Joyous for the occasion of having all of Sylus attention on you. Right now, it makes the roots in the lobes of your lungs dig deeper and stir a spoon in your guts.
âNo. Donât waste Philipâs time, s-silly. Iâll⊠Iâll be fine. Itâs just a bug.â
The laugh your love lets out is one entirely devoid of humor and bordering on insanity, âYou must think me a fool if you expect me to believe that,â he pauses. âJust let me in. Iâm begging you.â
He goes deathly quiet and you hear him thunk his head against the door. âYouâre scaring me.â
Sylus is on the precipice of breaking all his rules and morales with you. The scent of copper and iron from you is too strong. The waver in your voice is too much.
I need to see you. Please. I need to see you alive before I go mad.
He presses his head on the door in an empty attempt to get closer to you. Sense you through to the other side. Tell you that heâs here and heâs not going anywhere. He canât stop the sickness that knots in his stomach as he does. From his own hypocrisy.
Part of Sylus that doesn't want to come in. And that's why he keeps the door up. Doesn't want confirmation of his suspicions. Doesn't want to be sure that you love another.
Would he survive seeing such a thing? Would he survive if you lived with this person? Would he survive if you died?
No, he decides. Sylus has lost enough; he won't lose you. No matter the amount of fear inside of him.
But, of course, you none of this. And Sylus knows nothing of your own turmoil.
âYou? S-scared? Of me,â you scoff, hacking a bit as blood slips into the wrong pipe. âBig bag Boss-man afraid of me? Doesnât s-sound too believable. I think Iâll remain here.â
You stutter on every word after your choking bit. Discomforting warmth spreads in your cheeks. Your limbs are on fire.
Inept, stupid little girl.
âIf only you knew the impossibilities and paradoxes you arise within me. Anything is possible when it comes to you, sweetie.â
Itâs strange to be so flustered when youâre dying and standing in front of pool of your own blood. Watching the red liquid bubble and mix with your phlegm as your heart beats faster.
âAnything is possible when it comes to you, sweetie.â
Such sweet words from a man that causes you so much suffering.
âFlattery will get you nowhere,â your cadence is broken; it hurts to breathe, much less speak.
âItâs not flattery, Fenghuang,â he nearly voices.
âI donât want it to get me anywhere but past this door,â is the better option, so he says it.
Sylus returns to normal to a degree. No longer does his voice shatter as he talks. No longer does it bleed trepidation, nor rumble with a tremor not unlike a thunderstorm. Thereâs still twinges of something. Something youâre not clear-minded enough to identify.
That unknown factor that keeps you pushing back against him, âThereâs no need. Really. Itâs just aâa bug and allergies. You know how weak my body is, remember? Always getting s-sick and failing on me.â
Heavy wheezes escape out your lips. Once more, you turn to the toilet bowl and hurl some petals. Once more does the flavor of rich chocolate mix with spice in your mouth. Once more, you note their sheer size and you have to take a breath in to try to process what that means.
âIâm out of options, Sylus,â you want to say. âOnly surgery or your love will save me now. So, thereâs no need for a doctor.â
âSee, I want to believe you. I really do,â that empty chuckle from before echoes from outside the bathroom to jump around in your skull and heart; the flowers tighten around your internal organs in response to the pain your love hoists onto you. âBut I canât.â
âS-sounds l-likeââ
Youâre about to tease him. He talks again with a voice that tears into your soul before you can, âLet me see you.â
Sylus wants to cry. Heâs about to. He will if it gets him to you.
âI look gross, Sy. L-let⊠let me clean up first.â
I donât care, sweetie. I couldnât care less how you look. Let me gaze upon you and put my mind at ease. Prove to me for both our sakes that you arenât dying. That I have more time to be worthy of you.
âYou sound ready to fall apart, sweetie,â you have no idea, my love. âI fear youâll fall and Iâll never be able to gaze upon those eyes of yours again.â
I hope thatâs the case. That I go gently into the night, disappear from everyoneâs lives Iâve been mucking up. There one day, gone overnight. You never have to see these cursed eyes of mine again. I can die without ceremony; you and my sister donât even have to give me a funeral.
At the same time, I hope to die here. Scar you for eternity as I fade away in your bathroom and youâre hopeless to stop me. Youâll miss me forever if that happens, right? No one will forget me. Iâll be the girl that died because of Hanahaki in the leader of Onychinusâ base rather than just my sisterâs twin. Youâll remember out of the guilt for not saving me rather than the guilt of hurting my sister. Youâll remember my blood, my pain, my flowers I grew for you. Could you bare to wash my blood out of expensive tile? Will some of it remain in memoryâ
Stop it.
Youâre a terrible person to wish those things on a someone you claim to love. And itâs for that shameâdeep indignity that burrows into your viscera alongside the seeds on new tulipsâthat you canât let Sylus in. Canât let him cross that threshold.
âIâm gross,â you repeat, and you find it physically hard to speak now. âIâll get my grossness all over you. If you come in, that is. Donât and prevent that from happening.â
Laying your head against the cold porcelain throne to cool off a bit, you sniffle and strive to get out of this bathroom without Sylus knowing anything. To leave this place with your pride and spirit intact.
Nothing good can possibly come from him knowing. The truth will do no one any good.
My selfish need to be loved is what caused all this.
âI do not care how you look, sweetie. I do not care about what you may or may not do to my clothes; theyâre just fabric and all their price tags combined donât amount to how much I value you. I do not care if youâre grossânot that you could ever be so, but thatâs not what this conversation is about,â you hear a tap on the door again, and he sounds closer when he speaks. âJust let me in. Please.â
The following silence is the worst of his life. You say nothing. But, if he strains his ears, he can pick up you shuffling about. Turning the water on to wash your face, he assumes. Pausing at the mirror to peer upon whatever it is that you believe heâd find gross about you.
He could never. Will never, find anything revolting that has to do with you. When he fell in love, he fell hard. Completely. Absolutely.
But you donât think so. Youâre frantic in cleaning. More so than before.
You canât do much for your clothing. You try to scrub out the bits of food, bile, and blood you can find. Face burning with humiliation at what your stupid eyes canât find but you know Sylusâ will, you creak open the entrance to the bathroom. Sylus only needs a glimpse; youâll let him see you, but he wonât be let in.
Your plan falls apart immediately when you the leader of Onychinus is before you with a face twisted in agony. Eyebrows scrunched up, your mind supplies you with the dumb idea to smooth it out with your thumb. Heâs within reach right now as he leans. You could do itâgive the excuse later that your fever and food poisoning made you do something stupid.
You attempt to speak; itâs the only thing that chases your attention way from one loss of face to another (youâre always a mess when you try to articulate anything, let alone with the circumstances right now), âIââ
Your blooming buds decide to silence you. Blood spurts past your lips, and you arenât fast enough to close the door as Sylus follows you the short distance to the toilet. A gasp tells you he sees what swims within the bowl.
Why didnât I flush it? So focused on my grotesque appearance I forgot something so simple.
While you scold yourself, Sylus does the same. Admonishes his own behavior. His selfishness. His greed. How blind heâs become by silly lust and imagination.
Hope, that feeling that you make him hold stock in again, is murdered by whatâs in the bowl. He crushes that useless emotion under his boot.
Tulips.
â
Josephine always said youâd lose your head if it wasnât attached to your shoulders. Your sister and Caleb still say the same thing, but they say it humor. Josephine spat it at youâliterally, the old woman would spray you with saliva sometimesâall the time. When you forgot school assignments. When youâd wait until the last minute to let her know about some event. When youâd get in trouble for not getting her signature on your agenda in elementary school (that, you recall, happened the most).
Always, she said those words to you with a smile. Caleb, your sister, and no one else would suspect there to be anything behind that grin. Imagining it even now gives way to a full-body shiver. A shiver that brings another torrent of illness out of you.
Wanting to forget that woman, you turn your head to the one person whose presence never failed to do that for you. But, when you do, a singular thought rings true:
Liar.
Sylus, evidently, does care how you look. His normal composure is gone. To the ordinary viewer, it isnât; to you, itâs in pieces as he rubs your back. Eyes a bit wider than usual. They refuse to leave you, sticking to your being and scanning your body. They twitch every time he finds what you think must be blood or other fluids on your person.
His touch, hands caressing your back carefully and sometimes making circles in your taut muscles, quivers. Minuscule movementsâyou wouldnât have noticed if you werenât so intent on burying Sylusâ existence into your mind (itâs like youâre trying to kill yourself faster). His grip tightens on you every so often. As if heâs trying to force you to anchor yourself to life. To be the rope that tethers you to this world.
His breathing is off. Catches in his throat in audible sounds between your retches. And something in you dies when he does.
He lets you see. A twisted hope revives itself as he crouches beside you. Begs for you to see him and his concern and his love. Pleads for there to be another outcome.
The petals are large. Massive even. Almost as big as the ones I give her.
âSheâs dying,â that strange but familiar voice rattles. âSheâs dying.â
Denial is a wave within Sylus. A crashing ocean that fizzles and foams before it reaches the shore of his conscious mind. Only fragments of his true thoughts are allowed on the coastline of his heart.
And as you cough more blood with more tulips, the gods stir a storm in that sea. Swirls of denial lace with the creatures of other emotions. Theyâre swept up. Dragged into the deeps of his heart.
Itâs cold there. Will be freezing once youâre gone. Empty. Devoid of the populace you brought. Only riptides of anger and rains of grief will be left.
Sheâs dying.
This time, itâs in his voice. And he canât deny it. Canât ignore it.
It pains him. Digs claws and wrenches a blade through his chest. The sweetest of poisons laces his blood, envelops his heart as each drop of blood from you deepens his lack of faith. For if thereâs a god in this world, why would they do this?
Curse youâintelligent, kind, sweet, beautiful, perfect, youâto be involved in a love like this? To be dragged down through the earth to choke on the selfish love of someone who doesnât recognize what they have in you.
Especially when Iâm right here.
â
Eventually, your flair up passes. Part of you hopes itâll come back. That your flowers will devour you until nothingâs left and you donât have to explain yourself. If youâre dyingâair squeezed out of your lungs, leaves intertwining with your bronchi, roots sucking up the blood from your alveoli to make space for themselves, and tulip florets gathering in your tracheaâSylus will have the decency to ask nothing. He wonât be able to; not when your death-rattles fill the space between you two.
You will the buds to come back. Breach past your uvula and splat onto the scene with you and Sylus. Nothing. Heavy pants over the toilet is what youâre consigned to. The man responsible for your anguish rubs more tight circles into your back. You swear you can hear his teeth grind.
The pair of you stay like this for some time. How long, no one knows.
Sylus still doesnât ask anything of you. He doesnât do so when Luke and Kieran come looking for the two of you. He doesnât do so when he helps you changeâa mortifying endeavor that brings more coughing fits, but also a refreshing bath. He doesnât do so when he hands you a cup of your favorite hot drink. It holds the perfect amount of honey for your taste.
While he gets it, youâre unaware of how his lips burns. Aches and spins alongside his head. Cotton in his mouth. All his skills, all his knowledge, are gone. Vanished. Stolen. Conquered by the veil of your blood and spit. He expects his hands to tremble as he hands the cup to you.
Am I disappointed that they donât? That even now, I canât truly show her whatâs going in my mind?
Bars and cages surround his heart. Try to distance Sylus from his turmoil. What will he do when it breaks? When he crumbles? When he shows you more than glimpses and glitches and leaves his pride to plea at your feet?
Itâs then that he asks his first question. And the one answer he seeks from you is the one you donât want to provide to anyone.
âWho is it?â
Rage. Sylus toils with it. From your hysterics. The proof lies in how he squirms and canât lock eyes with you.
He finds you foolish. Unfit to be his friend. A moron beyond any comparison. Because no one with even a modicum of intellect would be in your position: dying of a disease like Hanahaki when thereâs so many options available to you to prevent that. Things didnât have to get this far.
Thatâs not the truth. He finds your love foolish. Finds them unfit for your affection. A moron who canât see the perfection that is you.
âWhat⊠what youâno, thatâs not right,â you pause, taking a breath in while your cheeks scorch and you shrink back from where you sit on Sylusâ bed. âWhat are you going on about?â
Unable to face Sylus and your own uselessness, you sip at the drink.
âDonât lie to me, Fenghuang. Not about this. Please.â
Thereâs that word again. Thereâs that tone, that look, that expression, that man and his hopeless care.
âI canât tell you," your brain can't keep your mouth shut.
âWhy?â
Because you and my sister would be shattered when I die. Or, you would forget and move on without me and I havenât figured out which one is worse yet. I donât know if I want you to go crying to my grave night after night, or pretend I never existed. I canât tell you because then I would have to decide and I know Iâll pick the wrong one because right now, I want you to myself and never want you to move on andâ
âYouâll tell her,â is the perfect excuse because itâs not entirely a lie. Partial truths, theyâll save you.
He knows who you mean immediately, âI would neverââ
âI donât believe you. I canât.â
So much goes unsaid: âSheâs your sorceress. Iâm your little bird you sometimes like to hear sing. Sheâs your Hecate, your goddess of magic, that stands with you as an equal. Iâm a symbol, given meaning for what I bring and not who I am. Of course you would tell her. Everyone tells her everything when it comes to me, whether I like it or not.â
Sylus wilts under your words. Your refusal. The arrival of your walls. His own inadequacies and failures.
One sister doesnât remember me and the other canât fully trust me even after all this time. Neither can nor will ever give me their heart.
Thereâs only one he wants. Only one love he craves.
âMaybe, prove me wrong. For once,â you joke with your last words, forcing a laugh that tears into the soft flesh of throat.
No coughs come out. You swallow them with your usual act. It wavers when Sylusâwith sinew forearms that shudder from what must be disgustâbrings you to his chest. His warmth is a blanket that surrounds you. You imagine yourself back in your old house, a child with her sister and two childhood friends that bicker due to their shared love of her, by a fireplace outside in the winter.
Sylus protects you from the elements like your sister, Caleb, and Zayne did during these nights. Cotton sweatshirt under your bunched fists. Seeking more comfort, you burrow your head into his neck as he brings your legs to lay across his lap.
He dwarfs you. Unlike when youâd snuggle into Zayne as a little girl (you two were once close in size, after all). Your dragon encircles you with his body. You canât help but raise a hand to trace the tendon in his neck, a motion youâre astonished to get away with.
Goosebumps crawl on him where your finger ghosts. Sylusâ tightens his hold on, ignoring the siren call of your lips.
If I kiss you, take you, make you mine in every way here, will you love me instead?
Brainless. Oafish. A line of thinking not one with any sense would come up with. Heâs desperate, though. Tittering on the edge of mania.
In that state, his Aether Core calls to him to claim you. Begin his addiction and kiss you. Show you that thereâs people out there that love you above all else.
You mind is in a different state. Cloudy from memories and sickness, no rational thought can breach past it to your consciousness. Your fingertips soak up the heat of Sylusâ delectable skin, a real smile blossoming upon your face. Eyes are under the same spell, caught in the same rainstorm, you donât notice when they drift to Sylusâ face.
Thereâs that face again.
Wrinkled brows. Eyes scanning your body. Chiseled jaw hard-set. Your hands make that your next target.
Sylus speaks before you can discolor more of his flawless nature with your damage, âI have a condition for my cooperation.â
His voice is hard to perceive. Low, as if him raising it any higher would cause you to scatter in the wind like when you and your sister would run around in the park and blow on dandelions. Itâs endearing. It also comes with the caveat of bringing up a morbid memory.
After the explosion that killed Josephine, your sister became clingy to you. You, with no Evol and no Aether Core and slew of health problems no doctorâs ever been able to figure out. You, with your lack of assertiveness and willingness to bend over backwards for strangers. You, with your quiet and unassuming demeanor, that always lands you in the worst of situations.
You, whoâs the reason Caleb âdiedâ because he shielded you as well as Josephine. Ever the protector. Ever the kind soul. Ever the perfect friend that wants the best for you. Now in the grasp of the Professor you vaguely remember from your past.
A past you, Caleb, and Josephine agreed to never speak of. Never acknowledge. It rears its ugly head in other ways. Festers different wounds. Caleb shows his remembrance in his protective and loyal nature. Josephine with her guilt and the way she spoils the three of you.
Your scars come in the form of death. It stalks you every dayâyou theorize that youâve run out of lives and thatâs why your health is the way it is. Every fever. Every aching bone. Every unstable gait. Every allergy test. Death longs to claim you. Itâs the only thing in this world that truly wants you.
Truly craves and hungers for you.
Having death disrupt your little family made your sister spiral. Planning the funeral made her grief deepen. You swept yours away in favor of navigating the issues that arose. When the pair of you could finally breathe without the weight of twin coffins crushing your chests, you both decided you didnât want any of your future loved ones or each other to go through all this.
You drafted wills together. Sloppy ones that would need some ironing out. But, theyâre something. Something that youâre now in need of checking up on.
I hope they remember to spread my ashes. Maybe on that island with those pink dolphins Iâve heard some of my coworkers talk about?
Sylus talks as if he knows whatâs going on inside your head. He holds you like youâve already been cremated and his grip alone is keeping your form together. Like he wonât let the wind, the earth, the sky, or even the fire you dream of claim you. Like a dragon protecting his hoard and family.
âW-what?â
No attempt is made by you to redo your response and speak properly. Humiliation wades through the mud of your skin, of your being. You attempt to move away from Sylus to let it breathe through you. He doesnât let you, an anomaly that makes your emotions all the more twisted and knotted.
âYou let me help you get treatment,â he cranes his neck down, gently knocking his forehead to yours, and his breath fans your face. âDonât make me watch you suffer when we both know I have the resources to assist you. Let me take care of you.â
âLet me hold you, love you. Let me show you how I cherish you,â goes unsaid by the man.
Keep it together. Be slow. Be gentle. Donât scare her.
When your sister found out about his feelings, she told him to do so. To inch towards that kind of relationship with you. That you need time. That going all in will spook you.
âSheâs never been good with attention from, well⊠anyone. Let alone romance. Never makes time for it and doesnât want to start now.â
And given that you know his history with your sibling, things got complicated. All he can do is pray now. Hope he isnât too late. Hope he can take care of you the right way and dig up the roots in your chest.
Give me a chance. I only need a few moments.
Every nerve fires on all cylinders for you. While Sylus ponders and presses a heavier weight on your back, you suddenly become aware of all things that touch your skin. Soft fibers from Sylusâ and your clothing. Textured hands on your spine. Your legs in comfy pants, feet clothed in fluffy socks; you still feel the shifts in Sylusâ thighs underneath it all. Still trace the firm mattress with your toes as a method of grounding.
Your mindâs on a high, and your ears barely pick up his next words, âThe wonderful thing about technology and advancement, sweetie, is that your condition is no longer a death sentence. People can live relatively long lives without surgery or requited love these days.â
He pauses. A thought runs across his mind. Something he stupidly decides to give life and voice to, âYou could even be given enough time to fall out of love with this miscreant that doesnât deserve you.â
His usual cadence and confidence drains from him. Is there any proof of his emotions on his face? You donât react if there is.
Do I want her to? To notice? To consider me?
Itâs a stupid question with an obvious answer: yes. Sylusâ mouth dries, empties, in his moment of panic. Itâs exacerbated by your silence. Heâs left alone with only the wisps of the coziness your proximity stirs in him and his tongue that weighs like lead.
Misfired neurons short circuits your brain and your left with repeating the last thing you said, âW-what?â
Your stutter leaves cracks in his heart.
You wonât even consider such a thing, will you?
He canât blame you. All other options disappeared once you made your way into his heart. No one could be an option with you around. Perhaps youâre the same with your mystery gardener?
He waits patiently for you to gather yourself. Youâre unnerved by his quiet. He presses his forehead deeper into yours. A glimpse of his expression reveals his eyebrows scrunched and his eyes in pain. Hands find their way to the back of your head. And for some reason, youâre compelled to toss your legs to straddle his waist.
Both your breaths hitch at the movement. Youâre too close. Too on edge. Sneaking towards crossing a forbidden line that neither you will return from.
Kiss me, Sylus beckons you internally. Do it. Take whatâs yours. Be greedy and ruin me for eternity.
Sylus canât cross the boundary. The invisible line that keeps his Core and fiendish side in check.
You can. You can have me. Even if itâs to fill the hole left behind by someone else. Even if it means nothing to you.
For a split second, you move your face closer to his and your noses brush. Sylus invades all of you: your nerves, your thighs, your breath, your hands that find their way around his neck. You invade him: his eyes, his Evol, his DNA, his soul, and every life he will ever live. Everything about you two intertwines.
It gives you the strength to speak, âYouâre not going to pressure me to get the s-surgery?â
Sylusâ shoulder sag for a second. You blink and itâs gone. Twitch and heâs back to normal.
He finally allows you to hear that deep laugh of his you adore. This close, his chest rumble under your hands. Hands that he moves to his cheek to nuzzle. Part of you pleas with your eyes for him to kiss it as well, to push you over the edge so that you have an excuse to dive in for his lips.
You ache to. With your bodies almost melting into one another, him speaking to you with his baritone voice and touching your burning skin. One brush of his lips anywhere on you would break you. You lick your own at the thought.
Plump and plush petals of another kind against your mouth. Ones that bring the taste of blood on your tongue for a good reason. Ones that tears whimpers and sighs from your throat, sounds that bring you to your knees and ignite a new spark in your body.
One kiss. Just one is all it will take.
He hypnotizes you further with his words, âWould you consider it if I asked, my dear Fenghuang?â
The drug that is Sylus captures you, and you shake your head no without hesitation. Forgetting the love you have for him isnât an option. Never has been, never will be.
âThought so.â
He wouldnât in your position. He canât judge. Foolish heart be damned.
His other hand, now returned to the bottom of your back, pushes you further into him. Part of him weeps when he does.
The day I got this close to you in my bed went an entirely different way in my head.
You burn for another reason in that dream. Throat sore from his actions rather than someone elseâs. And if you cried, well⊠it goes without saying that those tears wouldnât put gaping wounds in his heart.
Not this. Not him cradling you, begging you to love and trust him while heâs too much of a coward to voice any of it to you. Too locked in remembering the parents that cast him aside, the villagers that called for his death, and the sorceress who peered at him with fear drenched in disgust.
He thought at least your sisterâs love for him would never smear.
I wonât survive your rejection. Not even reincarnation could undo that.
For you are the first humanâthe first complete strangerâto never shy away from him. Any terror youâve shown around him doesnât come from you being fundamentally repulsed by him. Any reluctance to make eye contact is due to embarrassment or exhaustion; not wanting to distance yourself from him and his power (in fact, youâre rather intrigued by everything about him).
You accept Sylus. You care from him. Stay in his life despite your hatred of blood and violence. Losing you would be his final straw.
âAnd only extreme cases need that kind of intervention. Your condition isnât that far along, correct?â
You nod. The roots of your conscience dig into your soul. They take to Sylusâ as well. For both of you are aware of how much of a dirty lie your words are.
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