shizu.

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It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer. 

-

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

-

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

-

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

-

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

 “What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

-

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?  

 “...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you,  his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

His key struggles to find the lock, his hands clumsier than usual. You’re going on a date. You smiled, sweetly. Xavier wonders if you’re going to keep smiling like that, teeth and all, eyes crinkling and irrevocable. Again, his heart sours. 

Will you smile like that? (Xavier finally twists the key, turning the door open.) Will you smile like that at someone else? (Xavier wonders what it’d be like if you weren’t going on a date, if you would, for just a moment—or two, or three—consider him. Your partner. Your one-floor-above neighbor.) Will someone else make you happy? 

(Xavier wonders what it’d be like if it could be him; if you smiled, teeth and all, eyes crinkling and irrevocable, not because of anything in particular—like the flowers you adore so lovingly, or the sunsets you always stop to take photos of—but because of him.) 

Enough of this. Xavier is going to go to sleep. It’s late, after all. 

(You’re going on a date with someone at this hour? It’s dangerous to walk home alone. He should have offered to pick you up—so he could take a good look at this damned bastard (wait, that’s not right)—so he could ensure your safety, and he could ask you how it went, and—)

Enough of this. Xavier is going to go to sleep. He’s tired, and he needs to recuperate after a long day of doing hunter-like things since he’s a hunter (just like you! Really, the two of you have just so many things in common, the bastard you’re going on a date with probably can’t even compare). 

Xavier curls into bed, the fabric familiar, the silence palpable. It weighs on his figure like a heavy burden, the unfathomable peering over him like some fantastical creature. What if it were him? What if it were him? (Why couldn’t it be him?) 

He closes his eyes. Usually sleep finds him by now, its presence accompanied by the darkness, its existence defying the light which emanates from his being. But he stirs. 

Xavier wonders what it’d be like, if it could be not just him, but, most presumptuously, him and you, together. Together. 

And you’d smile, (teeth and all!) and you’d tilt your head (and your eyes would crinkle!) and you’d laugh and you’d lean in and you’d tell him, most wonderfully—

His phone rings. Xavier isn’t a light sleeper; he’d sleep through an earthquake, a hurricane, and a flood if it came down to it. But one buzz is enough for him to reach for the device, unfazed as light fills the dim room, the silence weighing on him like a heavy burden as he notices the caller’s name. 

You. 

Thump-thump. 

He picks up immediately, his heart lurching forward, desperate to split the cavities of his chest and to reach through the phone. You. Thump-thump. You. 

“Hello?” he says, his voice remaining steady. “Did you need something?” 

Silence. It’s palpable, like a heavy burden, the unfathomable peering over him like some fantastical creature. What if it were him? Silence. Then, most terribly, a sniffle. Xavier jolts up, clutching the phone closer to his ear as if it could bring him closer to you. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his tone clipped, devoid of the gentle timbre which always presents itself to you. “What happened?” 

“I—uh, sorry…” you trail off, the sound becoming distant as you hiccup. Xavier stirs from the sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, phone never once parting from his ear. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” 

“I’m at,”—a sniffle, a hiccup—“the restaurant.” 

Still? Xavier thinks, lowering the phone from his head, materializing behind your hunched figure, noticing the darkness which seeps in from the flickering lamplights. 

(“We’re going to meet at this restaurant!” you exclaimed, pointing at some measly diner that your date had chosen. “And after, we’re going to walk around the park. I’ll let you know how it goes, Xavier!”)

You didn’t even make it to the park. Xavier steps in front of you, crouching down to meet your shrunken form, expression knitted as his brows furrow violently, bottom lip caught in between his teeth. His eyes widen upon taking in the sight of your face, eyes glossed over, skin dried with tears. 

“Xavier,” you say, oblivious to the way the sound from your lips is enough to satiate the organ, the name reborn from your voice. “Xavier, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t,”—you cover your face, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm—“I didn’t know who to call. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Xavier states simply, hands reaching up to pry your arms away, thumbs drawing circles into the bone of your cheek as he gently swipes away your tears, his touch featherlight, his frown only worsening. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you called me. We’re partners, right?” 

Partners. Xavier is your partner. He’d like to be your partner in more ways than one, though. He’d like to be your partner when it comes to dining at restaurants, and going for walks around the park, and responding to calls whenever you find yourself in a pinch. 

Xavier is your partner. He’d be your partner forever if you’d let him. 

“Yeah,” you say, barely managing a smile—teeth and all, but your eyes don’t crinkle—before coughing out a hoarse laugh. “Thanks, Xavier.” 

And you’re so beautiful, he thinks, your clothes more formal than what he’s used to seeing, your eyes particularly pretty under the light (which, with his presence, no longer flickers). 

And you’re so beautiful, he thinks, heart spilling from his tightening ribs, the arteries constricting—That bastard, is all he can muster. He bites back his words with the gnaw of his bottom lip. That bastard made you wait, that bastard left you here, that bastard—

“Xavier,” you suddenly say, glancing down. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” he asks, genuinely confused. “That bastard—I mean, that guy should be sorry.” 

“Yeah,” you respond, laughing slightly, taking note of the way Xavier’s expression is utterly serious upon announcing his verdict. “Yeah, that guy should be sorry. I, I waited for an hour! Like, I could’ve done so many things during that time, and—”

“An hour?” Xavier mutters, his gaze devoid of light, his lips drawn into a thin line. “You waited here for an hour?” 

“Ugh,” you say, burying your face into your hands. “Stupid, right?” 

What’s an hour in the face of two-hundred years? What’s an hour in the face of an entire universe, an alternate galaxy, an estranged planet? 

To Xavier, it’s not much. But Xavier is used to waiting, and he would much rather be the one who waits than the one who is waited for. His hand finds yours and, firmly, his fingers interlace into the gaps of your own, the space perfect, the puzzle piece complete. Whole. 

You’ll never wait. An hour is too much. You should never wait. 

“Let’s go,” Xavier says, helping you up, one hand resting on the small of your back while the other remains intertwined with yours, threaded. 

“What? Where?” you ask, stringing after him still. 

(What if it were him?) 

“Hotpot,” he says. “And afterwards, let’s go walk around the park. It’s a date.” 

You laugh. Xavier looks back—two-hundred springs, thousands of Protocores, an alternate, estranged planet; it was all worth it—and you’re smiling, teeth and all, eyes crinkling. Xavier mirrors your look, your image long etched into his pupils, shifting in accordance to the incarnation. You. Thump-thump. You. 

The most wondrous, fantastical being of all. The home of a star, the center of its plasma, the reason for its glow. You. 

“Okay,” you say, “let’s go!” 

(It will be him.) 

(“Don’t bother me,” you told Sylus, wagging your finger in front of him as if he were some pet. “I’m going on a date this Friday. Don’t text me, don’t message me, and, most importantly, don’t reserve the entire restaurant so it’s unbookable!”) 

(“Alright then, Sweetie,” Sylus had said simply, his smirk remaining traced onto his lips, head tilted slightly to the side as he rested his face on his fisted hand, legs crossed. “Have fun on your date.”)

It’s Friday. 

(“Boss man!” Luke had called, lounging leisurely on one of the wooden tables of the estate, legs swinging restlessly off the side. “Boss man, just say the word, and Kieran and I will have dealt with [Name]’s date, and—”)

(“Lay off, boys,” Sylus responded, waving his hand dismissively. “There’s no need. And besides,”—his head cranes slightly towards the side, the projection of Mephisto’s gaze etched onto the wall, his crimson eyes made to perceive you—“who am I to bother them, when they asked me so kindly not to?”) 

It’s Friday. The day of your date. Sylus’s schedule has been clear from the moment your date began, a sort of coincidence that, really, falls too easily in his favor. Thirty minutes, he thinks, eyeing the clock on his wall, leaning back on the chair of his office, desk scattered with information regarding your date. Mephisto’s projection continues to relay your movements. 

Thirty minutes, he thinks, eyes finding the projection and never leaving your form, your figure slowly shrinking as you wander aimlessly outside, head craning to and fro. 

Eventually, you sit down on the curb, an action which Sylus is sure you chose out of a lack of options; You’d never ruin your clothes like that, he thinks, index finger coming to tap methodically against the side of his tilted face. Never.

Sylus is not a person who’s willing to wait. Two more minutes pass and he’s done, no longer entertained by Mephisto’s projection, the crimson rubies clearly relaying the downcast expression which sweeps over your face—Didn’t I tell you? he thinks, swinging his coat over his shoulders. You don’t deserve to frown—before Luke and Kieran materialize behind him instantly, awaiting his command. 

“Prepare their favorites,” Sylus says, reaching for the helmet of his motorcycle, his pace quick as he swings a leg over the seat. “Don’t forget the CD player, so they can play their little heartbreak songs.” 

“Yes, boss!” both Luke and Kieran exclaim, splitting off into their respective roles. Kieran gathers the chefs, your favorite dishes long memorized by them. Luke arranges your favorite breakup albums; you always listen to the same ones whenever you’re mildly inconvenienced. 

Sylus knows you. 

He knows you’re going to continue sitting on that curb, thinking that your date may have forgotten, or that something bad happened—Sometimes, Sylus thinks, speeding through the unmarked streets, crossing the barrier between the N109 Zone and Linkon, I wish you’d be a little crueler—and you’d wait until the wind would force you away. 

Your clothes are too thin for this weather, Sylus thinks, too beautiful and too much for someone as unworthy as your date. He’ll send the twins a message later, telling them to turn on the heat in his estate.

Sylus rounds the final corner, the address of your arranged date long burned into his memory, accompanying the meadows of flowers and the hills which rolled endlessly. He lifts his helmet up, taking in your sorry state with his bare eyes, his smirk remaining with him still. 

“Did you have fun on your date, Sweetie?” Sylus asks, parting from his bike to shrug his coat off his shoulders, laying it over yours. 

“I thought I told you not to bother me,” you mumble, unable to contain the sniffle which follows thereafter, the way you instinctively huddle into the remnants of his warmth. 

Sylus notices this—how could he not?—and, despite the satisfaction which swells from his heart, he cannot help but feel the familiar fury, the unbridled rage which brews beneath his skin. Sylus is a creature of vengeance, of bindings and of vows. 

To think someone would dare to stand you up is audacious. 

But—Sylus crouches down towards you, meeting your figure on the curb—that is not what’s important right now. You’re right here. He reaches his hand out, your face tangible, his thumb pressing into the skin below your eyes, wiping away the faintest hints of tears as his smirk falters ever so slightly. 

You’re right here. Tangible. The most important person in the world. 

“You told me not to bother you during your date,” Sylus states simply, continuing to brush away at your face, his voice impossibly tender. “But, it seems to me as if your date is over. Or would you like to keep waiting, Sweetie?” 

“No way,” you mutter. “I’m done.” 

He chuckles, parting from you for but a moment, handing you a helmet which he only ever carries for one purpose. The most important person in the world. 

“Good,” he says. His hand is outstretched, his palm facing up, the outlines of calluses allowed to be perceived by only one purpose. The most important person in the world. 

You reach for his hand and Sylus pulls you up, unable to contain the smirk which stretches across his face once you bump into his figure, cursing at the magnitude of his strength. 

“You did that on purpose!” you mutter into his button-up (terribly formal, considering his schedule has been completely clear), feigning ignorance to the way he rubs circles into your back, pressing you closer towards him as if you could sink in. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sweetie.”

The most important person in the world. Sylus will tell Luke and Kieran to deal with the most important thing in the world later—the asshole who stood you up. 

For now, however, this is enough. Your arms wrap around Sylus’s waist, your head digging into the fabric which covers his back, your grip tight as you lean in towards him, safe. Tangible. 

Sylus starts the engine and the two of you take off, roaring down the unmarked streets, chasing a home which is no longer his, but rather, is yours. 

The heartbreak music (Sylus has come to realize that the tune is so catchy, he instinctively hums it while working), and your favorite dishes (the chefs have long memorized your order; so has Sylus, who finds himself craving it more often than you do). Home. 

You lean into his back and Sylus thinks that this is it. This is enough. Home. 

Rafayel is about to come out with his magnum opus. 

It’ll be titled: Uh, Abandoned Again! And he’ll credit you as the inspiration, the ruthless, careless Hunter who always tears through each of his lives with the same determined, sickening resolve. 

Are you happy now? Are you glad that you’re leaving such a beautiful man to rot in exchange for going on a date with some good-for-nothing dude who looks like he snuck onto Earth? Are you feeling rejuvenated? Joyous, even?!

Well, whatever it is you feel, Rafayel certainly does not care. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t care less! His painting is turning out wonderfully (after all, the more emotionally charged an artist is, the better the art emerges), and, well, he couldn’t care less about what you’re doing with that stupid fucking idiot! He is Rafayel, after all! The enigmatic artist, the literal Sea God, the—

His phone buzzes. Rafayel nearly falls from his stool, scrambling towards the device like some starved creature. A message flashes across the screen. It’s from you. You’re the only one who can bypass Rafayel’s eternal Do Not Disturb mode, after all. 

“So,” the message reads. “I think I was stood up.” 

Rafayel responds, “Puh-lease! That’s what you get. Do you think I’m going to feel bad for you? Well, I don’t!” 

Immediately after sending that text, Rafayel stomps begrudgingly (well, that’s what he’d like to believe—really, he was a little too eager to leave) out of his studio, muttering some mindless little nothings as he gets into his car. 

He arrives at your location five minutes later. He broke a few laws in the process. So it goes. 

“Hey, cutie,” Rafayel says, rolling the window down, having the gall to rest his arm nonchalantly on top of the door, sparing you a smirk as if he’s your savior. “Get in.” 

“Rafayel?” you mutter, flabbergasted. Rafayel’s sunset eyes drink in your sorry state. Your clothes are wrinkled, your expression is noticeably downcast, your bottom lip wobbling as you’re unable to meet his gaze. 

Pathetic. Rafayel steps out of his car and he grabs your hand, dragging you to the passenger seat, opening the door and ushering you in. 

“Next time,” Rafayel states, getting into the car, slamming the door with a little more force than necessary, “you should just stay at home. Or, at the very least, come to my studio.” 

You sniffle. Rafayel’s head whips around. 

“Cutie?” he calls again, leaning over to your seat, eyes wide as he traces his gaze over your features, long acquainted with the lines—the bridge of your nose, the curl of your lips—yet, devouring them as if it were the first time. 

This frown doesn’t suit you, he thinks. You look much better when you’re arguing with him about what flavor of ice cream is the best, or when you’re cursing him out for missing another one of his exhibits. 

“Cutie,” he says again, his finger reaching for your chin, turning you towards him as you shy away from his gaze. You’re crying. You’re crying because of that good-for-nothing-stupid-fucking idiot. You’re crying. Rafayel furrows his brows and cups your face in between his hands, thumbs tracing over the sides, lips jutted into a pout.

“Oh, no, no,” he says, resisting the urge to just kiss you right now. “Cutie, don’t cry. Not for some scumbag like him.” 

You hiccup. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, either. Why don’t we go get some food, hm? You can pick. We can even get a sweet treat afterwards.” 

In between your tears and sniffles, you muster out the faintest of laughs, the sound staying with Rafayel long after it’s gone. “Is this to make me feel better, or you, Raf?” 

He just huffs. “Who do you think I am, huh?!” 

You. 

Rafayel thumbs at your tears and he blows a faint wind lightly onto your eyes, cooling down the skin as it burns, drinking in your features like a starved creature, a Lemurian who has only ever known love. His heart pulsates, the warmth unfathomable. You. 

It has always been for you. 

“That scumbag didn’t deserve you,” Rafayel mutters, reacquainting himself with the glimmer of your eyes, the flutter of your lashes as he cools your skin with the faint wind of his breath, retracing over the ridge of your brows with his thumbs, felt with the intention of capturing onto a canvas later. “Why don’t we just run away together, cutie? You and me?” 

“Run away and go where?” you respond, entertaining the idea, not realizing the truth which is laced into his words, the idea of an escape sounding so sweet on his lips. One hand lowers from your face in search of your hands, his deft fingers massaging at yours, the pattern meticulous, tender. 

“Anywhere you want. How does the beach sound?” 

You laugh again. The sound is like a wild tune, a faint call from the land to the sea, beckoning him from the surface, the air clinging at his soaked skin. 

“Are you saying this just ‘cause you want to go to the beach, Raf?” 

“Ugh! Again, who do you take me for?!”

You. His hands trace over yours, finding your ring finger, the skin terribly empty. Once, long ago, this hand was his, and his yours. And once, long ago, his heart—pulsating now, swelling and glowing and mad—was yours. You. 

(Still, it is yours. Still, it has always been for you.)

revels in the endless strings of “try this”, “have some!”, “want a bite?”

and endures your twinkling starlight eyes when you blink up at him and his cup of boba tea, or his buttered corn, or his pita wrap, or his frog-shaped waffles on a stick (you chose the fishes). you dont have to do much because he melts every time, always allowing you the first bite. offering to switch the moment he sees you grimace at the flavor you chose.

your nose bumps into the warmth of his palm just as you take a bite of your fried banana wrap. he chides, “it’s hot.”

you give him a grateful smile and blow. his heart warms as you heed his warning.

and yet when you bite, it’s still hot. and the chuckle that bubbles out of his chest is otherworldly as your face scrunches up, and your mouth forms a little ‘o’ and you breathe out steam like a baby dragon.

he brushes the crumbs off your face with gentle fingers. he takes big bites of food you don’t enjoy that much and tiny ones off of food you do like but reluctantly offer him anyway.

he loves how your eyes widen when your dish is served at his restaurants, loves the little sounds you make while you savor the food. loves how you bring a fork up to his lips to share. loves the way you you lean into his hand when he wipes that little bit of sauce off your cheek.

he especially loves when you try to kiss him with sweet, candy colored lips.

or when you drink from a foamy coffee cup and grab his face for a smooch. he resists just that little bit to hear you whine or laugh, straining his neck to not be pulled down. but eventually does and you’re smearing the cream all over his upper lip too.

he chases your fingers with kisses as you’re smudging chocolate from your thumb to his cupid’s bow only to lick it away with your warm tongue.

the number of times he’s found himself dazed, blinking dreamily at you after you’ve touched him, kissed him, looked at him throws him off. but being bothered about how often he is left vulnerable in an open field marveling at your beauty is the least of his concerns.

not when you’re there, and he is here— and the moments you share stack upon each other one after another instead of trickling down like sand through an hourglass.

here, he is yours. here, he gets to stay. here, he gets to hold you, watch you, kiss you as much as you want him to. and he is so utterly besotted, it’s ridiculous.

but of course he must retaliate. winning or losing doesn’t matter when it comes to you, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least show you that he is as worthy as an opponent as he is a lover.

the obscure gelato shop in a cobblestone square holds you both captive in the sleepy hours of the night. with only a few people coming in and out, you linger just by the door with your own fruit flavored gelato. happy with your choice, you cant help but think of Sylus’s flavor. Somehow his picks are always yummier.

and as if he hears your thoughts, he calls for you. “beloved, taste mine.”

you turn and your lips brush his. not quite a kiss yet, until he presses into you deep, sharp and heady. when he pulls away, your lips tingle from the cold and the electricity he leaves in his wake.

“got it?” his voice is low and careful as he watches you lick your lips.

light-headed, grasping at straws, you guess. “pomegranates?”

his fingers swipe over the corner of his mouth into a smirk. “unsure? want to try again?”

he goes for another kiss. worse, better. intoxicating, grounding. needy and helpless you’ve become. he breathes, “got it?”

you shake your head. damn him. dazed, an equally mischievous curve appears on your love-swollen lip. “one more. just to be sure.”

you tug on his arm, and he resists just that little bit to make you work for it. to make you giggle. to make you happy. you smile. lovingly fond, you huff, “come here.”

and he does. he forgets how to breathe, how words are formed and how muscles move for a millisecond, but he does. he always will.

｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ also see: photos -> beloved -> sleeping 📂 ༘⋆

you nod out of instinct. but you were awake in the middle of the night for a reason. he slipped in for a midday nap with you because of something you’d been doing in your sleep.

“are you sure?” he whispers, more sympathetically as he trails his thumb down the line of salt your tears left behind. he kisses your forehead tenderly, “Tell me.”

you turn away, crawling back down to his chest and planting your chin there as a silent protest. “i dont remember.”

he considers you— if you were being stubborn or secretive or brave yet again. but with the way you were trailing your fingers down the middle of his chest, how your ear is so meticulously close to his heart, listening for a thrumming heartbeat that was present and not still— he had a feeling he knew what it was.

“angel.” he implores you, large hand coming to rest on the top of your head. “i’m here.”

your chest tightens. a vacuum pulling every bone inwards until they shatter and crash into the cavity. and you are helplessly trying to ground yourself, match your breathing with the constant badump badump badump of his heart.

“i know.” you squeeze the words out, holding your breath when you do. controlling the amount you let out lest you let loose everything. “i know, sylus.”

“no, look at me.” his finger tilts your chin up from the spot. the spot he cherishes and the spot you despise. the spot you favor. the spot he kept protected until you. the spot where you pointed the gun, and where he pulled the trigger with your finger. the spot you hear his racing heartbeat. the spot you dug your sword into, and killed him the first time. once, a long time ago, relived in a dream.

he sees you. he sees every part of you in the darkness of your bedroom— and still you shine brighter than if all the stars in the sky were to combust. he holds your gaze, because let him keel over and die again and again instead of see you in this pain. “come back to me.”

something inside you stirs— not quite pain, but something deeper, more primal and abstract. your soul, like it was beckoned to heel. to be still as another wraps itself around it. to hold on to its other half that submits itself and never let go.

“i’m a monster.” you finally confess, shattering like glass, all too conscious of staining his palms red. of hurting him. of being foolish enough to take him away from you again.

his lips press into the skin above your brow— his favorite spot. his teeth graze it as he murmurs, “that’s not true.”

“sylus—“ you begin to argue, but he silences you with a kiss. you blink, but don’t let it deter you. “i hurt you.”

“have i ever complained?”

“dont do that.” because how could he not care? how could he look at you with such a loving gaze you do not deserve? how could he forgive you as easily as breathing?

he frowns and then studies your face. “you’re right. you have hurt me.”

and somehow that is worse. of course it is worse. your bottom lip trembles. his thumb comes to rest on the delicate flesh lightly. “my soul hurts with you. when you are in pain, so am I.”

his fingers dance down your spine and hook beneath one thigh. there, he pulls you up to his eye-line. your head rests on his bicep as he presses his forehead against yours. “so listen to me when I say you are the furthest thing from who you are in your nightmares.

“and if you are a monster, then so am I.” he rasps.

his heart races under your palm, his own hand spreading your fingers over his chest. “you’ve never hurt me alone. i’ve always been there to do it with you.”

“If you couldn’t heal—“ you start.

“Then I would have broken all my bones crawling back to you.” he vows.

“If you died—“

“I would have found you in the next life. And the next, and the next.”

“If you felt I hated you.” you hiccup, unable to hold back the tears. the thought of him believing for one second you felt anything but love for him devastated you beyond belief. His eyes fill with warmth as he lowers his tone.

“Then I would have done everything to remind you how much I love you.” He says steadily. “Don’t mourn over who we were, my heart.”

“We are here.” he says, kissing the tip of your nose. floating his lips over the lids of your eyes. “Come back to me and stay.”

ever patient, ever gentle and kind to you. he keeps you in his embrace until you calm, feathering the tip of his nose lightly up and down your cheek as he kisses each of your fingers.

you listen to his heart; to his steady breathing, swaying and cradling you like the push and pull of the tide. you listen to his words, turn them over and around in your head— once, twice, thrice— until they sink deep, deep in your heart. this truth settling like oil in your liquid thoughts.

he watches as you calm. and you melt back down his chest— to the spot where he found you.

“beloved?”

you kiss him there— over the invisible mark of the bullet and the sword and your hatred. what once was his undoing, but has always been his strength. the hand that killed him now holds him tightly, tenderly. lovingly and achingly so.

this is your promise to him— to undo all that was done.

to return. to love. to stay.

his face is almost feverish when you cradle it. his content smirk a charming twitch beneath your thumb as his eyes close at your touch.

your cheek to his chest, iron to a magnet— natural, inevitable. finally, you smile— small, but sincere. enough for him. “i like this spot.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

his lips trail over the crown of your head, the shell of your ear, the plump of your cheek and finally the gasp from your lips. his timbre low and thoughtful, “how was your day?”

there is a clog in your throat that makes you swallow. a burning between and behind your eyes. a set in your jaw at his question that tells him more than words can convey.

“bad.” he concludes in a murmur, pulling back to cradle the softness of your face and turn it towards his. crystalline eyes confirm his suspicions.

“tell me?” he tries, thumb gliding back and forth over your warm skin. heated cheeks beneath his ministrations are doused with droplets of saltwater.

and so you cry, you hiccup and sob, you try your best to speak, to tell him— but how do you put it in words? how fed up you are? how much you feel you’re stuck in a loop? how far behind you feel? how no matter how hard you run, which route you take, you feel like you will end up nowhere?

how do you tell him you want to win when you have no idea how to play? that you want to breathe but your lungs are filled with smoke? that you are tired. so, so incredibly tired that nothing means anything anymore?

it’s a mess out your lips. stuttered syllables and tumbling words. and yet he nods like you are speaking clearly. he squeezes your hands like he understands.

he presses his forehead to your cheek as if he bears the pain with you too— and he does, not entirely, but the ache in your chest resonates into his own like an awful symphony.

and he will take it time and time again if it made even the slightest difference to you. if it made you feel less alone.

and you will never be alone. not while he breathes.

he does not speak when you ramble. his eyes may wander to check on your body for any injury or pain, but his attention is solely on you. he is taking notes in his mind on what made you snap, who made you upset, at which point was it all too much— while nuzzling his face into your neck.

and when you falter, your voice ceases to a whisper and then nothing at the thought that he might not be listening. that he might not want to listen to you drone on and on about your miserable week; be a weeping victim of your own circumstances, he hums something patient into your shoulder. “keep going.”

“i’m saying too much.” you sigh. your nails run over his scalp, your attention abruptly shifting to his needs and not your own. “how was your day?”

“good.” he simply says, reveling at the trickling needles down his spine at your touch. “keep going.”

you do, you trail your nails over his head, down the nape of his neck, and under his chin. and when you don’t say anything, he kisses your palm, whispering. “keep talking, beloved.”

taken aback at his request, you frown. “it’s really just… you don’t want to hear it.”

gentle. so achingly gentle, he breathes. “but i do.”

“it’s not important.”

“no.” he rasps, coming up again to peer down at you. to make sure you know, you understand— that everything you say is important to him. everything you are is important. your everything— your thoughts, your stories, your opinions, your experiences— is everything to him.

“no,” he says again, slow and raw and genuine. he brushes strands of hair away from your scarlet rimmed eyes and brushes his lips over each one. “it’s you.”

and you will always be important.

his arms are a solace to the world that feels endless. his presence is salvation to your rupturing soul. and he feels like an end worth running towards.

in your husband's study, there sits a tall bookcase. five columns, endless rows. heaven for a little boy with vestibular needs. the middle column is sparse in material and literature, giving way to sylus's favorite mementos. jewels and small artifacts, weapons, things that looked far too archaic for your liking. fire-hazards, choking-hazards, literal death traps.

it's only natural, the scream you let out, as you find the glass that protects the items from environmental harm, wide open. and not one but both your sons in a circle of trinkets and treasures on the floor, sobbing hysterically.

you call each of their names, falling to your knees as you take them in your embrace. kyros clings to your neck, lucian uses your sweater as a tissue to wipe his nose. "are you hurt? did you fall?"

"mama, mad! mad, mad!" lucian harrumphs loudly, pushing away from your embrace and stomping his feet. your brows knit together. you reach for him despite his protests and examine his arms and legs for any cuts or bruises. while he still tries to pull away, "mad!"

"no yell to mama." kyros pitches in, turning slightly from his embrace and swiping a hand that doesn't quite reach his brother. "no mean!"

"who is yelling at mama?" sylus enters then, walking into the room with quick, long strides at the sight of you all on the floor. he takes in your confusion, how lost you look, the toddler in your arms mediating.

then he zeros in on the fiery twin with puffed cheeks and arms crossed clumsily over his chest. "lucian?"

"mad papa too!" lucian whines, stomping his feet like an angry rabbit.

"woosian, 'top it!" kyros scolds.

"angel, what happened?" you ask, finally having come to your senses. there is no broken glass, the casing was just open. the trinkets on the floor— the veil, a small sampling of stained glass, dried flowers, a tiara, a bow tie, a set of ceremonial rings and—

"where me—woosian?" your son demands, using all his strength to drag the big wedding album out from under sylus's desk and into the light. for you to see, to realize, to know the absolute sin you committed against him. "and kee-ro? you leave!"

sylus snorts. you shoot him an angry glare at how drastic the whole thing truly is. a small problem to you, a monumental betrayal to your little ones.

tak-tak-tak lucian points to his father's face in the blown-up photo. the two-page spread of you and sylus in your ceremonial silks, reminding you of the very day in the cathedral a few years back.

kyros, just as hurt, murmurs. "no ee-bite us? we sleepin'?"

you melt. oh, your sweet boys. wondering why they were left out of such an important looking ceremony. they'd seen it in their storybooks—weddings of royals and knights and creatures, then the happily ever afters. they've raved on and on about wanting to see a white-puffy-cake dress with their own eyes.

and here you all are, standing around a photo of you and their father in the attire. and them having no memory of being there, of being invited. thinking you'd snuck out on a date as they slept and crept back into the house by morning.

oh, your sweet boys.

when lucian is effectively distracted with sylus's playful raspberries and kisses on his face (him personally acting on his cuteness aggression to the bunny-stomps), only then do you gather both of your children out of the study with the wedding album. you settle back on the couch with them, the pictures between you, and explain.

"we haven't met just yet in this picture," you tell them, placing each of their hands on the page. their eyes watch as you trace the outlines of their hands on your wedding photo with a silver marker. "you were both still sleeping somewhere, but we didn't know where. so we couldn't wake you up."

"ah!" kyros giggles as your get a bit of ink on his finger. lucian gasps and forces his hand to stay still. sylus helps him keep his hand sturdy.

"did you and papa find us?" lucian asks. he looks up at you with such hopeful eyes it's impossible not to fall more in love with his wonder. you brush silver-mist hair out of his eyes and nod, "of course we did, angel."

"we'd never stop until we find you," sylus assures him, curling an arm around his middle and nuzzling his temple.

"but—but the 'appy endin'?" kyros pouts. "we missing..."

sylus reaches out to him and squeezes his ink stained hand. his own heart swelling. "we can always have another one, kyros."

"we can?" lucian perks up, turning his head to look at his father.

you laugh, sharing a quick glance with sylus who has already made up his mind. and you wholeheartedly agree. "of course. that one wasn't as happy as it will be now that you're here."

"we ee-biting?" kyros jumps, hands clasped together as if to contain his excitement. sylus's laugh shakes mountains as he tugs onto his sons' cheeks. "yes, you're invited."

the pair cheers, clapping and whooping like they'd won the lottery. in much higher spirits than they were earlier. you continue to flip through the pages of the album. the littles enthusiastically pointing to your face and swooning over how pretty you looked. and then asking papa 'why he smiling 'ike that?'

sylus asking 'like what?" in borderline offense.

kyros laughs. "'ike a tiger." then screams when sylus lunges at him to show him his tiger teeth affectionately.

you watch lucian, whose eyes are soft and fond as he flips through your wedding photos like it's his favorite storybook, trumping any fairytale of oswald octopus in his collection.

and then it comes—the feeling of right, and what's best in that moment. and it's not about proving a point, but recognizing what feels right for your kids, and making decisions with them to arrive at the best possible outcome.

seeing the joy on their faces, you conclude—having them find the album was just right, and having a second wedding just for them is what's best.

you watch as his face brightens at the sillier photos, grins at blurry ones and upside-down ones (thanks, mephisto). but then the light vanishes, dark clouds loom once more on his then sunny face.

you don't get to ask before he's angrily tak-tak-taking on the page. his twin and father's attention turns to him as they halt their little game of chase. you groan at the photo he points at.

luke and kieran, unmasked and grinning from ear to ear in their nice tuxes. arm in arm, photobombing a perfectly romantic photo of you and sylus. but lucian doesn't care about the photo being ruined. It's the fact that—"biggies there too?!"

you wince. you hope brotherhood wisdom has developed in time too as you watch your toddlers drag the heavy album out of the living room to hunt down the convicts in the photo. angry-bunny stomps and all, the big twins are in for it.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡