who's gonna hold you?

But the million-dollar-question is: what is Phainon's love language? He's like an all-rounder when it comes to boyfriend-ing, to the point that if this were a competition, you would've been forced to forfeit by now. But you can feel your brain beginning to overheat every time you think about it — he never misses an opportunity to compliment you (and what's worse is that it's so genuine you couldn't even call it flirting); your skin has learned to recognize the temperature and feel of his hands from the countless times he caresses and holds you; he replies before the little "delivered" can appear under your text bubble, and always makes time for you, no matter the time of the day; and he gets you flowers and other gifts every time he comes to pick you up for one of your dates.

And from time to time, you find yourself questioning all of it. It feels like nothing you do could ever compare, so really, how did you get so lucky?

Truth be told, what you call selflessness, Phainon calls it selfishness.

You really were looking forward to him coming over, but he greeted you at your doorstep with slumped shoulders and a weary smile. His face finds the crook of your neck like clockwork once he leans forward and into your arms, nosing at your pulse and breathing you in. In no time, Phainon's sat on your bed in one of your oversized band tee-shirts and a pair of spare sweatpants he had left at your place.

His voice is raspier and quieter than usual, and you don't think he even realizes. And somehow, he still finds the strength to flash you a smile, eyes wrinkling at the corners, as he compliments your appearance and asks about your day. You continue to talk, waiting (and half-hoping) for him to nod off mid-sentence but he never does.

You're not sure when exactly it started, but his arms circle around your waist faster than you can process any of it. Phainon places slow, lazy kisses to the skin of your exposed shoulder, deliberately tugging the sleeve down to free some more. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening and it thrums in you ears the more his hands knead at the fat of your bare thighs.

Phainon hums low under his breath, right against your ear. "This is okay, right?" he has the courage to ask like he hadn't been devouring you with his eyes five minutes before all this. Like he can't feel the warmth of your core from where his hands rest on the waistband of your shorts. You try to protest (although weakly), insisting that he should rest, that he doesn't have to. But the truth is Phainon knows very well he doesn't. Your underwear was perfectly dry before he started tracing shapes onto your waist and back and hips.

All of it was calculated. He wanted you like this.

So, he ignores you, focusing on the way your chest stutters, your back pressing rhythmically against his torso, as he slides your shorts and panties down your thighs. Phainon's palms caress your inner thighs, digging into the warm skin of your ass once you try to shy away from the cold air hitting your glistening folds.

"Shh," he whispers before kissing your cheek, like he isn't actively spreading you open. "It's okay, I got you. I'll make you feel so good."

That's what he always says, and so far he's never lied, which is what makes you forget that it's exactly how you end you in this position every. single. time. That's just what Phainon does, selfish as he is — he lures you into his snap trap like a carnivorous plant, and only lets you go once your brain has melted into one big puddle and the only letters of the alphabet you can remember are the ones that spell his name.

He continues to peck your face, neck, and shoulder as he circles your twitchy clit with his middle finger, his others fingers keeping your lips spread. Your breath fans his cheek and the back of your head rests against his shoulder, lolling lightly from side to side with every breathless whimper that leaves your mouth. He doesn't even seem to mind the way your nails dig into his forearms, holding onto them for dear life every time her runs the pad of his finger on the underside of your clitoral glans.

Because Phainon knows how tremendously sensitive that part is, and he loves watching the muscles of your inner thighs tense as you let out a long whine.

"I know, I know," he coos.

Your boyfriend's tone nears condescendance, yet even if you were able to form a coherent thought at the moment, you wouldn't care less. When your eyes finally flutter open, you find him already looking down at you.

"There she is, my pretty girl. Does it feel good, sweetheart?" he asks sweetly, spreading your lips a bit more to play with your bud with two fingers now. He tuts before you can nod. "Use your words, baby. And keep those gorgeous eyes open for me."

Every time that you think that warm puddle in your lower stomach is about to spill all over the sheets, Phainon slows down, neglecting your clit to tease and circle at your entrance without ever dipping his fingers in. You huff, both from the subconscious frustration of being denied yet another time, and from exertion. Your boyfriend simply chuckles, nuzzling against your cheek before tilting your chin to the side. You're barely aware of the slimy dampness coating the underside of your jaw and staining Phainon's fingers as he leans down to peck your lips. Once, twice, before he gently parts them with his tongue, humming into your mouth.

"I know, pretty," he breathes, "I'm sorry. Just a bit more, okay? Can you take a bit more for me?"

Like he doesn't know the answer to that. And still you nod dumbly with a whine, chasing his tongue as his thumb gently caresses your cheek.

"Good. You're doing so good, baby. Almost there."

But Phainon isn't cruel, truly. All things considered, he does view himself as selfish for putting you in this position every time, but he just loves you that much. He only wants to make you feel good, believe him.

And as promised, he picks up the pace again, circling your clit furiously — if his touch weren't so tender and loving. Your heels dig into the mattress, and you fight hard to keep your legs from flailing. Phainon's there to hold you down, though, and trust me, he doesn't struggle one bit while doing it, even kissing your jaw softly as a reminder to keep your eyes open.

When your sounds become more frequent, your ribcage expanding against his arms, he finally slides one finger in, curling right where you can feel the pressure building.

"Go ahead, pretty. Cum all over my fingers."

That does it. Your back arches against him and you grip his forearms hard enough for the skin to redden, mouth falling open as the dam breaks. Phainon keeps going before gradually slowing down, and he kisses your face during the whole thing, murmuring praises and sweet words.

"There you go, sweetheart. You did so good."

"You have no idea how gorgeous you look when you let go."

"Look at that, made a pretty mess all over the sheets."

By the end of it, you're left a limbless, panting puddle against his chest — like all the other times. You can feel him press his lips against your shoulder, massaging your sore hips, your thighs still twitching as you come down from your high.

Phainon, contrary to you, seems to be doing just fine, all traces of exhaustion from when he first arrived completely gone from his handsome features. He grins down at you, and it's so sickeningly sweet you can't even be mad. Lazily blinking and half-conscious, you watch as he licks his fingers clean like it's the sweetest frosting he's ever tasted.

"Hey, there." He says it like he didn't just tie your synapses into a ribbon, like the light doesn't catch in the remaining droplets of release coating his wrist. "How are you feeling? Everything alright?"

And what can you say? (Figure of speech. Your brain can't even signal your lips to move, at the moment.) Phainon manœuvres you into a more comfortable position, completely ignoring the way he strains against his pants.

He doesn't ask for more. He doesn't even hint at it, because that's just the way your boyfriend is, and it's maddeningly confusing. But until you figure out what can render a man so stupidly selfless (answer: it's love), you can be certain that Phainon will be there to take care of you and hold you until you fall asleep.

“Please take care of me well, sir.” you’d peered up from your polite little bow on that fated first day, sketches of schemes to make that cool head of his simmer already appearing in your eyes.

There had been no noticeable shift in Phainon's face ; no drooling smile, no intrigued glaze in his eyes, no twitch of the hands like you were accustomed to seeing from men his age — just a single blink.

“Of course, Ms [Name].” he’d measured you with a nod, and no more than a nod before taking you from a watchful Aglaea’s wings under his own.

And that, that was exactly what you were searching for.

You aren't even sure why you took such a strong liking to your supervisor from the first word — should anyone ask.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that you could have any man dancing to the tune of your pinky.

There's Mydeimos from the marketing department, closer to your age, with body carved like a treasured sculpture — but he just doesn't cut it.

There's Mr. Jing Yuan, polite, polished and that perfect little cadence in his voice that you usually love.

But no, there was something in Mr. Phainon's tired eyes, his wry smile, his distracted little ’hm?’. Something that made you want to kindle a fire in those dull eyes, spin him to insanity — or let him do so with you.

That, or you just have a rather questionable taste in men these days.

But, for what it was worth, you made it your very important mission to make sure he duly followed his responsibility on showing you the ropes.

Whether that be by pretending to not understand even the E of Excel, or making him repeat instructions more times than he should, you were diligent in your work.

And Phainon? He never discouraged you.

That is not to say that he encouraged your mischief, but he never said no to anything.

Not even when you made paper planes out of documents and threw it to his face, smiling unflinchingly as if to say, ‘Come, discipline me if you dare.’

Not even when you mixed too much sugar in his coffee, or mixed no sugar at all.

Not even when you dragged your heel up his leg under the table in team meetings.

Not even when you painted his face with your lips, legs entangled, breaths clouding the dusty air of the janitor's closet.

The taps of someone's shoes scaling the hallway outside halts you mid-reach, lips hovering an inch away from Phainon's glistening ones.

The heat in his cheeks clasps your hands, cute, how despite his chronically enervated exterior, he blushed no different than a school-boy.

“What’s wrong?” his taunt prompts you to glance up at his face, shadows dance around smudged lipstick stains.

“You were so… eager to stake a claim on me six minutes ago,” he dips his head, nudging the little nook under your ear with his nose. “Why stop at the climax?”

Oh, you staked a claim, alright.

With greedy fingers and even greedier lips you tore his button-down and sketched scratches across that blazing sun that'd been teasing you all day, and you did not stop until you'd weaved a necklace of red lipstick marks across the inked gold across his chest.

But that's not enough.

And he, he holds you hostage with that exact knowledge — always, always.

He challenges you to dare more with his eyes, and god, do you hate that he needs nothing more than his eyes to make your knees weak.

You purse your lips, mindlessly twisting the fabric of his shirt under your nails.

For a second, Phainon thinks you’ll whine again — loudly enough that he’ll want to shut you up himself, the same push and pull that’d gotten you this far to begin with.

But no, you do something far worse.

Phainon’s lashes flutter in startle when you grip his jaw and press a loud, echoing smooch on his cheek. His heart kicks against his chest when you slide your lips down, breathing against his for three agonizing beats before seizing them in a bite.

The breath that’d stuttered in his chest releases when you withdraw, nonchalantly fixing your shirt and hair, before walking away like you hadn't just rattled him off his axis.

It makes laughter bubble in his chest, absurdly.

His hand raises to sample the lip-stain on his thumb. Dull cyan eyes measure the purposeful sway of your hips, lifting to meet the glance you throw over your shoulder, trailing all the way till your figure disappears beyond the wall’s edge, and then, he traces the rouge on his thumb with his eyes again.

The red smears between his thumb and pointer fingers, pinkening at the edges. The sight awakens the chocolatey aftertaste of it on his tongue again, followed by parchedness seizing his throat, perhaps in longing for your lips again.

Against his better judgment, the man smirks.

There was a time in Phainon's life when he loved to smile — it came easy to him as well, and just as easily, that love had fizzled out.

Though, he had to admit, he’d smiled more times in the brief window of your arrival than he had in the past decade.

You had a bizarre way of dismantling the burn-out of the cruel 9-5 grind that’d began to corrode his bones.

And by ‘bizarre’, he meant utter shamelessness in teasing the message of just how much you wanted him in your hands.

By Kephale, is it a sight, an experience of the heftiest risk. And by all means, he shouldn't be indulging you in the slightest.

Shouldn't be.

Not that he can't.

“I wish I were that cigarette.” you leisurely blink through the cloud of smoke, the chipped plaster of the railing faintly scraping at your elbows.

Something like a snort escapes your supervisor.

Your eyes follow the nimble motions of long fingers twisting the paper tube in their groves, eyes flickering and narrowing with every swipe against the calluses you’ve only half gotten acquainted with (and there's that stupid cigarette already grabbing a higher score in your face?!), lips pressing further in their pout — which he measures with a side-eye.

“You want to be used?” he flicks at the cigarette with his index and middle finger, watching the ashes drift away in the rooftop’s winds.

If Phainon notices the faint stiffening in your shoulders at that, he makes no comment on it. “I want to be held.” you stress, watching the strained ripple in his throat as he tilts his head.

“Really? But I seem to distinctly recall you begging me to loosen the hold last night instead.”

The mix and mesh of blaring horns and passing vehicles echo from the busy streets of Okhema city all the way up here, though they are not the reason you startle enough to straighten up.

“No—? That's just—” heat grips your cheeks, his smile drips of aged honey, patiently letting you grapple with words that will not come.

Abruptly, you force yourself to huff, hugging yourself, “But you didn't really listen either last night!”

“Hah,” he cocks his head, “And despite that, you're back here begging me not to listen again, competing with a cigarette.”

“Yeah.” you take a step closer, restraining your hands into fists last second. “Yeah, because it's not enough — never enough with you.”

Your supervisor shakes his head, the muscles around his lips twitching against a smile. “That greed of yours will get you into trouble one day, girl.”

That almost makes you burst out in hysteric laughter, almost. “Trouble? I court trouble, sir.” gooseflesh peek in Phainon's body, following your sweeping gaze over his figure.

“And I have never claimed to not be greedy,” another step, “In fact, you are just as greedy as me, and very soon, you will drop this cool-collected-senior facade and join me as I drag us both down.” your face an inch away from his.

For a moment, all Phainon does is trace the sparks in your eyes with his ; they crackle whenever he takes a millisecond more to blink, macerate when he teases to — longs to — close the distance and eat up those reddened lips worked from the past minutes’ stressed nibbling, hardening just as his breath brushes against them and skipping away just as he was about to bring you in his chokehold again.

Your supervisor blinks, cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers as you do the previously-thought-impossible and step away.

“Hmph.” you flip your hair, not even bothering to spare one last glance at his bewildered stance or provide closure to why you so abruptly abandoned him at the gates of hell.

The clicks of your retreating heels pelt against the rooftop's winds, finally snapping him out of his astonishment.

Phainon shakes his head, running his free hand through strands of tousled silver-blue as if to force himself to process the astonishment.

“Minx…” his mutters to no one, tugging at the roots of his hair again.

Then, remembering the neglected cigarette in his right hand, he spares it a glance, which stretches for two more seconds where he watches the fire slowly devour the paper and the nicotine, leaving behind nothing but ghosts of ashes.

It, annoyingly, reminds him of your ridiculously confident claim.

You’re just greedy as me, that saccharine voice rings in his head. You’ll join me when I drag us down, yeah right — Phainon huffs, dropping the cigarette without care and snuffing it under his shoes, suddenly having lost all appetite for it.

Unfortunately for Phainon, what he isn't able to snuff out the upcoming days, is your sudden rebellious streak.

Or— should he call it a dial up instead? After all, you never did hide the fact that insolence ran in your blood, body and words. It was so prevalent (and perhaps, controversially, desired even) that he even begun to expect it at some point.

And he did keep on getting — just in a different format, one which he would never admit that he didn't foresaw.

“There’s a mistake in the graph, sir.”

“I already sent the files to Ms. Aglaea.”

“Ms. Tribios says that I should lead the next meeting ~”

“I must accompany Mr. Yang this Tuesday! Sorry!”

“I may be getting assigned under someone else soon…~”

Look at you. Scurrying around the office like a busy-bee, taking and executing all orders given to you like a good little girl without ever looking back.

It reminded him of his younger days— ahh, the blissful ignorance to how the corporate monster preys on the most ambitious.

Except, your ambition appears to be set not on building a mansion and buying a yacht — that much he’s certain.

Because every excited pep in your step, every obedient nod and every sweet smile, is trailed by a sidelong glance at him and made much more obvious through the attempts at stifling whatever evil smirk it is that threatens to break into your face each time his smile cracks.

It's rather cute, Phainon would admit. To see you run around like a smitten puppy after their master, in those— those pencil skirts and tight blouses, appearing so unaware of what you do to the people around you.

Phainon purses his lips, fidgeting with the pen in his grip.

Over the cubicle’s edge, he sees your hunched figure, back bent as you lean down to whisper something in Anaxa's ear.

Phainon is unable to catch the other man’s reaction, but he gets a full view of the ripple that passes by your lips, the fluster that grasps your eyes.

The pen stills between his fingers.

And perhaps, even more annoying than this, is the fact that, after these… charades, you return to his side all chippy and chatty like nothing has happened.

It doesn't take much more of seeing your flirting around with anyone you like in the moment for the realization to cement itself in his head — he doesn't like it.

Though not as much as other people, Phainon has lived a (arguably) good almost four decades on this world.

And he, much like anyone his age, is susceptible to the arrogance of experience — as such, he’s more prone to falling for simpler tricks than what he’d assume.

And Titans, does he not want to admit, seeing you return back to him, smiling and laughing at his usual dry remarks and chatting about whatever — it.. it actually relieves him.

From where this anxiety comes from, he doesn't want to acknowledge.

Because acknowledging it means admitting that a part of him (and surely just a part of him), is actually afraid of loosing whatever twisted thing it is that you two have.

Acknowledging that would mean that he's fallen right into your hands — just as you’d said he would.

And acknowledging all of it would mean confessing that he wants nothing more than to bottle those giggles of yours all to himself, trap that infuriating smile of yours in a portrait and hang it in his bedroom — or, or…

Phainon swallows dryly, unfinished work flashing on the bright-bland computer screen in front of his face.

Though he could care less about that in the face of a much more preferable outcome dangling in front of his eyes, the path to which has already begun manifesting branches for him to follow and find out.

-

“Sir~ is it true that you got a new puppy?” you tilt your head up, clutching at the strap of your purse as you exit the office building alongside him.

Phainon glances at the genuine intrigue that's taken over your face, “Mhm.” he nods, shifting his hands in his pockets.

The city lights create sparkles in your eyes, “Can I see it—? Oh— it's been so long since I saw Snowy, too!”

Phainon halts, making you stop in your tracks, too. Tufts of his hair bounce as he measures the plea in your eyes.

The normal, expected thing to do would be to just pull up a picture of the dogs on his phone, but both you and Phainon know that that isn't what you want.

A sigh escapes you as the door clicks open, “Feels like ages since I was last here.” though the shirt you’d left just a week ago, tangled with his clothes in the laundry basket, would argue otherwise.

Phainon wordlessly takes your purse from you. You watch while sliding off your heels as he locks it in the high cabinet of the kitchen.

“So?” you echo, trying to ignore the way your heart has picked up its rhythm alongside your footsteps.

“Where are the puppies?” you twist the knob of the door nearest to you — his bedroom — peaking inside without thought.

The room and the apartment answers back with silence, making your brows furrow.

Usually, Snowy would've barrelled through to greet you two at the front door, but he is nowhere in sight. And the new puppy…

You stiffen upon feeling a figure much too familiar looming behind you, “Phainon…?”

Your attempt to twist around is halted by the hand that grasps your shoulder. Another confused sound bubbles in your chest when your supervisor sweeps aside your hair.

The bites of his nails on your skin is familiar — what isn't familiar is the weight that grips around your throat and settles on your skin like a shackle.

“W-what—?” you blink, hands raising on instinct as the latch of the collar clicks shut, something feathery brushes against your collarbones.

Though your hands don’t succeed in their mission. The hand that’d been sketching crescents into your shoulder rounds to grasp both of your wrists in its hold, your back pushes against Phainon's chest when you take a surprised step backwards.

A shudder seizes your body as his breath warms the skin of your ear, “Bark, puppy.”

His fingers dig at your wrists, the other gives an experimental tug at the strap attached to the collar, making the collar scrape against your throat.

And Phainon can feel a tingle crawling up his spine as you frantically glance at his face.

Because he can see the near future in front of his eyes — in his hands ; you, waiting for him at home like a good, obedient, sweet wife everyday, taking all his stress away with a kiss, another, a hold, so much more.

And in the way the shock wears off from your face, rapidly replaced by eager fluster does he become certain, that this is what you wanted from the beginning as well.

apples ✦ what color represents you? what color represents them?

gold for khas, and then these are the main three colors on the “design hsrlyra eventually” board which in isolation does kind of give anaxa vibes but. well. it’s fine

probably the really low saturation (#3F4355) cool grey-blue, which ends up being kind of close to some of khas’s palette but... it’s fine...

eggs ✦ how would you describe your relationship to others?

doomed...? hsrlyra wouldn’t say that but i’m saying it. hsrlyra does not know there is a relationship ongoing. another drop in the bucket of misery as per usual for khaslana

sugar ✦ what is something that you do (or say) that flusters them? and how do they fluster you?

khaslana is very straightforward (i think) so him just saying whatever is very stressful; phainon has more tact/less worn down by Things and considers things like social norms and how things are received way more than khaslana. he just stonefaced recites his desires and hsrlya goes ??????????? DON’T SAY THAT TO ME??? i wouldn’t say he finds that cute but the uptick in hsrlyra’s liveliness is reassuring to him. there have been some Unpleasant cycles. being fussed over and babied really flusters khas. and any attention to wings. and also hsrlyra has stuck her fingers into his chest cavity and that’s a whole weird sex thing going on. let’s leave them to it...? otherwise hsrlyra can’t do much to fluster khaslana.

butter ✦ how do they comfort you when you’re sad?

weighted blanket approach. which honestly does work very well; world cruel and cold and sad. khaslana warm and big. i think he is very sad and soggy and words of comfort end up being really clinical and true but not actually helpful. i also doubt hsrlyra would be very forthcoming to either phai or khas about what specifically bothers her (khaslana does already know from dead loop zero), so talking through it would be pulling teeth for all parties. they SHOULD at some point talk it out but. will they? probably not. in the khaslyra pkmn au, he says “do you need floor time” and then sits beside pkmnlyra lying facedown on the cold tile. he has no idea what the function of floor time is but it does seem to soothe despair so.

bread ✦ what’s the softest thing they’ve ever said to you?

It started off simple—you woke up before him.

With the sunlight beaming past your curtains, bathing your bodies in its warmth. A large arm laid over your midriff, taking away your ability to move. If you were to attempt to, Phainon would drag you back against his chest without delay.

After an incident of waking up and finding you missing from your side of the bed. In matters of seconds, your dearest husband stumbles out of your shared chamber. Tripping over his own limbs—It's remarkable how his composure seemingly disappears when it comes to you.

His eyes, previously the color of the vast sky, lit up in the glow of molten gold. He searches for you. Swinging open any closed doors with a desperation never seen in the Deliverer. But once he spots you, the blue returns in a slow blink. He let out a shaky sigh before approaching you. His steps unbalanced and sluggish.

“.. You're here.” He breathes out, his words aren't meant for you. “You're.. Here..” His arms tighten around your body. Confirming the weight of you against his chest.

“Don't leave me, Angel. You—You scared me...” he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Seeking that familiar warmth. “Don't leave me, okay?” he brushed his lips over the surface of your skin, enticing himself into indulging. Tethering over the line of need.

With the way he reacted, anyone would assume you had been taken by Thanatos themselves and recently returned to your love. Although the real reason is much simpler, so simple it makes him look rather ridiculous, you went out to quench your thirst.

In the end, you allowed your husband to continue holding you. Planting kisses over the side of your head, drifting down to your neck, before stilling in the crook of your shoulder as he weeps over the terrifying experience of losing you. No matter how short it was.

And now that Phainon has made a one-sided, unspoken rule for you. You're stuck beside him until he gains consciousness. But from the gentle rise and fall of his chest, it seems you'll be here for a while. Made apparent when you feel him shifting against your back, tucking your head under his chin.

While you don't necessarily verbalize any complaints regarding your husband's… persistent nature—held up from being one of the Chrysos Heir, solidified by the endeavour of fighting for a chance of tomorrow in an otherwise doomed world—admittedly, it gets overwhelming having him constantly be there.

You feel terribly guilty for enjoying moments of peace without having him bound to your side. And you can't even blame him—you've heard about the unfortunate destruction of his home. Having everything he loved burnt away in the sea of flames, leaving behind the ashes of memories for one to carry.

It must've been painful and you can't fathom how isolating it is to be the lone survivor. His village being reduced as a mere cryptic tale, a reminder of how little to nothing left there is to proof its existence.

Instead of falling down into despair, the lost only pushed him to regain it all back. Fill up the void left behind by the scorching flames.

You eyes flicked over to his half open fist. Catching the golden glint of the wedding ring. Despite how familiar the sight have become, your hand grasp hold of his palm. Finger curling, barely covering the surface.

Phainon's left hand always remained hidden under a layer of fabric. Black colored glove. Which he wears only one. Specifically on this hand. Perhaps it's Lady Aglaea's personal preference for unsymmetrical style.

From his palm alone, you could see the ramification arising from his relentless voyage under the title of Deliverer. The one bringing an end to suffering.

He claimed to feel grateful in being chosen by the prophecy because if not for it, he would've been a wandering soul on the battlefield instead of returning home. To you. It was his attempt to reassure, after seeing the worry your gaze held when you found him injured.

Gently, you pull his palm closer to your lips. Tracing over the faint scars left on the callous skin. You're able to feel each one. A scratch that glide across his palm to the rough later formed over the pad of his thumb.

You rest a kiss over the surface. Closing your eyes for the moment, and while there are moments of doubt in your marriage, you cannot deny the love you two hold for one another. No matter how intense his version may come out to be—you'd stay. For it meant being with him.

Hah..

You really are a hypocrite.

The muscles in his fingers twitch, giving him away.

You freeze. In an attempt to see his face, you tilt your head but to no avail. “.. Phai?” Your call receive no answer. You furrow your brows. “Honey?” it seemed calling him by the sweet pet name had an instant effect, as you feel him shift above before he buries his face into your scalp.

You can hear a faint whine. No, you can feel it. You can feel him whining against the top of your head.

“.. How long have you been awake?” the thought of him feigning sleep this whole time is rather embarrassing to know.

Phainon didn't give an immediate answer, but his fingers curl against yours. Cupping your hand in his fist as he pulls you close. He takes a whiff of your scent. Once he's satisfied, he murmurs against you, “when you held my hand. I woke up.. I thought you needed something.”

“.. Oh.” You nearly forgot how much of a light sleeper he is nowadays. He has a habit of waking up early, so you should've known being awake before him is already odd on its own.

The two of you stay like that, ignoring how much brighter the outside world is by each passing seconds.

“.. Can you continue..?”

“Hrm?”

“Kissing my hand.. You—You were in the middle of that.” He clarifies. Unable to control the strain in his voice. “Please.” He added softly.

You huff. It's a one-of-a-kind type of intimacy. One you never imagined for yourself, it always seems distant and out of reach. Yet, here you are. “.. Can I look at you while doing so?”

“Of course,” he loosens his hold, allowing you the chance to shift your position to your other side. Once you're facing him, his hold returns. Perhaps even tighter—more eager.

You lift your hands. Still curled together in a ball. You lay your lips against the side of his hand. A faint whimper escapes him. You drift down, a kiss to his wrist.

“.. I love you.” The words came out naturally, a spontaneous moment amidst your intimacy.

When the air between you began to rise in temperature is when your eyes flick up to meet his. Wide in shock.

And, although you never left his side this morning, his blue eyes are overtaken by the swirling gold. Glowing brightly. His pristine locks is burnt away in a slow, flickering flame as the blonde underneath makes its appearance known.

Next thing you know, you're shuffled closer to his chest by the two charred wings that have emerged from his back. Forming a cocoon around you.

“.. Honey,”

“.. I'm sorry. I couldn't—” he squeezes his eyes shut. The heat rising up to his cheeks as he tries to subdue his body back to its original state. “.. I promise you, I didn't mean to.. Transform.”

“it's okay.” You chuckle, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Ignoring the burning sensation that greeted your palm. “.. I didn't think I had this much of an effect to you.”

Phainon—no, Khaslana visibly squirms. Unable to deny your words. “.. You uttered it without warning and I couldn't control myself.”

“I like it.” you admit, without shame.

He blinks. “.. You..”

“It's like a reward, you know? I made you feel so loved that your wings sprang up.” you couldn't hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.

Khaslana huffs, unable to respond and choosing to bury his face into your chest. His wings closing in even more, responding to his emotions.

“Hey, you haven't answered me.” You feign offense, brushing past the golden locks. Playing with the longer strands of hair.

He let out a soft laugh, unable to hide his smile. His lifts his head, cheek pressed against your collarbone as he whispers, “Love doesn't begin to describe the adoration I hold for you.. But—”

He leans up, and now it's you whose breath hitches.

“I love you too.” his lips, filled with so much warmth and deep affection, finds it's place against your own.

Thank you once again for trust us with your order! Forgive us for the long wait time, we hope this matches your expectation!

We'll be waiting for more customer orders, please feel free to check us out! Of course, don't forget to check our guidelines.

to start off, grab a shopping cart and tell us ✦ who usually pushes the shopping cart? or would you prefer a grocery basket?

bananas ✦ what song are you two singing at karaoke?

apples ✦ what color represents you? what color represents them?

kiwi ✦ what’s your favorite thing about their face?

tomato ✦ what pet names do they use for you? what pet names do you use for them?

jalapeño ✦ what is your spice tolerance? what is theirs?

avocado ✦ what are you and your f/o eating post sex? are you/them cooking or ordering in?

carrots ✦ what is your ideal romantic getaway?

orchids ✦ do you keep flowers in your home?

cupcakes ✦ how does a baking session go in your household?

eggs ✦ how would you describe your relationship to others?

sugar ✦ what is something that you do (or say) that flusters them? and how do they fluster you?

butter ✦ how do they comfort you when you’re sad?

orange juice ✦ what does a saturday morning look like for you two?

bread ✦ what’s the softest thing they’ve ever said to you?

vitamin c ✦ where do they love to kiss you? where do you love to kiss them?

toothpaste ✦ what does a friday night look like for you two?

laundry detergent ✦ what do you smell like? what do they smell like?

shampoo ✦ do you two wash each other’s hair?

bandaids ✦ what is your aftercare like?

oh, no! you forgot to buy quite a few things . . . go back and get them (nsfw questions)!

eggplant ✦ how big are they? how thick are they? give us that dick analysis, if you so wish

yogurt ✦ where do they like to come?

cereal ✦ slow and sensual or fast and intense? does it depend on the time?

milk ✦ what do they do that has you coming the fastest?

chocolate chips ✦ what’s your favorite position? what’s theirs?

lotion ✦ how long can they go without touching you? and what do they do when they finally do touch you?

candle ✦ how do you two feel about recording in the bedroom?

tape ✦ what kinks are most involved in your bedroom?

laundry softener ✦ what turns them on the most? what turns you on the most?

body wash ✦ who usually makes the first move? how does it go from there?

ice cream ✦ talk about whatever is on your mind

He finds you one afternoon as ordinary as any other. It's raining when he reaches the port town of Havso—a steady patter that turns the cobblestones slick and darkens the wood of every dock and doorway. For all the precision Qifrey has honed over water, getting wet remains an irritation he's never quite outgrown, and the sound of rain prickles at his awareness like a thousand fine needles, impossible to ignore. He hurries through the narrow streets, searching the shops—for a new cast iron pot to replace the one that had cracked last week, some twine for binding dried herbs, other small sundries—when he sees you.

The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at all—not to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.

Qifrey doesn't mean to stop. But he does.

You look up when his shadow falls over you. He takes the edge of his cloak, the water dispelling spell inked discretely beneath its hem, and sweeps it in a gentle arc above your head. The rain above you curves away. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your gaze tracing the water trickling off the air as though sliding off an invisible dome, before you look back at him again.

"I don't like getting wet," Qifrey says, in manner of explanation.

You simply stare. For a moment, Qifrey wonders if you speak the common tongue at all—it's not uncommon for sailors from foreign kingdoms to abandon unwanted children in port towns like this—or if you're simply mute.

"You're soaked," he tries again, more gently this time. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

Silence stretches in the space between each of his heartbeats. The rain patters, fingertips dancing along the boundary he's drawn. Then, you shake your head.

So you do understand him. Qifrey should have guessed—children like you are a dime a dozen here, orphans, strays, the overlooked and unclaimed. No one would notice if one or more vanished from the edges of the docks.

Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magic—and by extension, the silverwood—to ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.

He takes you in.

The first few weeks are easier than he expects. You come to him with no poor habits to unlearn—no stubborn rune-drawing tendencies, no theoretical 'shortcuts' circulated by some of the lazier professors in the Great Hall. Teaching you is like working on a blank sheet of parchment. You simply watch what he does and try to do the same. And when you fail—which is often—you do not seem to be affected or frustrated. You simply do it again.

The only real issue is that you have never learned to write. Qifrey watches your hand wobble across the parchment—leaving dark splotches in some places, lines breaking off in others. Your fingers wrap around the ink wand like a stick you've picked off the ground, all knuckles and no finesse.

Qifrey lets out a quiet sigh.

"Your grip is wrong."

You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.

"Like that."

The moment he lets go, however, your grip tightens again reflexively. The wood of the ink wand creaks faintly in protest. He quickly takes your hand again.

"Gently," he murmurs. "Like holding a robin's egg."

Qifrey guides your hand across the parchment. A straight line. A square. A circle. Your hand relaxes under his, just a little.

"Just like that," he says, and lets go. You look at the ink wand in your hand. "Now, try again."

You practice until the sun goes down.

He teaches you the basics. The three basic components that make up every spell, the five elemental sigils for fire, wind, water, earth and light. The keystones that govern a spell's direction and strength and purpose, how the sizes of the rings can affect its range and potency. Everything he says, you memorise. And everything he teaches you, you practice until you can reproduce it by heart.

After only about a few months of training, Qifrey dares to say that you've reached the standard that most witches your age who've grown up around magic would be at. The rate at which you're learning is… unexpected, to say the least. He should be pleased. Any decent teacher would be.

Qifrey tells himself this as he watches you inscribe a heating spell along the belly of a copper kettle. It's a reasonably complex problem for a beginner—the spell must conjure heat but not fire, be stable enough to maintain an even boil, hot enough to warm but not so fierce as to warp or melt the metal. It's a careful balance of precision and power that tends to elude most newcomers to spellcasting.

You hand him the kettle when you finish. Qifrey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifts it up to his good eye, turning it slightly in the flickering light coming from the fireplace. The dispersion keystones are neatly drawn, arranged around the central fire sigil in two concentric circles. The limiting keystones sit where they should, too—balanced on either side, ready to dampen the spell the moment the heat climbs too high.

"Good," Qifrey says at last. The word feels thinner than it should be. He lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some flaw to justify a correction, but finds none. "We'll be able to use this to brew tea in the mornings, now."

You nod once at his assessment from where you're watching him by the kitchen table, then ask, "What next?"

There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on.

The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.

Qifrey tries to keep his distance at first. He really does. A master-apprentice relationship only needs to go so deep for one to learn and the other to worry, and too much closeness would be counterproductive in his attempts to keep the silverwood at bay. He buys you all sorts of magical books and supplies you with wands and ink. He cooks, too, warm and filling meals that nourish the body and are rich in nutrients, until the hollowness in your cheeks softens, replaced by a healthier plumpness. He corrects your glyphs when he spots mistakes and guides your hand when your lines falter. It barely assauges the guilt in his chest.

You don't make it easier for him. Through no fault of your own, he knows, and yet somehow, that only makes it worse. You don't seek him out for any needs outside of your magic studies, never ask for anything, and eat exactly what he puts in front of you without comment. You wake up at dawn to start the tea kettle, and from there you start practicing magic without ceasing until night falls and he has to firmly tell you to go to bed.

There are no tantrums, no complaints, no childish demands for attention or affection. Surely, even children must have their preferences. Trinkets they like, foods they refuse to eat. But you are quiet and serious and wrong in a way that he cannot name, and Qifrey finds himself watching you much the same way Beldaruit had once watched him.

"You don't have to keep doing that," he tells you one evening. You're hunched over the kitchen with a half-empty cup of water, the parchment in front of you crowded with dozens of identical glyphs. The fire sigil that you'd just traced over in water glistens for a moment, then fades as the parchment slowly dries. You must have drawn the same glyph at least a hundred times now.

You don't look up, dipping your wand in water again. "My circles aren't perfectly round yet."

"You don't have to master everything in a single day. You could take a break."

"Why?"

Qifrey doesn't have an answer for that. Or rather, it's perhaps that he has too many. Because you look tired but refuse to admit it. Because your hands will cramp if you keep going. Because watching you work yourself into the ground makes me feel something too similar to what I used to feel for Olruggio, and that scares me.

"It was only a suggestion."

You consider it for a moment, and then turn back to your parchment. Qifrey sighs, pushing aside his robes to lower himself into the chair across from you.

"Do you have any reason for learning magic?"

You rotate your wrist once in the air before setting the wand's nib to parchment. "You asked me to."

"That's my reason, not yours."

"It's the only one I have."

Qifrey watches your hand move across the paper, and something in his chest tightens. This arrangement is supposed to be simple—selfish, yes, but simple. You are supposed to ask things of him, to need him in small, manageable ways that keep him worried just enough about your progress and studies without causing him too much concern. You have done exactly just that.

And yet here he is, worrying about you constantly for a completely different reason.

He thinks of Beldaruit's gentle gaze, the soft curl of smoke illusions coaxed into being on nights when sleep proved treacherous, when the memories of darkness and rain pounding unceasingly against metal and claustrophobia set in. He remembers Olruggio's warm smile and even warmer eyes, the ribbon on his hat that Qifrey still touches sometimes in the dark, tracing the multiple preservation sigils he's inked onto the silk.

His reminder to never forget, to never grow complacent.

"Take a break," he says again, and this time, there's something in his voice that makes you stop.

You look at him for a long moment, head tilting slightly to the side. It reminds Qifrey vaguely of a sparrow. Finally, you speak.

"You're worried," you say, as though you're making an observation. Qifrey forces a smile.

"I'm your master. It's what I'm supposed to do."

You glance down at your parchment once more. For a moment he thinks you might refuse, ignore his words and go right back to practicing, but then you set your wand down next to the paper and push your chair back, legs scraping along the slate flagstones.

"I'll continue tomorrow," you announce, without looking at him.

"Good," he says in response, and the two of you sit in silence at the kitchen table, undisturbed except for the crackling of the fireplace, and Qifrey has to remember how to breathe without counting the spaces between each one.

Hearthglen Village is about a few furlongs from the atelier, more often than not in need of small, persistent fixes, and thusly, the ideal place for you to practice using magic after passing the Pentacle of Proving's second test. Qifrey walks beside you through the small handful of thatched cottages scattered through the patchwork quilt of farmfields, returning the villagers' greetings with easy familiarity. It's always good to maintain good relations with the unknowing, especially those living nearby.

Eventually, the two of you arrive in front of the client who'd requested Qifrey's services. The problem is simple: a farmer's irrigation ditch has gone haywire somehow, and now his turnips are drowning in mud. Qifrey could fix it alone in ten minutes, but that isn't the point. He nods towards the field, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Go on."

You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat's. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.

In the meantime, Qifrey chats with the farmer as you work—something about the summer heat this year, the stubbornness of the soil—but he makes sure to never let you slip from his sights. You're already at the ditch, hat bobbing as you hover over the mud. He can almost picture your hand beneath the shelter of your cloak: fingers wrapped around the wand, drawing those precise lines that you'd practiced over and over again with unswerving confidence.

He's listening to a rundown of this year's cabbage harvest when a faint rumble echoes across the field. The earth shifts, groaning as though rousing from a long slumber, and then the water starts to move. Mud loosens and starts to drain from the fields, revealing the green leaves of the turnips peeking out through the soil once more. It's quickly replaced by a steady stream of clear water.

The farmer's face brightens with relief. He claps his hands together with a delighted laugh, already turning to call out his thanks as you drift back over to the solid ground of the path, the hem of your cloak is splattered with drying mud. You don't smile back; instead you wipe the faint sheen of sweat from your brow and look to Qifrey for approval.

He pushes his glasses up and nods. "Well done."

You accept his verdict the same way you accept everything else—quietly, without visible pride or disappointment. The farmer tries to press a basket overflowing with all varieties of squash into your hands and your eyes find Qifrey's like you aren't sure what to do with gratitude. He takes it for you.

"They're a natural," the farmer nudges Qifrey as he moves to leave. "Where'd you find a talent like that?" Despite the surge of pride, he hesitates.

"They found me," Qifrey says, instead.

More villagers request your help over the course of the afternoon. A family's goat wandered into a small ravine, a child's kite got stuck in a tree. You lift the frantically bleating animal to safety with a levitating spell, and coax the wind into tugging the kite loose from an elm's tangled branches while the village children gather to watch you work with eyes full of wonder. The girl is bouncing on her heels as the kite finally drifts down into your waiting hand, and you hand it over without a smile.

The child hugs your legs anyway. You stand there awkwardly, arms glued to your sides, and Qifrey has to look away before he laughs.

Hours later, after the last request has been fulfilled and the sun is low enough to turn the clouds a warm ombre-ochre, you and Qifrey decide to walk home, the path stretching before you like a pale ribbon through the fields. You walk next to him in silence, as you always do, fingers stained with black ink and clay soil.

"You did well today," he says.

"Thank you."

"But."

You glance at him then. Just a slight flicker of the eyes, darting sideways and upwards. You've learned, by now, that your master is far from straightforward around topics he finds necessary but difficult to broach.

"But?"

"But magic doesn't seem to make you happy," he finishes.

You neither deny nor confirm it. Your steps just slow slightly against the gravel scattered on the path, stones crunching beneath the soles of your boots. For a while, there is only the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields.

Eventually, you speak.

"Does it have to?"

Qifrey thinks about that. About the way you've perfected every spell he's taught you but never once asked to learn any out of your own desire. About how you can spend hours, days, perfecting circles and lines simply because he tells you to. About how quickly you've become good at magic—and how little of it seems to belong to you.

"It doesn't have to," Qifrey says, at last. He's cast all sorts of magic in his life, spells that have burned and hollowed, ones that have scarred and pained him beyond what any physical wound can. Not all of it was joy. Not all of it was kind.

Yet.

"But you should find a reason. To desire magic, I mean."

You glance at him, eyes briefly searching, as though weighing the shape of his words, their meaning. He licks his lips, suddenly dry.

"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "I—I hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."

The last sentence escapes him in a rush, as though forced from his lungs with some sort of wind dispelling spell. The thought settles heavy in his chest again, the silverwood shuddering. For all his care—for all the effort he's poured into teaching you properly, responsibly—one truth remains unchanged: Qifrey had taken you in because he needed an apprentice. Not out of kindness. Not out of any noble intent he can comfortably name.

He doesn't know what he would say if you ever asked him why. Any lie would feel too great a disservice to the one who he'd thrust this fate upon, and the truth feels brittle, insufficient—something that would fracture the moment he speaks it aloud.

But you never have. Sometimes, he suspects that you already know.

The remainder of the walk back passes in silence. The sky fades from sienna to lavender before deepening to an indigo reminiscent of crushed velvet. One by one, the first stars emerge at the very top of the firmament, their light faint and trembling. You say nothing, and Qifrey tells himself to give you time—you need space to process things, and pressuring you would only make you retreat further into yourself, like a snail hiding in its own shell.

The atelier comes into view at the end of the lane, its windows dark. Qifrey steps ahead, undoing the sealing glyphs on the door. It swings open with a soft creak, and he pauses, holding it ajar for you to step through.

You don't.

He turns back to see you standing a step behind the threshold, gaze lowered to the path at your feet, as though something he cannot see there has snared your attention and taken it captive. Qifrey frowns, head tilting.

"Apprentice?"

You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietly—

"I want to cure Master."

For a moment, Qifrey forgets how to breathe. He can only stare at you, mouth slightly parted. The words fail to catch despite him having nothing to say. Your voice had been small, careful—like you'd been turning the words over in your mouth for miles, smoothing their edges so they wouldn't cut your tongue on the way out. Of all the things he'd imagined you might say, this had never even been within his considerations.

He grips the door handle a little more firmly for support. The brass carvings bite its patterns into his skin of his palm.

"Cure me," he repeats, dumbly.

"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."

Qifrey didn't realise you'd noticed. He thought he'd been careful.

"I thought I asked you," he says, more quietly, more unsteadily now, "to want something for yourself."

"I don't like seeing Master in pain."

Qifrey’s grip on the door falters. Something tightens in his chest—perhaps the silverwood, perhaps something else, so sharp it cuts him open like a blade, and yet he doesn't know whether he wants to let go. For so long, he's been waiting—for you to want something, to reach beyond instruction, to claim even the smallest piece of magic for your own.

And you have.

Qifrey exhales slowly, the sound thin against the quiet of the evening. For once, there is no ready answer waiting behind his teeth. He thinks of Olruggio's face, the path to salvation he'd offered Qifrey paved with the pieces of his own memory. He thinks of the tree growing inside of him, its roots tangled in his ribs, its branches seeking the sun through where his eye once used to be.

Healing magic is a direct alteration of the body, and every form of body alteration is forbidden—banned on the Day of the Pact, enforced by the Knights Moralis with iron and fire. And even if it wasn't, the silverwood is not merely an illness. There is no cure for what grows inside of him.

But you don't know any of that.

So Qifrey smiles softly. Releases his death grip on the door, pulling away to rest a hand on top of your head, the same way Beldaruit used to do for him.

"That's very kind of you," he says.

Your expression doesn't change, but the tautness in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, as if you'd been bracing for him to laugh at you, to dismiss your dream as a fool's flight and fancy. Instead, he pushes the door open wider and gestures you inside.

"Come on," Qifrey tells you, swallowing the sudden thickness lodged in his throat. "Wash up. I'll make squash stew for dinner."

You nod and disappear up the steps to the second floor. Your footsteps fade quickly, and soon Qifrey's ears pick up the sound of running water, of the bath being filled.

He remains in the doorway a moment longer, one hand braced against the frame, the other lifting—almost unconsciously—to brush over where his right eye used to be, featherlight. The motion is familiar, thoughtless. Almost habitual.

But he's been exposed, now. A deprecating laugh escapes him, the wisps of it slipping between his teeth. It's only now, Qifrey thinks, that he's beginning to realise just how foolish he'd been.

He's fallen into the pit that he'd dug with his own two hands.

Sleep eludes Qifrey that night.

He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting on his chest. Beneath skin and bone, the cage of his ribs, the silverwood pulses its slow, patient rhythm, waiting. The ceiling above him is indistinguishable in the dark, but he's stared at it so many sleepless nights that he can recall to memory the grain of every plank, the small water stain in the corner that faintly resembles a bird in flight.

Just above him, in the room upstairs, you are sleeping soundly—or he hopes so, at least. Belly full of squash stew, dreaming of pleasant things. That you are warm and resting, and that, for once, you are not pushing yourself past the point of sense simply because he asked it of you.

I want to cure Master.

Qifrey turns onto his side, facing the wall. His pillowcase smells faintly of lavender—scented sachets you'd made last week, making use of some aromatics a village herbalist had given you for your help. He'd accepted one when you'd offered it, almost without thinking, assuming that it was thoughtful but practical gesture.

Now, the scent lingers like smoke.

Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their chest and think, that's the one.

But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.

Qifrey pushes out a breath, the tip of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. You will learn about the forbidden magic, eventually. Every witch does—and as your master, it will be his responsibility to teach you about it. Some things are too dangerous. Some lines cannot be crossed. All magic that is drawn on the human body or affects the human body is outlawed.

And that includes healing magic.

You will learn that, and then you will not ask too many questions about why his eye cannot be fixed. Eventually, you will move on and find another, better wish.

But for now, Qifrey takes your words and folds them carefully, tucking them away into the furthest corner of his heart where the silverwood cannot reach. He closes his one good eye and waits for the sun to rise once again. And when it does, Qifrey will greet you in the kitchen downstairs with a cup of hot tea and a smile, he will teach you combination sigils and binding spells, and he will never bring it up again.

Because some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud, and some teachers are too selfish to let them go.

Summer slips unnoticed into autumn, and autumn, in turn, yields to winter. Qifrey teaches you to crochet, then to knit—awkward at first, fingers too stiff around the slumbersheep yarn until Qifrey takes your hands and guides you through the movements, much in the same way he does when teaching you spells. He shows you how to tend to the heating spells that keep the house warm without burning it down, how to summon precise gusts of wind to blow snow off the atelier's sloping roofs. And the months pass just as the weather changes—gradual, inevitable, marked only in hindsight by the shift in the air, the thinning of light.

And as you grow older, Qifrey finds the distance he once tried so carefully to maintain eroded by the same unrelenting tide. Bit by bit, day by day—until one morning he wakes up and realises he cannot quite remember what it feels like to not have you there.

It's not something that changes overnight. Instead, it is a thousand small, mundane things—the way his hand moves without thinking to drop two cubes of sugar into your teacup, the copper kettle with your heating spell whistling behind him on the stove. You're at the basin with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, washing a skillet faintly smelling of bacon while a brushbuddy dozes on your shoulder. Everything is good, and everything is warm.

This is dangerous, Qifrey thinks. And then he thinks it again, because the first time hadn't been enough to make him stop.

The morning he's forced to confront it comes without warning. Quietly, unassumingly, a thief in the night.

Qifrey notices that something is different the moment he steps into the quiet of the kitchen. The kettle is cold, and the matching cups that a travelling potter had made for you sit upturned on the counter, untouched from where you'd set them aside to dry last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, listening. The atelier breathes around him like an extension of his own body—the soft creak of timber settling, the low whisper of wind along the eaves—but beneath it, nothing. No quiet patter of footsteps in the floor upstairs. No water running in the washroom.

Perhaps you're sleeping in, he tells himself. The idea is almost pleasant. You never do; you're always awake before him, tea already steeped, moving around the kitchen to prepare breakfast, presence slipped so easily into his morning routine that he'd stopped noticing it altogether.

Qifrey sets the kettle to heat, rummaging for the battered tin of tea leaves in the overhead shelf. He prepares a cup for you, placing it at the chair that has become yours in all but name, and sits across it with his own. The brew's a little more astringent than he's used to—steeped a touch too long, perhaps—but he drinks it anyway, idly sorting through the neglected stack of mail.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Light spills through the kitchen window, between the gap in the curtains, inching slowly across the table to catch on the rim of your untouched cup. Qifrey looks through the latest spell you've been working on: an attempt at replicating his Palm Dragon Teacup. He makes small suggestions in the margins, noting down more efficient arrangements and combinations of keystones, ideas for refining its precision. Still, it's good work. Your work is always good.

More time passes. He finally completes drafting a letter to the Great Hall—something about independent ateliers and watchful eyes—and sends it off before picking up a book about complex fire spells. Qifrey thumbs through the pages slowly, more out of idleness than focus, pausing every now and then when something catches his eye. A variation making use of the stabilising keystone. A more efficient heat-dispersal glyph. He dog-ears about six different pages with the intention of showing them to you later, when he looks up and realises that your tea has long gone cold.

Qifrey closes his book, sets it aside, and heads for the stairs.

Your bedroom door is closed.

That isn't surprising to Qifrey. You've always been a private person by nature, and you're even moreso protective of your few possessions, your personal space. Qifrey learned early on not to intrude without invitation or cause.

But your diversion from routine is… odd. Surely you will forgive his worry.

Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over the wood of your door, before he knocks. "Apprentice?"

No answer.

He knocks again, a little sharper this time. "It's past noon. If you want to sleep in, just let me know, alright? You deserve the rest."

Still no answer.

The thin thread of unease tightens around his chest.

"I'm coming in."

The door swings open easily beneath his hand. The room that he steps into is familiar and empty. Your blankets are carefully folded at the foot of the bed, your traveling cloak absent from its hook by the window. And your sylph shoes, the ones that he'd helped you mend just last week, are missing from their place next to the dresser.

Qifrey stands in the center of the room, the air suddenly going very, very still. The silverwood in his chest trembles.

Calm down, he tells himself firmly. Your bed is made—your absence must be deliberate. There must be some sort of explanation. Perhaps you wanted a taste of mischief, to act your age for once. Perhaps you snuck out to one of the nearby villagers, Hearthglen or Azmar, to meet people, make friends. Be normal. You mentioned the daughter of Azmar's baker last week. He recalls a girl your age with flour on her apron who'd been fascinated with your magic. Perhaps you've gone to pay her a visit.

He turns slowly, forcing his gaze to move along with him. Your ink wands are in a little cup on your table, textbooks sitting in rows on the shelf where they belong. Encyclopedias, histories, grimoires he'd deemed safe for for your learning. Nothing out of place. He's about to leave the room, fetch a guidance orb just to make sure that you're alright, when—

Something small and furtive shifts between a gap in the books. The brushbuddy's tail twitches into view before it darts back into the narrow space behind, as though caught somewhere it shouldn't be.

Qifrey frowns.

He reaches up and pulls the entire front row of volumes aside, setting them down on the table with a heavy thump. Dust stirs in the air. Behind them sits another, shorter stack of books, tucked neatly out of sight. Aside from him, there isn't another occupant in this atelier for you to hide things from. Which means you meant to conceal this deliberately. From him.

Why?

Qifrey ignores the cold uncertainty in his chest, picking up the first book. Medical journal. Second. Herbal remedies of the Southern Continent. Third, an encyclopedia on human anatomy, although only the section on ophthalmology is bookmarked, annotated so densely that barely any margin is left untouched. The rest of the books are of a similar vein.

Only the last one is different—a notebook, worn pages filled with a cramped but script that he would recognise anywhere. The rest are filled with sketches—plants that even he doesn't recognise at first glance, roots and leaves and bulbs rendered with careful attention to detail. Analgesic properties. Toxic in high doses. Antispasmodic. Causes hallucinations.

He flips through more rapidly, pulse quickening, but the later pages only get worse.

Burn, left forearm. Applied tincture from ground monoceros horn and milkwort. Moderate pain reduction, mild nausea. Bruise, right knee. Poultice from steeped elderwood and nightpoppy. Significant pain relief, but results in complete loss of sensation and movement in area. Lasts three hours. Burn—

Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for… for—

He doesn't dare to let that thought complete itself. He turns the pages quickly, skimming past entries until he reaches the last one. The ink is smudged where the parchment presses together, as if you'd jotted it down and closed it in a hurry. It's still faintly wet.

There is a rough sketch of silvery stems and thin, needle-like leaves. Spineneedles, you've labelled them. Your notes crowd the margins: potent pain-relieving properties. Possible long-term restorative effects. Grows only in steep valleys inhabited by winged serpentines, venom necessary for germination. And below it—

Kestrel's Maw, eight furlongs north of atelier. Serpentines least active at dusk and dawn.

Qifrey feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Outside the window, the sun hangs high in the cold winter sky, almost at its zenith—long past dawn, past any reasonable margin of safety. It's far too late. You should have been back hours ago. No, worse—you should have never gone at all, risking your life for such foolish, pointless endeavours. You should have been in this very room, sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, unharmed and safe and under Qifrey's protective eye. Instead—

He'd flown over Kestrel's Maw once, years ago. He still remembers the way the cliffs drop away into nothing, wind screaming through the narrow ravines, strong enough to throw even an experienced witch off balance. And the serpentines there are especially aggressive—great, winged creatures with beaks like drawn swords—nesting in the crevices where the spineneedles grow.

And that's where you've gone.

I'm responsible for this, Qifrey thinks numbly, and the words are a realisation as much as an accusation aimed at himself. I did this. I made you this way. I wanted someone to worry about, and now—

The image comes to him, unbidden: your body, broken at the base of the ravine. Impaled by sharp spikes at the bottom, limbs twisted wrong. Cloak ripped and dark with blood, flesh torn from your bones by monstrous beaks. And your face—that quiet, serious, earnest face—pale, chest still, eyes open yet blank and vacant and unseeing and—

No.

No.

Qifrey runs. He doesn't think. He doesn't allow himself to. The door is too slow—he shoves your shutters open and throws himself out of the second floor window, into the harsh midday sunlight. For a second, wind rushes up to meet him, flailing, falling—before the sylph seal beneath his feet flares. And then he's airborne, rising too fast but not fast enough, the wind tearing at his hair, the fragile control he's forcing himself to hold together.

Please, not them, is all he can think as he hurtles through the sky. Not my apprentice. Not them. I'll do anything. Please, please, please—

He doesn't know who he's begging, only that he'll beg anything, bargain everything—if it means that you're still alive when he arrives.

Even from a distance, the ravine makes for an unnerving sight. The karst pinnacles spear upwards as though they seek to pierce the sky, like the vicious teeth of some enormous, long-dead beast. Qifrey had forgotten how sharp they were, every edge honed to something hostile. Even the light falls strangely, splintered by stone so that shadows fall where they shouldn't, fractured into shifting planes that make depth and distance difficult to judge.

He clears the plains beneath him with unmatched speed, wind tearing past him—

—and then, he sees you.

You're clinging to a narrow outcropping perhaps fifty feet below the cliff's edge, body pressed close to the rock wall as though willing yourself to become one with it. Your sylph shoes are missing from one foot, and there's a long rend in your cloak. You aren't moving—only holding on, just barely—feet perilously close to the edge of a fatal, yawning drop below.

Above you, three winged serpentines circle patiently in the air. Their beaks hang slightly open, tongues flickering you as if tasting the air—your blood, your fear, the inevitability of what's next. The only mercy here is that they're not attacking. They are waiting, drawing it out. The same way a cat toys with a mouse it already knows cannot escape.

Qifrey doesn't stop or slow. He dives.

The wind screams past his ears, rising to a fever pitch as he plummets. His palm quire slips into his hand by instinct alone, wand flying over the paper in sharp, practiced strokes before he can even spare a thought as to who might be watching.

The spell takes shape in a single breath. Water wrenches itself from the air, from the thin moisture caught in wind and stone, surging upwards into a coiling mass until it takes shape—a great, fluid dragon, its body twisting through the open air with a roar that echoes throughout the gorge.

Two serpentines are caught in its jaws, their cries cut short amidst the sound of snapping wing and bone. The third shrieks, veering sharply away before wheeling back, beak gaping in fury, but Qifrey is already moving, one arm wrapping around your waist and tearing you off the cliff face, hauling you bodily into the open air. You make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—the closest to afraid he's ever heard you—fingers gripping at the collar of his shirt.

"Master—"

"Don't call me that right now."

The serpentines shriek behind him, rallying. Qifrey presses his feet together, the weight of you unwieldy in his arms, and flies home.

You don't speak on the way back. Neither does he.

The atelier rises into view at the edge of the fields, its familiar shape cutting through the blur of wind and motion. He lands harder than he intends, knees buckling for a second before he forces himself forward—half-carrying, half-dragging you through the front door. Your cup remains where he left it, untouched on the kitchen table, and he sets you down onto the chair—the same one he'd been sitting in just an hour prior, oblivious, something—more roughly than he intends.

You don't complain. You never do. The same way you never protest, never ask, never tell him anything—

Qifrey turns away. His hands are shaking. He wrenches open the drawers, rifling through them with none of his usual care, yanking out bandages, salves, clean gauzes. Something clenches in his chest like a fist, squeezing, tight, so tight.

"What were you thinking?" he snaps. He almost doesn't recognise his own voice—low and taut and cutting. "Going to such a dangerous place—alone—without telling anyone—without asking—"

He finds the antiseptic, shoved into the back of a drawer. His fingers slip on the stopper, trembling faintly.

"You could have died. Do you understand that? You could have died. Those creatures—they could have—" Sent you plummeting down the cliff. Eaten you. Torn you to pieces. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. The images they conjure are too much to bear.

He whirls around again, still not quite looking at your face, and takes your left arm. The cuts are worse up close—long, ragged scratches that split skin, dried blood flaking at the edges. Your palms and fingers are raw and abraded from where you must have clung to the sharp rock.

Qifrey dabs at them with more force than necessary. You flinch just once, before going still again.

"Rash. Reckless. Stupid." The words spill out of him like water from a broken dam. They're sharp enough to wound, meant to hurt, and he knows it even as he says them but cannot bring himself to stop. "I didn't teach you that. I taught you to think, to assess, not throw yourself off cliffs for—for worthless plants—"

"Master—"

"I said don't." Hearing that title makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when you—"

"It's Master's fault."

The words land like a slap. Qifrey turns to look at you—hand frozen over a roll of bandages—only to find your mouth drawn taut in a stubborn line. And your eyes, those quiet, watchful eyes that have always followed him so carefully, are hard with something he has never seen before. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to accusation.

As though he is the one who has wronged you.

"Oh, it's my fault," he repeats, his voice rising on its own with an unpleasant mixture of anger and incredulity. "I didn't tell you to sneak out without telling me. I didn't tell you to seek out winged beasts you have no experience fighting. I didn't tell you to—"

"Yes, because Master never tells me anything—"

"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishcloth—stained with your blood—caught between his fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. He wants to tear his hair out. Another part of him—a smaller, quieter, darker part—wants to lock you in this atelier again and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you're safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am trying—I have been trying—to protect you from—"

"I don't need to be protected like a child—"

"Then stop acting like one!" Qifrey is shouting now. He knows that he is. He can't stop. "Sneaking around, hiding books in your room, burning and cutting and throwing yourself off cliffs for a cure that doesn't exist!"

Your face darkens, expression obstinate. "Master can't know for certain that a cure doesn't exist—"

"I do!" His hands come down hard on the tabletop, and you flinch. Your teacup jumps, porcelain clattering, cold tea spilling over the tabletop. "I know because—" Because he's already been to the Tower of Memories, and he knows that what is ailing him isn't an illness or curse. "—because I've already read every book, tried every remedy—I know that there is no cure! There is no cure, and there will never be, so stop trying to throw your life away for something so—"

"I won't!"

Something in Qifrey snaps.

"If you're so unwilling to listen to your master," his voice comes out cold and flat in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."

The moment those words leave his mouth, Qifrey knows immediately he would do anything to take them back—tear them out of the air, swallow them whole even if they cut his throat to ribbons—but the damage is already done.

You go very still. The anger doesn't leave you, not entirely, but something beneath it fractures, hairline cracks spiderwebbing across thin ice. Your mouth works soundlessly, pressing into a hard, bloodless line.

And when he looks up again, your lashes are wet. You're not crying—you never have, at least in front of him—but your eyes are bright now, too bright, and your lower lip trembles just once before you sink your teeth into it and force it still.

Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs what remains of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches heat, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget.

But this—this—is worse.

Qifrey's hands drop to his sides. Why were they even raised in the first place? The kitchen is too quiet now, silent except for the remnant ghosts of your anger and his, the steady drip of cold tea from the table's edge. He feels exhausted all of a sudden, wrung dry and scraped hollow.

It's only then that he notices the bag. Your hand—the other one, still dirty and bleeding—is curled around a small cloth pouch, pressed so tightly against your chest that your knuckles are bone white. Even after everything, you are still clinging on to it—still desperately trying to keep it safe.

"Give me the bag," he says.

Your eyes jump to his face. You glance down at the bag, as though just only remembering that it's there. Your fingers tighten. You hesitate for a brief second, before you shake your head.

No.

Qifrey sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, patience fraying, before he takes ahold of himself forcefully. He’s done more than enough damage today. “I won’t do anything to it,” he mutters, trying to sound reassuring, more gentle. He doesn’t know if he succeeds. “Just—please. Give me the bag.”

You stare at him for a while longer, as though weighing something you can’t put into words. Your fingers slowly loosen their death grip. Reluctantly, you hold it out.

It’s surprisingly light in his hand when he takes it. Almost as though it holds nothing at all. His fingers—still tacky with your blood—fumble with the drawstrings as he pulls them loose. He looks inside.

A handful of silver leaves rest scattered across the bottom of the pouch. Thin and gleaming, each one shaped like a sewing needle. Spineneedles. Carefully gathered, but so few of them—barely enough to brew a single vial of tincture.

Yet the mere sight of them is enough to strip all the anger from him in an instant. Qifrey stares down at the pouch, the thin scatter of silver leaves glinting faintly, and feels something inside him give way.

He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed of—is himself. Because the only reason you did any of this—pushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's way—is because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you had uttered that day close to his heart, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you into danger.

A quiet breath escapes him. Qifrey slowly lets himself sink to his knees in front of your chair.

You shift at the movement, glancing down at him with something uncertain in your expression, unsure of his moods.

"Master…?"

He sets the pouch on the table, carefully, gently, and takes your hands in his. You try to pull away on instinct, but he holds on, insistent. Qifrey turns them over, palms up, and looks at the small, round scars he's never noticed before. Burn scars. From your experiments, the remedies you've tested on your own skin.

His throat closes around words he doesn't have.

"Thank you," is what he says, in the end. Even then, it feels inadequate. "For trying to cure me. For going to such lengths to ease my pain." He pauses, his thumb brushing over a half-healed scab on your knuckle. "But it will not work."

You look at him, then. The defiance has left your eyes now, replaced by an almost brittle uncertainty. "How is Master certain it will not work?"

Because I've tried everything. Because I read about the truth in the Tower. Because the problem isn't my eye, or the headaches—it is the tree growing inside of me, the parasite that will kill me if I stop worrying, if I stop hurting, if I let myself be happy for even a moment.

But Qifrey cannot say that. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. His fingers drift, almost unconsciously, to touch the end of the ribbon trailing from his hat.

"Because, like I said, I've tried every remedy in existence." He shakes his head with a defeated smile, squeezing your hands. "Nothing works. And it hurts me more—more than my eye, more than any headache—to see my beloved apprentice put themself in danger for my sake."

You go still in his chair.

"I should be the one protecting you," he continues. "Not the other way around. That—that's the whole point of having an apprentice." He almost laughs at that, the line of his mouth curving into the shape of a faintly self-mocking half-smile. Oh, his foolish, foolish past self. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. And instead, here you are, throwing yourself off cliffs for me."

His gaze drops back to your hands, the small scars scattered across your palms. A wordless record of what you were willing to endure—have already endured—for his sake.

"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that he is not merely saying them for your sake—they are simply true. "The pain is small in comparison."

You don't speak for a moment. The afternoon light has shifted, turning gold and honeyed, pooling on the floor between you like syrup. Qifrey can hear his own heartbeat in the silence, slow and steady in his chest.

"But I don't like to see Master in pain."

Your voice is small, but matter-of-fact. As though you are stating an obvious truth, the same way you might say fire is hot or the sun rises in the . As if it's simply a fact of the universe that you dislike seeing him in pain, and therefore, you must do something about it.

Qifrey's heart clenches, a sharp and sudden thing, and before he can think better of it he leans and gathers you into his arms. It's the first time he's hugged you, he realises. He's touched your hand, guided your wand, resting a hand on your head—but never something like this.

You go stiff for a moment against his chest, caught off guard by the sudden contact, before the tension that you always seem to carry in your shoulders seeps out slowly. Your forehead dips to press against the line of his collarbone. And your hands, one half-bandaged and the other still covered in little cuts, come up to grip tentatively at the back of his shirt.

When did you become so precious to me?

He closes his good eye and presses his face into the top of your head, ignoring the way his glasses jostle on the bridge of his nose. "Don't do something so dangerous again, alright?" His voice is muffled into your hair. "Promise me."

There's a long pause. Then: "I don't want to give up, Master."

Qifrey wants to sigh. Clearly it was too much to hope for otherwise, but perhaps that is entirely his own fault. He pulls back, just enough to meet your determined eyes with his own.

"If you have any ideas," he says reluctantly, "you tell me first. Before you do anything. We'll experiment together—here, in the atelier, where it's safe." Qifrey narrows his eye at you. "I will not stop you from trying. But I won't lose you to a cliff face, and strictly no forbidden magic. Do you understand?"

You look at him. Your expression is unreadable for a long moment—those eyes are like mirrors, mirrors that reflect too much of him too clearly back at himself. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay."

"Good." Something in his chest loosens. Qifrey pulls you in again, squeezing you again briefly before he lets you go. There's a warmth, settling into the hollow spaces between his ribs. "In the meantime, let me finish treating your arms."

You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, tutting at the state of your skin all the while, and proceeds to insist on drawing you a milk bath while you squirm protest.

Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.