Lazy ass

Sylus

It was a quiet evening, the two of you were in his study. Sylus was typing something on his computer while you lounged on the sofa with a book, trying to keep yourself occupied. You really were trying. Sylus had promised he just needed to finish something quickly and then his attention would be entirely yours. You were impatient, but you were doing your best to let him work. But eventually your book stopped holding your attention, so you set it aside. Your gaze wandered idly around the study until it settled on him.

Sylus was focused, hands moving across the keyboard with effortless precision. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing strong forearms, every so often his rings caught the lamplight with a faint glint.

Your eyes traced his features. The line of his jaw, the silver locks falling around his face, the sharp curve of his mouth, the quiet gleam in those red eyes. Your fingers twitched, almost as if resisting the urge to trace his face.

“You are ridiculously handsome,” you murmured.

His fingers stilled over the keyboard. Only then did you realize you had said it out loud. Heat flooded your cheeks.

“I… I mean…”

You stuttered, too flustered, while he slowly lifted his head and looked at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

“Oh?”

Surely, your face could not get any hotter.

“It wasn’t supposed to…” your voice trailed off as you silently begged the floor to open and swallow you whole.

“To be said out loud?” Sylus supplied.

You huffed and looked away, fixing your stare on a bookshelf as if it might save you. Then you heard the scrape of his chair. Footsteps.

Closer.

And closer.

Until he stood directly in front of you.

“Well,” he drawled, “I was wondering why you were staring.”

He leaned down slightly.

“Guess I got my answer.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you protested weakly.

The lie convinced neither of you. Sylus gave a low hum.

“You looked seconds away from climbing into my lap.”

A strangled sound escaped you and his smirk deepened. He braced one hand against the back of the sofa, caging you in.

“Say that again.”

“No,” you refused immediately, painfully aware of how close he was.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.” You grumbled, but it only amused him more.

His free hand came up, fingers surprisingly gentle as he cupped your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. And then you noticed it. The tips of his ears were pink. You blinked and looked closer. Then you realized that he was flustered too. He was simply hiding it better. Something in your chest ached. Because suddenly it occurred to you that maybe those words had not been said to him often, if ever.

Your hands rose almost instinctively, cupping his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheeks.

“You are very handsome,” you whispered, looking right into his eyes. “Every version of you.”

Something flickered deep in his eyes. Doubt.

“And yes,” you added softly, as if answering his unspoken question, “that includes the dragon.”

And just like that, scales shimmered beneath your hands and his tail curled around your leg with desperate tenderness. Sylus stared at you like you had broken something in him.

Then, quiet and almost pleading:

“Say that again.” The smugness in his voice was gone.

You smiled and happily obliged.

“You are so, so handsome.”

Before you could say more, Sylus dropped to his knees in front of you with a heavy thud and pressed his head into your lap. His tail tightened around your leg.

Your fingers slid into his silver hair, threading his locks.

And for once, the illustrious and feared leader of Onychinus, always composed and seemingly untouchable, looked utterly wrecked by a compliment.

“Again,” he murmured against you.

You laughed softly and repeated your words again and again, until he believed them himself.

Caleb

Caleb was leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his purple eyes while he absentmindedly helped you cook. Well, “helped” was not quite the right word for it, because you were mostly just sitting on the counter, dangling your feet and babbling about your day while he did almost all the actual work. Not that Caleb minded. In fact, he seemed to prefer it this way.

He was casually chopping vegetables, calm and efficient, while you watched and pretended you were supervising him properly.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“You’re so handsome.”

The knife paused mid-air. Caleb did not look up right away. When he did, it was slow and measured, like he was trying to decide whether he had heard you correctly.

“What did you say, little apple?”

Your face heated instantly.

“I… I didn’t… I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it out loud.” You looked away, too embarrassed to look at Caleb. That earned a quiet hum from him. He set the knife down carefully and turned fully toward you.

“So you think I’m handsome.”

“That is not what I said,” you protested weakly, even though you knew denying it was pointless.

“Mm. Yet that is what I heard.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands for a second before peeking through your fingers. Caleb was watching you now, expression unreadable. Not cold exactly, but thoughtful. There was something else underneath the teasing, something you could not quite name.

“Say that again,” he said. He sounded far too casual.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Caleb’s mouth curved in a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer, closing the already small distance between you until he was standing right between your knees.

“You didn’t mean it?” he asked, voice light, though there was a strange edge to it now. “Or…” His gaze sharpened just a little. “Do you think someone else is more handsome?”

The question was delivered with a playful tone, but the look in his eyes was intensely attentive, as if he was waiting for your answer with far more interest than he wanted to admit.

When the silence stretched for far too long, he leaned in again and gave you his best sad puppy eyes he was able to make.

“Oh, I see…” He sighed and you could’ve sworn you saw a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He looked like a kicked puppy now. You rolled your eyes and reached to ruffle his hair, making it even messier than it already was.

“Of course not. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever met.”

The second the words left your mouth, Caleb went still for half a beat. Then all the tension drained out of him so quickly it was almost comical. He leaned in immediately, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder with the kind of contentment that made it very obvious he was pleased with himself. When he looked up at you again, his purple eyes were bright and unmistakably soft. That ridiculous, puppy-like look he got whenever you gave him just enough affection to send him straight into orbit.

You laughed under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Caleb said, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips, “you still said I was handsome.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You totally planned that.”

“Maybe.”

“Caleb.”

He only smiled wider, completely unashamed. What was worse was that he looked far too satisfied with himself, like he had just confirmed something important.

“Good,” he said at last, voice warm and easy again. “Now I know it is affecting your judgment.”

You stared at him. He glanced up, all innocence and sunshine.

“What?” he asked. “That was useful information.”

You laughed, helplessly exasperated, and Caleb’s smile softened into something quieter. Something more knowing. He tucked the thought away, as if he had just been handed a private little treasure to keep. And knowing him, he would absolutely bring it up again when he wanted to catch you flustered. Which, you had to admit, was probably exactly why he had asked you to say it again in the first place.

Rafayel

You were at the Mo Art studio, keeping Rafayel company while he worked. Or, more accurately, while he sulked and worked. Your fishie boyfriend sat in front of a massive canvas with all the wounded dignity of a tragically misunderstood genius forced into labor. His brush moved with practiced grace despite the dramatic pout on his face, each stroke far too precise for someone who had spent the last hour complaining that inspiration could not be rushed.

Just an hour earlier Thomas had ripped into him for procrastinating, missing every imaginable deadline, and disappearing in the middle of commissioned work because he had, in his words, “felt spiritually called to collect seashells.”

Rafayel had taken the lecture like someone being condemned. With great offense, dramatic sighs and at least one muttered accusation that Thomas was ‘stifling true art.’

And now Thomas, desperate and clearly at the end of his rope, had quietly conspired with you before leaving.

“Keep him motivated,” he whispered.

Which, in practice, meant keeping Rafayel from abandoning the painting halfway through to drag you to the seaside or fake an artistic crisis.

You had agreed. At first, it had been easy. A little praise here, a few approving hums there. Occasionally reminding him how pretty his hands looked covered in paint. That had bought you almost forty minutes of productivity.

Then he started sulking again.

“This is oppression,” Rafayel declared, not looking away from the canvas.

“You’re painting.”

“Against my will.”

“You volunteered for this commission.”

“That was before I realized deadlines were involved.”

You bit back a smile. Rafayel dabbed at the canvas with exaggerated suffering.

“You know,” he added mournfully, “a less cruel lover would be distracting me right now.”

“I’m literally here to keep you working.”

He turned just enough to level you with an accusing look.

“Exactly.”

You laughed and leaned back in the chair beside him. For a while, only the sound of brushstrokes filled the room. Then your eyes drifted to him. He really was beautiful when he painted. Purple hair slipping loose around his face, paint smudged faintly across his knuckles, eyes narrowed in concentration. The slight part of his lips when he focused. Something in your chest squeezed and the words escaped before you thought them through.

“You’re so handsome.”

You immediately bit your tongue, but the damage had already been done. Rafayel stopped painting and turned to look at you.

“Excuse me?”

You quietly tsked, slightly annoyed that he wasn’t focused on his painting when you blurted that.

“Ignore it. Back to your painting.”

The brush clattered into a jar, as Rafayel stood up alarmingly fast.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to continue as if nothing happened.”

He crossed the room in seconds and planted himself in front of you, arms crossed.

“Repeat it.”

“Not until you finish that painting.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m motivating you, just as Thomas asked me to.”

Rafayel looked like you betrayed him. “So Thomas had corrupted you.”

You folded your arms and glared at him stubbornly. “Canvas first, compliments later.”

Rafayel had narrowed his eyes and, to your horror, dropped to his knees in front of your chair. “Please?” He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, blue-pink eyes suddenly glossy. “I can’t paint without encouragement from my muse.”

You just rolled your eyes at his antics.

“Was this a lie?..” His eyes glossed over even more, his lower lip was trembling. He actually pouted right now and somehow looked offended, wounded and flirtatious at the same time.

You gave up with a sigh and murmured. “You are very handsome.”

He blinked, as if he didn’t expect you to surrender so quickly. “Again.”

You laughed at his demand. “You are impossible.”

“And handsome.”

“And dramatic.”

“And handsome.”

You reached out and caught his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his warm cheeks.

“You,” you said slowly, “are distractingly, unfairly, devastatingly handsome.”

Rafayel stared, completely stunned. Then his ears went pink. And for a fleeting second, he looked almost vulnerable enough that you nearly believed you had truly stunned him. But then his expression turned mischievous.

“Excellent.” He said solemnly. “I’m too emotionally overwhelmed to paint now.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh, you manipulative little…”

You didn’t get the chance to finish, because Rafayel stood and with surprising strength for someone so slender, scooped you up effortlessly and sat in your chair, shifting you onto his lap, painting completely forgotten. Rafayel nuzzled into your shoulder and sighed dramatically.

“My muse has praised my beauty,” he murmured. “How can anyone expect me to work under these conditions?”

“You set this up.”

“I prefer ‘inspired this outcome.’”

You tried to glare. Then he tilted his head, looking far too pleased.

“Say ‘devastatingly handsome’ again.”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

“You have a deadline.”

“I have emotional needs.”

He pressed his cheek against yours. You sighed exasperated. That commission wasn’t getting finished today.

Zayne

“You are so handsome,” you murmured, your gaze lingering on Zayne as he reviewed a report Greyson had asked him to look over.

Zayne only lifted his eyes above the pages for the briefest glance.

“Mm.”

That was it. You stared at him dumbfounded.

“That’s your response? I just called you handsome.”

His eyes kept moving over the report, as if you were talking about the weather.

“You’ve been staring at me for quite a while, before voicing your observations.” He said evenly. “I acknowledged it.”

You narrowed your eyes, staring intently at him. “I just called you handsome,” you repeated more firmly this time.

“Yes.” He turned another page.

“And?” You could already feel your eye twitch.

“And what?”

You huffed and folded your arms.

“Most people would react, when their girlfriend would call them handsome.” “I did react.” You almost growled at his infuriatingly calm tone.

“That wasn’t much of a reaction, you just made a noise.”

Zayne finally paused. Slowly, he lowered the report just enough to look at you properly over the top edge.

“If you are looking for a dramatic response,” he said, “I can provide one.”

You blinked. Before you could ask what he meant, Zayne set the report aside, removed his glasses, and folded them neatly against the edge of the desk. Your eyes immediately went wide, as you followed his every movement.

Zayne moved toward you with unhurried precision, every step measured, his expression unreadable. The closer he got, the more aware you became of him, his height, the quiet strength in his frame, the subtle warmth of his presence.

He stopped directly in front of you.

You looked up at him, suddenly very aware of how short the distance between you had become.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though your voice had lost some of its earlier bite.

Zayne’s gaze pinned you in place.

“You wanted a reaction.” He leaned down and your heart skipped a beat.

Zayne slowly decreased the distance and you could feel his breath tickling your ear.

“That was a very accurate observation,” he murmured, his voice low enough to make your skin prickle. You entire face burned. And then, as if it wasn’t enough, you felt his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. You were sure your heart had actually stopped beating for a second.

Zayne lingered there for a moment too long, as if clinically observing the effect he was having. When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to study your expression. His eyes, usually so composed, held the faintest glimmer of satisfaction.

You stared at him speechless, as your mind scrambled for some kind of a reaction and finding none.

“Now,” he murmured ever so softly, “let me finish reviewing the report without trying to distract me.”

You could only make a strangled little sound, catching the thinly veiled warning in his voice. The worst part? You had not actually been trying to distract him, not this time at least.

Zayne turned as if to return to his desk and then paused.

Without looking back, he added calmly:

“Though…”

Your breath caught again, as he glanced at you over his shoulder.

“If you insist on offering further observations…” the corners of his mouth tilted upwards, barely. “I may be persuaded to react again.”

You made an incoherent sound.

Zayne returned to his desk as if he had not just completely dismantled your nervous system. He picked up the report, adjusted his glasses and resumed reading. Like nothing had happened. And that was your breaking point. Now you just had to see him flustered. You slid off the couch and padded over to his desk, stopping beside him. You leaned down and murmured into his ear.

“You are still very handsome.”

Silence stretched between you. Then Zayne removed his glasses again. You immediately took a step back, your heart instantly hammering in your chest.

“You seem intent,” he said quietly, “on preventing me from finishing this report.”

And then you realized, his first reaction wasn’t him being indifferent to the compliment. He was being merciful. And now you will pay the price for distracting him twice.

Xavier

You were in the kitchen preparing dinner. In the living room your boyfriend was peacefully sleeping on the couch, even though it was a little too small for him. He had shown up on your doorstep an hour ago, claiming he was terribly tired after a gruesome fight with several Wanderers. He looked completely unharmed to you though. He also claimed he had depleted his Evol during the fight and could not even teleport back home. Another lie, you were certain of it, since the only Wanderers sighting was closer to his apartment complex, not to yours.

You just rolled your eyes and let him play whatever game he was playing. After the dinner was cooked, you went into the living room and crouched down in front of him, staring at his sleeping face. You would never tell him that, but you actually liked watching him sleep. It was probably the only time when he was completely at peace and not looking like the weight of the entirety of time and space had rested on his shoulders.

You reached up carefully brushing away hair from his face. Slowly, trying not to wake him up, you traced his featured with the tips of your fingers.

“You are so handsome, Xavie, it’s dangerous.” you murmured.

For a second, nothing happened. Then his lashes fluttered and you froze. Xavier did not open his eyes right away, instead his hand moved lazily, his fingers curling around you wrist, not letting you pull away.

“Dangerous?” he repeated, voice rough with sleep.

“You were awake?” you asked suspiciously.

The corners of his mouth tilted just slightly. “Awake enough to hear you.”

Heat rushed to your face and you tried to pull your hand away, but his fingers tightened by a fraction, preventing that.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” you muttered.

Xavier hummed softly, his thumb brushing once over your wrist. Then he slowly opened his eyes.

“You think I’m dangerous,” he noted quietly. He shifted, just enough for his shoulder to sink deeper into the couch cushion. His gaze stayed on you, calm but no longer half-lidded with sleep.

You sighed, defeated.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No? You said it.”

Suddenly your vision blurred and your world shifted.  When the bright light stopped blinding you, you slowly opened your eyes and realized you were now sitting on the couch and Xavier was resting his head on your lap.

You glared at him half-heartedly, sinking your fingers into his hair. “You said you couldn’t teleport,” you carefully tagged at the strand of his hair, not to hurt him but to make a point. He only looked at you with those absurdly wide blue doe eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

You huffed, amused now. “You literally just teleported.”

“It was…” a pause. “…strategic repositioning.”

You laughed as your fingers drifted through his hair. Xavier’s eyes fluttered half-shut, but you could tell he still was watching you from under those big eyelashes.

Then he said, almost too casually:

“You called me dangerously handsome.” A pause, then softer: “What makes me dangerous?”

You stared down at him as he actually waited for your answer. You threaded your fingers through his hair, while pondering over his question.

“You look far too innocent, when in reality you are very far from that.”

His eyes opened again, looking at you thoughtfully. Then his hand found yours where it rested in his hair and laced your fingers together. He drew you hand closer to his lips and slowly kissed your knuckles.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

Xavier’s mouth curved faintly.

“That’s dangerous?”

“You do things like that with that handsome face of yours and pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Xavier looked far too satisfied, closed his eyes and shifted to be more comfortable.

“Wake me up in ten minutes,” he murmured, already half-asleep, as if the conversation was over.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”