#moonink

"I'm punching out," one of your other coworkers walks by, placing their lab report on the table, the papers loosened from the slight impact, "worked my ass off today.." they mutter under their breath, massaging their neck as they walk to their group leaving the lab room.

You hum, reaching out to the report with your other hand.

Subject — Kevin "Khaslana" Khaos,

You place your cup of coffee down, taking care to flip through the scarce papers that seem to be loaded with information. To your side, you hear your colleague click their tongue, and continue to fiddle with their keyboard as if bickering with a program.

'Yet to respond to stimuli', 'far behind other subjects', 'development seems stagnant', 'as if resisting progress'..

"Damn it," you hear your colleague sigh and lean back, "damn thing won't go past 98%."

"Really?" You place down the report, leaning down again to look at the monitor. The progress bar seems to be buffering at 98.99%

"Guess that's my que," they get up, stretching, then continue to gather their things, "you should go home soon, too. It's quite late. You know we don't get paid for overtime," they sling their bag over their shoulder,

You nod, "yeah, I know. Lucky we landed up here, aren't we?" You scoff under your breath, grabbing your cup of coffee again and taking another sip, leaning back on your desk as you face the large tank.

"Tell me about it. Safety regulations are like suggestions here.." they stare at the tank beside you. After a beat of silence, they point to several corners of the tank,

"If you're staying here for longer, though, just keep an eye on these points. Some of the others have reported it to be leaking despite the various repairs."

You nod, "sure, I'll keep an eye."

Both of you bid a polite farewell, and you're left in the quiet of the lab, various clicks and blips of monitors in the background.

Curiosity, or perhaps restlessness to start your work despite the fatigue wearing on your bones, you discard the rest of your coffee.

You sit down in the chair your colleague had just left, a hand on your chin as your other hand moved the cursor around, clicking on various programmes.

"What's up with this freak?" You mutter under your breath, watching the progress bar buffer, then deplete anytime you tried to push it past 98%

Behind you, the man in the tank slowly began to unwind, feathers swirling in the fluid of the medium as he slowly unfurled. The cables had begun to conduct, the blue fluid glowing with more gradual intensity,

"Huh? Why isn't this filled out?"

You squint at an empty space –

Title; yet to be assigned

Ᏽዐ𐌀ረ: 𐌃ቹ𐌔ፕ...ጎ𐌐ዐ..Ꝋጮ𐌁

You stay silent, zoning out as you delve into your thoughts, trying to recall any temporary titles you could possibly assign. You glance over at the file on the desk. You pick it up and flip through the pages, eyes searching for any keywords, before–

"Ah, I can use this.." you place it back down, before hovering your hands over the keyboard,

Title:

D

E

L

I

V

E

R

E

R

.

.

.

...

Processing ..↺

Log #381

Status - 99.0% to completion..

Loading..

Task: Worldbearing

Subject: "Chrysos Heir"

Type: 33,550,336th cyclical model

Title: DELIVERER

Subject name: NeiKos496

...

——

This wasn't your first rodeo.

"Sheesh, [Name], aren't you a lucky charm?"

One of your coworkers whistle, the sound of hurried scribbling on the solid clipboard by your other coworker,

"I should drag you along to the arcade sometime!" The girl giggles, "you managed to wake him up, too!"

"I don't really remember how, though.." you mumbled in deep thought,

"You should think about it another time," they place down their clipboard on a nearby desk, "right now, just relish the moment."

After a beat, like a mechanical calling, they shuffled back into protocol, scattering further into the labroom, leaving you to stare at the subject in the tank. You thumb the rim of the marker in your hands as you contemplate.

SkeMma720 – one of the stagnant subjects that had posed a little more than usual trouble to awaken. Theyre always a little resistant when they do; perhaps something more of an innate, animalistic instinct – protect oneself. Always pushbacks whenever tests were conducted, dull thuds against the shielding glass as they'd demand to be let out (as if they'd be able to walk, anyway), half hearted threats to pull out their own wires and pipes connected in a plethora to their backs.

The marker in your hand grows warm. Your fingers fiddle with it's cap, feeling the ridges, as you look at the subject. The green fluid of his tank illuminates the entire room in a strange, bizarre feeling, as if frankenstein brought into reality. It's corny, and surreal, making you more uncomfortable combined with the intense glare Anaxa had been baring on you.

Unlike the other subjects, however, SkeMma720 seemed calmer. Responded inquisitively to any and all tests. Flicking his wrist away whenever your colleagues bothered him too much. You couldn't witness it yourself unfortunately; the moment you'd step into the room his eyes would glare into you, and he'd stop responding to or engaging with anything until you left.

So was the strangeness of the other subjects.

OreXis945, HubRis504, EpieiKeia216.. whoever they were, they always held some sort of strange indignation towards you.

"His eyes are red?" You comment on the strange color palette they'd chosen to go with – mint green hair and red eyes weren't exactly something you'd expect.

"Y-Yeah, uh.." your other coworker, working at the monitor, sputtered, "we, uh.. y'know, decided to take a page out of Tribios' palette." They answered with a strange straightforwardness.

"Is that so?" You mumbled, almost more to yourself. You could come up with various reasons for their behavior, but to reach an actual conclusion..

Well, it's not your headache. You have more to deal with, especially regarding the subjects themselves.

You had to resort to coworker notes to understand their personalities – quite a shame, too, considering they seemed to form unique traits besides the base models your lab had previously developed. You couldn't even be there to witness the fruits of your accumulated effort; but perhaps you were grateful. This gave you, in turn, more leeway to handle Khaslana.

Right. Khaslana.

You step away, looking down at the marker in your hand, the black ink of it seeping out onto your skin. The sheen illuminated as you moved, the sound of conversations growing dimmer. The hallways narrowed, illuminated by scarce amounts of light – possibly to save power, as you moved further and down the stairs into the more hidden part of the lab.

It had become a routine. More normal to you now that it probably should've been.

You shove the marker into the pocket of your coat, stopping just shy of the heavy door of the room. You could see the blue light leaking from beneath the gap of the door, enhanced by the lack of overhead lights.

Silence had become more of a friend these days rather than an invitation for less-than-savory thoughts. You came to appreciate the lack of coworkers pushing and prodding you around, boring conversations and office-humor. The lack of "that's the nth cup you've had?!" Everytime you made coffee for yourself had practically been a blessing,

Save for the judgemental staring of Khaslana, that is.

Where do you begin?

You breathe in, pushing the door open. There he is – where he always is, suspended in the blue fluid of the tank. You note his wings are completely unfurled this time, and his knees are curled up to his chest.

He must feel comfortable now. He stretches out his wings when he feels safe. You assume he likes the feeling of the fluid gently brushing through his feathers.

You pull a chair from the corner of the room, and seat yourself in front of him once again, the blue light emanating from his tank now practically drowning you in it, regardless of whatever vibrant colors you'd chosen to wear that day.

You note the leftover marker letters on the glass, disintegrating slowly with the flow of the fluid.

You remember what happened yesterday, and you doubt you'd forget it anytime soon – the ultimate sealing of your demise, how could you ever forget?

...

"Can you hear me?" Your finger tapped against the glass, to which his eye only twitched.

"How about this? Blink once for yes, twice for no,"

your hands fumbled around a bit, patted your pockets, feeling for a marker, before pulling one out. You look up expectantly at him, "do you know who you are?"

He stays silent, unmoving. The yellow tips of his hair sway. The only sound in the room is the gentle clicks of distant monitors, and the muffled, ever-flowing sound of the fluid.

He blinks. Once.

"You do?" Your eyes widen a bit. You shake your head, before clearing your throat, "your name is NeiKos496– subject name, that is."

He stays silent, staring wordlessly at you.

"Well, uh– that's just.. a nametag. We call you Khaslana, too,"

You step away, searching your desk for a notebook, clipboard, anything, before hurriedly scribbling down his name in large, bold letters. You walk back over, flipping it to face him, held with one hand as the other points to the start of his name,

"Khas-la-na" you mouth, slowly and carefully, your finger tracing over the syllables with your tone,

"Do you understand?" Arguably – you didn't expect him to, however;

He nods.

...

———

"I mean, to be honest, that was kinda stupid," she giggles, pointing to the leaking, wet marker, "if any of the higher-ups found out, it'd have exploded."

Your other coworker, beside you, perks up with a cool voice, "ink wouldn't have ruined the project as much. The first interaction is the most impactful – thankfully, you seemed to have made a neutral impression on Khaslana."

You nod, sighing, "you're right.."

You remember when someone made a distasteful impression on a subject the last time you were present to watch them awaken – HubRis504 had felt threatened enough to stop responding at all despite gaining consciousness until Cyrene stepped in to calm her down.

But you wouldn't know until a few days later how uniquely your impression would then impact the project.

It was possibly 2 days– 3, if you count the progressive bridge between basic training for the subjects to the more advanced level stimulus. You'd been called into the other lab right as your break ended, before being informed of the great privilege that Khaslana had refused to respond further to any of their attempts.

It was also, to your great dissatisfaction that he seemed to respond only to you. Some of your coworkers poked fun at you; comparing it to imprinting like chicks on a mother duck. Although slightly stumped, progress continued for a few days with your support, until..

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He just won't listen."

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose,

"Listen, we've invested way too much into this project. We've been given direct orders to not pressure the subject at this stage lest he stop responding entirely. That means–"

You cut in, "that means now I have to bear the brunt of this project?"

"unfortunately, yes," they drag a hand over their face, as if the mere concept of it tires them as much as it will you, "There's nothing we can do. For whatever reason; he responds to you and only you. So what you're going to do, is keep making progress, make sure he's following the predicted results, and suck. It. Up."

You breathe out of your nose, fuming at the idea of having this project thrusted onto you.

"they're willing to compensate you. If you have any problems, consult Cyrene."

They walk away, leaving you alone seething in the quiet hallway, leaning beside the wall of the door to the lab. No one else remains except you and– well.. you can't say its a him, can you?

——

"Who's the new face?" The pink-haired girl asks out loud, a smile on her face as she looks at you. The others mumble out a response, plugging and unplugging cables from the girl. Despite the strange disposition, she stays gazing at you as you approach,

"I'm [Name]," you have half a mind to reach out for a handshake, but decide against it, "you.. you're cyrene?"

"Hm? Do I look that naive?" She giggles, as the others finally step away, seemingly putting their troubleshooting on hold. Her hands fall to her lap, "don't let my cute looks deceive you, I'm quite old myself," she winks, a silly smirk on her face.

"..does that mean.. you're.."

"PhiLia093. That's me."

You stay silent, noting the almost runic like wraps of bands on her wrists. Details of her model, previous troubleshooting attempts, and other miscellaneous things that was surely not your headache to deal with. Her skin has lines – vents to open then prod at her inner cables. Her hair is pink; for some reason, it doesn't feel as artificial as it should.

"..about Khaslana.."

She leans back in her chair, her smile only widening,

"He's.. kinda.."

"Stubborn? Hardheaded? An asshole?"

You chuckle awkwardly, "I wasn't going to mention the last part.."

She shakes her head, waving away your words, "I know. I've seen that brute," she puts a finger on her chin, smiling, eyes downcast as she recalls, "If I could, I'd beat some sense into him. As of now, I suggest.."

—

Maybe it was a stupid idea.

But it was an idea nonetheless.

You decided to throw in a few things into Khaslana's tank. Arguably, had your colleagues been around, they'd have dragged you out then have you suspended before you could protest. But thankfully, you were working alone with no one else to witness your stupidity except yourself and your favorite subject.

You proceeded to take Cyrene's advice to heart. With great effort (and the help of a mop), you managed to creak open a small portion of the lid of his tank. Although Khaslana flashed a warning glare at you, you only smiled back in answer. You gathered a few things – coffee beans, waterproof markers, a key chain of a dromas that was strewn across the lab.

Khaslana only stared at you with a deadpan look as the items flowed into the viscous fluid of the tank, not even flinching as the key chain landed on his head. You flashed an awkward, crooked smile. However, Khaslana was still a curious one, and eventually started to interact with the several things you'd thrown in.

First were the coffee beans. You tried to help him understand by pointing at a paper cup, making a drinking motion. He ended up popping the beans into his mouth, making both of you stop dead in your tracks.

Second, he grasped the waterproof markers. You were worried, already imagining the ink swelling and being rendered useless by the thick medium they were submerged in, but surprisingly, they worked. You demonstrated him how to use it by picking up a marker and letting him slowly follow your movements. After a bit of scribbling, he managed to write down a few words of his own.

"You. Stupid."

?

You huff and puff, writing "Khaslana -> idiot", to which he takes it up as competition and further writes "dumb. Idiot. You."

It ends up not being as productive as you wanted, with both of you making faces at each other. At some point, you tried to force him to return them – more out of spite – only to receive almost all of them except one. You think he's keeping one just to taunt you further.

After a while, you both move on to the third – the keychain.

He holds it up, inspecting it with a befuddled look for a minutr, and you swallow down a giggle.

He points to you, then to it.

"Hah. You look more like it than I." You roll your eyes.

——

"Is that so?"

Cyrene speaks, but no one responds. The late hours of the lab are evident particularly by the lack of people, the low, power-saving lights and the scarce sounds.

Her feet are silent on the cold, metallic floor of the lab, devoid of any protection against the harsh surface. Huge cables drag behind her, small blips of light passing through them, symbolising the transfer of information. A few clicks of sounds later, she receives a response.

"They're annoying. I want to get rid of them first."

She laughs, before turning on her heel, and walking back, hands folded behind her back as she playfully kicks her feet,

"Patience is all we need. Who knows? Maybe they'll be the last piece of the puzzle that we need."

Silence. A moment passes, before another rhythmic assortment of beeps resound through her cables,

"I'm strong enough. I don't need time."

She sighs, rolling her eyes, her hands fiddling with the paper bracelets on her wrist, as she stops walking right before her chair.

"Khaslana, one wrong move and we're all going to be shut down," her gaze moves to the sprawled notes on a table, opened on a page with a detailed route of the laboratory. Hers was the lowest, most deep and well-hidden room in the lab. If she wasn't cautious, even the little freedom she had would be brutally taken from her.

"Just a few more weeks; maybe days."

...

"Fine. I'm waiting."

She smiles, hopping back onto her chair,

"Thank you, Khaslana. I promise, it'll be worth it."

Her eyes start to close, gaze across the lab to the empty tank in front of her,

"Time will be worth it."

——

Khaslana dreams for the first time after you.

Its faint; barely an excuse of a visual, really.

The warm orange and yellows stretching vastly across his vision, white pulses that ebb and flow. Against the sterile and cold blue tedium he'd known.

For the longest time, he hadn't dreamed. Not until you.

"Seriously? Uh- okay, you know what? My fault."

You'd scoot your chair closer, hands flailing a bit, making vague gestures and waving around as you tried to explain the concept of a dream to him.

It started out with another cup of coffee.

Another judgemental gaze, but curiosity at the heavy eyebags tugging at your eyes. You didn't get enough "sleep" that day, as you explain. To him, 'sleep' was just another way to pass time in his mind-numbing repetition of days – a kaleidescope of mundanity is still mundane in the end. He dreamt of nothing; eyes shutting as his brain (or if he even had one,) worked in the background. He knew something was happening – if the monitors in the background with the progress bar inching further was anything to go by. Always just another blink for him.

But a long rambling session from you changed it – even for a bit.

A dream was enough.

He opens his eyes, and the warmth dissipates.

The ever-cold laboratory with your coworkers clocking in for their day shift.

He looks down at his hand, the gold contained under the barrier of his 'skin', despite the cracks exposing it. The pressure of the liquid was enough to not let it flow out (at least; that's what he thinks)

"Me?"

He'd tapped on the glass, index finger tapping vigorously a few more times to emphasise his point, to which you'd laugh,

"Okay, okay, relax," you put a finger on your chin, eyes darting up-left, thinking, "hmm, where do I begin?"

It would be an understatement to say he didn't understand what you said – keywords glossed over in a hurry, but he could faintly piece together the bigger picture. Some of the others had mentioned you'd been working in this lab for a while now – the changes in your appearance became apparent as they recalled clashing memories of it.

A bright-eyed, eager intern. Jumping from one place to another in hopes of learning more. You'd been close to giving up.

Until he awakened.

Perhaps that's one thing you two strangers have in common – you gave each other what was wanted desperately.

He observed; gaze too soft and lingering too long on your face. The way you pursed your lips, chewed on them, the scrunch of your eyebrows everytime he did something that passed your expectations.

There it was; a fond smile on your face, the tilt of your head as your chin rested on the palm of your hand. Gaze pointed down-right.

"I guess.. it's really worth another shot. Maybe all of this is. It makes me want to keep going."

He stays silent, simply observing. His gaze was a little unnerving, especially since he didnt blink. You also chalked it up to the odd shape of his pupils – uncanny valley was a common feeling now.

——

"What? What's going on?"

You squinted your eyes; the laboratory alarms had gone off, sending everyone into a frenzy – papers flew, fingers furiously worked over keyboards and monitors, messy hands at a last ditch attempt trying to pull out the pipes connecting to a subject's tube.

You remember watching it all happen, not being able to do anything. Well, you couldn't, even if you'd wanted to – it seemed as if you'd arrived just as it was nearing its end.

Just as HapLotes405 neared its end.

The red herring had come up before; subtle, but passable. Abnormal fluctuations were common. It was early morning when she started to split apart.

Then came the red fluid.

They burst from the pipes, leaking and seeping into the fluid of her tube as if blooming, heavy mercury.

Tribios as they'd lovingly named her, was dead.

HapLotes405 was a failed experiment. That too – one of many to happen.

How ironic; you remember her vibrant red hair everytime the alarm is sounded – red fills your vision as if a curse, reminding your lab of the first grave loss.

It gets worse with the next subject. And the one after. As if a collective chain reaction over the span of a few weeks.

You found comfort in Khaslana's chemically blue tedium for that exact reason. As if you could breathe only after you stepped into that room, despite his heavy gaze following you.

What originally had your hair standing had now become some sort of security – Khaslana's heavy gaze that followed you through the monotonous motions in the room made you feel safer. As if everything happening outside had little value – only things relating to Khaslana had mattered when you were present there. No leaking pipes. No malfunctions. No miscalculations, blaring alarms.

No red.

——

"Wh- This is.."

Your eyes widen, shock making your train of thoughts start shooting backwards as you tried to think up of a possible explanation. Your fingers frantically flipped through the pages of the book/ manual, dreadful as you read the detailed information about the floor plans and the layout of the laboratory.

"Shouldn't be here, right?"

You jolt, eyes darting to the pink-haired girl who just appeared beside you in a quiet blink,

"Cyrene!"

"Its me!" She winked at you, before pointing to the manual, "you'd think they'd keep something like that away from a subject, right?"

You nod, to which she giggles, amused at your perplexed state,

"I don't have much of a purpose outside the lab. I guess, in a way, you could say I was curated just for stuff like this," she points her thumb over her back towards the various monitors beeping in the background, "besides, these cables aren't to be scoffed at. Its a workout to just walk beyond this room."

Your eyes trail over the long, thick cables connected to her back, sprawled over the floor, trailing all the way back to being coiled at the base of her chair.

"..I see.. so.. they just trust you, huh?"

"Mhm. They don't think its something to be worried about."

She hums, walking back over to her chair, hopping onto it. A small, collar-like device beeps and fits onto her neck. Just as she's closing her eyes,

"You know, there's something else you should be worried about."

You stay silent, watching her smile right as she falls asleep,

"You should keep an eye on your dreams. They say a lot more than you think."

——

"Hey, you know.."

Khaslana perks up, looking at you from his curled up form, chin resting on his knees,

"Theres this.. empty tank in Cyrene's room.."

He shifts in the tank, clearly attentive to your words,

"It just.. creeped me out. The other day, Tribios.." you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose temporarily, looking down at the lab report on your lap, "she.. disintegrated. Died. I guess, her tank must look like that now. Except, unlike Cyrene, she's.. gone."

You don't expect a response – you've learned to use your hearing less when it came to Khaslana; relying more on showing than telling. Perhaps it was some sort of comfort from the recent, unsettling events that had you tossing and turning at night.

Tap tap tap.

You look up, Khaslana pressing his palm flat against the glass. His usual, grumpy expression is replaced by an observant yet unreadable look.

You get up from your seat, hand hesitantly pressing up against the glass aswell,

"I should be comforting you, actually," you chuckle, but there's no humor in it, "I know it won't happen to you, I just.. I guess I like being here. Being around you makes me say things I never thought I'd say out loud."

You smile, before retracting your hand. After a beat, Khaslana hesitantly retracts his, eyes still gazing into yours.

"I think you're progressing really well, Khas. You'll best everyone's expectations soon. Don't worry about anyone underestimating you."

He stays unmoving, unblinking, as if waiting for you to say something else.

Perhaps he'll always stay waiting.

——

Khaslana had dreamed again.

It became a part of his routine that he looked forward to more and more – a rare longing that had started to stir in him.

He dreams had become more vivid than before; he found himself almost longing to experience what he did in that state, as if yearning to feel each dried paintstroke of an expansive painting under his fingers – perhaps desire manifested itself as something softer.

A golden Sun in the distance melting into the horizon, the edge blurred and softened by the expanse of wheat fields. Warm winds carrying the sweet scent of a world that tucked away a lifetime in an unknown corner, as if lazy mumblings of a secret between lovers.

He dreamed of you.

Many times did he awaken to more of your coworkers prodding at him when you'd been away, and many times did he not bother remembering their faces. Only yours had etched itself into the confines of his mind that had once been occupied with other nefarious schemes; perhaps you had changed him in more ways than one. You made him want something else other than freedom.

Made him want to find meaning in you.

Made him dream of a lifetime where he wasn't khaslana. Where he could feel your hands. Where you'd lay him vulnerable and soft under you; fingertips tracing his skin in adoration rather than study. Perhaps he would be easier to love – learning how to make you laugh with gentle words, with a playful flurry of kisses on your face unobstructed by glass, learn how to smile more softly.

He opens his eyes again, and he returns. The blue medium of his tank had become more and more despicable to him with each awakening, reminding him of his painful role in this sadistic orchestra of fate, making him wish more for a dream farthest away from this place.

Where he wasn't just a test subject in a laboratory.

——

It was after you'd reported your advancements on Khaslana – and actually proven them – that you'd gotten access to the other deeper parts of the lab.

The first time you'd met Cyrene – or rather, saw her.

You observed, almost mesmerised, as her pink hair was combed through, another scientist fiddling with the mechanical attachment to her arm.

Cyrene – the predecessor to Khaslana.

She was the culmination of what your lab had been working towards. Intelligent, lucid, capable of inhuman feats.

You watched as they were done, pulling back and lending their support as the pink haired girl got up, the heavy wires connected to her back making it a difficult task for her to even walk,

She was of short stature. You could argue perhaps she was simply another blueprint like HubRis504; a girl called Cerydra who was also just simply shorter than average. But you know it wasn't possible – you'd looked at her notes, glimpsed into what she was supposed to be.

Cyrene had greatly advanced in terms of lucidity and intellect, and resembled closely human traits like empathy. This, however, came at the cost of her freedom.

She was only allowed to roam within the lower sections of the lab. Huge, heavy cables plugged into her back at all times. Without support, she wouldn't walk. And without cables, she wouldn't be awake.

Or alive, even.

You saw the sadness in her eyes, the scarily human regret at her own existence, the burden of being confined and unable for more.

It left you with a sour taste in your mouth.

You remember pondering about it, Khaslana's familiar, heavy gaze on your back as you buried yourself with other paperwork in the room – checking for uselessly mundane things.

"He says he dreams about you."

How could she have known?

You must've idled for too long; a few taps on the glass resound behind you, as he prods for your attention.

You look at him, but don't say anything. You turn, continuing with your work. Your hand moves to the various keys, fingers tapping away.

Flicker.

You stop, startled slightly at the glitch. You shake your head, and continue anyway.

another one. Its accompanied by a strange, buzzing sound.

sigh. This equipment is really worn. If your lab wasn't as sketchy and bothered to keep up to date then—

The lights go out.

You drag your hand over your face. The blue of his tank illuminates the room, the corner of your vision, the alien-like visual of it leaking into every crevice. As if the light was punishing you for not looking at it.

Pushing yourself off the desk, having no other excuse, you sluggishly approach him, watching his unreadable expression.

He watches – always watching. Always seeing. Gold searing into you.

"Do you feel lonely?" Your hand presses against the glass. His eyes stay on your hand for a moment, then flit back to your face. You hold back a chuckle – he really seems to like looking at you.

He slowly brings up his hand, large palm pressing where yours is on the other surface of the glass. Its a little harder for him to estimate where your hand is, the view of it covered up by his much larger one.

"Very." – is what he would say, if he could speak.

––

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Not now."

Tap.. tap..

"I'm busy."

....

Tap tap tap!

You sigh, but your gaze doesn't budge, finishing up a sentence before popping the cap back onto your pen. You push yourself away from the desk, the wheels of your chair rolling, as you get up,

"I told you to stop disturbing me while I worked,"

You stood facing Khaslana, who's hands were resting on the glass of his tank. Oddly enough, you were rarely annoyed despite his constant disturbance – tapping against the glass, messing with the pipes, scratching against the lid of his tank, doing who knows what to himself physiologically to mess with the monitors temporarily (he was either too fast or good at hiding it, you never understood just what he was doing. )

It all boils down to the fact you can't blame him. If it were you in that tank, you wouldn't be half as much patient as him; you were sure of it. Another fact..

Khaslana points to something in the room, and taps against the glass twice – he wants you to explain it to him.

You walked over, searching for what object exactly had gotten his interest. After a few confused glance-backs and repeated "is this it?"s, you managed to haul up a rubicks cube – how he even managed to see it from such a distance, you wouldn't know. You chalk it up to him being.. well, not a human.

You drag your chair from your desk to the face of the tank, sitting down in position as if a routine – it had become one at this point; attributed to his restlessness rather than curiosity. But when you're born not knowing, those traits don't necessarily differentiate.

After a few minutes of explaining, he taps his finger again – once. He wants you to throw it in the tank.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it'll even work considering the thick viscosity of the fluid inside. It's not long before your train of thoughts is interrupted by constantly rapping of his finger on the glass, signaling his growing impatience.

Aiming as best as you can, you throw, sighing in relief when it just lands on the edge of the small opening, enough for gravity to tip it over and in. Khaslana swipes it quickly, attention occupied by something else. You watch for a moment, before turning back– time to return to work, when,

Tap tap tap

Your eye twitches, resisting the urge to outwardly groan or drag a hand across your face. You turn your head, looking back lazily, as Khaslana motions for you to come closer.

Lately, he's been a bit of an attention hog.

Again, you refrain from blaming him. Perhaps it's really just a habit formed by you watching over him so closely in his early stages, perhaps the dopamine release when you encourage him along every step, or just parallel play. It wasn't a problem until you decided you could give up the reign to let him progress on his own a little more to focus on the other backdrop of details which was mounting in workload day by day.

"Khas, you can do it," you start gently, a strained smile as you try to stand your ground, "you don't need me to watch over you, right? I know you can."

His response, however, is a deadpan expression with the rubicks cube still held in his hand - not a single column nor row had been moved.

You sigh, giving in – could you ever not? – to him, "greedy brat," you say, without a bite to it, pulling your chair closer, before sitting down with a huff, "you're always waiting for me."

His eyes now stay trained on the cube in his hands, clearly delving into his thoughts as soon as he's assured you're watching and staying close by. At least you could entertain yourself aswell; it was a sort of quench for your curiosity everytime he managed to hit a milestone, regardless of how minor it seemed on the outside.

After a moment, his fingers start moving. A draft from the vents gently sways the page of the report on your desk.

——

You can't believe it.

You don't want to believe it.

Papers fly and rip, painfully cumulative effort of months are shredded by you. Its as if you're possessed – you don't deny it as the thought crossed your mind, you're practically tearing your hair out as you feverishly read the notes in Cyrene's lab. Desks and drawers are pulled open, your eyes squint at every letter under the low light, and Cyrene herself does not make a move to stop you, standing a few ways away, hand on her chair to support herself as she watches.

Your eyes sting, but you harshly rub away the tears, too focused at the acrid and bitter truth that you'd suddenly found. Didn't care for the painful throbbing in your head, nor the blood blooming in your mouth from your teeth gnawing on your lips. Frustration and anger, and the devastation of every single one of those subjects disintegrating flashed at the forefront of your mind, making your fury rush back ten times harder.

It started out with a simple conversation. You found yourself asleep at your desk in Khaslana's lab, way past curfew, and a coffee cup with a small sticky note bidding you goodluck on your project. Perhaps your colleagues had found you in the lab and decided not to interfere with your progress – such was the etiquette between your peers. Perhaps unusual, but this was the norm.

You were missing something, and decided you'd perhaps ask Cyrene a few more questions regarding Khaslana's growth as you retraced your steps deeper into the darker, dimly-lit hallway leading to her labroom. One conversation turned into another as Cyrene recounted her developmental days, the investments, the nights spent with scientists working around the clock to make sure she overcame a learning curve.

"As the first model of many to come, I was equipped with a fail-safe. As is Khaslana," she said, pointing to a few of her older notes that had been stashed away in a narrow cabinet, "maybe it'll help", she said.

Thats how you found out.

They planned to destroy every single one of them.

At least, that must've been the reason. Right?

Cyrene stayed still, even as you fell to your knees, frustration and something else, more intense, bubbled in your chest and burst to the forefront in broken sobs. Something more about dreams and the desperate struggle of a burnt out student that pulled it out of you like a fish's jaw stuck on a hook.

Cyrene had learned more about her humanity through what shouldn't have been. Watching the others peer down at her with a disgusted or a disapproving look was what originally trained her into "humanlike" behavior. Later had she learned to hear further than the technical mumblings inside her own lab – learned to hear from the pipes, learned to see beyond her own eyes.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise; her inability to manifest a functional physical form had given her excess time to learn the workings of the laboratory intimately, listening carefully to even the scratching of pencils, watching the intimate placement of a hand against a glass surface yearning for something beyond. It was as if she'd become closer to understanding omnipotence, as if she breathed through the pipes, watched through the vents.

But watching and learning wouldn't have been enough; not when the boundary of ignorance remained even between most. Cyrene learned to sift through the whispers, learn of her true purpose, and eventually of the fates of those who would soon come after her.

Emotions had become stagnant in such a place; apathy, logic, deduction, reason – all of which took presidence over the painful consciousness they'd granted to the subjects. Soon came Khaslana, who'd learned overtime to do the same, and eventually learn just as she did as he "slept". They'd learned perhaps there was no place for a foreign feeling of empathy, fury over injustice.

Not until you.

In that instance, both of them watched. Khaslana and Cyrene had started to grasp of the true depravity that had taken place – through every tear you shed for those whose tanks were left empty from a premature end rather than a "birth".

They learned the magnamity of pain that had suddenly thrusted itself upon your shoulders; the mere concept of creating a consciousness only to make it suffer and then end it.

You had come to understand – the self-disintegrating equation had been integrated into Cyrene, through which they would force her to send out a command and destroy the 'defective' subjects. Tribios' death, along with the others', had been planned by hand-picked scientists, who decided at the cost of their lives that they'd be better off as mere investments into Khaslana instead.

They fed them. To each other.

——

Your absence felt like a branding.

It was one thing occasionally waking up to useless, invasive, bothersome insects that you called "coworkers" while you were away, and another when he learned they were replacing you.

Fury was not enough of a word to describe what he felt.

Purposefully, barely veiled sabotage would take place by his hand. Several times throughout the day would alarms go off, malfunctions would occur with the technology, and the progress bar would drop almost 20% each day, as if an iron fist would push it back. Even Cyrene was rendered to the role of a witness as the lights would flicker each time the upper section of the lab would be thrown into chaos, not even having to use any extra "eyes" or "ears" to hear the scientists scramble and rush, the scuff of their feet in masses enough to echo and trickle down to the quiet of her now-empty labroom with each senior scientist putting all hands on deck.

Khaslana would sear this filthy place with your absence just as they had dared to try and threaten him with yours.

"I guess.. its worth trying" – your words echo in his mind, as if trying to revive your own dreams within his consciousness, like restoring an age-old portrait. The fractured panorama of you repaired by the fill-ins of his melting dreams, gold and so bright he felt fear for the first time – fear of burning himself with how desperately and passionately he burned and ached for you.

"Do you like it?" You flip your notebook, showing Khaslana how you'd style his hair once he was ready to step out.

He doesn't say anything, his finger hesitantly reaching out and pressing against the glass. He didnt seem to be pointing, but rather absentmindedly tracing the curvature of your strokes, as if imprinting.

You giggle. You move, although regrettably interrupting his learning, you position your chair to face your back to him, so he can get a better view of your sketchbook as you rest it on your lap and flip to a new page,

"I'll show you the process, watch closely okay?"

Each day it got worse; as if a biblical punishment had drawn upon them. His tank had then started to strain to contain him – the layers of glass starting to crack, the fluid bubbling more as the temperature in the labroom shot up; forcing the shifting of most, if not all of the equipment that was once in the room due to overheating.

It felt as though it had only bolstered their will, continuing to only leave you with a stone cold silence as you suffered in your own skin.

Nights passed with restless sleep; your sheets had no longer been able to thaw out the numbing cold that had started to chew on the tips of your being – trouble came nightfall with paranoia chipping equally at your mind. Visions flashed in front of you; as if Khaslana had started to haunt you.

Your dreams would flicker behind your eyelids – the fractured panorama of them had begun to mock you for daring to conjure up of something so warm; when there had been no such place for it. Every piece of the empty cracks you'd tried to fill in seemed to infect the age-old painting whole. Every piece where you'd imagined Khaslana as another boy; white-haired, blue-eyed, golden only under a peaceful sun of a faraway, country-side place-- as if paintstrokes had started to bleed, your blissful wishes would be interrupted harshly as Khaslana would grip these wishful visions and tear them apart. A part of you almost believes it to be happening; another part of you wonders if you've truly lost it?

The whole of you hates him.

You toss and turn– ignore the pale of your research papers stewn across your room that glare under the moonlight, imagine your own words mocking you, laughing like howling dogs in the static crackle of the night, as if a hazard sign had grown a mouth simply to grin at your foolishness.

You scratched at every sketch you'd drawn; torn up miscellaneous calculations you forced him to help you with, cursed and stashed away anything that looked remotely gold. Acted as if doing so was akin to pouring lines of salt; but he was no  spirit – it was worse; he was inhuman and physical. Something defined and had make you long aware that could overpower you at any moment. It made you think of those wretched wings that ripped from the skin of his back, entwined with gold and black, spreading like tree branches; the golden cracks along his body that made your eyes hurt if you stared too long; perhaps that was the first sign. He was too dangerous; and by now you were praying. For salvation, protection, and titans forbid that thing manages to leave its confinement.

——

Perhaps to ask for salvation had become a sin.

You breathed in, careful and measured, but your natural instincts threaten to override each second. Logic and rationale struggle to overcome the wavering tide of adrenaline that was practically poisoning you; teetering the edge, not yet boiling over, but clearly overflowing. Your breaths occasionally staggered, but you managed. Your fingers trembled as you stepped into the lab, unlocking each door as you walked further in; the muscles of your legs burning and already trembling as they overcompensated for the threat of them buckling.

The lab was too quiet.

By the end of the week; it was you who felt inhuman. You felt less – like a humiliated animal at the mercy of another; desperate to gnaw off your own self had it meant the guarantee of your survival. Instinct felt more primitive; and fear seeped into your very bones like arsenic. Your paranoia had reached a fever-pitch until you finally decided enough was enough, and by some cursed reason decided to pull the plug yourself.

You don't blame yourself – or perhaps you're too tired to. Your brain had become a mess, and by some ray of clarity had you found enough reasoning to pull yourself together and make sure there would be an end to this.

An end to the Deliverer you had once named.

But it was far from being as heroic as it sounded – if the sharp silence of the lab was anything to go by. It had seemed as if no one had entered nor left; the air was stagnant, and the lack of ventilation had suspended even the dust in its place. You were no hero, and this was no rescue.

The power-saving lights flickered on; making your heart drop to the bottom of your stomach. You stopped moving until your skin itched with how still you'd stood; straining to hear anything– anyone.

After a moment of silence, you continued. You would have thought it to be marching to your demise, the autopilot of your previous years had taken presidence, leading you right down to Cyrene's labroom which you had then determined to be the heart of the lab. Perhaps like you did once, you'll find answers there again.

But what had greeted you was far from expectations. You never assumed you were going to be met with a pretty sight; but the grotesque state the labroom was in had you stumbling away for a moment as you forgot to breathe; the door slamming shut just as you'd opened it an inch.

Inside had laid Cyrene, cables violently ripped and melted. The plastic of her skin (which had begun to add to the uncanny horror of everything), was torn and cracked, chips of her being scattered across the room like glass under your shoes as you approached.

You knew she was far from replying; far from greeting you once more with a warm smile, and mysterious advice. Her blue eyes had returned to the default model color, revealing the tiny printed code on her pupils that only hurt more to see. She returned to another kind of death; the lack of an identity, one that was the wholly hers.

Had you let the exorbitant need to look away overpower, you wouldn't have spotted the flicks of gold that stuck behind her ear.

It had dawned on you long ago; you thought about him and only him - like a reel of ribbon unfurling continually with every step you took from the moment you walked into the lab. Somehow, someway, Khaslana was behind all of this.

But you weren't searching for answers.

——

"Phainon, wake up,"

You nudged him, a devilish grin on your face as he failed to wake up. You leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek – to which he reacted by scratching the fluttering feeling left behind by your lips, accompanied by a small, groggy hum.

"C'mon," your hand pushes against his shoulder, harsher than before, easing into being rougher as the man barely budged an inch, "Phai, you're gonna be so late"

"..in a minute.." he mumbled, turning in his sleep slowly, the huge wall of his back now facing you. You giggled, before throwing yourself at the wide expanse of his back, hands scanning over his body before gripping his shoulders again, and shaking him as much as you could – it wasn't easy considering just how huge he was compared to you. There were times where the bed would croak out a terrible noise and you feared it would buckle any second under Phainon.

You lean closer, aiming now, for his ear. You trace your finger along the curve of its shell, grazing the sensitive skin ever-so-slightly as to watch the slow shiver travel up his spine, cackling to yourself. But it doesn't seem to wake him yet – far from your worries, as you move in to plant your final weapon;

"agh– huh-? Hey-!"

Phainon jolted as you blew air into his ear, hand shooting up to cover it. You giggled again, relishing your victory, but it was a temporary moment before a pair of big, strong arms enveloped you, almost dragging you under into the throes of pillow and your sheets,

"Phai-! Let go!" You said between giggles as Phainon nuzzled you closer,

"Hmph? Trying to bargain now, are we?" He nuzzled his face into the top of your head, your face thrashed into his chest, "too late! This is what you get!"

A few minutes of your collective thrashing later, both of you laid quiet as the morning came to a slow rise.

"You're gonna be late for your stream. Remember what you promised everyone?" Phainon closes his eyes, feeling the thrum and reverb of your voice muffled by his neck. He hums in response, closing his eyes, "I know, I know. Thanks for waking me up on time – must've been a hassle for you."

You squirmed out of his grip, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked down at him; disheveled, "a huge hassle. You're like a wet bag of rice!"

And your morning continued in several back and forths, before eventually one of you broke the standstill and moved on ahead.

Sizzling erupted, followed by the clinks of matching mugs against the countertops. The Sun had casted ample light into the kitchen, a soft amber glow had started to warm the stagnant air of the morning.

"I think this might've expired.." Phainon squinted, shaking the condiment in his hand, straining to hear with a quirked brow.

"Mm, I'll write it down," you pushed your back off the countertop, placing your mug down, as you moved to reach a cabinet, "do you remember where the marker is? I'm not sure where I left it.."

Just as your hand grasps the handle, Phainon's covers yours, enveloping it in an instant, preventing you from opening it. You turn slightly, meeting his gaze with a questioning of your own,

"I'll get it. Watch over the eggs for me?"

You nod, letting go of the handle. Phainon admits he misses even the minimal loss of contact; but he understands the urgent change of priority.

He watches as you busy yourself with the sizzling of the pan, carefully opening the cabinet, squinting his eyes at the swollen, messy marker.

The one you'd thrown into his tank.

He swipes it, before shuffling around to find for a new one. As you plate the breakfast, he adds another sticky note to the fridge, writing down 'markers' just as the ink starts to taper.

"Oh, guess we're out.." you say between mouthfuls.

Phainon joins you, "we should get glitter pens for our anniversary," it pulls a laugh out of you, reverberated by the ceramic of the cup as you take a sip, "I call dibs on the pink one."

He shoots you an exasperated look, "nuh-uh, I always call dibs on the pink ones,"

You giggle again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "awh, you always swipe them."

Phainon hums as he chews, swallowing before he responds, "gold suits you," he brings the edge of his cup to his lips, taking a sip as his eyes watch you over the line,

"Just because its glitter doesn't mean its gold! That's just yellow!"

You two continue to go back and forth, finishing up your morning routine together. Phainon takes a moment to relax before setting up his stream – mainly an excuse just to watch you cycle through your own routine as you get ready for work. He says it's hypnotising, and you laugh at the endearing nature of it.

"Here, let me," Phainon shuffles up behind you, hands reaching out tentatively after you struggled with the clasp of your necklace for a few seconds,

"Its okay– I got it.." you chew on your lip, eyes fixed on your dressing table as your fingers fumbled with the clasp,

"Sweetheart," Phainon gently urges,

"No, no, hold on.." he watches through the mirror, gaze fixed on the way you chew your lips. Old habits die hard, don't they?

After another moment of struggling, you sigh, retracting the necklace and placing it onto his extended hand,

He smiles, watching you straighten up, gently pulling the thin chain of it around your neck. The reflection of his face is hidden behind your head, his fingers slow and relishing as they thread the clasp, lingering a little longer on the skin of your nape. You smile at how tender he can be sometimes.

"Done." He stands up, hand on his hip, staring proudly down at you as you turn to flash him a thankful smile,

"I'll be headed out then," you sigh, grabbing a few essentials, before getting up from your seat,

"Want me to drop you off?"

You hum, considering the offer as you shrug on a jacket, "nah, its alright. I feel like walking, today."

"Let me know if you want me to pick you up."

"Sure, but won't you be streaming?"

He shrugs, handing you some of your things as you finish adjusting your jacket, "it'll take 20 minutes max. They can wait."

You chuckle, moving towards the door. You shuffle into your shoes, resting your hand over the handle,

"Okay, then. Bye, Phai, goodluck with work,"

He nods, leaning in to press a kiss against your cheek, "you too, honeycake."

——

Perhaps the necklace was reacting with your skin.

Which was a bit of a shame – because it was an anniversary gift.

Regardless of whether or not gold suited you; you wore it. Phainon; your boyfriend of many years, had an odd fixation with decorating you with gold. Of course, he was never suffocating about it – but it was the little things; despite the many gifts he'd give you catered to a plethora of your tastes, it was practically a custom for him to gift you something gold on every anniversary.

You sighed again, fingers tentatively reaching up behind your neck to gently rub at the prickling itch under the clasp. It was strange, considering you never had any reactions before. You'd have to concern yourself with it another time, choosing to try and distract yourself from the minor inconvenience by zoning out and thinking about anything else.

You turned the corner, eyes landing on every familiar landmark you'd remembered for yourself – the dandelions in that specific crack of the pavement along the way, the street sign, the bakery that opens right after you pass it. You let yourself drift in your own thoughts, only to stop when–

Right. You stop in your tracks at the TVs on display behind the glass, squinting to read the news title as several heads had started to block your view.

..Still missing after 10 years – abandoned laboratory found to house multiple strange..

You felt a strange ringing rise to the forefront of your head, making you squeeze your eyes shut and stagger your breath for a second.

Maybe you should keep going.

You should definitely keep going.

Don't worry about it.

You breathe out, continuing to walk ahead as you slowly pried open your eyes, adjusting to the growing sunlight that reflected off the windows in the distance in stronger magnitude.

——

Phainon stayed silent after you left. The house had become emptier— bigger, voider.

He stayed in place, standing in front of the door as he heard your footsteps grow distant until he could no longer hear them.

He sighed out, scratching the back of his neck as he moved, sluggish, as if reluctant to part from the very moment you'd left.

But it wasn't long before he set into motion. There were two main things he needed to attend to.

First was the obvious – a stream held to celebrate hitting a milestone long overdue.

The second..

Was you.

Or rather, getting rid of your past.

He sucks in as he pulls out the cardboard box, waving in front of his face as it kicked up dust.

Your research papers; if you could even call it those. He sat hunched over, fingers brushed the folded corners.

Various calculations – random in nature, were scattered over the paper. The ones you'd forced him to help you with when he was still in his tank, trying to squeeze out any and all information about his cognitive functions. He smiled to himself, eyes darting to the corner of the page where you'd doodled a silly, mini caricature of him.

He remembers everything. Titans– how could he not?

Let it be a decade, or a few; he'd remember. He may be a fraction of your life even now, but he'd known you since he opened his eyes.

He remembered, when you didn't.

That day, where his life with you had truly began.

——

You gasped, as if trying to grasp the air that was escaping your lungs with every gulp, furiously hyperventilating as you rushed to his side–

"Khaslana!"

The glass of his tank had shattered – a striking blow outlined by the brittle, cracked glass that held on to the edges. The viscous, blue fluid of his tank covered the floor in a thin film, sticky under your shoes as you moved carefully, using the nearby chairs as support,

"Khaslana! Wake up!"

You coughed – more from the thick, cloying chemical smell that was enough to close your throat temporarily, almost making the acid of your stomach lurch; most likely the sublimination of the medium that had started to take place.

You stumbled, pushing further with little regard for balance, ignoring the scattered glass pricking your skin as you fell to your knees in a hurry, reaching out for the collapsed Khaslana who seemed unmoving.

Tentatively, your fingers grazed against the lithe feathers of his wings, trembling still as you called out once more,

"Khaslana? Titans– please," you breathed, a sob strangled in your throat, "please, please..!" The trembling of your hands became more violent, as they traced a path up to his back, reaching for his shoulders, gently pulling him into your lap, turning him over, a hand supporting the back of his head, the other resting on his chest.

It was a strange, cruel battle of thoughts in your head. You hated him– good riddance, you wanted to say. Please, not like this, you sobbed. Perhaps you'd grown too attached.

You repeated his name several times, watching a familiar gold seep from under him and onto your fingers; almost collapsing your hope entirely–

twitch.

You hold your breath, eyes wide, staring down at his face as it twitches.

A few moments pass– agonizingly long. His body jolts, as if fighting off a paralysis.

A heavy hand crashes into the ground as he shoots upright, making your heart jump into your throat.

Its fast– you barely see anything; all you can register is something is moving. Before you know it, you're on your back and Khaslana is on you.

He has your back pressed against the floor, hands holding your arms in a vice-grip, of which you're sure are forming bruises. You look up at him in a sort of horror; the realisation dawning on you that he's much larger than you'd anticipated.

You try to speak, open your mouth and croak out something, but nothing does. His eyes are golden and glare into the confines of your soul; like an arrow shot through the dark, ripping and tearing until it found its way to your very core. The sickening-blue color of the medium had been a mercy, you realise now, eyes straining to even look at him.

He leans in– and you don't stop him. You cant. His lips brush against your jugular with precision (he continues to surprise you regardless, even at such a state). Wet teeth graze your skin, his grip only tightening further on you when you jolt.

"Khas– lana.." you choke out, swallowing thickly, as if moving an inch would mean offering your heart up on a platter.

His eyes glance up at you; familiar, oddly shaped pupils bore into yours,

"Y-Youre alive," you choke out, stating as if it were a casual contradiction, "I thought.."

Your words make him press further- a hot tongue laving at your skin, the unexpected contact making you jerk out of your shocked trance, hands suddenly flailing for purchase,

"Khaslana–! What are you– what happened?!"

He retracts, like a wounded animal, hair swept just enough to hide his eyes as his head lowered.

Everything stayed silent.

Khaslana's hand moved, letting go of your arm, as he spoke,

"Searching.. for you.."

He struggles, breathing staggering – you imagine the transition from liquid to air must've been hideously painful, cringing at even the thought of it. You prop yourself up on an elbow, your other hand gently cupping his face,

"Khaslana?"

"Wanted.. to be.."

His hand – now behind you – grips something.

"Someone else.."

You feel his fingers graze the skin of your nape – goosebumps rising at the contact.

He breathes out, heavy, as if swallowing down a sob,

"███P██ai██"

He looks up at you– meeting your gaze in an instant, golden eyes burning, and you feel your stomach drop, as you feel something sharp punch into your nape,

"Together. █ou█ s"

——

"If you encompass everyone's wishes, you'll be left behind as they approach a new world. Then, who will grant the next wish?"

Cyrene's voice echoed in the pipes, her gaze on the journal in her lap as she scribbled away, kicking her legs,

"Surely, then, your wish should also be considered?" She leans back, placing the pen along the central indent of the book, "I wonder what you want. Rarely do you speak about anything but breaking out."

The other side of the line stays quiet. Khaslana's eyes stare into nothing, zoned out. He remains in a curled form, the feathers of his wings occasionally brushing against him following the flow of the fluid. His chin rests on his knees, eyes flitting up to your makeshift desk in the lab right across him; your belongings sprawled over it, awaiting the next day like its already ordained to happen.

"..I have a wish," the other line responds. Cyrene hums, flipping the pages of her journal, "you do?"

Khaslana closes his eyes, envisioning a golden world, where his arms aren't around himself, but you. He images your head resting on his chest, hearing for yourself the stable, almost mechanical thumping of his heart rather than watching a monitor in the background. A world where he wouldn't have this glass barrier everytime he reached out to touch your face.

Where you could undo him entirely, study him to your heart's content without having to worry about weekly goals or reports. Where you could tease him endlessly about his sensitive ears, or his natural restlessness.

"Hold onto that wish," Cyrene says, closing the thick journal on her lap, before hauling it off, "it'll help you stay focused"

He keeps his eyes closed, and hopes sleep greets him before your colleagues.

——

He stays silent, hunched over the dusty cardboard box, staring down at the thick journal under all your research papers.

Cyrene's journal.

He brought it in the case where if he would need to return to his original goal, he would be able to utilise the information Cyrene had painstainkingly written down in her last moments before everything was thrown into chaos.

Nah. He's lying.

He laughs under his breath, humorless. Truthfully, only one page in that book had remained valuable to him.

He glanced at his phone, noting the time. He'd need to start the stream soon. His fingers haphazardly shuffled everything back in, leaving only her journal outside of the box, as he pushed it back into it's place.

——

You sighed, almost melting in his arms, as Phainon massaged your shoulders.

Having a bath after work was a luxury you rarely gave yourself; and was rarely an activity you two could enjoy together.

You nuzzled your face further into his neck, arms wrapped loosely around it, drawing a hearty chuckle out of him,

"You're getting too comfortable. Don't fall asleep, okay?"

You hummed, barely registering his words,

"So, how'd it go?"

He hums, thinking for a moment,

"Wasn't all that bad. Although, I'm pretty sure at least one thing was radioactive."

"Hm?" You open your eyes, about to question him as he quickly waves away your concern,

"Just kidding. The real hardest part about appraisals are the fact no one wants to believe its a fake."

You smile, closing your eyes,

"I think its just to keep you on stream longer.." you yawn, "I'd love to mess with you to do just that."

Phainon chuckles, "well, I'm right here. If anything," one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your neck, "Im the one waiting to see you."

"We live together, how much more do you want to look at me?"

"Not just looking. Its different when you're around, y'know? My streams just do better anytime you're watching me behind the scenes."

You hum, placing a languid kiss against his jaw, eyes still closed. You move up slightly, brushing your lips teasingly over his ears, relishing the quick jolt that follows,

His hand moves from the back of your head to your nape, fingers circling the irritated spot, making you hiss,

"Everything okay?" He stops immediately,

"Yeah, just.."

You shuffle a bit, but settle back just as quickly, "that spot's been irritated. Try not to touch it."

"Ah, okay. Mind if I have a look, though?"

You nod, despite how silly that question was.

It was just him; overly-considerate, almost too-sweet. It rushed to you, swelling up in your chest as it returned a lazy smile to your face before you knew it. You pushed your face back into his neck, lips pressed ardently against his damp skin.

"I think it might be a reaction.." Phainon feels a strange tingle as your voice reverberates a bit into him, muffled by the skin,

".. is that so?"

He seems busy scanning it, but you don't mind, moving your face to bury itself completely; the very little light passing through your eyelids now completely obscured.

"I might have a cream for that lying around somewhere," Phainon remarks, fingers gently prodding the space around the burning sensation, "I'll apply it for you later."

"Thanks, Phai," you mumbled, barely bothering to remove your face from him, drawing another chuckle out of him.

...

"Ah, almost forgot.."

You remove your face, moving back enough to be eye-level with him,

"I heard this on the news, I don't know if you have, but.."

Your hands haphazardly traced his back, fingers dipping just below his nape, feeling the ridges of his spine,

"Do you know anything about Khaslana?"

——

"I tell you so often to take it easy.." Phainon mutters, handing you a glass of water,

"I know, I know– god.." you breathe out, strained, your other hand staying pressed on your forehead where the headache just kept on getting stronger.

"It'd be better if you eat it soon and take some rest. I'll make a call and let them know you won't be coming in tomorrow,"

Phainon sits down beside you, carefully. He places his hand on your back, letting the warmth of it melt into you.

"Okay.." you sigh out, forcing yourself to move despite the pain, swallowing the painkiller like a bullet down a thick vein, following it with generous gulps of water.

Phainon takes the glass from you, gently rubbing your shoulder as he gets up to encourage you to lay down – which you eventually do. Not much else you can get up to when you're having a migraine.

You sigh, recalling the events that happened not long ago, as if replaying the memory would be enough of a distraction. Rather, you hoped it would be.

Soon after you mentioned that name, that strange ringing accompanied by the sharp pain came rushing back, almost tenfold, as if a strong punch of wind was knocked out of you. You're grateful in such times Phainon was strong enough to take care of the rest up until now.

You shifted, trying to make yourself comfortable, only to hiss again as another sharp sting hit you – regrettably, you must've rubbed that rash forming behind your neck on the pillow.

You carefully turned to your side, just in time as Phainon came back, pulling up the covers on you, before sitting down on the edge of the bed,

"Its a stronger dose, but takes a while to really kick in. Think you can tolerate it?" His voice is more concerned than taunting or challenging. You feel his hand rub over your ankle soothingly, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric.

"I'm fine.. Just.. maybe I can sleep it off..?" You mumbled, not really paying heed to logic in such a state. God– you just wanted to stop talking hearing, seeing, breathing.. as if mere existence was making the migraine worse.

Beside you; Phainon stayed worried, which almost worsened your state.

You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to relax your eyebrows, letting loose the tension in your jaw. It was a while of staying still that you felt his hand lift, heard Phainon shift quietly, and tip-toe to exit the room.

You relax your eyes, letting them open slowly, staying comfortably half-lidded.

With nothing but time to pass as you wait for the painkiller to set, you thought about the last few years with Phainon. The intertwine of your clothes in his, the meals for two he'd learned to cook, the scent of your mixed scents in the bedsheets – all a cumulative display of your beings woven into each other's over time.

All things have a beginning. Yours with Phainon's wasn't exactly conventional.

You don't remember exactly which week it was – the one during which you finally started taking showers or the one where you started stashing away your old notes.

After days of rationing out ready-to-eat foods, then junk, then finally making something simple with leftover groceries, you eventually had to visit a store to stock up. Although you'd usually get it delivered, the air in your home had grown stagnant and suffocating; and perhaps isolation would literally kill you.

Fear is always what drove you most. You gathered yourself as much as you could; throwing on a hoodie that didn't stink, patting down your pajama pants, smoothening the skin on your face so you didn't look.. well, sunken.

In retrospect, your first encounter with Phainon was embarrassing. "If I could," Phainon stops to chew and swallow, pointing at you across the dinner table, "I'd have that moment folded up in a locket in my breastpocket!" You cringed at his lovey-dovey words, but it was obvious he truly meant it to a degree.

Which was all the more confusing.

"..huh?" You stammered a bit, jolting from your daze,

"Are you okay?"

White-haired, blue-eyed. Tall, fit, and a little imposing if you wanted to be picky. A yellow hoodie and purple pants – god, was he color blind?

It knocked the wind out of you; when you looked to your side, holding a fruit in each hand, only to find a picture-perfect side profile of a man you literally saw in your dreams.

You were naive; hoping perhaps you'd gotten rid of that monstrosity for good, biding your time in hiding, only to see him in the first person who interacted with you after all those months. Knowing had truly become a curse now; regardless of it originally being your drive.

You stared at him, sunken eyes blown-wide open, mouth hung, and you're sure had Phainon been a little less kind, he'd have called the security on you. A little less than that, and animal control would've been called faster.

After a bit of stuttering and awkward throat-clearing, you tip-toed around certain topics.

"So.. who do you work for..?"

Phainon was a streamer; an indie one at the time, a remark he'd accompany with a friendly chuckle, before affirming he's on his way up.

"What do you.. like to do otherwise?"

He reads. Usually adventures, actions, thrillers, but he'll occasionally dabble in fanfiction. He nervously laughs and shrugs you off when you ask which site he reads it on.

"What do you like to eat?"

A lot of human things, to your dismay. Even more disappointing, everything just fit him perfectly.

Pancakes for dinner, perhaps lasagna for lunch, olive juice in the morning if he could help it – he was a mess, but he wasn't..

Well, it doesn't matter. Your lips press into a thin line, as you mumble out an apology for your invasiveness. He politely waves it off, before continuing conversation. The more time you spent in that aisle talking to Phainon, the more you felt a certain weight push off your chest. As if a mountain had dissipated from your shoulders – it wasn't your responsibility anymore, and there was no longer any room for shame. You'd accepted your shortcomings.

Phainon had unintentionally become a miracle to you – he invited you over the next time you two ran into each other at the store, and surprisingly got along well. You'd understood why he garnered so much attention as a streamer; he had natural charisma, he was open, friendly, and patient.

And, well, he was good-looking, despite his odd clothing choices.

Khaslana was, too; although you'd wring yourself dry of every fluid in your body before you admit it. So you naturally chalk it up to the similarities in them that makes you think Phainon is attractive.

Knowing is a curse; at some point it became a problem whenever you looked at Phainon. All you'd see is Khaslana, or rather, the potential he had.

"Oh, I keep buying these antiques, but more than half of them tend to be fakes.." he pouts, a big, red 'DEFEAT' on his side of the split screen– and you wonder; had Khaslana gotten the opportunity, would he have collected things aswell? He never gave that marker back, after all. Something in your heart tightens, but you shrug it off when Phainon asks for a rematch.

"Ah, I haven't finished it yet! Have you?" Phainon's texts come rapid-fire, but you make no effort to keep up, fingers held still over the keyboard, as more messages follow, "don't spoil it for me! I'm still waiting to read it after this stream!"

You wonder if Khaslana would've held so much curiosity – he was restless because of it; which you'd come to understand a little too late under the shower head. You remember when he managed to solve that rubicks cube without any help.

You sigh, getting up to dry your hair as another one of Phainon's texts make your phone vibrate.

But you suppose the distinction is necessary; you can never live in the past, no one is waiting for you there. It's a blessing, more so than you'd like to believe.

So you try – you draw a line between them, mercilessly picking at the very little you'd fondly noted about Khaslana, turning it into something else with more nefarious intentions, elevating Phainon. Extreme, yes. Necessary, even more so.

But the true distinction happens with Phainon acting as the true catalyst — which is ironic. You're noticing most things in your life have happened now with him acting as the same role; unintentionally for the most part.

"Haha, I don't want to rush you," he comments, observing the bedraggled state you were in right as he finished, "I just wanted to let you know. You don't have to give me your answer."

Truthfully, the only reason you looked like that wasn't really the confession.

It was a horribly hot day – you both originally planned to meet at a nearby park to hang out, greatly underestimating the hot weather. Most stores had opened lazily; the workers behind the counters moving in a daze from the heat, mirroring your own condition.

A shitty instance where you accidentally dropped your ice cream, spilled water over yourself (which normally you wouldn't mind in the hot weather, it just didn't help when Phainon insisted on giving you his ridiculously thick hoodie), and eventually hobbling up under a children's slide to take cover from the heat as Phainon continued to chatter about.

Good grief – how is he even alive in this weather? You wonder why he doesn't seem to even sweat, gleefully exclaiming in response that he'd grown up under the sun in wheat fields. It made enough sense to keep you silent and listening to him until he fell silent aswell.

When you looked up at him after his confession – you swear you almost lost it. Fear is what motivates you, after all, and you're sure you felt adrenaline shock the switches in your body despite the heat, almost ready to sprint when you mistook the sun in his eyes for something else.

Something golden.

You couldn't explain this strange sense of insanity to him, and only fell on his kindness to excuse it. Had it been the other way around – you doubt you'd accept it with as much grace.

"Well, I know its been.. not so quite of a great day," Phainon scratches the back of his neck, before leaning down, eyes on your huddled form, "let's go back to my place! I'm dying for a rematch!"

——

You fucking hated Phainon.

If anything, calling it 'Phainon' was a mercy to the vile thing in front of you.

"Hey, come on, don't give me that look," he stays staring at you, arms crossed over the back of the chair, chin resting on them, "I tried to the best of my abilities, you know."

The man– thing in front of you, had 3 identities. All of which had no meaning, because you had to get the fuck out.

Your wrists strain against the rope despite it scratching your skin, leaving it burning from irritation. You breathe out, shoulders slumping as you relax, fatigue starting to catch up.

Perhaps it was the pill he gave you; he did mention it was a strongers dose than usual.

All you did was look up at him in a glare.

He sat backwards on the chair, slouched, thighs straddling the wooden stile of the chair where the seat met the rods.

His eyes were empty – god, how could they have ever been human? It draws in everything that stares back, not even sparing you mercy to remember what they used to look like when he was still just phainon.

His body was still; no useless motion, none without intention. Even the slight tilt of his head as you continued to glare had meaning. His cheek squished against his arm, as he spoke,

"This could've been easier, but I don't blame you.." his eyes trail down your body; you can't tell if its with nefarious intent, but perhaps your body knows better – a slow shudder runs up from the base of your spine, making your eyes lose focus for a moment, "anyone could have made that mistake."

"You're not stupid, Khaslana. We both know that."

He stays silent, pressing his lips together. The corners of his lips slowly quirk up into a barely strained, lazy smile,

"Was it obvious?"

Of-fucking-course. Of course it was obvious– you'd wake up after 3 hours, 5 minutes and 6.5 seconds (he'd remember even the second), you'd walk into the kitchen (still warm with sleep, like he's always seen you), and you'd see it.

Cyrene's journal on the counter.

And of course, the pain behind your neck would worsen; and you'd no longer be able to chalk it up to a rash. But you'd ignore it (you were always stubborn, he liked it), reading the pages like a madman upon an ancient tablet – learning of what truly had happened. You were always driven by curiosity more than fear; and Khaslana knew it would triumph instinct.

Through all those days you believed were buried beneath decades, you weren't the only one observing.

And now, you were being observed.

You, too, had stayed silent, choosing to grit your teeth, feeling another slow shudder crawl up your spine. The thin nightwear you chose to don had done little to protect you from the cold of the night, the moonlight bathing you in a sour reminder that it had only been just the beginning, and it was truly a long way to dawn.

Phainon, Khaslana.. whatever you want to call it, continues its shameless staring. The worst part is possibly the fact of how heavy it feels when his eyes drag across you– you can pinpoint when his eyes start at the tips of your toes to the top of your head, taking in graciously the cling of your attire onto your body in whatever small way it did.

He was so shameless – it was endearing in Phainon, and annoying in Khaslana. And now, all you can do is writhe and shiver under it's will. You dread whatever else is coming next.

"I like you. A lot."

You hold your breath, desperately trying to reign in your fury,

"You ruined me, you know," he says, in a way as if barely holding back a laugh, "I was stained by you from the start. I'm glad I could do it back,"

"Stop talking."

"I can't. Not when it comes to you."

He breathes out, shivering. He ducks his face into his arms for a moment, erratic heartbeat,

"I love it. Every time you drew me off course. Every time you entertained my whims. Every time you stayed late until everyone was gone, and it was just us."

He breathes, faster. Panting, now,

"You've ruined me entirely, you know. I gave up everything I was meant for, for you."

He stays silent for a long time. Youre not sure if he expects a response.

He lifts his head, returning to the previous position it was before – chin resting innocently over his arms.

"You don't want to look at me?"

Theres a certain undercurrent in his voice – complicated and beyond your understanding.

"[Name]."

You can't lift your head.

"Look at me, [Name]."

Why?

A creak, and the screech of wooden legs against the surface,

"You need to look at me."

God– why? Why did you ever sign up for that?

"[Name]!"

Fuck your dreams. Fuck everything you've ever wanted. Perhaps your fear had been your greatest blessing, but you regret your curiosity becoming a grater curse.

Khaslana is on his knees, hands gripping the legs of the chair yours had been tied to, golden eyes glowing in the dark as they peer up at you,

"I did this, for us."

His hands, hot against your skin as they clutch at your knees,

"Why don't you get it? [Name], I protected you!"

His hands drag up your thighs, slightly pushing against the flesh as they arrive to grab at your hips,

"What will it take? Don't you get it?"

You hiss when his fingers curl slightly into the flesh of your hips,

"I did everything because I loved you, and–" he heaves, breathing out hotly against your thighs, his eyes trained on them as you press them together, "and you– you can't even look at me!" His voice cracks on the last few words.

His face drops onto your thighs. You notice immediately the contrast of temperatures – his face is burning against your chilled skin.

Your stomach churns at how his breath borderline burns against you, and drops when you feel the wet muscle of his tongue lave at your skin,

You gasp, jolting forward a bit at the unexpected contact, causing his fingers to dig deeper into your hips. One of his hands drags along the side of your thighs downwards, until it reaches the underside of your knees and hooks under it. He continues to lick the inside of your thighs, peppering it with kisses and bites in between mumbled words,

"I.. I dreamed.." a kiss, starting at the curve of your knee, "for the first time.. I dreamed because of you," another, right above, "I dreamt so much.."

His tongue laves, drawing a daring path upwards, "I dreamt of you," a bite, making you panic and mumble out several failed protests, "I dreamt of seeing you. Touching you," his hand trails from your knee to your ankle, gripping tightly, "savouring you."

Every dream where that god-forsaken glass wall had not been there. Where he could hold you close, dream up of a beating heart he could listen to, imagine the gentle curve of your mouth against his, the moan he'd swallow when his hands worked further.

Every dream that had come true.

"Phai– Khaslana," you breathe out, heart racing, "please. Please stop."

He stops.

Then, his face pushes forward, burying in the junction of your thigh,

"That tank was a fucking nightmare."

You sigh, dragging a hand over your face, before walking further back into your apartment, shuffling the cabinets and hastily gathering your DIY'd excuse of an emergency aid kit. You stuff bandages, disinfectant bottles, whatever you can get ahold of into your arms.

You notice, walking over to the sofa where Khaslana's eyes remain closed and his breathing shallow, how the shape of his wide ribs expand against the spandex of his torn suit. Phainon, the worldbearing hero everyone in Amphoreus knew him as. Khaslana, the ex you'd dumped almost a year ago. The same ex who would always send you late night voice messages – sometimes out of breath, like he usually is after a long mission – begging you to take him back or Aquila above, just text him. Unblock him on your other socials.

You shake your head, eyebrows scrunched to the point you felt an incoming, faint headache form to the forefront of your head, sitting down beside him with a huff, asking curtly where he was injured, prying his hand off, and getting to work. You'd always been straight to the point – especially when it came to any injuries. Khaslana liked that about you; coy as you may be, he always appreciated the feeling of being fussed over by you specifically.

Even as he hears you huff, fighting with the fabric of his suit to rip open and reveal the wound, he relishes the attention, like a deprived, addicted dog. Even the sting of alcohol and the painful screeching of his skin doesn't come close to the swelling feeling in his chest and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He wouldn't deny staging a few injuries as an excuse to see you.

"I can't believe you, Kh– Phainon. I've practically drilled it into your head. I might as well have to use an actual drill next time." Your breathing is staggered, working hurriedly to stop the bleeding, "What do I always tell you, Phainon? S–"

"Safety first, I know, I know," he mumbles, voice raspy, letting out another shallow breath, eyes half-lided and staring at the roof, "..don't call me that."

You shake your head at his words, leaning back as you finish up treating the wound on his abdomen. You shuffle a bit, as Khaslana slowly moves to sit up, movements sluggish from fatigue, a lazy hand grazing around the bandaged wound.

"Go to the hospital soon. I think its a little too deep for just wrapping."

You bring up a towel to his face, wiping the mix of dirt and dried blood from his cheek, slightly squishing it in the process. There's a small one on his face – what a shame – you think for a moment, before recoiling inwardly. It wasn't exactly a secret; Khaslana was beautiful. Soft, fluffy white hair always falling perfectly, swooped over his gorgeous blue eyes, perfectly sculpted jaw, and the most endearing smile known to man, enough to charm some of your nosy relatives, at least. He was one of those people that looked annoyingly good. And insufferably humble about it too.

He grabs your hand just as you're about to retract it, his lowered eyes hesitant to meet yours, long eyelashes curtaining his blue eyes, like a naive, shy maiden. He lovingly squeezes your hand, making you drop the towel and gently cup the side of his face, to which he eagerly leans into with a sigh and the closing of his eyes. Your thumb rubs under his eye, as you ponder the first time he'd come over to your apartment after your break-up.

Its a bittersweet feeling – you loved him without a doubt, but you were straight to the point. Thats what he loved about you, but never respected; always pushing your boundaries, anxiously hovering over you in many facets of your life. You couldn't tell who you'd been in a relationship with all this time – Phainon or Khaslana? – or maybe the distinction didnt matter. Maybe the lines had long evaporated in the boiling point of your relationship, your boundaries equally blurred and dissipating, until you left.

His eyes catch yours, and you flinch, faintly, but it's enough for him to catch it. There's heaviness behind the drag of fatigue in his eyes, perhaps reflecting the long pondering you'd had over this "ritual" between you two that transcended a relationship.

"I miss you."

You suck your breath in, pulling your hand away immediately – as if recoiling from a burn – to which he surprisingly lets go. You stand up, feeling the dull pain press against your forehead,

"You need to leave. And–"

He grabs your hand before you can leave. You don't look, Aquila above, you can't. You know that look – the one he always gives you after a fight, the one that's kept you one too many times in that treacherous relationship. Instantly, it all rushes back to you, making the headache forming at the forefront stronger. The hundreds of texts constantly asking about friends, family, events – fuck, he went as far as trying to sabotage someone else who was in a group project with you. You remember when you confronted him about it, he slipped up and revealed the tracker he so conveniently installed into your devices. You were sure it'd have ended then and there, but it's always that. Fucking. Look. In. His. Eyes.

The anger that threatens to bubble up in you doesn't stay long – embers of it long put out by time, various rants over movie nights, punching, screaming into pillows,  tearing up paper and nothing a whole tub of ice cream couldn't help.

Titans- you wanted to love Khaslana. But what the fuck was he doing?

Frustrated with the helpless role you're shoved into, you work up the courage to look– glare, rather.

Its those familiar eyes that meet you; blue eyes droopy at the end, lightly glassy, the small pouting of his plush lips with that fucking quiver.

And you feel another familiar tug at your heartstrings, as much as you hate to admit it. It always reminds you – its always about remembering – the first time he broke down in your arms, confession after confession about being Phainon, about the heavy weight of bearing the world on his shoulders, the boyish and playful demeanor long gone as he sobbed into your arms. It always makes you want to turn back, coo and coddle, makes you want to make promises you know you'll regret breaking even if you need to.

"Phainon—" you breathe in, stuttered,

"Khaslana." That crack in his voice.

You steel yourself, a surge of annoyance overpowering your inability to say no,

"Phainon. You need to leave. In fact,"

You pull your arm, but he doesn't let go, to which you give him a harsher glare, and a harsher tug before he lets go,

"You shouldn't come back. I don't want to see you." Not like this, at least.

"..'m sorry.." he mumbles, bottom lip tugged between his wet teeth, eyes downcast in guilt, but you know better than that.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair,

"I don't understand, it's been a year," a year of passing by each other in public hallways, pretending to not know each other – which was easy, considering you two fitted into vastly different social circles, who were more than happy to ignore the missing piece beside the other. A year of blocking, unblocking, explaining, ghosting. A year of you going on average dates with people who were absolutely not your type, but titans forbid you meet anyone like him.

6 months ago, you assumed he had found someone else – maybe an assistant, if not romantically, considering the different patterns in his timings, and strategies. But he always came to you. He always came back.

Like a horse on a leash dragged into a war, he always came back, slumped, heavy, but also yearning.

He gets up, sluggish still, making you take a step back to recover the distance – has he grown taller? – to which he responds selfishly, immediately taking a step forward to stay closer.

"Phainon."

"[Name], please," he breathes out, half-lidded eyes trained intensely on you, hyper-aware of even the subtle shift from his warm breath,

"I won't d–"

"I miss you. Please."

His hands grasp your arms, gently, his head tilting, leaning down slightly to try and meet your gaze,

"I crave nothing but you."

You purse your lips, a troubled expression on your face reflecting the warring, long pent-up emotions of the past.

He takes your silence as opportunity, pushing his face into your neck, breathing in deeply. You shiver, but resist, hands pushing against his firm chest,

"Please dont–"

"Say it."

"Phainon–"

He breathes out, his hot breath shooting a bolt down your spine. His wet teeth graze right below your jaw,

"Khaslana!"

You panic, scrambling in your thoughts, hands splayed over his chest and pushing, harder now,

"I can't," he breathes, before latching his mouth to your skin, the hot, wet muscle of his tongue laving your skin, a low moan drawing from him, "I miss you,"

"Stop it, please, Khaslana–"

His hands wander, one pushing up into your hair, fingers rough and careless as they push through the locks, pulling it into a tight grip, his other hand moving to the expanse of your back– the familiar feeling now accompanied by a heavy dread;

He always returns – the first time he came back after a deadly mission, kissing away your tears, his calloused hands were the softest when they combed through your hair or held your face. He always returns, he assured. The memory replays in your mind like a sickening mantra, poisoned by the bittersweet longing and all the regrets of yearning for something more – both yearnings always doomed to be unbalanced and oxymorons, the fulfillment of one always undoing the other.

That promise was never regrettable to him, even if it was to you.

Khaslana never regretted it. Neither did Phainon.