#jupiter writes

The throne room yawns around you. Cavernous and suffocating in its grandeur, built to make all who enter feel small. Columns carved from pale stone rise like soldiers frozen at attention. Incense burns from tall brass bowls, choking the air with sweetness meant to mask rot.

And they're all here to watch.

Nobles in delicate lace and heavy silks. Courtiers glittering with jewels. Their eyes track you like hawks tracking prey. Some smirk behind embellished fans, some murmur, and some bare their teeth openly. The shame of it scalds your skin hotter than fire, their whispers catching and spreading like sparks.

"I cannot fathom why she would spare her."

"They say she knew nothing of her father’s schemes until it was too late."

A scoff. "And who’s to believe that? Apples don’t fall far from the tree after all."

Your posture is stiff, mouth turned into an unbecoming sneer. You stare straight ahead, ignoring their scorn. You want to tell them how wrong they are, but who would believe you? The truth isn't something that matters now. All they care about is victory and loss.

Your eyes catch hers and you force yourself to withstand the urge to lower your head. Her eyes are greener than the wine is red, calm where you are all fire.

The Scarlet Queen. The Conqueror.

She sits draped across the throne as if it was built for her spine alone. Crown sharp as daggers, lips painted the same red as the banners that bleed down the walls. Her presence isn't loud, but it presses down on the hall like the weight of a storm, a power so natural it makes everyone else look like children playing dress-up. She leans back against her seat, legs crossed, chin resting lazily against her fingers as her gaze locks on you the way a wolf fixes on a rabbit: certain of the outcome.

She studies your torn dress: once proud in your family's colours it is now nothing but a ruin, ripped from where a soldier grabbed you, smeared with mud, dust, and the memory of blood. The hems are frayed, your bare knees scuffed from when they shoved you to the ground after the fighting ended. Stray strands of your hair cling to your damp cheeks, matted with sweat and ash. You haven't had water in hours; your tongue feels thick, your throat raw from shouting at the execution, from screaming your father's name until your voice broke.

Your knees smash against the marble when the guards force you down. They hit the stone with a thud that rattles your teeth. Pain shoots up your thighs, but you don't cry out. You won't.

Your keep your chin high. You refuse to lower your eyes. Even with the stink of blood in your hair and the weight of the entire court's laughter pressing in on you, you won't bend.

Not yet. Not ever.

Her eyes take in your scratched skin, your stubborn defiance, and then, she smiles, slow and knowing, sharp as the edge of a knife.

"So," she sighs like you're nothing more than another spoil of war, another broken thing to add to her collection. "These are the last remnants of a fallen house."

The words land like a blade slipped between your ribs.

You taste iron. Bite your cheek until copper spreads across your tongue. You think of your father's head bowing to the block, of how you screamed when the axe fell, of how they held you still and made you watch.

Your throat strains. Your chest aches. Your body trembles with fury, with grief, with something dangerously close to collapse.

But you bare your teeth instead, curling them into something sharp, something that might pass for a smile. "Enjoy your prize while it lasts, Your Majesty."

A low roar echoes through the room as the different voices of distraught nobles combine. Even they can hear it, the threat, the knowledge that you will not bend easily to her will.

Her lips twitch, not with anger, but with mirth. She leans forward slightly, crown catching the light. Scarlet flickers in her eyes, hot and alive.

"My prize," she repeats, soft as a caress and hard as a shackle.

She huffs, a laugh hidden somewhere beneath it. The corners of her eyes crinkle in delight like you've just told a grand joke.

You realise begrudgingly that your bite didn't serve the purpose you intended. You wanted her to falter, to hesitate, but she didn’t. A queen like Wanda wouldn’t be intimidated by the empty threats of a fallen heir.

She flicks her finger casually, imperiously. "Bring the pet to heel."

The hall titters with muffled laughter and scandalised whispers. Wincing, you press your lips together and tighten your shoulders. For the fraction of a second, something flickers inside you: alright, if that's how she sees me…

You lean forward, snapping your teeth right at her. A sharp, feral click of teeth in the air, like an animal lunging at a hand that dares to touch its cage. A low hiss escapes your throat. The hush that follows rings like struck class.

The guards' hands tighten until you think they'll bruise bone.

Someone in the crowd mumbles behind their hand, saying it loud enough for others to hear. "Does the pet have rabies?"

Gasps and startled chatter ripples through the hall again, giggles spread, sharper now, digging into you. Heat rushes to your face, humiliation biting at the corners of your pride. You want to claw at them. To scream.

Wanda doesn't flinch, doesn't laugh.

She only tilts her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as if you've confirmed something she already knew. Her green eyes rest on you with quiet fascination.

"You may growl all you like," she says, voice cruel in its calmness, "but that does not make you any freer."

The words coil around your throat. You force your glare to stay fixed just past her shoulder, refusing to give her your eyes. You flare your nostrils, chest heaving, heart racing. Defiance and fear clash in every muscle. The humiliation, the audacity of her calmness, makes your claws dig deeper into your pride. You bare your teeth again, low and trembling, the only weapon you have left.

The hall soon comes alive again after your display, people drunk on the spectacle. The court has gotten a taste of blood, and victory is their wine. Musicians strike their strings, trumpets blare, and drums pound a rhythm that shakes your ribs. Gold threads catch in torchlight as nobles whirl and sing, their jewels flashing like falling stars. Platters spill with roasted meats, sugared fruits, steaming breads; so much abundance it almost sickens you.

Your fingers curl against your knees until the nails dig crescent moons into your skin. You imagine standing up, tearing the glasses from their ornamented hands, smashing their feast across the floor. You imagine blood in their wine, screams instead of music.

But you are made to kneel at Wanda's side instead. The marble cutting into your knees, your dress crumpled around you in filthy folds of your family's colours. The contrast is deliberate, cruel in it's precision: their shining, your ruin.

At some point, you think you hear your father’s voice. Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the sparkling crowd, only to find nothing. He isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. Your heart stutters painfully, tightening in on itself until it aches. You know you’ll never see them again. You’re aware of it. But the realisation takes time to settle. Somewhere deep inside, beneath your ribs and past your lungs, a stubborn, childish hope still blooms, the belief that this is all just a terribly mean dream.

Goblets clink, voices swell, skirts swish across the floor. You smell cinnamon, roasted apples, and hot wine, the kind your mother used to make in winter, thick with spice. Honey drips from torn bread, the same your father would eat with his bare hands after hunts, laughing as you reached for the first piece. A tang of charred meat lingers in the air, yanking you back to the morning fires when soldiers burned the stables and smoke poured into your lungs. You taste ashes. You swallow hard against it, chest tight.

Hunger bites at your stomach like a chained dog, but your press you lips thin, force your jaw to lock. You will not show them hunger, even when you're already turning dizzy with it.

A hand lowers into your vision, pale fingers tipped with rings, steady and sure. Wanda. She holds a cup of deep red wine just before your lips. The ruby liquid trembles with the faintest ripple.

"Drink," she murmurs, almost idly, as though you were no more than a hound offered water.

Your throat burns. Your lips ache to part. But instead, you turn your face away, the motion quick and forceful, strands of hair flashing in your vision. You run your tongue over the dry ridges of your lips, hissing when your saliva catches open cuts. Still, you pout stubbornly, pushing your bottom lip forward in silent rejection.

Their cackles ring, booming and gilded with cruelty. They wrap around you until it's hard to breathe, hard to think. Their voices blur together. Someone whispers something about a spoiled child. Another wagers how long you'll last before you crawl.

Wanda doesn't withdraw the cup immediately. Instead, she watches you. Your hands tremble softly, your shoulders flinch every time they threaten to falter, yet your face remains an unbreakable mask of aloofness. She lets out a quiet, amused hum, so faint only you can hear it. She sips from the drink herself, lips pressing against the rim where she meant yours to touch.

The music crescendos, flutes squeaking, tambourines clattering, and the dancers spin in waves of tulle and celebrations, but you feel like a stone in the river, unmoving, refusing to be swept along. Every sound feels louder, brighter, meant to smother you.

And all the while, you stay kneeling, thirst gnawing, jaw clenched, fighting to keep your spine straight as your body begs for relief.

Wanda leans back on her throne, wine still in hand, her attention fixed not on her revelry, but on you. She doesn't look away. Not once. Not while the nobles preen and toast her glory. Not while dancers twirl for her pleasure. Not while generals cheer about conquests yet to come.

Her gaze pins you, unblinking, as though you're the only part of the feast that matters. You don't know if it's mockery or something worse.

Heat blooms in your face, crawling down your neck, not just from rage this time. Shame coils in your stomach, sour and poisonous. You wonder if she can see it; the way your throat works against the thirst, the way your hands tremble just slightly where they're pressed to stone.

You clench harder. Hide it. You imagine your father's voice: Don't give them the satisfaction.

You keep your eyes away from hers, trained straight ahead towards the dancers and the banners dripping red. Anything but her. Because if you look too long, you fear you'll break in way the whole court will see.

The festivities bleed on until your head aches with it. The endless music, the clatter of cutlery and glasses, the drunken glee of men and women who only days ago would have bowed before your father.

Wanda dismisses her court with a single glance, and the room empties quickly, like smoke pulled from a flame. The guards finally haul you back to your feet, your knees throbbing, and follow their queen's silent lead. Soon it's just you, the guards and the echo of her footsteps.

The hallways of the castle are dimly lit and winding, and if it weren’t for the paintings on the walls, they’d all look exactly alike. No matter how hard you try to remember where she goes left and where she goes up, you know that without help, you’ll never find your way out again.

Wanda pushes large, arching doors open. The knobs are gilded and the wood is painted with intricate, golden flowers. The guards push you inside, not caring that you were more than willing to simply walk by yourself.

The doors close behind you, and the men let go of you.

You take it all in, curiosity getting the better of you. Leaning forward on your tiptoes, you look deeper into the room. There’s a loveseat with a million soft pillows, a mirror in the corner that’s large enough to show all of you and then some more, wide open double doors that lead to another bedroom.

Your heart sinks.

The room is lived in and by the red dress dangling from the hanger, you don’t even have to guess whose room it is.

Your chambers are adjoined to Wanda’s, though you realise very quickly they are no chambers at all, just a gilded cage dressed in pretty velvet. High ceilings, tapestries in crimson and gold, a bed so large it looks like an altar. There's no warmth here, only grandeur meant to impress, to suffocate. At the centre stands a seamstress' pedestal, the kind your mother made you stand on while she chose fabrics for feasts. The sight of it here, waiting for you, makes your guts shrink.

"Up," Wanda says with the expectation of a command that will be obeyed.

You hesitate. One of the guards' hands twitches toward you, eager to shove you again, but you clamber onto the pedestal yourself, your pride refusing to give them the joy. The wood sighs once under your weight.

"You may leave."

The guards bow their heads and retreat. Their absence makes the air heavier. The silence sharpens now that you are alone with her.

She circles you slowly. A predator orbiting her prey. Her gown whispers with each step, scarlet fabric brushing the floor like spilled blood. Her eyes sweep over you, noting the shade of green you wear, the dirt, the cuts. It feels like she's peeling away skin rather than fabric.

"These colours reek of failure," she says, a curl of disgust slips from her lips as she plucks at your sleeve with two fingers, as though the very dye offends her skin. "Tomorrow, at dawn, you'll be fitted properly in my colours."

You almost choke on the laugh that tears from your chest. It's bitter and ugly, leaving your torso aching.

"You'll never wash my blood out of me," you rasp, the words sandpaper in your mouth.

Her head tilts, not in anger, not even in surprise, but something that resembles recognition. It's gone as quickly as it came. She steps back, unpinning her crown and letting her hair fall loose in a curtain of red, catching in the firelight like liquid flames. Without the crown, she looks younger, softer. Almost human.

Your lungs swell. You hate it. Hate that your breath catches, that you traitorous body notices. That the sight of your captor, bare-headed and beautiful, makes you ache in ways you don't want to admit.

She meets your gaze. Her lips curve, not quite a smile.

"What is it?" she says, tauntingly. "You've never seen a queen take off her crown."

You grit your teeth. You don't answer. You can't.

She doesn't press. She only brushes her hair with her fingers, as if daring you to keep watching. The flush of humiliation stings hot. Your breath hitches with it, and the words tear free before you can think.

"I could kill you in your sleep."

Her smile deepens, but it isn't cruel. It's darker than that as though your rebellion is a story she's heard a hundred times, and each time it ended the same way.

Scarlet flickers to life at her fingertips. The air around you hums, thrums. The pedestal trembles under your feet, threads of red energy curling up your ankles, your wrists, feather-light but unshakable.

Her eyes glow faintly as she steps closer, her voice a murmur that coils into your ears.

"Pet, if I closed my eyes right now, the very walls of this castle would keep me safe. The air would choke you. The fire would eat you alive before your dagger ever touched my skin."

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the pulse of power pressing into your chest, tightening the room. Your knees want to buckle, your stomach twists, and every part of you screams to flee, but where could you run? Every step you might take is already measured, already trapped by her presence.

She leans slightly closer, letting the hum of her magic thrum along your skin, letting her gaze pierce you. Her hand rises, fingers trailing up your arm possessively. They curl around your jaw, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to meet her burning gaze. The heat of her skin against yours makes your stomach drop.

"This isn't about what you want,” she whispers, her thumb pressing lightly against your cheek. “So let me make something very clear. You'll sleep in the bed I've generously provided. You'll wear the clothes I pick. Eat the food I request. You are mine now. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will change that."

The words crash over you like cold water. The heat of her magic fades, but the weight of her declaration hangs, pressing into you. Her grip lingers just long enough to make your heart stutter before the scarlet begins to fizzle away.

You glance at the door to her chambers, less than ten steps away, and realise just how close she is, how far you are from freedom.

Then she turns away, slipping out of the room, leaving you trembling with rage, with grief, with a name that no one but yourself will remember.

The sun isn’t even awake when they drag you from your seat on the window sill. You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. Every time your eyes closed, the firelight behind your lids became your father’s crown tumbling to the ground, his body crumpling after it, the echo of screams that would never fade. Sometimes you even saw your mother’s hands, bound in rope, flames devouring her skirts. The smell never left. So you kept your vigil instead, chin on your knees, staring out into the dark sky as though you could wish yourself away into it. The stone bruised your thighs. Your limbs ached. It didn’t matter. Better the ache of exhaustion than the weight of nightmares.

You refused the food, too. The bread had gone hard, the grapes wrinkled. The milk filmed over, untouched. That was your choice. Your rebellion. If you couldn’t stop Wanda from taking everything else, you could deny her this one thing; your hunger. Even if it hollowed you out until you were brittle, it was yours. Yours in a world where nothing else was anymore.

Now, the seamstress' hands crawl over you like busy spiders, measuring, pinning, chalking faint lines against your undergarments. Her touch is brisk but not cruel, and that makes it worse. You don’t want her gentleness; you want her hand to slip, for the pins to bite, for something to hurt more than you already do. She works as quickly as she dares, fumbling pins and scribbling numbers. Her apprentices hover, arms full of crimson and maroon fabrics, whispering suggestions Wanda cuts down with a single hum.

You stand rigid on the small pedestal, back straight, arms tight against your sides. You won’t give them the pleasure of seeing you slouch or stumble. You will not fall. You’ve fallen enough.

Wanda doesn’t sit, she drifts. A queen at ease in her power, gliding from one side of the room to the other, trailing her fingers over books, the window ledge, the folded tapestry at the end of the bed. Her shadow falls across your skin no matter which way you turn, and every time one of the women hesitates, her voice slides in, directing them like she's moving chess pieces across a board.

"Raise her arm higher. Yes, mark the sleeve just there. The waistline should sit lower."

You try not to look at her, but your eyes betray you. They keep finding her. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches on the rubies of her crown, or the shimmer of gold threads at her sleeve, but your attention rebounds to her again and again. To the tender curve of her neck. The fullness of her lips. The shape of her slender hands. You loathe yourself for noticing. For admiring.

Her fingers brush along the carved wood of the vanity, lingering over the abandoned breakfast tray. "Not a bite. Not even a grape."

"I'm not hungry," you mutter, a heavy rasp in your voice.

"Mhm." Her tone lilts, soft with humour as her eyes sweep the untouched sheets on the bed. "Not sleeping either. At this rate, your stubbornness will eat you faster than any hunger. "

Your stomach clenches, not with her prophesied hunger, but with rage. You want to spit at her. Scream until your throat splits and the sound reaches the place where your family rots. But instead, you keep your eyes pinned to the far wall, your nails biting crescents into your palms.

When she circles back, her eyes catch on your face. The seamstress is trying to measure your shoulders, but your chin is tucked low, jaw locked, as if you can shut everything out by staring at stone.

"Lift your chin," Wanda says.

You don’t move.

The seamstress falters, tape dangling helplessly. One apprentice fumbles with fabric. Another looks like she’s holding her breath.

Wanda sighs, neither annoyed nor angry. Merely bored. Her steps are unhurried as she closes the distance, each one causing your pulse to spike up a notch. Her hand is cool when it hooks beneath your jaw, fingers purposeful, touching you before you can flinch back. She pushes your chin up with ease, forcing your gaze to the ceiling

"There," she says flatly, her eyes cutting to the seamstress. "Measure properly. I want the collar to sit just here." Her thumb presses against the hollow of your throat, right where the velvet will cling.

Your pulse hammers against her touch traitorously.

Suddenly it’s not her thumb but a noose, or a blade, or Wanda's magic that wraps around you slowly. You feel the phantom heat up your neck, smell the char in your nose. Your body locks as if bracing for fire.

The seamstress nods quickly, eyes fixed on the chalk in her hands, desperate not to meet either of your gazes. You wonder if she sees you as the victim or the villain. Whether she pities you, or if she whispers with the others that you deserved it all.

Wanda doesn’t release you immediately. Her thumb strokes once, absentmindedly, against the thin skin of your throat, a gesture that feels both careless and unbearably intimate. You hate the warmth it leaves behind when she finally lets go.

"You're wasting fabric. I'll never wear your colours."

The seamstress hesitates again. The apprentices stand rigid, waiting for the strike that never comes. Wanda doesn't scold, doesn't threaten. She toys with a hairpin from the vanity instead, her silence louder than any slap.

"You'll wear them," she says simply. "You'll even beg for them."

You snarl, teeth bared in something vicious. "Maybe I'll rip them apart in front of your court."

Her lips curve, her eyes find yours. She steps close again, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek and tucking it neatly behind your ear as if she has every right to touch you.

"If you do," she says, head tilted. "I'll have another made. And another. And another. Until all that anger is spent and all that's left is you, draped in my colours."

Anger flashes through you, so blinding you snap your teeth suddenly at the nearest apprentice who attempts to test fabric against your skin. The girl squeaks, stumbling back, bolts of crimson spilling from her arms. It’s petty and small. A victory that vanishes the moment it lands.

"So dramatic. Perhaps I should have a muzzle made." Her thumb strokes once along your cheek, a parody of tenderness. "Then at least your little rebellions wouldn't waste my seamstress' time."

Her words crawl under your skin, barbs you can’t pull free. You force your eyes to the wall, but the heat rising underneath your skin betrays you.

"Don't fret," she says lightly. "Even the wildest creatures can be tamed with a little bit of patience."

It takes another eternity before the seamstress gathers her notes, apprentices bundling fabric tight to their chests. "Your Majesty," she murmurs, bowing low. "We have everything we need."

Wanda flicks her hand in dismissal. They scurry out, the door clicking shut. Even through thick wood, you hear their collective exhale, as though they had all been drowning.

For a moment, Wanda doesn't speak. She crosses to the loveseat near the fire and nestles herself into it with unhurried grace, one leg crossing over the other. She leans back, the picture of ease, her arm draped lazily along the curve of the seat.

"Well, that was tiresome," Wanda says at last, vaguely gesturing toward the pedestal. "You may step down."

Your muscles ache as you lower yourself. Every joint screams from standing still so long, from being measured like livestock. You imagine the seamstress scribbling down numbers on a parchment and you wonder bitterly if Wanda plans to carve those digits into your skin so you’ll never forget the scale of your humiliation.

She watches the stiffness in your limbs, the way you grit your teeth against it, and her lips twitch into something close to satisfaction.

"You look dreadful," she observes, eyes sweeping from head to toe. "My seamstress had to measure a ghost this morning. A body of shadows and sharp edges."

A ghost. The word pricks something raw. For a breath you see your governess' back as she's being dragged away. Your mother’s face as she's standing on the pyre. Shadows and sharp edges, indeed. Maybe that’s all you are now; scraps of bone, grief dressed in rags.

You glare at her, but she couldn't care less about it. She merely lifts a little bell from the table and rings it once. A maid appears almost instantly, eyes downcast, hands cradled at the front.

"Have a bath drawn," she commands, voice calm as ever. "Hot with rose oil. Have it waiting within the hour."

The maid curtsies and disappears without a sound.

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I won't take it."

The words taste childish even as they leave your mouth, and you loathe yourself for it. You sound like a sulking toddler, not the last surviving daughter of a house that once dreamed of crowns.

"Of course you won't." She reclines deeper into the seat, fingers idly drumming on the back. "You'll sulk in the corner, clutching your little rebellions like they serve any purpose."

"Better than being dressed up like a doll," you snap. "If you want me polished, you'll have to drag me into the water yourself."

You don’t mean to think it, but the thought rips through you anyway: would she? Would she strip you herself? Would she touch your bare skin? Heat spikes through your cheeks, and you grind your teeth until your jaw aches.

"Oh, pet," she scoffs, the word wrapping around your ribs and squeezing tightly, "you think my humiliation lies in your dirt. That when my court sees you undone and defiant, it will be me they laugh at."

Her words hang between you, and for a moment the room feels too large, too quiet. You hear the fire crackle in the hearth, the faint shift of her gown against the seat as she leans forward just slightly, savouring your silence.

Your throat works, but no words come. You want to spit something back, anything, but the truth of her calmness steals the air from your lungs.

"But they will not laugh at me. They will laugh at you. And I…" She shrugs one elegant shoulder, gaze sliding away as though the outcome hardly matters. "…I will let them."

You want to believe she’s wrong. You cling to the fantasy that your filth will stain her velvet, that your hunger will chip her crown.

She rises then, adjusting her sleeve as though the conversation is already over. At the door, she pauses, glancing back at you with that maddening calm.

"Bathe or don’t. Eat or starve. When the time comes, you will walk at my side all the same."

The door closes, the latch clicking softly as the door shuts behind her and the sound carries far too loud in her absence.

Grabbing a pillow from the bed, you drag yourself to the window, drawing your knees up to your chest, staring out at the thin morning light.

The pillow is softer than a cloud in your hands as you rest it on your thighs. You consider screaming into it, letting the goose feather muffle all your anger and pain, but before you can reconsider, you slam the side of your closed fist onto it. Once. Twice. Until the force vibrates through to your bones.

The relief you seek doesn't come. Instead you hear faint laughter in the back of your mind. Wanda's? The court's? Your father's when he was foolish enough to believe he could win?

With a growl that would put a wolf to shame, you toss the pillow across the room, staring after it while your chest heaves.

The faint scent of roses curls in from the adjoining chamber where the bath is being poured, but you ignore it, burying your face in your arms.

This is your victory, you tell yourself fiercely. Your body, your hunger, your filth, yours alone. If Wanda wants to parade you like this, then let her be the one mocked.

You cling to the thought like a lifeline. Never once imagining that when the court laughs, it will only be because she lets them.

The closet is a handcrafted old thing, dark wood carved with twisting vines and tiny golden fleur-de-lis. It yawns open like a mouth, too full of teeth.

Rows upon rows of dresses, tailored from your stolen measurements, wait in patient silence, a small army of finery ready for the moment Wanda decides you’ll wear them.

You hover at the threshold, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, bare feet curling against the carpet. Your stomach twists in relentless knots. It's been days since you last ate and the refusal is finally starting to catch up with you. Each shallow breath causes your ribs to press painfully against the tight muscles of your abdomen. Your head pounds, a constant, insistent drum, while exhaustion drags your eyelids like lead. The air smells faintly of lavender and starch, faintly of Wanda's control. Once, you had stood before rows like these with a maid behind you, choosing which gown to wear for supper, which gloves for a stroll through the gardens. You had been a lady, and courtiers had bowed.

Now, you are a shadow of that.

The mirror across the chambers confirms it: hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, hair limp and dull. The faint bruises from Wanda's guards litter your arms, your neck, your thighs. Your hands shake slightly as you lift them to your chest. Memories you cannot erase. You picture your old governess, tongue clicking at your posture, your hands, your lips. A lady is never seen like this.

Your lips part as if you might speak, to the the mirror, to yourself, but no words come. You almost laugh. What use is dignity when it has already been stripped?

You think of the last time you stood in these halls with your head high. You had been younger then, though old enough to understand the way your father's jaw tightened when Wanda's name was spoken. Old enough to watch how he drank too deeply after their final argument, after voices thundered through these very halls.

"Traitor," they had called him. The word is branded into your bones.

He had sworn to you that Wanda would never touch you, that your bloodline would never bend to hers. He had sworn many things. Promises that fell, one by one, like embers dying in ash.

And now here you are: the child of his secrets. the victim of his gamble, caught in the wreckage of his pride.

Your eyes burn, but no tears fall. You will not let them, even alone. Even unseen.

Instead, you let your eyes drift back to a particular gown. Deep scarlet, lace trim, golden vines along the sleeves. It's elegant, commanding, something fit for a queen's consort, not a girl dragged here against her will. Your fingers twitch. For one dangerous heartbeat, you imagine sliding it over your arms, feeling silk against skin, the sensation of control, of beauty.

Then shame slams into you.

You snatch your hand back as though the fabric burns, fingers digging into your thighs. No. You will not be her ornament. You will not let yourself want.

The mirror captures another vision then: Wanda. Not Wanda the queen, but the girl she once was, walking the halls of this very castle years ago. Radiant and untouchable, eyes bright and sharp, smile effortless. You remember the heat that rose in your chest, a feeling you never confessed, not even to yourself.

And now that memory twists to bile.

You grip the carved doorframe until the wood bites into your fingers.

You let your gaze roam over them again, imagining her imagining you: which neckline would frame your neck best, which sleeves would show your wrists when she took your hand before the court. A small, bitter thrill crawls along your spine.

Never, you whisper to the gown, to your reflection, to the ghost of that younger self who once admired Wanda.

The dresses do not answer. They wait in silence patiently, like the woman who ordered them.

Yet, for the first time, your mind drifts to other exits, other ways. A small, clandestine spark ignites: the windows, the corridors, the servant passages you once glimpsed, maps memorised in childhood curiosity. You could slip through the castle, past guards, into the night. Maybe. Perhaps.

You shift on your feet, imagining the tiny sounds your escape might make. The hiss of floorboards, the clink of a latch, the whisper of your breath. The very idea makes your muscles ache with tension, coiled and ready to spring, and your lungs burn with uneven breaths.

But the thought of escape is fleeting, delicate as a whisper in the wind. Your chances are limited with Wanda right beside you and her powers so unpredictable, a well-kept secret that only she knows the full expanse of.

For now, you slam the closet door shut, rattling the hangers and handles. The gowns fall silent once more, waiting. And you are left alone with the echo of your heartbeat, the emptiness of your belly, the weight of your exhaustion, and the knowledge that even your defiance is now a game she has already begun to master.

The sun blazes mercilessly, baking the gravel paths and the green walls of the garden alike. Birds trill overhead, but their song is lost beneath the quiet shuffle of courtiers trailing after Wanda as she strolls with unhurried, regal ease.

And there you are, behind her. Two paces back, as always. Barely a whisper of a shadow against her presence.

Your stomach twists violently. Each breath is hot and ragged. Your throat is raw and tight as if swallowing itself. Every step sends a jolt of pain through your feet, the torn dress chafing at your shoulders, hair clinging wet to your scalp. Your vision blurs at the edges and each step becomes a conscious act of will. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, neglected grief; all of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs as if the world itself conspires to crush you.

You keep your chin high anyway, spine rigid, teeth clenched, refusing to let anyone see how thoroughly your body has begun to betray you. Don’t show them. Don’t.

"Such a pretty little prize," Agatha Harkness purrs from Wanda’s left. Her dark eyes gleam like a wolf’s before it strikes. "Though one wonders… is that stench the remnants of her father’s gallows, or simply the scent of a spoiled child unbathed?"

Laughter flutters around you like predatory birds.

Shame bursts hot in your chest, and before thinking, you whirl. Skirts twisting with the motion, arm snapping up, hand poised to strike her painted cheek.

Before your hand comes down, Wanda’s fingers clamp around your wrist, steady and unyielding. Your blow freezes in midair.

"Careful," she says, voice cold. "Or will you make an even greater fool of yourself?"

Your chest lifts quickly, breaths coming in ragged puffs. The simple act of moving your arm stole more energy than you accounted for. Fury blazes under your skin, and yet Wanda only watches through narrowed eyes.

"A pet does not bare its claws at my court," she murmurs, only for you to hear. "Not unless I give leave."

You wrench your hand free, fists curling at your sides. Your wrist still burns, tingling from her touch. She turns, gliding away like water, skirts brushing against gravel. You stumble to keep up, a tethered shadow once more.

The hedges loom high on either side of the path, their green walls pressing in. When she notices your faltering step, she slows slightly, stepping beside you. Her voice is deceptively soft.

"What did you think would happen?"

"I will not–" you gasp, voice cracking, "–be humiliated!"

Her eyes flick to you, gleaming with something equal parts amusement and censure.

"Kitten, you are humiliating yourself," she counters, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "You haven't slept. You haven't eaten. And yet you think you can claw at wolves. Do you really wonder why they laugh?"

"She deserved it." Your tongue is heavy, causing your words to slur.

"She deserved nothing from you," Wanda corrects evenly, stepping closer, her shadow swallowing yours. "Your place is not to bare your teeth at my court. You are here because I allow it. You breathe because I permit it. You will learn restraint, or I will teach it to you."

The sun scorches your neck. Hunger twists in your gut. You think of water, of the soft bed, of feathers and curtains. You think of the flowers outside the window, yellow and white and alive. You want them in your mouth. You want to scream. Your head spins. Shame and fury are each clawing for release.

"Maybe I don’t care what you permit," you say, breathlessly.

Her hand lifts, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. Her thumb hovers just beneath the dark circle under your eye.

"You’re unraveling," she murmurs. "And yet you’re still so adamant on fighting me."

You slap her hand away, nose curled. "Don’t touch me."

Wanda’s eyes flash then, not with rage, but something colder, a quiet dominance that does not need to raise its voice. Shrugging stiffly, she turns and walks past, skirts swishing against your leg, voice smooth: "Then you better keep up."

You try. Gods, you try.

But your body fails you. The sun presses down, the corset digs at your ribs. Your knees quiver, barely holding you upright. Every muscle is screaming. Your head spins, vision swimming. You stumble, forcing yourself not to falter, forcing yourself to hold onto that last shred of defiance.

The hedges narrow, the courtiers’ chatter fading into muted whispers, the gravel crunching underneath you is the only sound. Your lungs puff. Each heartbeat thuds like a drum in your skull, each movement comes at an impossible price.

Your legs give in. Gravel bites your palms as you stumble forward, bracing yourself against the path. The heat, the hunger, the sleeplessness claim you in a single wave. Your mind splinters, fragments rise: your father’s jaw tightening, knights pushing you into your room, the smell of wax and roses. You see fire. Or is it a dress? You can't tell.

Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding, calling your name. Then the world folds, narrows, and blacks out.

At least you're free now.

You blink into the dim light of your chambers. The heavy curtains are drawn, a fire snapping low in the hearth. A part of you is disappointed that she didn't just leave you out in the gardens. A bigger part is disappointed that you didn’t die.

Wanda sits at the edge of the bed, posture surprisingly relaxed. She holds a plate of fruit and bread with a wedge of cheese. Your mouth waters, every fibre of your body craving sustenance, yet you still force your eyes away from it.

"You're finally awake," she says, fingers flexing at her side with hesitation, like she was going to reach out to you before thinking better of it.

You push yourself up on weak arms, head pounding, vision bleary. "Why am I here?"

"Because you fainted like a wilting flower in my gardens." She lifts a slice of pear. "And because I believe you've starved yourself long enough in your pathetic attempt to prove a point. Enough games. You're going to eat."

Your stomach clenches at the thought of how sweet the pear must taste. I’ll never give her that, you think.

You scowl, shaking your head. "I told you. I won't."

"Stubbornness must run in your blood. Your father thought he could defy me too."

"I’m not him," you snap, hands trembling at your side.

She tilts her head, a bemused glint in her eyes. "No? Then why do I see him every time you glare at me?"

You search her face because even though you loved your father dearly, you hope you’re nothing like him. You hope that you’re reasonable enough to not fight queens with half the army. You hope that you’re considered enough to inform your closed ones of their impending doom.

"In that case you must know that I will not bend that easily."

Wanda's jaw tightens, but she smiles patiently, almost indulgent. "Then I'll feed you myself."

Your chin rises. "Do as you please."

She lifts the pear to your lips, the smell so close is almost unbearable now. You hold out for a breath, and then, you part your lips, letting her slip the fruit past your teeth. The sweetness bursts on your tongue and you clamp down before you can change your mind. You chew once, twice. It takes every bit of self-control not to swallow. Instead, you force your jaw to snap open with the last bit of rebellion and spit the food onto the rug.

The silence that follows is endless.

You lean back up, your eyes meeting Wanda's. Pride blooms, sending warmth all the way to your fingertips. You lift your hand to your mouth, middle finger swiping over the corner of your lips to clean a drop of juice and saliva. A slow, mocking smile spreads on your face, and you wish that feeling would last forever.

But of course Wanda can't let you have that tiny moment of victory. She rips it from your hands as quickly as it came, tilting your world upside down for the second time today.

The crack that echoes through the room catches you by surprise, and for a second, you don't even understand what happened; you just feel the sting of it.

The shape of her palm throbs on your cheek in one unhesitating motion. Not brutal enough to bruise, but sharp enough to knock the air from your chest.

You freeze, heart pounding, lips still parted. No one has ever dared to touch you so. Not your father, not your tutors, not anyone. And now Wanda, calm as a breeze, has done it like it meant nothing.

Wanda's face is close now, close enough to smell the faint spice of wine on her breath. The firelight catches her eyes just right. There might as well be flames burning in her irises.

"Listen carefully," she says as you cradle your cheek with a shaky hand. "It is for me to decide when and how your life will end. Not you. Not your hunger. Not your grief. Me."

Tears prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Nostrils flaring, you clench your jaw so tight that the pain in your muscles becomes greater than the one on your skin. You force yourself not to cower, to stop trembling, though your body reels at the newness of being handled like that.

Exhaling, Wanda leans back, smoothing her skirt as though the strike had been no more than adjusting a hem. She takes another piece of fruit, this time an apple slice, and lifts it again.

Her voice softens, quieter now, like she's coaxing a child, or a pet. "Now, open."

When evening comes, the summons arrives not from Wanda but from the mouth of a maid.

"Her Grace requests your presence," she says, eyes never quite meeting yours.

You rise. Your body is rested, your stomach no longer empty, but your mind has not quieted. The rest Wanda forced upon you only left you with thoughts that looped endlessly. The memory of her hand on your cheek. The taste of the pear. The silence afterward. Now each step through the hush of the corridors feels like you are walking into something you can't escape from.

The maid leads you to a door you’ve not seen opened before. Steam curls out as it swings wide, carrying the scent of rose oil and cedar.

The chamber glows with candlelight, shadows dancing across stone walls veined with moisture. At the centre, a marble bath brims with water so hot it mists the air, the surface rippling with every subtle movement of the woman inside it.

Wanda sits waist-deep in the water, her hair slicked back and dark. In her hand she cradles a cup with wine. She swirls it slowly, eyes trained on the liquid, and then without looking up, her voice drifts across the water.

"I'm curious," she says lightly, almost conversational, "what exactly is your plan after you've pushed me far enough?"

Your mouth goes dry. You have no answer.

Wanda chuckles, a short sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "No family. No army. No coin. No allies. Tell me, what are you counting on?"

When her gaze lifts, it sweeps over you, measuring every inch of your hesitation. The moist heat of the room does nothing to dispel the chill crawling up your spine.

"Come here."

You hesitate. Her command is simple, but your heart hammers. Your eyes betray you, darting to where her body disappears beneath the water. You hate your lack of self-control. Her brow lifts just slightly, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at her lips. She gestures toward the edge of the tub.

"Clothes off."

Your mouth works soundlessly, then shuts again.

"You said it yourself," she reminds you, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to hide her grin. "The only way I'll see you bathe is if I drag you there myself."

Your cheeks burn hotter. Still, you glare, trying to keep your pride intact. "Do you really think I'll be embarrassed by that? Like I haven't been naked in front of people before?"

Wanda's smile deepens as if she's been waiting for this exact moment. She leans back, letting the water lap her shoulders, fingers trailing through the surface, stirring it with casual elegance.

"Oh, I believe you," she purrs. "I imagine you've been dressed, undressed, displayed like a little doll in your father's halls more time than you can count. But that isn't what embarrasses you, is it?"

The words sting. They shouldn’t. But they do.

Her voice drops, coaxing, tender as a hand stroking hair. "Come here. You are no longer a noble's daughter. No court. No titles. You are mine, and I think you know the difference."

Your fingers tremble as you peel away the layers of your clothing, your skin prickling in the steam. Yes, you've been naked for people before, but this feels very different. More bare. More vulnerable.

Wanda’s eyes follow every motion. You try not to think of the shape of your breasts, the line of curls between your legs, the outline of your now protruding ribs. You're not one to become shy about your looks, but right in this moment you wish the ground would open and swallow you. She shifts slightly in the water, hand outstretched.

"Closer," she says, carrying that impossible authority that makes your knees ache before you even move.

She draws you down into the water, guiding you to sit between her legs. Your back meets the warm curve of her chest; the water sears and soothes at once, leaving you trapped, exposed, powerless.

The sponge is gentle in her hand. She starts at your hands, washing with the something close to reverence. She lifts each finger, removing the dirt, ash, and dried blood from your nails.

"You're softer than you think," she says, letting the sponge glide up your arms. "Too soft to carry all that rage alone."

"I'd rather be soft than cruel," you hiss, though your voice shakes.

Her laugh brushes against your ear, below the water her legs brush yours.

"Cruel," she echoes, savouring the word before leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. "Do you want know what your knight told me just before I had her beheaded?"

Your whole body goes rigid in her hold. "What?"

"She told me everything." The sponge drags slowly over your collarbone to the valley of your breast. "How you blushed when she caught your wrist in the training yard. How you opened your door for her at night. How you let her touch you. Where. How. What made you beg for more."

A memory slams into you. The rasp of Natasha’s voice when she told you to hold your stance, the press of her calloused hand steadying your grip, the stolen brush of her lips when no one could see.

"Stop." Your voice cracks.

Natasha escaped. She wasn't at the execution. She escaped, and she will come to safe you.

"She told me how sweet you tasted. How a kiss at your throat undid you. She gave me every secret, every sound, every weakness." She smiles against your skin. "And then she gave me her head."

You twist, panic surging through your veins, but her arms lock you in place. The sponge slips from her hands, plopping into the water, but her hands don't follow it. They press instead against your hips, holding your tight, holding you still.

"You're lying–"

"I never lie, pet." Her breath fans your cheek. "Natasha betrayed you for a taste of my mercy. And when her usefulness ended, so die she. That is the loyalty you inspire."

Your vision blurs hot with tears you don't want her to see, your throat raw from the effort of swallowing them back. Every memory of Natasha, her laugh, her warmth, her stolen promises, shatters in an instant under Wanda's words.

Wanda's grips eases then, one hand rising to curl at your throat, not squeezing, just holding.

"Do you see it now? Everything you cling to will wither. Everyone you love will rot. Until there is nothing left but me."

Her voice dips into something almost coaxing, almost kind. "So tell me, where did you think your fighting would lead? You're all alone. You see that now, don't you?"

Her hand move from your hips to your stomach, encircling your and pressing you tighter against her. It's meant to be comforting, but every movement reminds you of your utter dependency.

"You could end up in the gutters," she whispers, voice equal parts sweet and venomous, "selling yourself for a piece of bread, clawing for scraps. But instead you are here."

You swallow. The words should ignite your anger. Instead, something twists, sick and small. A part of you wants to believe her, because if she is all that’s left, then at least you are not alone.

"Doesn't this feel nicer than fighting all the time?" she asks. "Warm. Fed. Clean."

Her hand loosens around your neck, slipping lower. Fingertips trace over the tender skin of your throat, skimming the edge of your pulse as if testing how fast it races. Then she drags them down in a languid line, the weight of her touch both intimate and threatening, until her palm comes to just above your heart.

"It's not so bad, is it? To rest. To let someone else be in control. To be cared for again."

Your lip trembles. You hate that she feels it, that she sees the fight draining from you. But the water is warm, her hands steady, and her voice threads through your fear until the quiet ache of loneliness outweighs your pride.

"You're mine," she whispers, wrapping her arms fully around you and resting her chin on your shoulder. "And you will remember it. Every moment. Every breath. Every touch. Until you cannot imagine your life otherwise."

He barely makes it a step into the room before he stops in his tracks, stunned. He stares open-mouthed at Max, whose back is turned to where Kimi's stuck standing in the doorway... Max, who's pulling a shirt over his head—dark blue, red bull team kit... Max, whose turned back shows... Who's pulling a shirt over his...

"Dio mio!"

Max whirls around at Kimi's voice, and Kimi sees the flash of terror in his eyes for just a split second.

Max finishes tugging down his shirt, harshly pulling at the hem. "You did not see that," he says. Words clipped short.

Kimi can't even play along. Can't find himself able to do anything but continue to gape. "Tu— Hai— Hai le ali!"

Max sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a breath.

"Close the door, please."

Kimi, somehow, manages to kick his brain into enough gear to blindly reach out a hand behind him. The door clicks shut.

"Do you think you are able to calm down enough to speak English? I do not know enough Italian to be talking about this."

Kimi hadn't even noticed he'd spoken in Italian. He furrows his brow and thinks the words through in English before saying them.

"You have wings."

Max sighs again. "Yes. You said."

"How do you have wings?"

Max levels an unimpressed look at him. "How do you have wings? I was, of course, born with them."

Kimi's own wings ruffle where they're pinned beneath his fireproofs.

"But you do not— For years have you been in Formula Uno, but nobody has been seeing them. Com'è possibile?"

Max runs a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply. He does it again, breathing out.

"Okay. Okay. Here is what we are going to do. You came here for some reason that was not to be talking about this. We are going to sit down—" he gestures, without looking, to the small sofa—" and you will tell me what it is you were thinking about. And then we will go from there. I am, of course, not going to be promising you that we will talk about this..." Max waves vaguely, gesturing at the space between them, when the real issue sits behind him. "This. But we will talk together and see. Okay?"

Kimi has finally gotten over his initial shock just enough to recognize how terrible a situation this is for Max, and how kind he's being to Kimi despite it. He could have yelled at Kimi; thrown him out. He probably should have—or, at least, Kimi wouldn't have blamed him if he had.

Kimi nods and vows to be as calm as possible. Make things as easy as he can for Max.

He moves towards the sofa, as Max had instructed, and sits down. Max takes a few moments to pace the small width of the room, breathing deeply (Kimi counts: In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, repeat) before sitting down next to him.

Before Kimi can start to make way on his apology to Max for crashing him out of the race—his whole reason for coming in the first place—Max frowns. Kimi's heart lurches, afraid that Max, now that he's calmed down some, has also remembered why Kimi must be here, and is pissed off at him for ruining his race. But Max only says, "Why are you still in your racing suit? It cannot be comfortable for your wings."

Kimi's wings twitch at their mention, unconscious on Kimi's part.

It's not hugely comfortable to keep them pinned back, especially as tightly as he needs to do inside his fireproofs to drive. But, well. He'd come straight here after apologizing to his team on the pit wall. No detour to shower and change—he's barely sweaty. His wings haven't even begun to steadily ache the way they do as the laps tick by. (He's getting used to the feeling, anyway.)

Kimi shrugs. "They are fine. I would have been racing right now anyway, and it is not so uncomfortable as it is in the car."

Max's frown doesn't lift. Kimi shifts uncomfortably. "I did not bring any other shirts," he says. He can feel his face warming slightly. It's not like the drivers don't strip around each other, but doing it here, alone with Max in his driver's room, Max's intense eyes trained onto him, feels wildly different than shucking off a sweaty fireproof top after a long race.

Max blinks, and his eyebrows soften, pulling up. "You, of course, do not have to take off your suit if you do not want to," he says. "I only want to make sure you are comfortable. I—" He looks as if he's trying to swallow a lemon. "I know how... Umm... I know that having your wings pinned in such a way can be... Not so nice, let's say it like that."

Kimi finds himself frowning at Max's words, and can't help himself from flitting his eyes to the way Max's shirt hugs his shoulders, trapping his wings to his back.

Max has been keeping tabs on Kimi from the beginning of the year, asking how the team is working to accommodate his wings, asking his own trainer to work with Kimi's to develop a training regimen that better suits them (and only now does Kimi consider why Max's trainer knows so much about that). Kimi even knows that Max has been texting George persistently, trying to involve the GPDA in an attempt to implement more feature accommodation regulations, even though Kimi is pretty sure Max would be quite happy if he never had to speak to George again in his life.

Max has been fighting to keep an eye out for Kimi and to make sure his wings are being taken care of all year. But he's kept his pinned beneath his shirt the whole time.

Kimi remembers one of their first conversations about the topic, back in Winter Testing. How Max had said, with deadly seriousness, how Kimi could break the bones in his wings if he kept them pinned for so long improperly, or if he got into an incident while driving. How Max had warned him that, if he wasn't careful, Kimi could end up crippling himself for life. Could end up never being able to fly again.

Kimi had walked away from that conversation shaken. He feels equally shaken now, thinking about the certainty Max had spoken with.

"Kimi?" Max asks, brows furrowed in concern. Kimi shakes himself, brings himself back to the real world. Right. Yes. They were talking about something.

"What?"

Max closes his eyes. Presses his fingers to his forehead, rubbing hard. He says something in Dutch that Kimi can't even begin to understand, muttered to himself, like a reminder.

"Why did you come to my room? What is it you were wanting to talk about?"

"Oh, si. Right. Umm..." Kmi has to look away from Max, down to his hands fiddling with the seam of his suit. Then he curses himself for not having the courage to even look Max in the eye when he apologizes, and looks back up.

Max's gaze is always intense, even when he doesn't mean it to be.

"I am sorry. That I ended your race. I did not mean to—I lost the rear of the car coming into the corner, and... Well, it does not matter. Either way, you are now out of the race, and it is my fault. So, I am very sorry."

Max's eyes don't lose any of their intensity, but Kimi can still see something in them shift, get softer.

Max shrugs. "You made a mistake. It happens. It is not as if you got me out of the race on purpose. I am not saying that I am completely not upset, but I am not upset with you. It is racing—these things happen."

Kimi blinks, surprised. He suddenly regrets not taking Max's offer of freeing his wings because they twitch, and he feels like he needs to beat them a couple of times to regain his balance.

He knows Max is kind; knew he wouldn't completely lose his shit on Kimi. But still, Kimi really didn't foresee this conversation going this way, with Max reacting with nothing more than a shrug and a small smile.

"But you—already, you are having to work so hard in the championship against the McLarens, and—"

Max chuckles, dry. Kimi decides he hates the sound.

"I was already barely in contention. The car is not there this season. Did you not see that I started from seventh? But it is anyway not your job to be worried about my championship. We all are just racing our best. Sometimes, you crash into people, and sometimes, that is your teammate, or it is the championship leader. It is all the same. You say sorry, and you learn from it, and you do better next time. You will do better next time."

Kimi nods, quick and determined, even though Max hadn't posed it like a question. He sounds so confident in Kimi, even though Kimi has given him no reason to.

Max gives him a smile, and Kimi can tell it's a real one because it kisses the corners of his eyes. "Thank you anyway for coming to apologize. That is something that takes a lot of balls to do. I certainly was not so mature when I was your age."

Kimi flushes, wings fluttering nervously under his race suit for an entirely new reason, now.

Their movement grounds him. Kimi looks down, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. He tries to think of the words to say; tries to think of how to ask without ending up with Max's door slammed in his face.

"Umm. Still, could I take my suit off to let my wings out? You are right—they are... uncomfortable."

Maybe he doesn't need to ask Max about it at all. Not if he plays this right.

When he looks up, Max is squinting at him, mouth pursed into a pale line, and Kimi thinks he's blown it; thinks he's been far too obvious. But Max only stands up and says, "Would you like a shirt for them? Rupert makes me keep some."

"Yes, please."

Max fetches a shirt—grey and loose, slits down the back designed to slip wings through easy—and hands it to Kimi, who thanks him.

Kimi peels himself out of his race suit, and he feels awkward and clumsy in front of Max, but when he glances over, he sees that Max is only paying attention to the wings pinned under Kimi's fireproofs on his back, gaze intense. When the top comes off and Kimi extends his wings free, bending them slightly to stretch them, he sees Max's hands twitch towards them, eyes wide.

"Would you like to touch them?" Kimi asks, speaking before he can remind himself it's a stupid idea to.

Max's face shutters, his wide eyes blinking away the wonder. "No. Probably, I would only hurt them. I do not..."

He trails off as Kimi—now with the shirt on, and once again putting action before thought—shifts a wing carefully into Max's lap, brushing his feathers purposefully across his arm.

Max slowly, slowly, lowers his hands. Touches feathers with careful fingers, stroking them so gently Kimi can barely feel it.

Max lets out a soft exhale, fingers still moving steady and light. "They're so soft," he breathes, almost like it's a thought not meant for Kimi at all. "I had forgotten...."

Once again, Max cuts himself off, but Kimi can fill in the blanks. He wonders how Max's wings feel; wonder how deep the damage—for, surely, there must be damage—runs. Wonders when the last time Max let himself preen through his feathers with careful fingers was. Wonders the last time they had felt soft.

Max is looking resolutely down at Kimi's wing, caressing gently over the curve of it with his thumb when he speaks again.

"Karts are, of course, better to drive with wings, and it is possible to do very well in karts and to not damage them by so much."

Kimi knows just how possible it is. His mama had strictly forbidden him from ever pinning his wings back when he had been in karts, and it had still been possible to win with them tucked gently on the outside of a race suit.

"But my father, it was always his goal—it was always our goal—to get to F1 someday, of course, and it is not so easy here, with wings. And he—we—did not think it was such a good idea to get only experience with driving so comfortably, when, of course, it all will change when you get to single-seaters."

Kimi stays silent; stays still. Max keeps stroking along his wing, and Kimi remembers the way he had, only minutes ago, startled back, hands raised, saying that he would only hurt him.

He doesn't think Max could—not ever.

"My mother—she did not allow him to make me pin my wings when I was very small. But then she, of course, left, and I was becoming nearly old enough to be competing in the international categories..."

"How old were you?" Kimi finds himself asking, voice quiet, barely a breath. "When it was the last time your wings were so soft?"

Max's eyes sqeeze shut, tight. Kimi stares at the line above his nose; between his eyebrows. Waits; hopes that it will smooth out.

"It does not matter," Max eventually says. The spell breaks. Max lifts his hand away from Kimi's wing, runs it through his hair, shoulders edged with tension. "It was, of course, better for me to train so early to not need to be so focused on them while driving, and it anyway would have distracted me if I had been able to fly—"

Kimi's wings jump in alarm, and he smacks Max right in the face.

"What do you mean, if?" Kimi asks, insistent, not even bothing to apologize to Max, make sure he's okay. His wings are still flapping agitatedly behind him, and he gets up off the couch to give them more space to flutter. Stands in the middle of Max's driver's room and stares him down where he's still sitting half-hunched on the sofa.

When Max doesn't immediately answer, shocked expression turning into something teetering on the edge of pitying and sad, Kimi keeps talking, mouth moving faster than brain. His brain, which is flashing back again to the conversation he had had with Max before, when he had said that if Kimi was not careful, he could end up crippling himself; could end up not being able to fly. His brain, which is playing on repeat the serious pinch to Max's mouth; the gravity in his voice.

"You must be just meaning that you were spending so much time in karting that you could not be taking so many breaks to go for flying. It is like how we all would have to leave school early sometimes or we were having to choose between going with friends or going to karting, and, always, we would choose karting. Right? It is just that you were choosing to not fly so much because you were very busy with being in the kart instead."

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can speak it into existence. If he just keeps plowing forward, if he doesn't let Max speak to correct him, then the words sitting heavy on Max's lips will never be true. Will never have been.

"You can still fly," Kimi insists, voice cracking on the last word, desperate. He can, he can, he must be able to. Because Kimi is a racer, through and through, just like Max is. Can't imagine a life where he has to move so slow; can't imagine living every day in his own body and never settling down into another, a beautiful extension of himself made of carbon and oil and pure speed.

But he's an avian, too. And he would rather be ripped straight from the cockpit, scrabbling hands leaving behind bloody fingerprints on the wheel, than to never soar through the sky again.

The car is freedom and speed incarnate, yes. But flight needs no body at all; needs no incarnation. Needs no vessel through which to channel adrenaline—it simply is.

Max still has that pitying-sad look on his face. Like Kimi is just a little kid, asking what happened to his pet hamster. Like he's too young to understand the tragedy of death.

"It does not matter," Max says again. Kimi feels like he's going to scream.

"No, it does! It does."

Max only shrugs. "It does not, because there is nothing I can do to change it. Anyway, it will be like this."

Kimi feels deflated. "Maybe there is," he tries, hope still lingering in his voice that even Max's sad eyes can't squash out. "There are many good doctors—have you even tried to see if they can fix it? I know that it is very bad for your wings to keep them pinned for so much, but for sure they can do something. If still you have two wings, then there always must be some way that you can fly."

Something closes off in Max's eyes. Something goes dark.

He looks down at his hands. "It does not matter," he says, voice barely a whisper. "There is nothing that anybody can do."

The certainty with which Max speaks settles in Kimi's gut, heavy. It pulls him back down to the couch, shoulders slumped. "Mi dispiace."

Max shrugs, and Kimi should be used to it by this point—Max shrugging everything off—but it still causes something deep inside of him to ache. "Do not be sorry. It is not as if it was your fault. And anyway, it is not exactly like anybody would say my life is so terrible. They should be putting me on posters, maybe, to tell children in hospitals that still you can be successful even if you have totally fucked up your body. Like, 'Anything is possible! You can even win four world championships with only one wing!'

Max laughs quick at his own joke, but it isn't the way Kimi is used to seeing him laugh, a moment after deadpan silence before his whole face lights up. It's nervous and hollow, and straight away, Kimi decides that he hates the sound.

He's so busy thinking about the bitter edges of Max's laughter that it takes him a moment to process what he's just said.

One wing.

Kimi lets out a strangled noise. He doesn't mean to, but it feels like it's ripped straight from his throat. His wings curl around him protectively; a tawny shield, hugging him close. One folded over the other, cradling him completely.

Max looks at him, startled, eyes wide. "What happened? Are you okay?"

All Kimi can do is shake his head.

Max jumps up from the sofa. His hands flutter around Kimi, unsure, nervous. Gentle fingers not quite touching.

Probably, I would only hurt them.

Kimi's wings pull in closer.

"Kimi, I do not know what is happening," Max says. "Is there any way I can help? Somebody I should tell? Otherwise, I will get my trainer."

Kimi just shakes his head again.

"Okay," Max says, backing towards the door, eyes flitting only briefly away to track his movement. "I am getting someone. Kimi, it is okay. You are okay. I will be right back."

"No," Kimi says. He launches himself across the room, wings momentarily unfurling as he grabs Max's wrist tight. "No, do not leave."

It does not matter.

Kimi uses his grip on Max to pull him in close, and lets his wings close around the both of them.

Max stays stiff in his hold for one breath, two, three. But Kimi doesn't shift away; keeps his wings cradled tight. Snakes his arms around Max's back and pulls him in closer.

Until finally, Max melts into him. Kimi feels his hands hesitantly come up and brush against his waist, returning the embrace; feels his breath hot on his neck.

"I did not let them take the other one," Max says, voice cracking, choked. "But it is anyway not the same."

From how close Kimi is holding him, he feels Max's wing (dio mio—his wing) twitch just slightly at the words.

Kimi bites his tongue, not quite ready to break the fragile moment to ask what Max means. He just stays there, keeping his wings tucked in tight around them. Not quite large enough to encase them both fully; not like his mama's would when he was young and needed shielding from the world. Not quite enough to be enough.

But enough to press Max closer to him.

Hands solid on Max's back, Kimi gently traces his touch along the edges of his wing. He tries to tell himself he's imagining the way the strong arch of bone feels warped and crooked beneath his fingers.

Nothing that anybody can do.

And maybe Kimi's fingers probe just a bit too far; maybe he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Or maybe it isn't anything Kimi does at all—maybe Max has blinked open his eyes and remembered where they were. Whatever it is, the breeze of Max's touch falls away from Kimi as he starts to pull back. Still gentle, still mindful of the wings Kimi has to unfurl from behind him to let him free, but persistent nonetheless.

Possibly, Kimi should apologize. What he's done here today has probably violated Max's boundries more than even a nosecone in the side of his car could, dust hanging in the air around the scene of the crash.

Wrong place, wrong time. Again, again. Door that he thought was open, but he steamed in too quick, and now it's too late to take back, and it's Max who has to pick up the pieces.

Kimi's hand chases after him, not wanting to let go just yet. He should apologize, but he won't. He should stop pushing; should leave Max be with his thoughts and his DNF and his one wing, but he won't. He won't.

"What do you mean that you did not let them take the other one?" he says, words falling out quick, no longer able to be kept locked behind his teeth.

Max's mouth pinches. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched tight. (Kimi thinks his fingers don't look so gentle on his own skin—digging in rough.) "Kimi—"

Kimi didn't get to where he is today because he backed off. He saw the gap—felt it in the twitch of Max's wing, saw it in his downcast eyes, heard it in his barely wavering voice. He saw the gap and he'll go for it, every time.

"Will they try to take my wings too?"

It's not right, he knows, to play Max like this. But racing isn't about playing nice. Max knows that as well as anyone.

Something softens around Max's shoulders, just like Kimi knew it would. Fingers rough on his face but so gentle on Kimi's wings. His own wing tucked tight under his team kit while he offers Kimi a shirt.

Max won't talk about it for his sake. But he may for Kimi's.

"No," he says, "No. We will not let that happen. You, anyway, are already taking much better care of your wings, and we will make sure the cars are safer for you in the new regulations. Just do not be crashing very badly, and keep making sure to take care of your wings like you have been doing, and you will be okay."

Kimi imagines it—crashing badly. Tyre clipped, hurtling into the wall at full speed. Ribs cracking under seatbelts; wings snapping, pinned behind his back.

He's heard of wing breaks before—not as common as an arm or a leg, but not unusual. Not permanently debilitating.

(He wonders if maybe they are at two hundred kilometers per hour, tucked tightly under a race suit.)

"But I cannot control if I am crashed into," Kimi says, voice small. He's not afraid of crashing. Not any more than any driver is; not to any level that keeps him from going for lunges. But sometimes his thoughts will stray, and for just a second he'll see it in his mind's eye: Crumpled into a wall, dust pluming. Heartbeat loud in his ears, hands too heavy to undo the seatbelts.

He's not afraid of crashing, but he doesn't want to die. Doesn't want to never be able to drive again.

Doesn't want to never be able to fly again.

Max reaches a hand up to his head and grabs to fiddle with a hat that isn't there. Awkwardly weaves his fingers through the strands of hair instead; stays for a moment, gripping, breathing.

"I know," he says eventually, letting his hand fall. "It is often the worst crashes that are not your fault. But it is racing. Always, we know getting into the car that we can crash. Still, we do it. And... I, of course, cannot be promising that never you will be hurt. But mostly, the cars are much safer nowadays than any other time. And I— It was not only because of a crash that I— That made me to lose a wing. Already before that, they were so bad that I could not use them properly. The crashing was only what made it... no longer salvagable, let's say it like that. It is like if you are driving all the time with a broken arm already, and then you break it even more. It is too much damage. But your arm, of course, is not broken." He gestures to Kimi's wings. "Your wings still are very healthy. So even if you are crashing, then probably there will be a way to fix them."

Kimi wants to ask why Max's wings were 'broken' in the first place. But it's not so hard to imagine why. Max has kept his wings hidden from the whole world for years. He's been in F1 for over a decade; has been in the sport for longer. And not a single person knows what sits heavy on his back.

To keep his wings tucked so tight for so long... no wonder they had been, as he said, past the point of no return.

"If they already didn't work, then why did you keep them? Wouldn't it have been easier to just..." He trails off, finding himself unable to actually say the words. Maybe the fact that he can't even finish the question is answer enough. He can hardly think of anything worse than getting rid of his wings—even if they didn't work. Even if it shaved off a couple of tenths.

Max shakes his head, scowl tight on his face. "Already, I had given up so much for Formula One. Sometimes, I thought that I would die in the car. Maybe I still will. But I, of course, do not want to. Someday, I will not be driving anymore. And then, I will have other things that are, of course, more important."

He looks at Kimi seriously. "You have to give a lot to this sport. But you cannot give them everything. You cannot let yourself die in the car. There will be things after this, and even though you are, of course, very young, you need to be making sure that you still are having a life after you are done."

And now, Kimi realizes, Max is trapped between two worlds. Still racing, but the championship slipping away; car too slow, crashed off into the gravel. One wing on his back, imbalanced. Cumbersome in the car, and useless out of it.

What kind of life will Max have when he's done racing? What kind of life does he have now?

"I will not let them take my wings," Kimi says solemnly. A warped echo of what Max said earlier: I did not let them take the other one. But they took one, and the other one was taken from him a long time ago, really. Still attached, but bone twisted under Kimi's touch.

If I had been able to fly...

"Do you know what type of bird the wings you have are?" Kimi asks. He'd only caught a glimpse. Only felt a shape, warped. Perhaps it is only cruel to picture what Max could have been—wings spread out behind him, taking to the sky. But Kimi can't help but wonder. If he had been able to fly... Would he have looked as spectacular as he does in the car?

Surely, he would have.

Max's lip quirks. His eyes look a bit less hollow. "You will laugh."

Kimi is quite sure, actually, that he won't. Max seems to think that a dry chuckle and a halfhearted shrug is the appropriate reaction to things that Kimi will be having nightmares about.

"They are of a swift."

Kimi closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. His wings ache to pull Max in again, but he settles for wrapping them back around himself.

Kimi can see why Max would think he would find that funny, of course. Swift. Rapido. Fast. Four-time world champion, dozens of race wins under his belt, motor oil in his veins, quick as lightning in the car.

But Kimi had had a girlfriend, back in school, who was an avian—a swift. Un rondone. On all their dates, she'd want to go flying.

It hadn't worked out in the end, of course, and Kimi really should have known that it wouldn't from the start, because he had looked up rondoni before asking her out, and he had learned that, along with being wicked fast, the birds spend most of their time in the air, hating to stay grounded.

Kimi loves the air. Loves to fly. Would choose the wind beneath his wings over his hands on the wheel if it really came down to it. But he spends too much time on the ground, strapped into a cockpit. And all she'd ever wanted to do was go out flying.

He wonders—if Max had been given the choice—if he knew what his future would hold, four world champions, one wing twisted on his back and the other gone in the wind—would he be here now?

He wonders—how often does Max look to the sky?

Kimi opens his eyes, and Max is looking anxious again. Unsure. Hands hovering. He opens his mouth, but Kimi cuts in before he can speak—he doesn't think he can stand to have Max ask what's wrong. As if Kimi is the one who needs comfort.

"Mine are of a sparrow. Italian sparrow." Max pauses for a moment before he smiles, like Kimi has seen him do when it means the smile is real.

"Well, then they are perfect for you."

Inside the cocoon he's still wrapped in, Kimi brushes his fingers along the underside of his wings, through the soft feathers.

"Yes," he agrees. "They are."

Max sets his jaw into something very serious. His gaze, always intense, burns. "We cannot let anything happen to them," he says. "You cannot— I know, already, you are taking much better care of them than— than— but you must be careful. In the car, you must always block everything else out and go fast, of course, I would not say that you should not, because you are a very good racer, but— but, racing, it is not everything. You cannot let yourself live only for the car all the time. Because at the end of the day, you get out the car, and you go home, and one day you will not be in Formula One anymore, of course, and when you are not in the car, there needs to be something else. Your home should have a balcony that you can fly off of, and you should be able to fly off of it."

"I have a balcony," Kimi says. He's never flown off of it. He prefers to drive out to the coast and feel the sea breeze under his wings.

Even in Max's dreams of flying, is he stuck in the city? Concrete balcony, smog-filled sky?

"Good." Max looks relieved at Kimi's words, nevertheless. "That is good."

A knock at the door startles Kimi and Max both, jumping. Max smooths his hands at the hem of his shirt, like he's checking it's there. Kimi unwraps himself from his wings and awkwardly hovers, sure he's about to finally be asked to leave now that Max has things to do.

He doesn't want to leave. He has so many more questions. He hasn't even gotten to see Max's wing (wing) beyond the split-second glance he was unprepared for. Hasn't gotten to run his fingers across the feathers and line them all up into place.

Max cracks open the door and then opens it wider, revealing Rupert on the other side.

"Oh, Rupert, this is perfect. Could you please look over at Kimi's wings? The crash was, of course, not big today, but still, it is better to be safe."

Rupert blinks. "Max, I came to look over you."

Max waves a hand. "I am, of course, fine. It is useless anyway."

Kimi catches Rupert's eye. He's not sure how Max, usually so good at reading people, can miss the clear heartbreak on his face.

"If I check over Kimi first, do you promise to let me check anyway? You know there are ways to manage the pain if it is worse than normal. It is not useless to take care of you, Max."

Kimi winces.

"It is normal to have pain?" he asks, voice on a slight uptick, trying to sound young and naïve.

Max falls for it. Of course he does.

"No!" he yelps, whirling around to Kimi. "No, it is not. Yes, Rupert, you are right, you can check me after." And then he's sliding past Rupert into the doorway. "I will give you some privacy. Kimi—thank you for the apology. I will see you at the next race, yeah? Again on the podium."

Kimi's smile feels weak. "Okay."

And then just like that, Max is gone.

Kimi turns to Rupert, who is looking at him quizzically.

"He has... Is it really as bad as he says? His wings?"

Rupert sighs. He looks so tired. "Yeah. It is. I'm not sure what he told you, but—it's actually probably worse."

Kimi sits back down on the couch, hard. He wants to say that's not possible. But he knows it's probably true.

Rupert comes to sit next to him. They both stare at the door.

"How does he...?"

"I don't know," Rupert says, understanding Kimi even though he can't finish his thought. "I just don't know."

Kimi extends his wing outwards to the empty side of the couch, where Max was sitting before. Smooths a hand along it, feeling every feather in place, every bone sturdy.

Three days pass before Leo opens his eyes. Usagi’s not sure how he managed to sleep at all in that time, scared to even close his eyes in Leo's vicinity, but eventually his exhaustion had gotten the better of him and he’d passed out on the floor for several hours.

Luckily, he isn’t still asleep when Leo wakes up.

Usagi’s not sure what he was expecting from him, really, but what Leo immediately does isn’t it. He blinks up at the ceiling, looking somewhat disoriented, before his gaze slowly shifts down to meet his. He smiles tiredly and waves. 

“Hey ‘Sagi,” he says, and his voice sounds gentle and wrong. Usagi stiffens.

No, he thinks, immediately. That’s not right. That’s not him. It can't be him.

Except...somehow, it is. Leo looks nothing like the tormentor Usagi remembers - he looks like a child, he’s a child - though he still approaches the turtle like he’s a bomb instead of a person, braced to jump away should he make any sudden movements. 

Leo doesn’t move at all. He just yawns, canines glinting in the dim light of his living room, and Usagi feels his pulse quicken. For a turtle, Leo looks an awful lot like a predator - Usagi remembers the same sort of look about Jei, back when…

When…

He shakes his head violently, shoving the memories and comparisons as far away from his thoughts as he can force them to go. He doesn't have time for a breakdown right now.

When he finally looks up again, Leo is staring at him.

“Leo?” Usagi hates the tremor in his voice [almost as much as he hates himself]. Leo tilts his head to the side, and his jaw tightens.

He’s not a monster, he reminds himself. He’s just…his family made him that way. It’s not his fault. Leo shifts, and his breath hitches. …Right?

“Thanks for…for getting me out of there,” Leo says quietly, and Usagi feels his reservations crumbling at the look of…is it desperation? in the turtle’s eyes as their gazes meet a second time. He nods tensely, muscles taut with the anxiety wrapping itself around his gut. 

“O-Of course,” he stammers. “What…” he trails off, remembering the crack of the metal bat as it slammed into Leo's plastron with a wince. “What happened?” Leo’s eyes widen slightly, and Usagi quickly backpedals. “You - you don’t have to talk about it, i-if you don’t want to, I just…" he swallows, he can hear his heart beating in his throat. "I’m…I’m sorry.” Leo doesn’t meet his eyes, but he nods.

“It’s okay, Sagi. You don’t have to apologize to me.” He curls back against the couch cushions, and Usagi feels like a string about to snap. 

“Let me get you some water,” he says, and before Leo can say anything he’s gone, disappearing into the kitchen and wishing he could just run and never look back. His ear twitches as he imagines bolting for the door - maybe if he ran fast enough and far enough, he could outrun even Leo...

No. Usagi shakes his head, forcing himself to stay calm. Because he can't just run now, and there’s nobody he can blame but himself for it, and nobody knows that better than he does as Usagi locates a glass and fills it. His hands are shaking, he realizes as he starts back towards the living room. Some of the water spills over the edge of the glass, soaking into his fur as he uselessly tightens his grip on the cup. 

Can’t just do one thing right, he thinks miserably, but he forces his expression into one of neutrality as he returns to Leo's side. Leo smiles at him as he enters the living room, and Usagi wishes he could sink into the floor as he hands him the glass. 

“Here,” he mumbles. 

“Thank you.” Leo accepts the cup and promptly downs the entire thing; he doesn’t slam it onto the table when he sets it down, but the sound feels like a knife in Usagi’s ears. 

Run, his mind screams. Run, run, never look back. 

Usagi grits his teeth and forces himself to smile.

“Of course.”

Leo spends the night on the couch, watching Lou Jitsu movies on low volume and melting into Usagi’s side when he eventually joins him. He seems somewhat disoriented at first, though as night becomes day becomes night again he seems to grow more aware of himself and his surroundings. 

But it’s still wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong, Leo’s all wrong and Usagi hates it even more than he hates the heart still scrawled in dried blood on the concrete outside. At least he’d somewhat gotten used to that, at least he more or less knew what to expect before, even if it was horrible every time...But this? This is completely new to him, and he doesn't think he's ever felt more lost than he does with his [former?] tormentor sitting on his couch and eating his food.

He’s only a child. Usagi watches Leo delicately nibble on a strawberry, and his mind swirls with a million thoughts.

Maybe… maybe he hadn't been quite so horrible as he’d made him out to be, looking back. Maybe…maybe his memories exaggerated the events because he hadn’t understood why Leo was doing what he did...maybe he'd done the things he did because he didn’t know the right way to express affection; because the monsters who’d raised him had shown him no other way. 

Maybe he really just…didn’t know. 

“You look tense, ‘Sagi, are you okay?” Usagi snaps from his thoughts like a rubber band stretched too far, jumping and hitting his shoulder against the door frame and spilling the tea he’d been holding onto his shirt. His gaze flickers to Leo, who tilts his head at him with a look of concern before patting the seat cushion next to him. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he prompts. 

Either way, Usagi decides as he obliges, he doesn’t like this new Leo at all. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop - and he blames himself for that too, because he's hurt, goddammit, and he should know better than to blame him for what happened to him.

But why is he so nice all of a sudden? 

It just doesn’t make any sense, unless…Is he scared I’ll send him back to his brothers? The thought alone is enough to make Usagi feel nauseous all over again, and he forces himself to drop that horrific train of thought as he seats himself next to Leo with a quiet sigh.

“I’ll be alright,” he murmurs. Because he has to be. Because not being alright isn’t an option. Leo doesn’t press him; just leans into his shoulder with a soft smile even as Usagi fights the urge to jump away and wash away the very memory of the goddamn turtle from his mind and fur. 

He’s hurt, he tells himself through gritted teeth. This is…this is important to him. I need to show him that he’s safe here. That I’d never send him back.

So he doesn’t pull away, no matter how much he wants to. He lets Leo press himself into his side like he’s scared Usagi will melt away if he lets go; he indulges him in conversation about his job and home country; he watches old movies and shows with him into the early hours of the morning, until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Each time he falls asleep he wakes up in Leo's arms, and he sinks a little deeper into his self loathing every time.

Too bad that doesn’t last.

Usagi still doesn’t really know what he did wrong; all he knows is that one moment, he’d been cutting up carrots for a soup he’d planned on making for Leo, and the next he was on the floor, holding his bloody hand as white fur stained red. 

He must’ve disassociated again.

Leo had joined him in an instant, but his demeanor wasn’t the same, and he had that awful look in his eyes as he reached for Usagi’s bloody hand, grabbing it and forcing it towards himself when he tried to pull away. 

“Oh dear,” he says, but his voice is all lilty and wrong and he’s wrong and everything’s wrongwrongwrong. “You’re bleeding, ‘Sagi.”

Of course it had been his fault.