#oz write

“Thank you for coming out,” you say, and Kaiser is at least glad that you know your place.

“Of course. I thought it was so cute when I heard you were talking to everyone on the team,” he says, resting his chin on the fat of his palm. The bottoms of his eyes scrunch with undisguised mirth. If his teasing rankles you in any way, you do a good job of not showing it. “Ask away.”

“When asked which historical figure you’d most like to talk to, you listed Nietzsche. What exactly resonated with you about his work?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. Kaiser does his best not to find it a little charming.

“What an enlightening question,” he drawls, “I didn’t resonate with him. I just thought he was right.”

“About what, specifically?” your hands fold together. A few ink stains mottle the back of your right hand. Faded blotches of color stain your fingers, which interlock beneath your chin. You look neither enraptured nor entirely uninterested.

“Nietzsche said that you have to overcome yourself and your surroundings to set yourself apart from the unwashed masses,” Kaiser says. Perhaps Nietzsche had not directly said anything about “unwashed masses” but Kaiser knows it was implied. They were of the same mind. Their values nearly identical.

“Take me, for example. I suffered through Blue Lock, dealt with Noel Noa’s shitty personality and spartan training practices, spent countless hours perfecting my technique, my skills, myself all while dealing with lousy players and big-headed agents and inept coaches. They crowded me at every opportunity. Like flies,” he finally pauses, looking at you for a long moment. Do you catch the implication? He’s not annoyed with you. You’re a far cry from the bothersome journalists and paparazzi he’s had to deal with over the years.

But he is curious. How far can he push before that perfect poker face breaks? “They all wanted a piece of me. Clawed for it, actually. I’ve even had a few stalkers.”

“I endured every obstacle thrown at me and came out the other side stronger and better than any other player in this league. I’m a two time champion. No one else on my team can say that.” he finishes laying out the undisputed truth with an air of finality.

“‘That which does not kill us, makes us stronger’,” you eloquently summarize. Not a single word wasted. Kaiser appreciates that.

“Exactly. I’m glad to see you understand,” he coos. “I’ve even perfected all of the meaningless, vapid conversation required for interviews.”

You regard him flatly. Not even the slightest creasing of the brows. Maybe he’s losing his touch. “Interviews like this one?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says, but he’s smiling. “If you’ve read that interview, then you’ve really been digging. I’m impressed by your dedication. Or is it just an excess of free time?”

“It’s my job,” you inform him. Quietly and without mirth or edge. “Getting to know the team better improves the final product. That’s all.”

You’re devoted to your work. Kaiser can respect that. But there’s something in what you say–the implication that he is merely a task to you. A chore, even. It’s dismissive in a way that rankles him. Just a little bit. It’s not like any of this matters. He smiles at you over his coffee (the coffee that you bought and had ready for him before he arrived–you remembered he takes it black). It’s not like you’ll be talking much after this. Yes, this is the last time he’ll be speaking to you.

—

That is not the last time he speaks to you. Over the past few weeks, Kaiser has noticed a perplexing change in his perception. He sees you more. You’re still on the bleachers, off to the side, but he registers you in his periphery, now. It’s fucking annoying. He wishes it would stop. He doesn’t want to be aware of your gaze tracing the contours of his body. It’s distracting–what have you done to warrant so much of his attention? Nothing. Nothing at all.

He’s completely normal about it, really. He’s being normal when he comes up behind you. You’re seated on the bottom bleacher, sketchbook in your lap. For how present you are, he doesn’t often see you in conversation with others. The only time he can recall is a few days ago. Chigiri had been taking a break in the bleachers, talking to you in hushed tones. Your attention had remained on your sketchbook, lost in focus. Just like you are now. There’s a cute wrinkle to your brows when you lock in on your work. Silently, he leers over your head. And on the page–

He recognizes Oliver’s spotty stubble, the gentle curve of Reo’s nose, but he, himself, is most noticeably absent. The drawings are good–beyond good, really. You’ve managed to articulate each strong cord muscle in the human body with only a few distinct lines. The poses are fluid and in perfect perspective. He isn’t an artist, but he understands immediately that you’ve labored for hundreds or perhaps thousands of hours to attain this level of skill.

You haven’t drawn him. Not on this page, at least. Strange. After the interview, he’d assumed you have good taste. You were smart, at the very least–

“Looking good so far,” Kaiser says, and you visibly jump. Cute. The corners of his lips curl up. You are cute, aren’t you? He hadn’t thought of it before, but now, when you’re doe-eyed and trying to compose yourself and so obviously disconcerted… yeah, that’s cute. “I think there are a few things you need to work on, though.”

“Kaiser,” you stare at him flatly. It’s the closest you’ve come to genuine irritation so far. His chest thuds with delight. “These are just practice. They don’t have to be perfect.”

“Oh? I thought you wanted your work to be the best it could be,” Kaiser drawls.

“It is,” you snap your book shut and shove it into your bag, clearly able to tell that you aren’t going to get any more peace. “I’m the artist here. You’re a football player. Stick to your own job and I’ll do mine.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder. You’re trying to leave. Kaiser shifts to the side, blocking your way. It’s an instinctual reaction. He moves before he even realizes it. This is the most reactive you’ve been. He likes the faces you’ve started to make, and isn’t keen on being deprived of them so soon.

You jolt a second time, finding your path to exit suddenly sealed. You look at him, wide-eyed. Are you suddenly registering the difference in size? The fact that you’re alone with him? The visible fear twitches something in him.

“That’s not very nice. I did you a favor with that interview, and this is how you treat me?” Kaiser asks, leaning into your space. “I’m doing you a favor now, too. Don’t artists depend on feedback to help them improve?”

“Kaiser, look–” you start, but cut yourself off with a sigh. The mounting frustration snuffed out like a candle flame. Oh, well. “I’ll ask for feedback when I finish the first draft of your poster, alright?”

“Where are you off to, in such a hurry?” Kaiser rests his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, thigh jutting out to block the way out of the bleachers.

“To have a consultation with another client, and you’re making me late–” you hiss. Apparently, this is the end of your tether. It’s reassuring, to know that even you aren’t a complete robot. That even you can fall to the whims of petty annoyances. There’s a deep wrinkle between your browns, and your lips are pulled into a taut frown. Pouting, really. His grin widens as he watches you clamber over the bleachers.

With his longer legs, it’s easy to just step over them. He’s there when you inevitably lose your footing and stumble with a muted curse. He catches you by the arm, steadies you with the weight of his body. If he weren’t so gentlemanly, you would have tumbled to the floor, sketchbook and backpack and all. Thinking about it, maybe he should have let you. You’d look all pathetic with your pencils and erasers and papers scattered around you. Maybe you’d tear up? That could just be wishful thinking.

“You should be more careful,” he says with a smile that betrays none of his above thoughts. He holds onto you, even when you right yourself, fingers stubbornly wrapped around your elbow.

“I’m fine–” you insist.

“Thanks to me,” Kaiser butts in. He’s the reason that you fell in the first place, but shh, “Slow down. Am I really so unpleasant to talk to? I’ve been nothing but kind to you.”

Bullshit, and he knows it. He pretends not to, smiling through the stupefied look you give him. Cute. You open your mouth, hopefully to deliver a stinging retort, but someone else beats you to the chase. A familiar voice calls your name, cuts into the conversation with the grace of a three-legged elephant and the tact of Rin Itoshi. Kaiser grinds his jaw. He turns to give the interloper a venomous stare.

“Hey, this guy bothering you?” Oliver asks with a languid smirk, completely unbothered by the daggers.

With great pain, Kaiser releases you. “No, no. We were just having a nice chat about their upcoming projects. Isn’t that right, mäuschen?”

Your face twists in disgust at the unwarranted and unearned nickname. It’s an immediate, visceral reaction that he can tell comes straight from the gut. Ah, you are really fun to play with.

“I appreciate your answer,” Oliver says, without a lick of sarcasm. Shit-eating smile still locked in place. “But I was asking them.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you grumble. You hastily stomp away from his side, boots thudding against the turf. His good mood topples when he realizes it’s Oliver you’re going towards. “Let’s just go.”

The nosy bastard has the nerve to grin at him, over your head. It’s knowing and snide, completely at home on his scruffy face. Kaiser smiles back, the plastic upturning of his lips filled with as much venom as he can possibly muster. He watches you go. His gaze lingers on your back until you round the corner, leaving him alone with the vast emptiness of the stadium.

—

Your apartment is warm, and it smells like you. It’s full of things that inform him of your tastes. When ruminating over your conversation from a few days ago, Kaiser had realized he knows very little about you. Besides the fact that you’re fun to chase. He likes the way your bottom lip juts out somewhat when you’re upset. He thinks your dedication to your work is something to be commended. His thoughts routinely return to you for reasons he cannot quite explain.

He stole one of your sketchbooks. A few days ago. You left your bag unattended while you went to the bathroom. Maybe you assumed the people around you were kind enough to not touch it. Or maybe you’d just forgotten it. Either way, this would be a valuable lesson in looking after your belongings.

Kaiser pilfered through your things because he was curious about your other drawings. Who did you gravitate towards the most? Was this sketchbook exclusively for observational drawings? If not, what else would he find there? (Have you drawn him?)

He’s discovered a few things. You draw Chigiri the most.

He gets it, he really does. Chigiri is one of the most photogenic members of the team, one of the most beautiful people he’s ever laid eyes upon. His long, crimson locks are eye-catching and they flow beautifully when he jets across the field, lithe and quick as a wild cat.

There are drawings of Kaiser, too. (A heaviness that he hadn’t even been aware of lifts from his chest when he sees them. He pointedly dismisses this feeling as indigestion.) They’re all good, but one captures his attention above all the others.

A portrait, drawn in strikingly intimate detail. You’ve paid thorough attention to the fan of his eyelashes, rendered each one in delicate strokes of ebony ink. There aren’t any notes, no body language, but he knows by expression alone that this was drawn as he struck a goal. Or right after. You’ve captured the ferocity in his eyes, the beastly satisfaction with startling clarity. He’s enraptured by it.

A week later, he texts you saying he found your book abandoned on the bleachers, and kindly offers to return it to you. His favorites have been dutifully photographed, stored in their own gallery folder on his phone.

You have a dog. It’s a purebred. He can’t quite recall the name, but it barely reaches his knees and looks up at him with wide eyes and a wagging tail.

Your apartment is homely. Soft, earthy hues and lighting that’s easy on the eyes. There’s a bookshelf in the corner. A copious amount of blankets and pillows stack atop the couch and loveseat. Clustered closest to the window is a gathering of flourishing houseplants. They dot the rest of the space, hardly a withered leaf to be seen.

The dog yips at him. One of its eyes is a dark brown, the other a stark, icy blue. Its white fur is mottled with grey and black, twin patches of orange surround its eyes and cover its cheeks.

Kaiser doesn’t really know what to do with dogs. When he was a boy, they proved quite the menace. They were hungry, just like he was. One of them chased him, once. It’d been a lean and hungry thing with long, rotting fangs.

Your dog is nothing like that. It’s got a healthy sheen to its coat. No visible scars. It’s a healthy weight. Well-looked after. Loved.

“Don’t mind him,” you mutter. He then firmly decides to do the opposite.

“Don’t mind him?” Kaiser asks, and crouches down. “How could I be so heartless?”

That softens you. Your shoulders loosen. You look small in your oversized cardigan. The rumpled sleeves cover your hands. Weariness weighs your features. It softens your edges. He recognizes your lingering anxiety. His hands suddenly feel empty and restless, like he wants to squeeze something.

“Isn’t this an expensive breed?” he asks, tilting his head to look up at you. He brushes his fingers through your dog’s fur, scritches beneath its chin. “You seemed more of a… what do they say–’adopt, don’t shop’ sort of person? Where did you find a breeder?”

“I didn’t buy him,” you object, expression hardening with consternation. It’s audacious, to question you like this in your own home–but he finds it hard to help himself. You’d be well within your rights to kick him out, so he sticks to playful jests.

“What, did you steal him?” he presses.

You hesitate. A brief silence settles over the room.

His eyes pop wide open. You? A thief?

“It’s not like that, listen–I went to a house party a few years ago and they weren’t taking care of him. I could see his ribs!” you hurriedly explained. Kaiser is again shocked at just how quickly you confess. He could get you in so much trouble–do you know that? Or are you just that desperate to defend your character? “One of his owners hit him, Kaiser. I saw it.”

When you look at him with such desperation in your eyes, he can’t help but believe you. This is intimate, he thinks, this sharing of secrets. You’ve confided in him something precious. He won’t forget that.

“Oh? And why should I believe you?” he can’t help but ask.

Your expression contorts beautifully. A cocktail of anger, fear and sadness which makes your eyes go wide.

“Just what kind of person do you think I am?” you ask, and there is something new in your voice. An emotion which he has yet to extort from you. Hurt. Your dog moves away from him and heads to you, sensing your distress. A soft whine wobbles from its chest. Your shoulders tense up, hands clutched close to your chest. Vulnerable. Cute.

Such an honest show of despair should excite him. But it doesn’t. Instead, he recoils. His gut squirms in discomfort and his chest goes tight. It’s some sort of inner body wince that seizes him, a reaction that has him rising to his feet to comfort you.

“I’m just kidding, mäuschen.” he says, voice becoming a soft coo. “Of course I believe you. I couldn’t imagine you stealing a pencil, much less a dog for no reason.”

“Asshole,” you bite out, but your posture loosens. Your jaw relaxes. He’s made it better. The lead in his stomach evaporates at the sight of your incensed glare. “Gimme my book and get out.”

As he hands it over, his gaze sweeps over your apartment a second time. Despite its dismal size, it feels like its own thriving ecosystem. The downy softness of your furniture is the loamy, fertile earth. The plants which you have nurtured and sustained with your own hands make up the flora of the forest. Your dog, who you risked a burgeoning career for, the fauna which prowls through the underbrush. And your tender care is the glue that holds it together, that fuels it.

Ah, he realizes, stomach sinking, you really are full of love.

—

He doesn’t talk to you for two weeks. His time is better spent on practice. They have important games coming up. He’s wasted enough time thinking about you, letting you take up valuable real estate in his head. These feelings—the ones you’ve saddled him with—are a mere passing intrigue. So he throws himself into practice, relishes in the sweet agony of his straining muscles, in the sweat that slicks up his back, a sign of his exertion. His work. His pride. He is as close to perfect as can be, and you are—

Still at the stadium. In the stands. You spare him no more than a passing glance, every now and then. Which is fine. He doesn’t want your attention, certainly doesn’t need it. But his jaw still clenches whenever he sees you looking at Chigiri and he still stares at your art on his phone screen almost every night before bed.

Kaiser doesn’t much like parties. They’re loud, abrasive occasions laden with “industry insiders” and oversized egos. He would much rather remain home with a good book. The pages of The Ego and the Id wouldn’t bombard him with pointless small talk. Brand representatives hoping to score a sponsorship will.

But he needs a change of pace. A jolt to the system to recalibrate what you’ve fucked up in him. Walking in, he’s confident that he’ll only be here for fifteen minutes. He takes a comfortable seat on a chaise, lounging across the velveteen upholstery like a jungle cat. A few party goers flock instantly. He lets one of them brush her slender fingers over his tattoos, while a member of the publicist team sits on his other side. He looks up at Kaiser with wide, wondering eyes, typical to starstruck interns who are new to the job. In a month, he’s sure that luster will have faded. But it’s here now, hanging onto his every word, so Kaiser spares no details, fully mapping out his latest feats against Manchester.

He’s in the middle of describing Isagi’s gnarled, furious glower when he catches sight of you across the room. His jaw tics.

He tries to ignore you, he really does. He busies himself with expensive champagne and tries his very hardest to listen to the inane surface level chattering of those around him. But his eyes still flicker to where you’re posted up against a wall, looking lost and alone. He’s glad that you’re at least having as little fun as he is–and annoyed at whoever invited you here only to ditch you. How dare they leave you, vulnerable and unsupervised? You’re perfect prey for the kinds of creeps that lurk at the edges of these parties.

His gaze routinely seeks you in the crowd, through shifting throngs of people. This, for a time, satisfies him.

Ten minutes pass this way. The twelfth time he spots you, his stomach drops. You’re no longer alone. The bastard in question is leaned against the wall, tilted towards you with unmistakable interest. Leaned in close, too close, listening to you with rapt attention.

Kaiser could have tolerated the interloper if he was a member of the team. But it’s Kunigami, who, last he checked, is playing in Spain.

It won’t do. It just won’t do. Kaiser extricates himself from the tiresome conversation with an apologetic look and a few, paltry promises of speaking next time. Then he’s cutting through the crowd towards you.

“Mäuschen,” he calls, voice a dulcet purr. Kunigami gives him a steely look. You just seem bewildered and surprised to see him. “Oh–am I interrupting something?”

“You know this guy?” Kunigami asks, thoroughly unimpressed. Kaiser hears the unsaid offer–”do you want me to make him leave?”–and he could laugh, really.

“Of course she does. She’s been working with Bayern for months now,” Kaiser replies coolly. Still smiling. “The rest of Europe is going to be embarrassed when our new merchandise line releases–”

“Kaiser,” you interrupt, sounding weary. It throws him, admittedly. Where is your fire? Your frustration? “Did you come over here just to brag?”

“It’s fine,” Kunigami shrugs. “Let him ramble all he wants. We’ll fold him at the Euros, just like we did last time.”

“If you even make it there. When was the last time Billao won a match? You should worry about the rest of La Liga before coming at me,” Kaiser returns with equal distaste.

Kunigami’s face goes dark. The shift in atmosphere is palpable, a shadowy gloom settling over your miserable trio. Across from him, Kunigami opens his mouth to speak.

“Kaiser,” you cut in, eyes narrowing with displeasure. You’re nervous, too. He can tell. Your gaze flickers to Kunigami and your stance shifts, a hand coming up to rub at the joint of your elbow. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk about the posters. I had… a sudden rush of inspiration,” Kaiser bullshits.

“Oh,” you say, something in you set at ease. “Alright. Let’s talk somewhere quieter.”

He could kiss you right there. He crushes the impulse.

“Great idea,” he says instead, bee-lining for the door. Kunigami’s gaze burns a hole into the back of his head. He nearly snorts. He doesn’t stick around to hear what you say to him. You’ll forget that wannabe’s name before the night is over. Fold him at the Euros? Really? Laughable coming from a man with half his accomplishments.

Leaving that room is instantly relieving. The temperature drops by at least five degrees. The cloying humidity brought on by the crowds is gone. There are a few people lingering on the cavernous hallways, but the night air flows in through some opened windows. It’s easy enough to find an empty balcony.

“So–about the posters? you ask as he closes the doors behind you.

“I lied,” he shrugs.

You blink in disbelief. “You… lied?”

“Of course. I have the utmost faith in your artistic vision,” he says, very sweetly. You don’t seem satisfied with that answer.

“Then why did you–”

“It was too loud and stuffy inside. And you were as uncomfortable and annoyed as I was. I could see it. So, I decided to help you out,” Kaiser shrugs, leaning against the wall. The balcony overlooks a sprawling statue garden, beyond it a rolling green lawn illuminated by slender, black lamp posts. The city glimmers in the distance, blurs of glowing gold and orange. You’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” you sigh. “I would have left already, but Reo invited me and I wanted to be polite...”

“Look out for that man. Give him an inch and he takes a mile,” Kaiser advises, eyes narrowing. It’s in their nature to be greedy. Every player drawn into Blue Lock’s orbit possesses the same, single-minded sort of craving. A cloying need, as urgent as breathing, which contaminates their lives both on and off the court. Kaiser can say this with certainty because he is possessed of the self-same ailment.

“Let me guess. You’d rather be at home, cozy in bed with a nice book?” Kaiser supposes after you don’t say anything else.

“I’d rather be at the club with my friends,” you take him by surprise again. He’d assumed your wallflower nature would bleed into the rest of your preferences—clearly not. “This party is nice and all, but it’s a little too quiet for me.”

“The club? How do you handle all that noise?” Kaiser asks.

“The same way you deal with arenas packed with screaming fans?” you reply, looking a little incredulous. A wry little smile curls your lips. He wants to bite if off of you.

“By tuning out the music entirely?” he plays along. “You must be a terrible dancer.”

Your smile drops. Your mouth balls up a little bit, like you’re genuinely offended. Kaiser isn’t sure which expression he finds more endearing. “I’m not bad,” you protest.

“But can you prove it?” he presses, leaning into your space with a sneer.

“Name a time and place,” you dare.

“Right now,” Kaiser sniffs, and watches as your face wrinkled in disbelief.

“Right now?”

“Why not? It’s only nine. All of the clubs are still open,” Kaiser shrugs. The night is young, and why waste it here when he can have you alone?

You eye him warily. Your lips wobble a little bit, trying to smother the beginnings of another coy grin. “Fine. But you’re driving.”

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Munich’s nightlife is electric. Synth and jazz vibrate onto the streets of Glockenbachviertel. The sound vibrates the floors. Ring shaped lights hover above the dance floor, the writhing throng of dancing bodies. The entire room is awash with flashing, crimson light.

Something in you changes when you walk in. You move differently, a slinky confidence to your step that he has not witnessed before. You slip through the people like a minnow darting through the reeds–trace a path only you can see. Kaiser’s eyelids lower, tracking both the sway of your hips and attempting not to lose you in the crowds. It gets harder and harder, between the low light and the amount of people. He eventually gets tired of it and grabs your hand.

Your head swivels. Your eyes gone wide. A cute, hunted expression that slips back beneath your surface at the sly, smug look he fixes you with.

Time passes in shuttering snapshots. Even while sober, it becomes a nebulous concept. You’re a good dancer, just like you said. Lively, vivacious in ways he never could have imagined. In the deep dark, his eyes can freely roam without you catching on. He admires the sway and roll of your body, hands twitching with the urge to grab, to hold, to anchor you in place.

He doesn't lose himself with the same voracity as you do. Instead, he keeps a careful eye out, makes sure you don't go tumbling into the arms of any opportunistic strangers. In places like these, you're as good as a gazelle amidst a pride of lions. Who knows who'll steal you up if he looks away?

Once you’ve had your fill of dancing, you crowd up against the bar. You catch yourself on its lacquered wood with a bark of a laugh.

“Careful,” Kaiser chides sidling up behind you. This is the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s an abrasive cackle of a sound. He’s immediately obsessed with it. You devolve into a series of giddy little chuckles, eyes a little glazed, a sheen of sweat glimmering on your brow. “What are you cackling about?”

“I just–never thought I’d be here with you. Of all people,” you reply. His brows nettle together. Did you really think him such a bore?

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps. The sharpness of his voice jolts you, sobers you a little. He immediately regrets it.

“I just didn’t think you liked me that much,” you confess, and look away. You flag the bartender down, and Kaiser digests the statement as you order. Amidst all the thinking he does, he still catches your order.

“You’re tolerable,” Kaiser says. He settles in, partially behind and beside you. This close, he can feel the heat of your body. “Much better company than anyone else on the team. That’s for sure,” he sighs, drumming his fingers against the counter, pretending that the sweet scent of your sweat doesn’t affect him. You crane your neck to look up at him, unsure and tentative. Gone doe-eyed with confusion.

He wants to eat you. Shove you into his mouth and carry you there, cradled in the cage of his ribs. The suddenness of the desire steals his breath away. He white-knuckles the edge of the bar.

“Then why do you always act like that?” you ask him flatly, now irritated.

He feels his lips twist into their own pout. “Like what?”

“Like a dick!”

“That’s a little far. You’ll hurt my feelings,” he chides.

“Kaiser.” you’re glowering now. This is also a good look on you, one he’s far more accustomed to. Your barbs are an integral part of your charm. Eventually, he will prune those thorns–and will find the act as pleasurable as the end result. But for now…

“You’re fun to tease. That’s all,” he shrugs.

The palette of your trembling rage is equal parts endearing and intriguing. With each conversation, you reveal some new and unexpected part of yourself. He can’t help but want to core you out, to taste each flavor. That’s all this is. The savoring of a meal. “If I hate you, I wouldn't be here–and you wouldn’t be working with the team at all.”

“Jackass.”

“What did I just say about my feelings?”

—

You talk to him more. In the week that has passed since your escapade, you seem to have grown more comfortable with his company. At ease with him, even. The underlying tension which was laden in your first few interactions has completely faded.

His poster is almost done. You want him to approve this final draft. He tries to ignore the thrill that rolls down his spine at the implication. You don’t have to let anyone on the team look at the work. You don’t need their permission, but you seek it anyway. The familiar buzz of anticipation rolls beneath his skin as he pushes open the door to yet another eclectic cafe.

This one is filled to the brim with plants. They cluster against the windows and hang over the bar counter in pale ceramic pots. Green vines snake around the curtain rods and gold raid, rustic little lanterns hang from the ceiling to loom above the bar. He’s once again reminded of your dinky little apartment. The smell of it like the earth after rain.

He finds himself missing it as he pads over to you, burrowed in a booth at the very back.

“Good afternoon,” you mumble. He sighs out of his nose as he settles across from you.

“No ‘thank you’ this time?” he nettles you, rewarded by the slight clench of your jaw.

“Absolutely not,” you grumble, fixing him with a flat, unimpressed expression.

“No desserts or coffee, either,” Kaiser observes. You’re hardly paying attention, fishing something out of your bag, brow wrinkled with frustration. “Don’t think you can skimp out just because we’re—”

A binder thuds onto the table. Loose pages jut out the sides. He finds himself watching, admittedly fascinated, as you flip through it. He catches glimpses of your work on the loose leaf and sketch paper, blots of ink and flashes of vivid color. He thinks he sees Oliver, once or twice. His stomach sours.

But the feeling vanishes as you finally find what you were looking for.

It’s a printed version of the larger poster. Kaiser sees himself, body coiled like a striking snake, in the middle of taking a shot. His keen blue gaze is alight with manic fervor. It’s all blue and white lines on a black background. Thorny vines coil around his foremost leg, and dip behind his back. The shape guides the viewer’s eye straight to him.

Why hadn’t he found and hired you first? Is his first manic thought.

“Oh, it’s splendid,” he says, because how can he not spare you the compliment? You really do deserve the praise. “The dynamic line of action, the accurate depiction of my form—this is during blitzkrieg, isn’t it?”

“You mean the sidestep thing you do before shooting a goal?”

“Precisely. You’ve been paying close attention,” Kaiser croons, chin resting on the palm of his hand, lips twisting into a lofty smirk. His tone curls sweetly with implication.

“No more than I do to anyone else, trust me,” you snipe.

“Oh, believe me. I know just how friendly you are with the others,” Kaiser drawls. A cruel insinuation. Surprise, first, makes your eyes grow wide. Like he’s just struck you. Something immediately twists at the center of his chest, in the pit of his gut.

“I’m doing my job,” you snipe.

“If you say so—but don’t you think it’s a little shameless? Poor Oliver is already eating out of the palm of your hand—are you hoping he hires you next?”

It isn’t fair of him. Over is anything but poor and helpless—and he knows you aren’t that kind of person. Your mouth drops open in pure outrage, face twisting with indignation, with hurt. The expression flatters you. For a single, thrilling moment, he thinks you may reach across the table and slap him.

“Fuck you, Kaiser,” you hiss instead. The binder slams shut. The sound cracks through the quiet bustle of the cafe. You shove your things into your bag and stomp away, leaving him alone at the table. By far the most explosive reaction he’s pulled from you thus far. But in the wake of your rage fire, he’s unable to find the typical satisfaction.

—

You avoid him at every turn, cowering behind bleachers and teammates alike, diving into bathrooms and closets and offices–he’s sure he’s even heard the locks click shut, like you were afraid he would chase you down. Which isn’t a wrong assumption, because he’s coming quite close to it, despite how desperate it’ll make him look. Does he even care about looking desperate? In front of these troglodytes?

Despite all of his worst instincts, he’s not resolved to do anything, but the moment is here and it is now. Now, specifically, when he’s almost literally run into you in a stadium stairwell. A wild urgency seizes him in the moment, and he shoves his arm directly in your path. The both of you stand there, frozen. You look at him with wide, doe eyes and he tenses up like a predator about to pounce.

“Kaiser,” you stiffly break the silence. Brave.

“I’m sorry,” he says in almost the same breath. He feels pathetic for what he said to you, for being so aloof with you, for handling you so indelicately. He’s not used to feeling so bothered by his own cruelty, but he wants love out of you. He wants the same delicacy you pay to your plants. “For everything I said.”

You look at him, discerning. “Really.”

“Yes, really,” he insists. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. Regretting it the entire time.” He drops his arm, stands back to appraise you coolly, prepared to take any amount of venom and rancor you (rightfully) could lob his way.

“Alright.” you say, and walk away. He listens to your footfalls as they trail down the metal stairs. His hands ball into fists at his sides, a gnawing hunger howling in the pits of his soul.

You don’t speak to him for a week after. It’s agony. He’s so very badly misses the sound of your voice, the cute wrinkle between your brows when he teases you. More than anything, he wants to bridge the gaping chasm between you—but this isn’t something he can fix with an armful of roses. You need time to think, and he’ll give it to you (a lie. He’s attempted to talk to you several times this week. His teammates always seem to have an excuse to pull him away. “Kaiser, we need another for practice and Oliver dipped” or “Kaiser, there’s a call for you which definitely isn’t a crank call by Chigiri’s stupid friends in Barcelona pretending to be life insurance agents claiming someone created a policy in your name. Not this time, we swear!” He’s trapped in a den of thieves, rakes and liars.)

If he can’t approach you in person, he at least has your number. Which he has only called. Twice. Not that you’d ever picked up, but you hadn’t blocked him, either.

After that long, lonesome week, he shoves his pride aside and texts you in sleepless hysteria, apologizing again and confessing to enjoying your company—to missing you. To admit it cuts him to his knees, but this is his last resort before he becomes insane and shows up at your apartment in person.

If goes unanswered for a day.

And on the next, it happens. His phone chimes. The murky clouds part. You’ve at last replied to him. It leaves him both immensely relieved and hopelessly annoyed. Yes, he’s glad you responded, but did you have to make him wait an entire day? Has he not been pathetic enough?

He doesn’t know what he expects, but you still somehow manage to surprise him. It’s an image of a cat outside, rubbing contentedly up against your leg.

“Met this guy outside” the caption reads. His fingers twitch.

That’s… that’s it? No inclination that you had read his heartfelt confession? No profession of your own feelings, that you enjoyed your time with him too?

He has half a mind to press the matter, before he realizes this is your form of acceptance, the only way in which you can comfortably reciprocate. You’re so shy, after all. Grandiose admissions aren’t your style. Jumping back into the flow of things, as though nothing had transpired in the first place, is easiest.

“Cute.” he replies with shaking fingers.

And that’s how it starts. A steady return to form. He finds time to bother you at practice, like before. You have regular correspondence over text. He feels stupid getting giddy over something as simple as a few texts—little glimpses of your daily life that he hadn’t been privy to before. Where you walk your dog, your favorite bookstore, the time of day when you move certain plants from the sunlight to the shade. It fills him with a fluttering, nervous sort of energy. He’s never felt this way before. His fingers flex with the urge to grab onto something, to hold.

He slips into your life gradually, but like he belongs there, and somehow hopes you both do and don’t notice.

—

It’s incredible how quickly things can change. For weeks, he endures mere scraps of your attention. Text messages. Brief exchanges and small conversations between practice games and drills. It’s nice, to have developed a steady rhythm with you, but he can’t help but long for something fuller. He’s being drip fed, at this point. He’s a parched man in the desert, desperate for a deluge.

But when is the right time to demand more of your attention? When has he earned the right? Will you even want to see him any more than you do? Could you come to care for the sick, rotted thing that his heart has become? Oh, how badly he wants it. He wants it so much that it keeps him awake at night, prolonged periods of fitful wakefulness that leave him exhausted come morning.

In the end, all of his agonizing is for naught. It’s another grey, fall day when you call him. He doesn’t even let the first ring fully play. He’s desperate and he’s stopped giving a fuck if he looks it, anymore. Maybe it’s better that he does.

“Kaiser,” you sputter from the other end, completely not the greeting he’d expected. His stomach drops. You’re crying. “I-I can’t find Barley—and I know you probably don’t care—”

He is possessed, almost immediately, by the urge to personally reach in and fix whatever is upsetting you. It’s an impulse that he’s never quite had before.

“Where are you now?” Kaiser’s legs are already carrying him in the direction of your apartment. Which is only a few blocks away (pure coincidence).

“At my place, just outside. I—” you break off into a sobbing, shuddering little breath and oh, oh Kaiser aches for you. Alone and afraid. “I’m sorry, it’s just, no one else is picking up—”

“It’s alright, mäuschen,” he ignores the implication that you called other people (numerous) before resorting to him. he files it away for later obsession. “I’ll be there in a few minutes–we’ll find him. Just stay where you are.”

He’s there within five minutes, slowing from a run into a gentle jog as he catches sight of you. Even from this distance, he knows he’s never seen you in such a state–stricken and wide-eyed. Grass stains on your jeans and a leaf stuck in your hair. His stomach pitches sour at the sight of your tears. Your despair isn’t nearly as sweet when he isn’t its root cause.

He calls your name, and you jolt to look at him. The waterworks seem to start all over again, and you buckle a bit, clumsily pawing the tears off your cheeks with a tattered sleeve. “Really, what am I going to do with you?” he clucks at you, swiping a thumb beneath your cheek. “No more tears, alright? We’ll find him together.”

It’s shockingly difficult to delegate which comes first–comforting you or finding your wayward animal. Of course, the latter makes more sense, but the idea of releasing you while you’re still so distraught almost sickens him. He finds it inane how someone so soggy could render him so illogical. But he’s long been aware of this, knows from all his reading that love burdens and affects people in irrational ways. Before, it had terrified him.

But when you had turned around, just now, you had looked so relieved to see him.

Much to his and your relief, you find Barley in the community garden, in the middle of attempting to dig up a neighbor’s beets. He’s in perfect health–nothing that can’t be fixed with a quick rinsing. Kaiser trails after you, up to your apartment. The dog yips and squeals and furiously wags its little tail, worming around in your vice grip.

Ungrateful. He thinks, watching its puny struggles over your shoulder. It’s above him, as a human possessed of intelligent thought and superior logic to be upset with a fucking dog. But to be loved and cared for so thoroughly, to be fretted over and held with such fervor–can’t he be just a bit jealous of that?

Oblivious to his pathetic deliberations, you invite him inside. He idles on your living room couch while you wash the stupid dog.

Your apartment is nice and it smells like you. Your plants still thrive. There’s a used mug on the coffee table. Some of the books on your shelf have been shuffled around. He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep. Before, it’d been mildly interesting at best to see how you lived. Now, being here is enough to make him light-headed. He leans fully back, melts into the couch and tosses a forearm over his eyes. You’ve–you’ve unhinged him.

The bathroom door flies open. Barley bursts out of the bathroom first, a cloud of steam billowing behind him. He flings himself onto the throwing and rubs his soggy fur against the couch. You follow, plopping onto the cushions next to him. You watch your beloved beast with sleepy eyes. Your shoulders slump and your head drops onto the cushions.

“Finally, some peace and quiet,” Kaiser hums. He throws an arm over the back of the couch. He spares you another look, only to see new tears welling up within your gaze. Something in his chest crumbles at the sight.

“Oh, mäuschen,” he coos reflexively. A warm, hefty arm wraps around your shoulders to bring you close–and you let him. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong–oh, poor thing. Don’t cry.” His palm presses up against your shoulder, palm massaging the taut muscle. You shake with a new, pathetic little noise.

“I’m sorry–” you say between sniffles. “I know everything’s fine now–”

“But it was scary, wasn’t it?” Kaiser croons, soft with sympathy. “I know, it’s alright.”

And you let him cradle you. He murmurs delicate reassurances into your temple and breathes in the sweat salted scent of your skin, notes every trembling breath, feels the flutter-quick of your heartbeat beneath his greedy palm.

Eventually, the tears abate. The fear drains from your system like high tide returning to sea. It leaves you bleary and hollowed out. Your resistances are thoroughly hindered. You do not argue when he orders takeout for dinner. You do not argue when he suggests a long, relaxing bath. You even let him pick a movie, something light and easy for you to settle into. It’s all disgustingly domestic, a pantomiming of some of his rawest and realest fantasies.

The play is complete when you fall asleep next to him. The curtain falls as night does. A chill sweeps over the city. The first barbs of winter prickle your skin. The radiator kicks to life as you fall asleep against his shoulder. He’ll decide whether to stay or go later. For now, he just looks at you.

—

Rarely does Kaiser entertain the tedium of team outings. He spends all day with the blathering fools he calls teammates. He doesn’t need to pub crawl with them too. Bars are one of his least preferred places to be, especially at night and especially in this kind of company. The worse personalities on the roster go from irritating to incorrigible after a few pints–which is exactly why he’s here tonight.

They’ve invited you, for some reason. Reo must know it’s a bad idea. Chigiri must know. But he doesn’t trust either of them to ensure your safety, either. They’re both still among the wolves–still men. For all he knows, this is the opportunity they’ve been waiting for, a chance to get you while you’re guard down. In that way, they’re the same as every other drooling simpleton that’s shown interest in you. Worse, even, because there’s a very real risk of you entertaining them.

The level of upset this imaginary scenario provokes within him is–well, some would call it ridiculous. He would call it due caution.

The bar isn’t loud until they get there. Several of his teammates swarm the bar.

“I can’t believe you want to spend extra time with this slovenly group,” he remarks with a small sigh. He’s all but herded you into one of the booths, sandwiching you between the wall and his body.

“Slovenly is a little harsh,” you scoff, taking a sip of your drink. Water, much to his relief. As much as he’d like to handle you while you’re tipsy, he doesn’t trust anyone here as far as he can throw them. Not that he’ll be leaving your side at all, tonight, but better safe than sorry.

“I saw Rochemann drop a protein bar on the floor, pick it up and eat it,” Kaiser insists, glaring at said teammate’s broad back.

“Did you call him out on it?” you ask, voice light with amusement. You’re relaxed. The most relaxed you've been in his company in weeks. Your jacket slips down your shoulders, eyes a little glazed. A little sleepy.

“Of course I did,” he snaps, as though offended you would even ask.

“And, let me guess, he said–”

“–Four second rule,” Kaiser finishes. “Disgusting bastard. And he’s not even the worst of them.”

“It’s the five second rule,” you correct, taking a deep drink. Kaiser watches your lips press to the rim of the glass, traces the column of your throat as you swallow. A stray droplet rolls down your chin.

“You should tell him that, then,” Kaiser swipes his thumb to catch it. The brewing, petty argument dies right there. He can see it play across your face–surprise, embarrassment and then frustration, all processed through the sluggish haze of sleepiness. He says nothing, but he smiles knowingly.

The night lapses on. You run out of social battery quickly tonight, drained by the noise and bustle of the space around you. He can tell from the way your eyes listlessly flicker around like you’re looking for an out. With great relief, Kaiser broaches the idea of leaving. You acquiesce with a small hum and a nod.

“Leaving already?” Chigiri asks when Kaiser stands, a delicately manicured brow quirked. If he’s tipsy, he doesn’t show it.

“This one has hit their limit,” he says with a shrug. One of his hands finds your shoulder to bring you close, rubbing up and down your back. “So I’ll be walking them home.”

Chigiri tilts atop his stool to get a good look at you, partially and purposefully hidden behind Kaiser’s bulk. “Are you okay with that?” he asks you directly. He takes you in with thorough consideration, as though attempting to gauge your sobriety, “Someone else can walk you home if you’d like.”

“Hear, hear,” Reo chimes, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkling with bastardly amusement. “Don’t let this guy push you around. It’s not good for his ego, y’know?” He points a crooked finger in Kaiser’s direction and slumps against Chigiri’s shoulder. Strands of purple spread across the redhead's corded sweater.

“Don’t listen to them–they’re slandering me,” Kaiser huffs, narrowing his eyes at the nefarious duo. “Throwing dirt on my good name because they’re jealous,” Lost somewhere in the crowd, Oliver snorts.

“It’s fine,” you assure them, getting flustered now. In your haste to escape the scrutiny, you gently seize Kaiser’s sleeve and pull him towards the door. He follows your lead, catching up in only a few strides. His arm slips around your shoulders, a warm, secure weight.

“Make sure to call us if he tries anything,” Chigiri calls behind you.

“Fuck off,” Kaiser snaps behind him, steering you past the tables and booths and into the crisp autumn evening. No one follows because they already know that you are completely and utterly safe with him. He looks down at you with slightly narrowed eyes, searching for any sign that you may have taken their snake-tongued lies to heart. He finds nothing but sheer focus and determination, because you are doggedly attempting to button your jacket with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers.

“Don’t listen to anything they say,” he says. He steps in front of you and brushes your hands away. He does the buttons of your jacket and finds the act calms his blood pressure. “They’re just being petty. They can’t stand knowing that I’m your favorite.”

“Who said you’re my favorite?”

“No one–” he glances up at you through hoarfrost lashes, lips pulling into a coy grin. “But they can see it. Everyone can. Even Rochemann, and he can barely count to ten.”

“Rude,” you deflect.

“Honest. I’m being honest,” Kaiser doesn’t push the matter. You hum in half-hearted acknowledgement.

The conversation tapers out into comfortable quiet. The golden glow of the street lamps illuminate aged cobblestone and brick facades. The light halos your silhouette in wide glass display windows as you walk by them. He appreciates how you don’t scramble to fill the silence. Instead, you drag your gaze over the closed storefronts. Sounds of merriment and music bleed onto the streets. The air is cool and heavy with coming rain, but for now the night sky remains clear and black as pitch.

Despite the hustle and bustle–it’s peaceful. He never knew he could be content to simply exist beside another person. Do you feel the same? He sneaks furtive glances at you every now and again, and feels like a stupid, blushing schoolboy each time.

Blocks later, close to your apartment, you break the silence.

“I’m almost done.”

“Oh?”

“With all of the posters. And merch,” you elaborate, “You’ll see everything soon enough, but man, it’ll feel weird not coming to the stadium, anymore.”

His gut flips, because fuck, he had forgotten the very pretense you had stumbled into his life under. After you’ve wrapped up, you’ll have no reason to see each other anymore. He won’t be able to bother you during practice. No more stolen glances towards the bleachers, safe in the knowledge you’ll be there, perched with your sketchbook in your lap. Dread balls up in his stomach–could you really do that? Just up and never see him again? How dare you, he thinks, hollowed by betrayal. How dare you?

Oblivious to his internal turmoil, you continue, ”I wasn’t expecting everyone to be so nice. Thought you’d all have nasty egos–well, you all do have egos, but most of you are–”

“Were?” Kaiser bites out, hands balled into fists. You blink at him, at the coldness in his voice, the severity written across his expression. Face of his lines gone deep and dark.

He steps up to you, breaches your personal space with a single step. Hovering only a centimeter away, he can feel the heat of your body, make out every fine facial feature. Your eyes have blown wide, a nebula of emotion sparking to life in the depths of your gaze. It’s become clear to him now. He can’t bear to part from you, not until he’s seen your every side, savored every flavor. He leans down, hoarfrost lashes fluttering, and fixes you with an expression of deadly sincerity.

“I’m not done with you, yet,” it’s spoken like a vow.

A shiver rolls down your spine. You take a step back, up against a thick oak. Greyish bark frames your retreating form. Fear flitting across your face and something in him thrills at the sight, at the knowledge he can still so deeply affect you. He can fix his teeth into your haunches and ground you tight whenever he so desires. The moment hovers there, and he lets it. The quiet is purposeful, this time.

He smiles. “We’re friends now, after all.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Right.” Your eyes narrow, trying to gauge his honesty. This is as far as he’ll push you, tonight. Any further, and you’re really liable to run away. He has to be careful with you. Hold his tongue a little longer. So he lets you scuttle into the dark, up the concrete steps of your apartment complex. He waits until you’re inside to leave.

—

PART II - ABLATION

—

The sunlight gleams harsh. It slips in through the edges of the curtains and stabs into your eyelids. You stir with a headache. It’s a sudden, throbbing pain that nags at your temples. You realize, a few minutes later, that you’re clenching your jaw hard, teeth grinding together. Perhaps it’s the meager amount of sleep you got, perhaps its the overcast weather. There’s a pressure in the air, a moisture that hovers and warns of oncoming rain.

In the miserable fog of the early morning, it's easy to believe that all that occurred last night was some bizarre, idle vision, not quite a dream and not quite a nightmare. No, perhaps closer to a nightmare than a dream. It had to be, really. There’s no way Kaiser would–

No, should you even think about it, it will materialize. You’re listless and nauseous as you stifle the memory. Bustling around your kitchen keeps the thoughts at bay. You go through the motions, painstakingly crafting the most appealing platter of dog food possible. High-quality muscle-meat and a boiled egg and various other odds and ends that Barley will find delicious. He lunges up against your calves and yips in glee until you set his bowl down.

Your phone chimes. Another cruel reminder of the world outside your four walls. It’s a text. From Kaiser.

Are you awake

yes

Good. Come outside

?

I’m waiting

A quick glance outside your window makes your stomach drop. Kaiser stands on the curb, hands shoved into his pockets. The nerve of this freak, you think to yourself. The leftover anxiety and pain of what is now an oncoming migraine fumes into a sudden, striking need to put him in his place. You throw yourself together as you usually do, stumbling down the concrete steps of your building. The first drops of rain have begun to fall.

“Good morning,” he smiles. Like this is normal.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you gape at him. It’s difficult to decide whether to be outraged or astonished at the audacity.

“That’s no way to greet a friend, now is it?” he frowns. “If you must know, I happened to be passing by and thought I’d give you a ride. You’re still coming to work today, right?”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly feeling very stupid. The wind is knocked out of your sails. It’s suddenly easy to see why he is here.

He scoffs. “Come on,” he urges, waving his hand at you. He doesn’t even wait for you to catch up before he’s turning around, heading towards the car with purposeful, long strides.

Against all better sense, you follow.

—

Something changes between you. A shift in this strange, unconventional relationship. A strange undercurrent touches every single one of your interactions. New habits, which you cannot help but notice the implications of. He opens doors for you. He drives you to and from the stadium now. He leads you to and from the car with an arm over your shoulders, urges you down the street with a hand on the small of your back. Little, tactical touches that more often than not take place in front of his teammates.

“Kaiser,” you hiss, when he steers you out of an uncomfortable crowd.

“Kaiser,” you warn when he shoves himself between you and a man making you uncomfortable at the bar, looking deadly.

“Kaiser,” you hiss as he takes your hand. His lips brush feather-light against the backs of your fingers, but his eyes stay locked on you from beneath the fan of his pale lashes. “Cut it out! There are other people here!”

“So?” he scoffs, like you’re being the ridiculous one here–like he’s not endangering both your public images. And for what? For the weird kick he gets out of bothering you?

You get lucky that day. No paparazzi or opportunistic onlookers present, but it’s still too risky, and not to mention uncomfortable for him to flirt so openly. So shamelessly. He may not care about his image, but he’s not a freelancer. You depend on clients to find you via your squeaky clean online footprint–your cabal of social media accounts and online galleries. Scandal would tarnish your brand, a brand you need since this gig is almost over and done with. You have a few projects lined up after this, sure, but they could always fall through.

You’re not jeopardizing all you’ve worked for, so you make the admittedly depressing decision to pull out of Kaiser’s life. This would have always been the outcome. Ripping the band-aid off will hurt, but you doubt he’ll feel it as deeply. Being a famous football player puts him smack in the middle of myriad interesting personalities. He’ll find new people to amuse himself with, you’re sure. Someone more suited to his tastes, a belief you cling to when your texts become drier and clipped.

It’s not difficult to outright avoid him. You don’t really don’t go to the stadium anymore, long past the need for sketches or interviews, but with each day that passes, you miss it more and more. The people were kind, but never felt the need to force you into conversation. The environment was lively, but in a way you could easily tune out if you felt overwhelmed.

Unfortunately, you can’t wait him out forever. The merch drop is today. It’s… surreal. Months of work, all laid out in front of you. The management raved about the art nouveau touches and graphical style. Your posters line the walls of the rented ballroom. It’s a charity event. Signed versions of each poster are on auction, all of the proceeds going to local organizations devoted to the underprivileged.

You’ve been on the wall all night, content to admire the mingling crowds over the rim of your lass. The punch washes sweet over your tongue. The alcohol numbs the thorny edges of your anxiety. occasional sponsors and guests come to see you. They ask about your artistic process and pry for the supposed hidden meanings embedded within each work. It’s… exhausting, really. There’s no music to lose yourself in. People know who you are, so you can’t hide in the crowd. Nothing but light fare alcohol to busy yourself with. An hour into the event, you’ve decided you’ve done enough unpaid socializing for the night.

The stairwell is saturated with stinging, overhead light. Your eyelids feel heavy, fatigue weighing heavy. It is most likely this weariness that rends you unaware of Kaiser’s presence until he’s in front of you. It’s déja vu. Hadn’t you done this already? You’re half-convinced that you’re seeing things.

“There you are,” he clicks his tongue at you. “Is this where you’ve been hiding the entire night?”

“No. It just got too crowded,” you sigh.

“That didn’t bother you at the club,” Kaiser points out, a little impish. Your lips purse into a pout.

“That’s different. Everyone here keeps asking me questions,” you grumble, rubbing the side of your bare arm, skin chilled from the air conditioning.

“My most heartfelt sympathies,” Kaiser smiles wider and sidles into your space. He smells good–looks good. He’s tucked his hair behind his right ear, pulled it upright. A few, frosty strands cover his forehead and frame his face. “I hope you won’t mind answering one more?”

A part of you is sure you’ll regret this. “...Shoot.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks in a way that is suddenly very deliberate, very careful. You squint at him.

It takes a moment for you to really process it. Why does he need to know that? Is he just curious? Surely, it isn't because—because he genuinely feels something for you.

A wave of nausea pushes through your gut. Unable to trust yourself to keep your pilfered hors d’oeuvres down, you shake your head. The atmosphere hangs heavy on your bare shoulders. Pinned by his gaze, you feel naked, stretched pliant, vulnerable.

“Good. Because I’d like to make things between us… official,” Kaiser continues airily. Like you’re somehow on the same page.

You stare at him like he just kicked your dog. “Kaiser–I–what?”

“You heard me right. I’m asking you out,” Kaiser elaborates, getting a little prissy about it. “Are you really that surprised? With the way I’ve been acting?”

“I–I didn’t want to assume,” you stammer, heartbeat alive in your throat. “You could have just been messing with me,” you feebly protest. Your back hits the wall. When you look down at your shoes, you see double. It’s all too much, too much at once.

“I wouldn’t toy with your feelings like that,” Kaiser protests. His feline countenance softens at its edges. “That’s the first misconception I’ll have to correct.”

“No, Kaiser,” you begin weekly, attempting to gain some sort of foothold in the conversation. It’s not fair. He has more energy than you do, and is probably full of less wine. The few drinks you sipped to take the edge off are coming back to haunt you. “Kaiser, we wouldn’t work together.”

“Wrong, but I’ll humor you. Why?”

“Our lives are completely incompatible. You spend so much of the season traveling, we would hardly see each other for weeks at a time,” you begin, and hold up a finger as he goes to open his mouth. “I’m not done. No matter what you say, we exist in separate spheres. Entirely different social echelons. We have so little in common, and could you imagine the reaction? You might be used to having everything you do picked apart by strangers, but I couldn’t handle that. You need to date someone who is—who is in your league, because only they can really understand—”

“In my league?” Kaiser repeats, eerily quiet. A cold pit of dread builds in your—

—in his stomach. Kaiser looks at you with wide, frenzied eyes. Your implication is not lost on him.

All this time, he thought of you, wanted you, and you dare tell him he’s wrong? You dare act like he hasn’t been envisioning a life together for months.

“Are you questioning my taste.” he asks—demands a moment later. He’s crossed the distance between you before even realizing. You flatten to the wall, eyes going wide. He looms over you like an ill omen, stares into the depths of your gaze with manic hunger.

“What—”

“Are you implying I don’t know what I want?”

“Kaiser, just think about—”

“Think about it?” Kaiser laughs, palming a hand through his hair. “You’re all I’ve been able to think about, since that very first interview,” he continues and ah, he feels himself coming a little unhinged. “For months now. You really didn’t notice? You think you know better than I do? I’m offended.”

“I never said that!” you hiss. Kaiser, halfway offended that you would question his taste and halfway endeared at how the argument scorched you back to life, scoffs.

“No, but you absolutely implied it,” Kaiser argues back, and you’re—

—you’re trying not to run out of steam. You hadn’t expected him to push this hard. He’s a famous football player. His name is printed on the backs of jerseys, chanted by audiences of thousands. Doesn’t he already have the pick of the litter? Reminding him of it only seems to make him more stubborn. Every excuse and argument, no matter how well-crafted, goes in one ear and out the other.

You’re not prepared for this kind of commitment, for Kaiser’s specific brand of it. He looks at you like a man starved, endless blues dark and hollow. There’s a vacuousness within him that he seeks to fill, and the very prospect of it frightens you.

“Kaiser, I—” There’s the slightest wobble in your voice. He picks it up like it’s blood in water, expression softening and gods, you can’t do this, so you wrench your gaze away. As if he’ll cease to exist the moment you stop looking at him.

“At first, I couldn’t believe you’d question my taste like that, but I think I get it, now,” he takes a step closer. Your heart rabbits in your throat, a shock of adrenaline. You can feel yourself beginning to sweat. “But I get it, now. You’re just scared.” Kaiser coos. The words are like a dagger through the chest—

—he can tell. You recoil like he’s bit you. That’s how he knows he’s hit the mark.

He sympathizes with you, he really does. Not long ago, he was stuck in an almost identical position. Craving love, but too terrified to receive it. Too sure that he’d be burned the moment he received it—but for you, he’d done the work. Clawed past those internal complexes, languished in the agony of his psyche all to reach this point.

You owe him the same courtesy. You don’t get to back out, to be a coward. Every fear that trembles in the cavity of your chest can be crushed and conquered.

“You’re just scared,” he repeats, softer this time. Soothing. “I don’t blame you. It’s scary, isn’t it? Don’t worry,” he steps away, allowing you a moment to breathe. You’re shaking. “I can be patient. I can prove that I’m worth it.”

A part of him balks at the idea of needing to prove anything at this point in his career, but the logical part of him concedes that playing football and being an outstanding lover are indeed two different skills—and he’s done a poor job of the latter.

“I—” you begin, and then go quite You don’t look energetic enough to argue. Exhaustion weighs heavy on the planes of your face. You’ve wrapped your arms around yourself tight. So, so small tucked up against the wall. “I’ll talk to you later.” you mutter.

“Let me drive you home,” Kaiser steps in your way, brows creasing.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, “You’re the last person I want to be alone with right now!”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I know you need time, but it’s too late for you to walk home by yourself.”

“I’ll have Reo call a car, or ask Chigiri to drive me,” you duck away from him. He doesn’t try to stop you. Though it stings (oh fuck, it pisses him off so bad) to know you’ll be alone with either of them alone, but he can at least have faith in their ability to see you home safely. Both are perceptive enough to not try anything with you, intuitive enough to pick up on your caution, your anguish. So, he lets you go.

Later, when he texts to make sure you’re home safe, you tell him that Reo drove you personally. He pictures you on the upholstered leather of his car seats and grits his teeth.

—

Kaiser lets you run. For a day. hen, he invites you out for coffee. He's actually kind of stunned when you actually show up. He rewards you by not mentioning what unfolded in the stairwell. He pays attention to what you order (a chocolate croissant) and pays before you can even think of reaching for your wallet.

And so the world continues turning. He makes time for you in between practice and press releases, accompanies you to the club with the express intent of ensuring you arrive home safely, and notes your mannerisms and habits with a voracious hunger, eager to know you in ways others don't, to dig his claws in so deep that you'll bleed to death should you remove them.

On an odd, rainy day, you invite him to your studio. He's elated. This can only be a good sign. You're allowing him into yet another intimate space, one defined by your artistic vision. He brings offerings—snacks he knows you like, a sandwich from a restaurant down the block. He waits in line, tapping his foot on the tiled floor, restless.

On the other side of the door, anticipation dredges you down, makes you feel hot in the face as the minutes tick by. He arrives with an armful of paper bag and a coy smile.

"Oh, you really didn't have to—"

"You have a habit of skipping breakfast when you come into the studio, right?" Kaiser regards you with a raised brow, "So save it and thank me, instead."

You splutter and his smile widens. The smell of fresh food makes the hunger pangs sharper. As much as you hate to admit it, he's right. You would have ignored them until lunch came around. He leans on the counter and watches you tear into the meal, savoring the freshly baked bread. No matter what happens, you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling of his eyes on you. Or how keen his gaze becomes whenever you eat.

Fortunately, the studio is full of other things for him to gawk at. After you finish your food. It's a wide open space partitioned by desks, drawers and a long industrial table. Paint stains every visible surface and canvases lean against any wall unobscured by the furniture.

Some are works in progress, others finished pieces you haven't gotten around to moving yet, and might not for several more weeks. Instead of paying them any heed, Kaiser cracks open one of the thick, crammed sketchbooks that sit on the long table which splits the side of the room opposite the kitchenette.

It's a smaller size and perfectly square. The inside is a mess of observational sketches. Mostly of flowers, intermingled with a few portraits, all done in posca marker and nothing else.

"Was this one for a client?" he asks.

"No," you reply softly. He reaches a more experimental section where both subjects merge, petals furling from muscle and bone, being spat up by sickly faces.

"No sketches underneath?" he asks, and hums when you nod. "What do you do when you make a mistake, then?"

"Cover it," you sidle up next to him, flipping to a particular page. Squares of different-colored paper dot the default brown. "By painting over them or doing something like this. This paper is pretty high quality, so I wouldn't waste a whole page just because I made a mistake. " his thumb brushed over the page's corner. Is he even listening to you? Are you boring him? "Sometimes, though, when you realize something isn't working, you just gotta throw the whole thing out and start over."

"And give up?" Kaiser needles, shooting you a wry glance.

"No, you just come at it from a different angle. Change the composition or maybe the medium you're using? That sort of thing."

He stays quiet, after that. You can't get a read on him. He finishes looking through and picks up another, one you had used for both observational sketches of the team and concept sketches of the posters. His lips curl into another smile as he realizes.

"Tell me about these—"

"You've probably seen them already," you murmur, "They're just early drafts." you insist, reaching for the book. It's your mistake, really. Trying to snatch anything out of Michael Kaiser's iron grip is borderline impossible. He pulls it away, holding it above his head. It's a move so out of a schoolyard bully's playbook that you have to gape at him. "Kaiser."

"Why so protective? Is there something in here you don't want me to see?" he taunts, flickering through the pages for added emphasis.

"No, but if you're gonna be annoying about it—"

"Really? I'm almost disappointed. You artistic types are always pretty perverted, aren't you?" he continues, maneuvering away from your grasping hands with infuriating ease.

"Huh? What do you take me for?" you snap, foot lashing lightly at his shin. He gives you no indication that he's even listening. "If anything, you're the pervert for even implying something like that!"

He doesn't acknowledge your argument, likely because of how solid it is. You comfort yourself by knowing that you're right.

"You draw Chigiri the most. Why is that?" is his next question, posed with careful nonchalance. You feel like he's implying something.

You don't bother denying it. "Because of his hair. It's long and flowy and fun to draw." You declare, almost indignant.

"So that's your taste. Interesting," Kaiser hums. "I feel like I'm learning so much about you." He snaps the sketchbook shut and relinquishes it to your grasping hands, which isn't as satisfying as reclaiming it by force. You huff and stuff it into the first drawer you see. When you turn back around, he's already wandered onto the next thing to catch his attention.

He combs through the rest of the studio with calm, deliberate focus. He asks questions, treats every piece with unmistakable intrigue. It's… a little embarrassing, if you're being honest. And flattering. You spend so much time creating for others that you sometimes forget how intimate personal artwork can be. It's like peeling back layers of yourself that you weren't even aware of.

Among the frills and flowers of your mind's eye hide darker, more complicated images. Ghastly beasts made of red, rippling flesh and muscle, wide maws crammed with too many teeth. These pieces intrigue him the most.

"Tell me, what were you thinking while you were making this one?" Kaiser's slender fingers skate over the top of the reddish-brown frame.

It's an oil painting of a boar and a wolf. Gnarled, beastly figures craned over the limp body of a skinny hare. A moment when predator and prey cooperate for the sake of beating down and consuming another, weaker animal.

"Well, I can't really say… I read that prey animals sometimes eat birds or other, smaller animals if they're hungry enough," You thought it was interesting, because people tend to think of deer as pure, vulnerable animals, but really—they're just like any other.

"They're willing to do whatever it takes to survive," Michael finishes softly.

"And that isn't a bad thing," you continue, "'Good' and 'bad' are human concepts. Morality is a system of values that we made up. Animals just want to survive and thrive. Who could blame them for that?"

Kaiser looks at you quietly.

"Men are also animals," he says. "Maybe beasts would be more accurate."

"No love for your own species?" you tease.

"No. I find most of them to be—" he pauses for a moment, "loud. Thoughtless. So don't trust any of them, alright?"

You blink at him. "Even you?"

"Oh, I'm the only exception," Kaiser purrs without a hint of irony. His eyes glimmer wickedly.

"That's the most suspicious answer you would have given," you deadpan.

"Maybe," Kaiser shrugs, "But it's also true."

—

It escalates, starting with a phone charger. Kaiser forgets it at your apartment. He'll pick it up next time he comes over, he says. This exchange, as inconsequential as it may seem, moves you to a startling realization. Kaiser has become… your friend. You've finished your work with his team (for now, management hinted at upcoming projects and several players have expressed interest in personal commissions). He has no professional reason to keep talking to you, but he does. He's quietly crept into your life with surprising, stubborn consistency. You're not sure why you let it get this far.

No, that's a lie. From the very start, you wholeheartedly believed that he would get bored and move onto the next mildly interesting person he came across. But he hasn't. He texts you everyday. He visits every weekend. He knows how you like your coffee. It's disquieting. Strange. But at the same time, you enjoy the time you spend together. Quiet, stolen moments in the plush comfort of your home or loud, chaotic nights when he plays chaperone.

His phone charger lies in a kitchen junk drawer, one of his jackets stuffed in the hall closet. His water bottle haunts your cabinets, routinely shuffled around dishes and mugs and glasses. It should put you on edge. Isn't this a thing that couples do? But you shove the ugly thought down, unprepared still to face the threat of affection and commitment.

You don't know why you're playing such a dangerous game, and you're in no shape to find out. Cramps and chills have you bed-bound, huddled beneath your favorite covers. You're sure you look a mess, as Kaiser steps into the room. You'd done your best to dissuade him from coming over, but he insisted, brushed aside your qualms in a way you've admittedly grown used to. He cuts into your space like he belongs there. Permits himself to your presence with the ease and confidence of a born king.

He clicks his tongue, crouching next to your bed at eye-level.

"I would ask how you're holding up, but it's pretty obvious from here," he says, voice soft with sympathy. The space between his brows pulls tight together.

"I'm just tired," you grumble.

"Liar," he accuses. His thumb smooths over your cheek. The tenderness startles you, making you freeze in place. "Did you take anything for it?"

"Painkillers," you submit yourself to his questioning with a blank face, smooshing your face back into the pillow.

A guilty silence settles over the room. He sighs at you and you frown, feeling scolded. This jackass. The nerve of him to scold you in your own home! After you specifically warned him that you weren't feeling well!

"Painkillers on an empty stomach? You know better," he chides.

"Well, sorry! I was a little too delirious with pain to get up and cook," you snap.

"Alright, alright," Kaiser hums. "But just call me next time, alright?" He taps his finger against your forehead. You bite and he yanks his hand back with a chuckle.

"Don't laugh at me," you pout. Do you look as pathetic and miserable as you feel? You shuffle further beneath your duvet like a turtle pulling into its shell, and relish in the way the dark falls against your eyelids. Outside of your makeshift shelter, Kaiser's footsteps head towards the door. Is he leaving already?

Disappointment hits you like a spray of cold water. It's stupid, of course you can't expect him to stick around while you're unable to entertain, but it still hurts. You swallow, and blink back the building tears, burrowing your face into your pillow. Your body coils like a snake's, precious organs coddled behind the shelter of your calves and thighs. It eases a fraction of the miserable aching, but most of it remains. Yet another bitter pill for you to swallow whilst all alone—

The sound of the stove top flickering on jolts you from your wallowing. You then hear rifling through your cabinets, the soft clink of a bowl on the counter top, the breaking of two eggs. The gentle noises of someone else moving in your space. Cooking for you.

The stark relief of knowing you don't have to worry about feeding yourself suddenly makes everything else seem possible.

You melt into the bedding. That's how he finds you, as a veritable puddle. You look up wetly when he pulls the blanket back. He's come with a plate of eggs and fruit balanced on one hand. The aroma of fresh food has you salivating, distracts your weary self so much that you don't catch the way his pupils dilate. You don't spot the naked hunger which alights him for but a moment, and then is gone.

"Sit up," he commands, softer than his typical, kingly bravado. "And don't eat too fast."

Kaiser, much to your surprise, isn't a bad cook.

"Don't look so surprised," he pouts. He's seated on the edge of your mattress—Michael Kaiser, on your bed, after making your breakfast in your kitchen. You've known him for what feels like an eon, and somehow you're just now coming to realize how outlandish the entire situation is.

"I was just thinking," you begin between bites. "It's kind of crazy that you're here."

"And what do you mean by that?" he asks, dangerously close to offended, "Where else should I be?"

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just—a few months ago I only knew you from TV. And now you're… here. Your super fans would kill me if this got out," you scoff. Kaiser doesn't seem to share in your amusement.

"I could care less what they think," he asserts coolly. The space between his brows pinches together, "And neither should you."

"Wow. No love for your most devoted supporters?" you tease, trying to offset the looming unease. Something in the room has changed. You know why—you know, which is why you can't help but try and steer the conversation in another direction.

"Not when it involves you," he frowns, like this should be common sense. His expression then deflates. He looks at you like you're a small, unfortunate creature he found in a wet cardboard box. "For someone so quick on the uptake, you can be pretty dense. Let me spell it out for you. You're important to me," he speaks slowly, glacial blue gaze keen and searching. Endlessly interested in a way that makes your gut squirm. "All of that nonsense about being in different leagues—it doesn't matter. All that matters is that I want you, and you want me. So don't waste your time worrying about anything else, alright?"

You swallow, sorely tempted to remind him that you never made such a declaration. If you had, it would have haunted you into your dreams. But can you wholeheartedly deny his claim? You're not sure anymore. Not when you let him wrap his arm around your shoulder, not when he's the only person you text daily. You shift restlessly.

"I'm not expecting a grand declaration of love. You're scared, so I'll give you time." Kaiser tells you.

"I never even said that I like you," you snap, finally too annoyed by his presumptuousness to stay quiet.

"Believe me, I'm well-aware," Kaiser says, soft as silk. "Take your time. Think about it, before you do something you might regret."

—

"I want to hire you," Kaiser says one day, out of the blue. You stare at him like he's grown an extra head. "What? Is that so strange?"

"Why? And for what?" your pencil stills, hovering over your most recent sketch.

"I'd like some prints to hang up around my apartment," Kaiser hums. He's sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other. The newspaper is spread wide over his lap, a cup of coffee held in one of his hands. He looks at you from beneath his long lashes.

He's grown his hair out, you realize. It's come to rest like a lion's mane on his shoulders, bangs filled out to frame his face. A pair of circle frame glasses perch on the bridge of his nose. Kaiser is always handsome, but you suddenly are struck by the sight of him. It's the best he's ever looked.

"I would be lying if I said my motives were entirely pure," he continues. "Oliver has been talking about commissioning you, and it'd be satisfying if I could steal you out from under his nose."

"That's petty of you," you remark, "…What would you want me to draw?" Your eraser taps erratically against the smooth, white surface of the table. The gears are already churning. "Roses?"

"You know me so well," Kaiser hums, pleased. He flips the page. "I trust in your artistic vision enough to let you have full reign. Do whatever you think I would like."

"And if you don't like what I make?"

"Impossible," he scoffs, like it's a foregone conclusion. "I like every piece of art you make."

"Even all those sketches of Chigiri?" you pry, unable to resist the temptation to nettle at his ego. His lips press into a flat line. That glacial gaze darts up to fix you with a look, a single brow raised.

"Don't get clever with me," he scoffs. You know he's full of it. He loves it when you get clever. Just not when it pertains to other men.

—

Time spent with Kaiser becomes… normal, over time. He still teases you. He pokes and prods until you snap, then coos at you. Soothes the lashing fires of your agitation with crooning apologies that make you feel weird and tingly inside. It's a push and pull dynamic that becomes oddly comforting, easy to sink into after a long week of work. When a band you like announces they'll be playing at a small bar venue close to your apartment, you don't even bat an eye when Kaiser invites himself along.

You treat yourself to one, two drinks while the band plays in slow, mellow tones. The long day has worn you down, made you just a bit more pliable. When Kaiser asks to walk you home, you agree.

And then you let him stay.

He's made you drink two glasses of water, and now he's sitting at your side. There's no space between you. The hot line of his body pressing up against yours. His lips press to your temple, and then to your forehead. You make a mumbling, protesting sound.

“Tired?” he asks. He presses his nose into your cheek, and kisses there too. A big hand cups your jaw. Your eyelids fall half-mast as he looks at you. Your face is getting warm, now, but you’re not as panicked as you thought you would be.

“No,” you protest, the word syrupy on your tongue.

“Good,” he says, and then kisses you.

It’s a deep, firm press of his lips to your own. You go shock still. Your hand reaches up, fingers grasping onto his wrist. But you don’t pry his palm away from your cheek. His hand is cool against your overheated skin. He’s a good kisser. He pulls away from you with a quiet exhale. Your foreheads touch. He looks at you, measuring your reaction, and you’re not quite sure what kind to give him.

Kaiser is… infuriating, but you’ve come to like him a lot. The way he makes you feel scared you, before. To be so at the mercy of someone else frightened you more than anything. But right now, you can’t quite remember why you were so intimidated. Or, rather, he doesn’t give you the chance to think that far. He kisses you again and again. Longer every time. Deeper. Warm, firm kisses, with his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. Slowly, steadily. Breaching deeper each time until he’s licking into the warm, wet seam of your mouth.

Your face is hot. There’s a pulse between your thighs, steady and thumping. It’s the tenderest you’ve ever seen him, you think. He trails kisses away from your mouth, running his lips over your jaw.

Absentmindedly, you hook your fingers into his hair. He's grown it out. Long, pale strands that frame his face. Shaggy like a lion's mane. He preens as you pet him, leaning his head into your hand.

“After all of that fussing…” he sighs fondly, “You’re unbelievable.”

You shut your eyes. You have a distinct feeling that you should be annoyed with him.

“Bedroom,” is all you manage to mumble instead.

“Oh?” he hums into the space beneath your jaw. His lips flatten to a patch of bare skin and suck. You whimper, fingers curling into the warm fabric of his sweater. He laughs, a little breathless, a little giddy. “I didn't know you could be this forward," he murmurs. "Alright. Lead the way.”

And then he pulls away. All of his warmth goes with him, leaving you empty and blinking at the space he once occupied. He laughs at you, and you fume, pushing yourself off the couch. Which was an uncalculated decision. Your body isn’t on the same page as your brain. Your legs tremble like a newborn fawn’s and you curse, bracing for the inevitable impact of the hardwood floor.

“Honestly. You can’t do anything without me,” Kaiser sounds amused. Broad arms curl around your torso and pull you upright.

He already knows the way to your bedroom. You let him haul you down the hallway and shove the door open. You scramble up the bed, a clumsy palm reaching out for the lamp’s chord. It turns on with a quiet click, illuminating the room in dim, orange light.

Perhaps you’re more addled than you think you are. His chest seems to materialize into view, lean and bare with pink, dusky nipples. Your lips part, words stolen from your molasses tongue as he settles atop of you.

“Speechless already?” Kaiser teases, lowering himself. He smooths a hand up your side, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

You shiver as the fabric slides up, exposing the softness of your underbelly. You want to curl in on yourself, to hide your most vulnerable parts from his piercing gaze. While caught in the paralysis of indecision, your shirt comes up to block your vision. You raise your arms and it’s gone, leaving your upper half exposed. Your nipples harden into firm peaks.

The chill in the air somewhat sobers you enough for doubt to take root. The sudden urge to cover yourself sparks as Kaiser lavishes kisses down your throat. You twitch, attempting to push your limbs into motion.

His tongue trails a circle around the areola. Spit cools over the skin. Your back arches when his lips seal over the stiff bud of your nipple, nails pricking the skin on his shoulders. His groan vibrates against your skin and he sucks. Clever fingers pinch the neglected side of your chest, rolls and squeezes the weight of your breast in his big hand. The thoughts leak from your brain and melt out onto the sheets, leaving you a mindless creature, only able to moan and sigh and roll your hips.

He pops off your chest with a wounded sound, and grinds his hips. The weight of him flattens you tight to the mattress. His cock is hard through his trousers. You can feel it, nestled into your thigh, a long point of heat that makes you swallow.

“You’re so quiet,” Kaiser hums. He nestles his cheek into the center of your chest, looks up at you with hazy, feline eyes. “You have to let me know if you’re feeling good, mäuschen.”

He punctuates the point with an open mouthed kiss to the top of your stomach, sliding down the sheets like an uncoiled serpent. You jolt at the press of his canines into the soft flesh of your belly, nips and gentle bites cascading to the waistband of your pants.

“More?” he asks, breath caressing the very bottom of your stomach.

You nod, eagerly. Anything to get him away from the weakest, most vulnerable part of you. Your heartbeat throbs between your thighs, a lightning-quick pulse of arousal. The seat of your underwear is already heavy with slick.

“Use your words,” he teases. You close your eyes, and resist the sudden urge to smack him.

“More, please,” you ask, and your voice sounds foreign to you. It’s become a wet, raspy little thing. Shared like a secret between the both of you.

“I didn’t even ask you to say please,” Kaiser remarks, remarkably pleased. His thumbs hook under the sides of your trousers and panties. He urges both garments down at once. You left your hips to make it easier, “Good girl.”

The air is cool against your cunt. He eyes you with a soft, unreadable expression. Broad hands come to cup the bottoms of your thighs.

Again, hesitation nips at you.

“You don’t have to,” you mumble.

Kaiser’s tongue rasps over your sodden folds in reply. You jolt, fingers fisting at the sheets. Your heartbeat is a heavy thrum between your legs.

He lazes between your thighs, each stroke of his tongue languid. Like you’re a treat he’s enjoying. His eyes are half-closed. You count each frosty lash in a last ditch effort to keep calm–to distract from the position he’s put you in.

“I don't have to?” he scoffs quietly. Then, the tip of his tongue teases at your inner lips. “Who do you take me for?” he says, hot breath brushing against you. You swallow. He traces the look on your face with a feline concentration, the keenness of a predator about to pounce. Never before have you felt so speared open, legs held apart by his strong body. His face is so pretty that sometimes you forget how big he is. How broad.

Your nervousness must show plain as day on your face, because he starts cooing at you. “Why do you look so worried, häschen? You’re shaking like a little leaf.” One of his arms curls around your thigh, giving it a squeeze. “It’s alright. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.” He soothes, looking much too delighted to be sincere.

“So just lay back and enjoy,” he presses a chaste kiss to your clit, and then devours you.

Plush lips seal around your clit and suck whilst his greedy fingers explore the space between your legs, tracing your folds as if to memorize the shape, the texture. He licks up the seam of you, tongue pressed hard on the underside. His mouth is hot and wet and unyielding against you, the kind of hungry that makes your ankles dig into the firm muscle of his back.

“Kaiser—” you moan.

“Michael,” he parts from you to correct, and then dives back in, making a pleased sound when you grip his hair. The silky blonde strands part around your fingers. You pull, and he moans, the sound vibrating against your clit, before a long finger shoves inside. He goes all the way to the knuckle and you whimper as he thrusts it in and out. Lewd, squelching sounds fill the room.

You whine louder. Your head slams against your pillow. He works you over for a good minute, a second finger sliding in alongside the first. eyes screwing shut as you feel heat coil tight in your gut. It’s close, way too close—and then his fingers curl up and you sob as your stomach twists, slick covering his fingers as he bullies you into your first orgasm.

He fucks you through it, three fingers drilling into that same spot. Distantly, in some crevice of your sex-addled mind, you wonder if his wrist is getting tired. But the thought it gone as soon as it came, because he’s not stopping, he’s not stopping even as the pleasure buzzes to the wrong side of pained. Even as your moans pitch into whines.

“Fuck,” you whimper, tossing an arm over your eyes. “Wait a minute, Kaiser—”

“Wait? But your cunt is squeezing me so tight,” Kaiser coos, stroking his tongue over your clit. Your legs kick out, held fast. His arm flexes as it pins you in place. You whine, louder this time, and he laughs softly against your cunt, lapping you slow and sweet.

His pace slows, providing some relief. But the pleasure still laps low at your center. Your cunt makes lewd, wet noises with each thrust of his fingers.

“It’s like you never want me to leave,” Kaiser muses. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, laves his tongue over the sweaty skin.

You can’t help it. You clench onto his fingers, slick dripping onto the sheets, onto his tongue. You feel your face scrunch, chest heaving with every labored breath and you squeal as another orgasm washes over you. Raw sparks burning your overwrought nerves, legs kicking as your circuits jolt and misfire.

“Michael,” you hiccup. Your nails scrape against the sheets. “Micha—” He groans into your cunt as you say it, redoubles his effort with a ferocity you have only ever seen on the field.

“Aww, don’t cry,” he says, soft with false sympathy. He pulls his fingers out, lifts them to his face. You watch, wide-eyed with mortification, as he licks them clean. “I’ll make it better, I promise.” If you weren’t already so fucked out, you’d be inflamed by the tone he takes with you. He coos at you like you’re a crying child.

“I’m not sure… if I believe you,” you grouse between labored breaths.

He’s worn you out, wrung you dry like yesterday’s wash. You feel like you’ve gotten too much sun. You feel like you just ran a marathon. And yet still–still you cannot help but want more. Your cunt feels cold and empty. The need that still pulses low between your legs is unbidden but unmistakably present. Your insatiable body longing to gorge itself full after such a long drought.

Kaiser shifts up the bed, lithe as a lion. He licks at your shed tears, and laughs at the grossed-out face you make.

“I can’t believe you cried,” he says breathlessly, wide smirk split across his face. He’s mounted atop of you, now. Towering and wrapped in corded muscle. The difference in size is another striking reminder of just how vulnerable you are underneath him. It sobers you, somewhat. It helps you remember to be afraid. “It was really that good, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up,” you sniffle.

“You were being so sweet just a few minutes ago,” Kaiser sighs. He dips his head, retracing his path down your chest. He’s gentler, this time, when he takes your nipple in his mouth. He lets his tongue lavish the bud. The way in which he touches you is slow and aimless, despite the aching erection that throbs against your thigh. You grind against it and he exhales heavy, eyelids dipping low. “Hm,” he pulls back to look at you. Really look at you. Quiet and evaluating.

“Stop fucking around,” you demand hoarsely, “Just give it to me,” Primordial instinct longs for his cock inside of you. Animal fear makes you desperate to detach from his tenderness.

“Just give it to you?” Kaiser exhales. He looks more ruffled than he probably thinks he does. His cheeks are flushed peach pink, a lusty haze in his eyes. The tip of his cock taps against your wet folds. You jolt, nails curling into his shoulders. He holds himself above you. His hair (it’s gotten so long) curtains you in. The rest of the room may as well not exist.

“Are you sure you really want it? That you’re ready?” He asks, mocking. He wets his dick more with each question, dragging it up and down your sopping folds. “You look so scared, bunny.”

You choke. Oversensitive as you are, the heat still builds. It’s a slow and stubborn thing, stoked by his prodding, by the dulcet croon of his voice. Your cunt still longs for something to grip, to clench around. You feel empty. You feel like you need to be made whole, somehow. You’re still not entirely sure how you got here. Will Kaiser putting his cock inside of you make it any clearer? You don’t know.

All you know is that you really, really want it in this moment.

“Michael, Micha—” you break into a reedy sniffle. You weren’t aware that you had been crying. A single tear runs hot down your cheek. You’re scared, you think. All of these emotions have compiled into a heady, overwhelming cocktail. So you cling to Kaiser for comfort, raw and cored open and entirely too vulnerable.

“Oh, oh, don’t cry,” Kaiser coos, “I’ll give you what you need. You’re being so good for me, you know that?” His fingers stroke up your side, a faint touch before he’s reaching down to steady his weeping cock against your entrance.

His lips press to your temple, soft reassurances murmured against your skin. You can’t discern the words. All you can focus on is the steady ease of his cock inside you. You’re gushing, still.

You make a small, gutted sound. Hot walls of your cunt stretch around him. It hardly stings, eased by your previous orgasms, but it still steals the breath from you.

“Micha,” you whimper. He keeps going, keeps pressing until he’s sheathed all the way. His fingers play across your throbbing clit. Your back arches. In the dark, your vision distorts. Motes of color which swim at the edges of your vision. It feels like he’s in your throat. A man this pretty has no right to have a cock this size, you faintly think to yourself.

Kaiser is mumbling, now, sweet little praises into the side of your head. He breathes you in and pulls out until only the head remains inside. You hold your breath.

And then he rolls his hips forward, forcing the air right out of you. The sheer force drives you up the mattress with each potent thrust. It feels—so fucking good. Hot and slick. He pins his weight onto his knees and wraps his arms tight around you. Your bottom half hovers off the mattress as he pulls you back and forth. Effortless, the strength that you always forget he has.

“Oh god—” you moan between all of the other humiliating noises he’s wringing out of you. Kaiser laughs, breath fanning against your sweaty skin. He looks down at you through lowered eyelids, alight with a manic ecstasy. It’s a look you’ve never seen him wear.

“He’s not here,” Kaiser quips between heavy pants. He pecks your cheek, sweet and chaste, like he isn’t fucking the life out of you. “Only me, schätzchen. Just me.” He sounds more like he’s reassuring himself. The thought lingers for a flash, but then is gone, smothered between waves of molten pleasure, buried with each roll of his hips. He smothers it out of you.

Your ears burn. Your legs shake. Another choked sound erupts from your hoarse throat as his fingers bully your clit, working you high up to yet another devastating peak.

It cracks through you, burns your vision white. Lightning streaking down your spine, heady warmth which pools between your legs and swallows you head to toe. Your greedy cunt spasms around him, milking him up to his own bliss. With a snarling curse, he pulls out—and spills onto your stomach. Ropes of milky white glaze your sweaty skin.

The room delves into quiet. You both pant for breath. Your eyes flutter shut, and your head drops back onto the pillows. Eventually, Kaiser unwinds from you, settling you back onto the sheets. He presses a kiss above your brow.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he murmurs, and then he’s off. It’s almost inconceivable that he should remain so nimble and spry after all that exercise. The muscles in your thighs are still jumping, rattled by the manhandling, by the exertion. You’re sure you’ll feel the pounding he gave you in the morning. But now? You feel like a flower left out in full sun, withered and waterless.

In the distance, you can hear Kaiser shuffling around in the hallway. You shut your eyes and track him, audibly, on his journey to the bathroom and back. Briefly, you contemplate calling out to him to ask for a glass of water. But you’re far too tired to even raise your voice. Fortunately, he seems to have the same idea. You hear him head to the kitchen. There’s the opening of a cabinet, the slight clink of a glass, the rush of the tap.

You shut your eyes, submit to inky blackness. The sweat on your skin and his cum are starting to dry, tacky and uncomfortable. You contemplate getting up and heading to the bathroom, but Kaiser returns before you can give it much thought. He’s got a towel slung over his arm, a glass in his other hand.

“I wanna take a shower,” you mumble sleepily, and Kaiser laughs.

“Really? That’s the first thing you say?” he teases blithely. He sits on the edge of the bed. One, wide hand curls against the back of your skull, helping you lift your head. The rim of the glass is cool against your chapped lips. “Drink first.”

The water feels heavenly as it sloshes down. The chill helps wake you up a little bit. But waking up means you have to face the implications of tonight—the implications that have hung around the both of you since the first time he confessed. If you think about it too much, you think you’ll start to lose it. So you don’t. You take in a deep breath and submit yourself to the worst of his affections, his care. Because no matter how unprepared or how inadequate you feel, he’s made it clear that he won’t leave you. And you’re starting to lose fear of that prospect.

Meet me at the Pearlescent Chateau. Bring pajamas, a change of clothes, and any toiletries you may require for an overnight stay

It's a bold message, coming from someone so tight-laced. He's more… "affectionate" with you than he is with most other members of the family. You pretend not to notice the cloying gazes, the way in which his tone softens when he speaks to you, but you've spent so long at his heel that it's impossible to remain oblivious. All of this, and yet he's never once invited you to his home.

You're not in any position to refuse. You've no other obligations for the night, something he most likely knows. Trepidation knots your gut. An odd, eerie feeling hands over your head as you pack slowly pack your things, neatly folding your clothes and tucking your toothbrush into an overnight bag. Hairbrush. Medications. You check off each one on a mental list, hoping the monotony will settle your already overwrought nerves. Sunday, leader of the Oak Family and overseer of Penacony, asking you for a sleepover, of all things?

He's finally lost his mind. All those years of tight control have cinched the blood flow to his brain. That's what you assume as you make your way through the streets, through the Reverie. The Pearlescent Chateau is seated at the very top of Penacony's physical form, a mansion made of marble and silver steel. Three banners depicting the Oak Family's signature sigil loom on either side of the opening corridor, hovering eerily still, no wind to shift them. The air is crisp and cool, perfectly conditioned by vents and cold, unfeeling mechanisms.

You don't like this place. It looms too large, too clean, as though your very presence will mar its flawless veneer.

"Ah, you've arrived," a voice says. Your gaze flickers to a smartly dressed attendant, "Welcome. Please, come right this way—shall I carry your things?"

"No thank you, that's alright," you assure him, voice raspy from disuse.

He nods, leading you down the main corridor and deeper into the hallowed manse. Generations of the Oak Family have ruled from this heavenly seat of power, and it looks every bit the legacy it holds. You pass grand paintings and tall, arched windows of stained class. You traverse a spiral staircase to the second level, and struggle to keep track of all the twists and turns you're forced to take. Just how deep does Sunday hide in this labyrinth? You don't think he ever has to fear an assassination. Any potential assailants will lose themselves in the identical, patterned corridors before they ever reach him.

Finally, after perhaps ten minutes of walking (is this attendant leading you in circles on purpose? Is this, for some reason, a concerted effort to get you lost?), you come to a pair of towering double doors. Ornate motifs involving vines and roses and charmony doves have been painstakingly carved into the wood–perfectly symmetrical.

The attendant raises a gloved hand to gently rap on the heavy door, "Your company has arrived, ser."

"Good. Let them in," Sunday calls. He sounds no different than usual, no more haggard or manic. The doors are opened for you. You fiddle with the straps on your bag as you step into the room–well, "suite" would be a better word to describe it. Sunday's chambers contain multiple rooms, located in the dead center of the Pearlescent Chateau. You toe your shoes off and gently tuck them into the rack by the wall.

The doors shut behind you, making you jump. The lock clicks into place. You pretend not to hear it, and try to forget about it.

The living room is a quiet space with a circular, domed ceiling. The floors are made of the same marble tile as the rest of the villa. A sectional sofa and three arm chairs surround a square coffee table. The arrangement is perfectly symmetrical, facing a wall-mounted television and fireplace. The kitchen and bedroom are on either side of the living room, either hidden behind a pair of ornate double-doors. It is surprisingly cozy, for being so cavernous.

There are blankets over the back of the couch, and more cushions than you recall. Even the chairs have their own quilts–perfectly folded and placed. You don't get much to inspect these new, odd changes. Sunday stands in the middle of the room, devoid of his typical suit and tie. He's wearing… pajamas? An elegant, fluffy robe obscures most of his pale skin, cinched around his waist by a silky sash.

The lines of his face are softer in the dim light. Unguarded. You've never seen him so undressed.

"Sunday, sir–" you begin, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

"Please, there's no need for formalities. We're closer than that, wouldn't you agree?" he asks you, but it it isn't a question. There are employees here who have been working under him long before you came into the picture, who still address him as "sir" or "young master". You fiddle with the strap of your overnight bag, feel the coarse, bumpy texture of the fabric, and give him a rigid nod.

"Alright, Sunday," the name grates like sandpaper in your throat, "May I ask why you've called me here? Is—is something wrong?"

He blinks at you, surprised. Pale lashes fanning against the perfect sculpt of his cheeks, "No, nothing is amiss," he assures you, "I simply… craved the company of one my oldest and most trusted friends."

Never have you quite considered Sunday a friend. The gap in your statuses is too wide, and he acts in ways too disconcerting for you to trust him enough to call him anything but a superior, or an acquaintance. As a beta, it's easy for you to slip into obscurity, to become another cog in the machine. Your subtle scent and neutral personality should have ensured that you forever remained nameless and faceless to him. Perhaps, though, that stability is what caught his attention in the first place. Right now, though, isn't really the time to think about that.

There's a slight flush to his cheeks—lurid compared to his typical porcelain complexion. Is he sick, or—

"Come, take a seat. Put your things down," he invites, voice airy and soft, "Would you like something to drink?"

"I would hate to impose," you say. Slowly, because you're still attempting to puzzle him out. Betas, despite their subtler scents, are just as capable of picking up on smell-based cues as any other dynamic. You, though, are dulled in that area. It's not something you typically think about, but you imagine you'd have a better picture of what's happening if you weren't.

"You believe yourself possible of imposing on me?" Sunday asks, shaking his head with a chuckle, "Perish the thought," he says. He ventures over to you, gossamer fabric of his robe shimmering under the dim light. Standing before you, his molten irises seem to glow from beneath his low-lidded lashes. He regards you with a fondness that is unmistakable, "Nothing more would delight me more than ensuring your comfort. This is a safe place. You can dispense of all titles and formalities when we are alone together."

"I'll make us some tea," Sunday continues, when you don't reply. He bustles over to one of the double doors. The frosted glass slide open, revealing a glimpse of the kitchen.

And you're stuck here, now. Sat in his living room. You hear the steady thrum of his footsteps as he bustles about the space. Time becomes liquid. You stare into the space of his extravagant living room. Your gaze lifts to the ceiling, where the crystalline chandelier twinkles in the pale light. Each one winks at you as they sway in the minute currents of the air. The room is warm. Not overly so. The cushion beneath you and at your back are soft enough to sink into. Against your better instincts, you find your eyes lulled shut.

The scent of soft vanilla fills the room. In the kitchen, cabinets open and shut. Sunday hums a lulling, distinctly familiar melody. A tea kettle whistles. The shrill noise makes your eyes flutter open. The room returns to you in blurred shades of beige and pale. You catch sight of Sunday–two of him, hovering in the entryway between rooms, a tray balanced atop his palms. You blink to center your vision and they merge together, forming one solid vision of him. Still draped in his fluffy robe, coming closer.

He delicately places the tray atop the table. Steam rolls into the air from a cream-colored mug. Even the dishware holds to his aesthetics, whites and off-whites with touches of blue and gold. Puff pastries and macaroons sit atop delicate porcelain plates.

"Please, help yourself," he says, voice a delicate purr.

"Thank you," you murmur. You keep your gaze pointedly on the mug as you reach for it, even as he glides around the table and sidles up to your side. He sits close, warmth of his body pressing through your clothes.

The tea is a soft, herbal blend that washes over your tongue. It's soothing despite yourself, the keen edge of your nerves wearing away. Sunday is weird, but he's not going to hurt you. Not right now, at least. There's a dreamy, faded look in his eyes and he's settled comfortably back into the cushions. If you didn't know better, you'd assume he indulged in three glasses too many of Timony wine.

"It's no trouble," he murmurs, voice soft as a secret. The downy feathers of his wings press against the cool cushion. He tilts his head, cheek rubbing against the fabric. Nuzzling. You're so taken aback at the tender vision that you forget to drink until his eyes, dimmed to honey-gold, slide back in your direction."Is it good?"

"It is," you swallow dryly, and take another sip.

A realization is hitting you, now, the gravity of which is both unforeseen and potentially massive. It's a possibility can't believe you hadn't considered, before. But the signs are all there. He's cozied up his quarters, bundled himself in his softest, most comfortable clothes. He craved company so badly that he called you here for the lone purpose of spending time together. Never before has Sunday summoned you without wielding some work-related matter as pretense. And he's perhaps doted on you before, but in the most distant sense. In the way one would treat their favorite employee.

All of this, combined with the unusual flush of his complexion leads you to one, striking conclusion.

"Sunday," you say. His gaze, honey-sweet, flickers in your direction.

"Yes?" he asks.

"You.. are you…?" you swallow around the word. Saying it aloud will speak it into reality. Your head is already buzzing. You can't bear to think about the implications of him calling you, of all people, during his time of need.

He blinks–and then his expression warms with realization.

"In pre-heat?" he says. He looks at you through the fan of his pale lashes, bats them in a way that feels imploring, whether purposeful or not, "Of course. I wish I weren't. For all of my powers and privileges, this is one of the few things I'll never be able to rise above," his voice twists bitterly. How terrible, you think, for someone who treasures control so much to be so robbed of it. Becoming a slave to his instincts is probably one of his worst fears. You imagine he's on a regimen of suppressants–but every omega and alpha needs to endure their cycle at least once a year, or risk a grocery list of detrimental and increasingly severe side-effects.

"But recently…" His finger rolls circles on the velvet of the cushion in front of him, gaze growing distant, "I've started thinking about it differently. A change in outlook."

"Every time it comes, that heady wave of unbridled instinct, I feel an overwhelming need to reach for you. To be enclosed with you, around you," it's a breathy wisp of a confession, softness of his tone betrayed by the fervent gleam in his eyes, piercing even though the preheat haze, "It's so–so strange. As though I can hardly control myself," he rasps, "And so difficult, sometimes, to reach out to you. So many fears and doubts about what our relationship would be, or what it would mean, or how others would perceive us."

Something nudges at the edges of your consciousness, sweet and lulling. The sensation jolts you. Your eyes open wide–when had you closed them? Disoriented, you stare into his bottomless gaze, foreheads pressed together, much closer than before. He looks like something out of a dream, the edges of him wobbling, form drenched in watery, pale light. The adoration curled onto his expression remains in stark clarity, so open and unbridled that it takes the wind out of you. When was the last time someone had looked at you like this?

"All of those things don't matter, right now. I suspect they never did. Perhaps, if I weren't in such a state, I wouldn't have brought you here, today. Perhaps it's granted me clarity," he says, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. He leans forward. The seconds double into moments, and the moments double into minutes.

You take in every ivory lash as his eyes close, gaze inevitably drawn to the plush pink of his parting lips. He closes in. He kisses you. Soft and chaste, thumbs rubbing circles onto your heat-flushed skin. The tips of his downy wings tickle your temples, arching around the side of your head. Your view of the room is obscured by waves of creamy pale blue as he tilts his head. The angle deepens the osculation.

How had you allowed this to happen? The long history of your tenure flashes before your very eyes. Memories jolt by in fragments and fleeting visions. You comb through the messy drawer of your mind in search of when the change began, where exactly you hit the fork in the road, how exactly you chose the path that led to this moment. You run out of breath before you find the answer. Sunday sits back. His gaze is assessing as it slowly roams over your face, lingering quietly on your lips.

"It's your turn," he says.

You blink at him, "What?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, "Ah, to be rendered speechless by something as fleeting as a kiss," he smiles, and it reaches his eyes, "I've made my confession. I apologize if I started you. I probably should have waited for a more opportune moment—but this felt just right."

"So, what is your answer?" he asks, something feverish in his eyes. You open your mouth to reply, and he continues talking. Sympathy shades his expression. His lips curl into a small frown—more expressive than he would ever allow himself to be in regular circumstances, "It isn't right for me to pressure you for an answer so immediately, is it? You should take time to think about how you feel."

"I… I appreciate that," you begin, choosing your words very carefully. This is a different Sunday than the one you're accustomed to interacting with. A little more manic, a little volatile, "I will need time. I think."

"Yes," he smiles again, "I'd be happy to give it to you."

Your shoulders slump with immediate relief. Your mind kicks into rapid gear, already engineering possible ways out of Penacony, assignments off the planet you could potentially explore without having to go through him. There are other supervisors who could approve such a request. Securing permission wouldn't be hard. You're well-liked, and have a reputation for being hard-working.

Before you can thoroughly explore any of the possibilities, Sunday speaks up once more. He reaches out, plucks a teacup from the tray to take a sip.

"However, for the duration of my pre-heat, I would have you remain here," he says. cradling the porcelain in his palms, fingers tapping an even rhythm against the outside. He looks at you coyly, from beneath fanned lashes. Knowingly, as though already privy to your thoughts. You barely resist the urge to swallow and steel yourself.

You're not directly under the employ of the Oak Family, but to directly rebuke an implied command could have political ramifications for your own branch. Pre-heat lasts for two days at most. Surely, you'll be able to survive that.

"Of course," you murmur, like there was ever another option. "Though… can I ask what you'd have me do? Betas aren't the most efficient partners."

"Secondary gender has no bearing on your capabilities to soothe my weary spirits," Sunday chuckles, shaking his head. He says it like it's something obvious. And maybe it is. You've never been too dialed into how these dynamics interact and play out. You know the basics, the extremes, the general path of the anatomies and actions, but you've never delved any deeper. Never held any desire to, never had any attraction to it. If Sunday says you're the best person for this particular job, who are you to correct him? He knows more about it than you do. He's lived it. Is living it right now.

And perhaps it's sympathy for him that softens your usual edges.

"You haven't answered my question," you remind him quietly.

The woods teem with vicious wildlife, boasting wolves and bears and cave lions. The warmer months bring no respite. Wildfires spark in the dense brush. Owing to the ever-shifting landscape, the trails and paths need to be surveyed constantly. Daily, even.

All of these are threats that the average witch does not regularly contend with. The Frostfang are stewards of the land, caring for the land and fighting its encroachment in equal parts. Because of this, they're trained in the ways of the sword and spear. The lessons aren't as thorough or as constant as those the Knights Moralis undergo. They learn enough to survive, nothing more.

Despite all this, Easthies cannot help the unease he feels at the sight of a sword in a witch's hand. A sense of wrongness prickles at the back of his skull. His hands twitch with the urge to snatch the blade. He stands at his mentor's side, lips pulled into a steely frown. This is his first visit to the north.

"It's not a particularly nice place to be, especially if you're getting on in years," Vinanna had said, with a slight grimace, "But that's my problem to deal with. And you might as well see what it's like."

Now, they are standing in the foyer of the Moonglade Atelier. The fireplace crackles at the center of the circular chamber, the rest of the room's furniture arranged haphazardly around it. Engraved into the thick wood of the door is a protective glyph, meant to keep the gelid weather at bay. The lighting is low. A gentle, orange haze bathes every surface of the room. It catches in the cold, blue eyes of the person Vinanna is speaking to in low, hushed tones.

He can't be much older than Easthies. Nineteen at most, jammed between boy and man, trying to look taller than he really is. His shoulders are squared and his posture taught. Easthies supposes he can forgive this, because the other boy's mentor has just passed away.

"It happened at night; I can show you where," the boy, Mieszko Ivanov, volunteers. He looks nauseous at the prospect, but he doesn't retract the offer, "The other knights—they helped dig him out…"

"You don't have to show us. The knights will point us in the right direction, and we'll take care of the rest," Vinanna grimaces at the idea, countenance gentled in a way Easthies has seldom witnessed before, "Was he alone, when it happened? No one else was in the vicinity?"

"He went out to refresh a few markers on the Hircine Trail before bed. It was pretty late, around eleven, and the light was low because of the clouds," Mieszko crosses his arms. It looks like he's trying to stitch himself tight, like he'll spill out of himself if he lets go, "I thought it would be fine because it's so close, god, I should have gone with him—"

"It was around eleven," Vinanna course corrects, gently. Mieszko swallows his grief, visibly, a shuddering that runs down the length of his throat.

"Yes, around eleven when he left. At eleven-thirty, I could hear the avalanche rumbling," Mieszko continues, "We ran out to see what had happened and we—the entire place was covered. We could hardly see anything, let alone find him in all of that," he raises a hand and scrubs his shut eyes with his forefinger and thumb, "Belova went to get the knights. We dug all night an—and found him in the morning."

"He had been—" Mieszko swallows, expression pinched into a grimace, "It was dark. His leg was caught in a bear trap," the words leave in a sudden spill, weighed by grief, "He must've shouted when it happened—who wouldn't? And a sound that loud, that's probably what brought it all down. It was dark, but he would have seen it coming for him," he looks younger now, eyes wide and glazed, likely imagining the devouring tide of white, the palpable weight of seeing the end before it gets you.

"That's enough," Vinanna says, firm hand resting on the boy's shoulder, yanking him from whatever grim visions he had been caught by, "You've done well. I can see Korolyov raised you to be a brave young man. My condolences for your loss. If you require anything else, please let us know. Korolyov was a good friend, and I suspect an even greater professor."

"Thank you," he says. He looks marcid, somehow more gaunt than when they had arrived. Easthies feels a twinge in his chest, obtrusive prick of sympathy threatening his objectivity. How would he feel if he lost Vinanna in such a way? He glances up at her, stalwart profile, expression set with grim determination.

He is freed from grim contemplation by the sound of the door being thrown open. A young man clad in heavy furs stands breathless in the entryway, fogging the air with desperate pants. His hair is an inky black, and long, bundled into a thick, purple scarf.

"She's gone! I can't find her anywhere!" he calls. Mieszko freezes, holding himself tighter.

"What!?"

Vinanna frowns, "Steady, now. Who can't you find?"

Mieszko stammers out a name, and then— "She's the youngest student at the atelier. She ran off after she heard the news—"

There is little else to say, Easthies thinks. He knows they'll have to take up the search even before Vinanna commands it. They throw their furs back on and sweep outside, splitting in opposite directions to thoroughly comb the area. Easthies gets the area bordering the lake. It's a smaller amount of ground to cover. First, he heads skyward. The wind roars in his ears, the brutal cold raking over the bridge of his nose, tearing at his thick furs. He's been here for no more than a day, and he's already grown quite sick of the cold. Finding her will bring him one step closer to leaving.

He surveys the ground with keen eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wayward charge darting beneath the trees. Unfortunately, he has no such luck. When a search from above yields no results, Easthies is forced back below the pines. He trudges beyond the worn path, heading closer to the lakeside. The snow sucks at his boots, as though it seeks to swallow him. Each step forces the muscles in his legs to strain—and now, he realizes that the Frostfangs' reputation for physical toughness is well-earned.

Close to the water, he hears a sniffle. He struggles past deadened shrubs and evergreen bushes, sticks and twigs scraping at his clothes. One pokes at his cheek, dangerously close to his left eye. He ducks away from it with a wince.

His hand rests against the trunk of a deadened oak. He peers around the greyish trunk, and it is there that he comes face-to-face with you for the first time.

You look up at him with wide, teary eyes. A small, pathetic thing balled up, nestled in a crevice mere feet from the flat shore of the lake, "W-Who are you?" You look like a bug.

"Easthies, apprentice to The Wise in Principles, here on behalf of the Knights Moralis," he says. You're younger than he is, he knows that for sure. You're hunched in on yourself. Your eyes are red-rimmed, tear trails wetting the apples of your cheeks. He wills his countenance to soften, like Vinanna's had earlier, "Your friends are looking for you. Come with me."

"…I don't want to go back," you murmur, voice impossibly small. You tuck your face into your knees, shoulders trembling.

"You can't mean to stay here all day," Easthies reasons, frowning. He's no good at these sorts of things, "You'll freeze."

"I don't care," your voice cracks out of you, a broken whimper.

Easthies reigns in his impatience, sucking in a breath of gelid air. He'll give you a minute to compose yourself, he decides. The conversation, if it could even be called that, falls way to silence. He stares across the frozen lake. A group of greyish-brown ducks waddle across its shiny, white surface.

Much to his surprise, you break the silence first, "What's your name?" you ask. You're looking up at him now, a single eye peeking from the side.

"Easthies," he says softly. You tell him your name, "I know."

"Oh," you say. Your gaze drags out to the water, peering glassily at the fowl as they quack and flap their wings, "I don't want to go back," you repeat, taking in a deep breath, "All of his things are there…"

It isn't like you'll be the one to sort through his belongings, Easthies thinks. It'll be his relatives. And if he has none, the older students will surely do it.

"Well, you have to," Easthies asserts.

You frown at him, visibly annoyed, like you're the one being put out by all of this. He can already tell that you're not going to budge unless forced. There's a defiant look in your eyes, a wild kind of fervor—a madness perhaps brought on by grief. It's deeply unfortunate that this has happened to you, but nothing will be solved by you freezing your fingers off. You'll be returning to your atelier, whether you like it or not.

He winds up dragging you the whole way back. It's a messy, horrible affair. You hiss and scratch like a feral animal, hoisted from your damp hiding place by the collar of your cloak. By the time he returns and deposits you into the waiting arms of your fellow students, he has several new scratches and a throbbing shin to remember this trip by. Vinanna scolds him for his heavy-handedness. Easthies swallows his retorts—you had forced his hand, you weren't intending to move at all, was he supposed to let you freeze?—and takes the verbal lashing with a stiff spine and squared shoulders.

They take their leave at sunset. Easthies steps through the window way. The cool, sea air of the Hall rushes to greet him. Relief flushes through him from head-to-toe as he takes in the familiar sight of Vinanna's office. He doesn't turn to watch the window way close. The entire affair was cumbersome and unpleasant. He doesn't know how people can survive, much less thrive in such desolate conditions year-round. The biting cold crawls beneath even the thickest of layers. Perhaps the people's resilience to the gelid temperatures comes from being born and raised there. Easthies doesn't particularly care enough to find out.

He hopes his responsibilities bring him there as little as possible. He returns to his room and shrugs off the heavy furs, tossing them haphazardly onto the chair tucked into his desk. Unbidden, your teary-eyed face flashes to the forefront. He tsks. In this cumbersome affair, you were but a footnote. He doesn't expect to see you again.

—

Your lecture is today. Morning's foggy tendrils creep over the Great Hall's cobbled streets. Six in the morning is hardly a time to be waking, in your opinion, but today is the only day you'll have to endure it. You're also not sure if you could fall back asleep, even if you tried your very hardest. Nerves cause your stomach to churn. Briefly, you entertain the thought of cancelling the whole thing. It's more of a fantasy than a legitimate possibility. Word has already been spread that an elusive Frostfang has descended from the hellish north to deliver a lecture. Cancelling now would evoke the collective wrath of the Hall's witches.

You breeze into the lecture hall by 7:30, eyes heavy, an ache gnawing at your temples. It's a circular chamber, five descending, semi-circular tiers of benches surround the lectern at the very bottom. A massive chalkboard spans the entire back wall. A sliding latter is nestled to the leftmost side. Ambling down the steps, you dump the contents of your shoulder bag onto the lectern. You look back up to survey the chamber. It's well-lit, rectangular windows high up the walls ensure that there's decent air-flow. If you need to dim the chamber and focus on the chalkboard, there are curtains that can be drawn—heavy, red cloth and—Qifrey is here, standing in front of you.

You startle, a jolt of adrenaline pulsing down your spine.

"My apologies," Qifrey says, giving you a contrite smile, "I thought you saw me when you came in."

"It's fine," you huff, gathering yourself. You're more annoyed with yourself than anything, "Have you been here the whole time?"

"Since you arrived, yes," he replies, unmistakably apologetic. The entire time? Your mood sours. To be surprised by someone who wasn't even trying to hide—what were all those years of training even for? You exhale, settling your nerves by keeping your hands busy, pulling sheathes of parchment out of your bag.

"So," you glance up at him, meeting that cornflower gaze for but a moment. Your gut squirms. You look back down, "You'll be attending, then?"

"Of course," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. Sweet spring wind brushing over a hill of emerald green, river water over glittering icicles, the soft scent of linen, "I've been invested from the very beginning. It's only right that I see our hard work come to fruition, isn't it?"

"You're not obligated or anything," you assure him, palms beginning to sweat, "If you have something more important to do—"

"Believe me, there is nothing more important to me than being right here, watching you teach for the very first time," he replies, warm and kind because what else could he be? Patience of a long-suffering mother, generosity of a loving saint—

"Right. I'll try to not disappoint."

"You couldn't. Or, rather, I don't believe you will. You're always so confident when you talk about light," he says. Your hands still and press flat to the lectern. The wood is cool against your palms and fingers, grounding. It's unlike you to be so timid. Ivanov would laugh, if he could see you now, weak-kneed under the mere gaze of a man (and oh, it is a very gentle gaze), "To love the element of your focus so much… I'm almost envious."

—

The lecture goes well. You know your own work. When disseminating knowledge, that's most of the battle. Your explanations are concise and your points are clear. The room is completely full. This you had anticipated. Any lecture promoted by one of the Wise is bound to seize the attention of the entire Hall and its incessant gossip rings. Your status as inheritor of your professor's atelier and your position as leader of the Frostfang sect—all of it makes you a subject of intrigue and inspection for the cattle-brained witches who live here. At least one-hundred show up. You only seek the approval of one.

After three, grueling hours you dismiss the crowd. The chamber lights up in a flurry of motion, walls of billowing capes heading for the massive double doors at the entrance. A few younger witches, likely apprentices, go against the movement of the crowd. They flounce down the steps towards, eyes bright and keen.

"Professor Mooncrest—" one starts up, winding into a question.

"No, I'm sorry," you cut him off, shoving folders and binders into your bag, lips bunched into a frown, brows furrowed in concentration, "I won't be taking any further questions."

"Oh," he deflates. An upstart behind him frowns openly at you.

"Not even one?" she presses, "I had a question about the invisible spectrum—the infrared—"

Tch. These Great Hall witches and their entitlement. The girl before you is years your junior, so you temper the urge to give her a tongue-lashing. It isn't her fault. She's a product of this place and its lofty arrogance. The fact that her mentors haven't corrected her behavior is more a testament to them than it is to her.

"All of the answers are in the reading," you reply coolly. She blinks, as though she hadn't anticipated your refusal. You fasten the latches of your bag with frantic, dexterous fingers and sling it over your shoulder, "If you want to be spoonfed the answers, ask your professors. I have things to do and people to see," you shoulder your way through the small group.

These three hours have proven more exhausting than any mountainside patrol you've ever gone on. A newfound appreciation for your erstwhile mentor, the vile thing. How he ever managed the three of you and your endless queries, you do not know. A sickly feeling bubbles in the pit of your stomach as you step into the hall. The buildings hollowed corridors are elegiac and aged, all old stone and low torchlight. Rows of tall windows overlook the city below, winding buttresses and tall, reaching towers.

Qifrey stands in front of one, unreadable gaze cast towards the churning waves above. The blue light casts him pale and ethereal, a creature straight out of a painting. He turns upon your approach, lips curling into an easy smile.

"There you are," he meets you halfway. A few witches pass by, eyeing you both inquisitively, "I knew you would do well, but you still managed to surprise me."

"In a good way, I should hope," you lean your shoulder against the wall and cross your arms. The lecture is over, but some of the attendees linger. You tamper down the urge to whirl on them and glare, something ugly and violent pulsing beneath your skin.

"Yes, of course! Witches are all inquisitive types. I feared all of the questions might overwhelm you, but you handled each one with such acuity. I could have easily mistaken you for a seasoned professor. Have you ever considered teaching?" his gaze catches on something over your shoulder, before returning to you, "Oh dear. It seems like some of the attendees may still have questions…"

"Hm?" you look over your shoulder, craning your neck around. Huddled behind a sharp stone corner are the students you rebuked not even five minutes ago.

"Really, they just don't know when to quit," you click your tongue, giving them a nasty look. Clearly caught, they jolt and scramble out of sight. You sigh, "I'm getting out of here."

"Would you mind some company?" Qifrey asks, tilting his head.

"Nah," Like you could ever say "no" to him, "Come with me." You motion towards the other end of the hall with a jerk of your head.

The quarters afforded to you by Beldaruit also afford you perfect privacy. You can say this for certain because you swept it over for any listening contraptions on your first night. The room isn't yours, but Qifrey somehow still feels out of place. Like seeing a unicorn in the flour aisle of a general store. He's settled in one of the velveteen arm chairs, legs daintily crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"Have you ever considered teaching?" Qifrey repeats the question, softer this time.

"No, I don't really have the patience to deal with kids all the time," you shake your head. You sort through the meager belongings you've brought with you, brushes and scrolls and parchment, herbs for pain and tea for sleep. It's mostly to avoid making eye contact with him, "Or the time. Or the energy."

"I see. That's a very responsible of you," he says, softer now, "Dare I say the lives of many children would be better if everyone thought that way. You lead the Frostfang, don't you?"

"I do," your busy fingers pause over a bronze letter opener, finger delicately tracing over the cold flat of the blade, "Ivanov, another witch at the atelier, would like some. He's aiming to take the Fifth test within the next year."

"And how do you feel about that?" Qifrey tilts his head to the side, "Any students he takes under his wing will inevitably live under your same roof."

"I'm unsure," a lie, but how can you tell the truth without sounding cruel? Any children brought under your roof will also in part become your responsibility. They'll exist in your space and inevitably require some of your attention, as if you don't already have enough to do, "Ivanov and Belova will be adequate caretakers, I'm sure. Regardless, as captain, I'll have to evaluate them like I would any other apprentice. The selection process for potential members of the sect is particularly discerning."

"So I've heard," Qifrey says, lightly amused, "The brutal weather and your duties demand an extra amount of physical prowess, I assume."

"That's right. I can't in good conscience take in a child that is weak-willed or sickly. Their patrols will demand they trek several miles a day. Often over dangerous terrain. They'll very likely , at some point, be attacked by wolves or bandits or some other manner of beast," Another pen placed into one of the bag's inner pockets, a spare cloth, you pack them one-by-one, traces of your presence removed from the room, from the Hall, from the aged principles and dredge of this place.

"I'm sorry, did you say bandits?" he blinks at you, somewhat owlish.

"Yes. Witches are required to stay out of human affairs, but in the north, they sometimes come to us. They'll attack witches as easily as they'll attack anyone else."

"I see," he grimaces, "Raising a child in such a place… I imagine it's quite the task. Have the Frostfang ever considered raising the minimum age, or recruiting witches who have already graduated?"

"No. The skills required are one best learned young. Bringing a rookie with from the hall—it'd be like pulling a fish out of water," you scoff quietly, "A fish with no understanding of local tradition, and little attachment to the area," you dismiss the suggestion immediately, and then regret your curtness, looking back up at him with a contrite expression, "I understand your concern, but believe me when I say we look after our own."

"My apologies. It wasn't my intention to insinuate otherwise," he says, looking down at his hands, expression drawn by thought, "Years ago, when I myself was an apprentice, I couldn't stand living here. Loathed it, even," he continues. Delicate fingers carve aimless patterns across the delicate fabric covering his lap, nonsense shapes. You admire the delicate bend of his wrists, the shell of each trimmed nail, "More than once, I envied the Frostfang. The lives they lived seemed so free."

How different, your life might have been if Qifrey had been your senior. You can almost picture him, crowned by nascent snow, frost fur mantle around slender shoulders. His hands shaped around the pommel of a sword, or the length of a spear. Would he have noticed the signs with that keen eye?

There's no use in dwelling on what ifs. You'll only hurt yourself.

"An apprentice leaving the tutelage of one of the Wise to join the Frostfang? Gods,w hat a scandal it would have been," you remark.

"That it would," Qifrey agrees, smile wry and quiet, "Any witch who settles far from the hall is subject to rumor and scrutiny. If I had left to join the Frostfang, I imagine I would have never been able to show my face here again."

"The witches here only gossip and disdain those who leave. They never bother to think about what makes us leave in the first place."

"Indeed," he agrees, "Though, I don't have much of a right to complain. I imagine we have it much easier down here, untouched by the weather. There's no guaranteeing I would have been accepted, anyways. I could hardly imagine fending off bears now, much less than when I was a boy," he shakes his head, something nostalgic swimming in the cornflower blue of his gaze.

"I would have liked to see it," you tell him, redirecting your focus to the desk's remaining contents. Your fingers find an old fountain pen and toy with it. It's cool to the touch. Everything here is. The damp ocean layer coats everything in a slight chill. The brassy barrel catches in the warm lamplight, molten gold.

"At that age, I was all buck and brazen. Hardly a shred of common sense—and what a temper! I'm certain I would have made a fool of myself."

You hear him shift, the soft rustle of warm cotton. What does he smell like? Would he let you get that close? Under all of those billowing, silvery layers? Your hand curls into a fist at your side.

"That kind of spirit counts for something, up north," you tell him, "And it would have been nice, I think. You would have been a few years my senior. We might have patrolled together." You might have noticed. You might have helped me.

You look away.

"That particular opportunity might have passed us by, but the world is rife with others," Qifrey assures you, "I'll be bringing my apprentices up north, this winter. Would you do the honor of showing us around?

You blink rapidly, "Of course. You can stay in our atelier," the reply comes automatically, pulse thundering in your ears. A thrill rolls through your stomach.

Qifrey seems taken by surprise by the offer, "Are you certain? I wouldn't want to impose…"

"Yes, I'm sure. Our atelier is massive," you sit back and fold your hands over your lap, chasing the tension from your shoulders, "It was too big even when our professor was still alive."

"Well, that's much appreciated! It saves me the trouble of securing a place to stay," he brightens visibly, lines under his eyes crinkling with his grin.

"I'm only repaying you for your help earlier," you assure him, very coolly and normally. If you act at all unlike yourself while he's visiting, Ivanov and Belova will immediately take notice, and thusly make fun of you forever. Taking this trip solo has caused you to let your guard down. If you hope to keep your sanity during his visit, you'll have to reign in these ghastly feelings.

He shakes his head, ignorant to your woes.

"Your work intrigued me prior to our meeting," he assures you, "If anything, I now owe you twice-over. But, ah," he glances at the clock on the nearby mantle, its spindly hands crawling closer to 2, "Unfortunately, I still have a meeting I may very well be late for."

"Then what are you wasting time on me for?" you stand, intending to see him to the door, catching him by surprise as you plant your palms against his shoulder blades, shepherding him from your chambers. His boots scuff against the polished wooden floor. It's probably for the best that you cut this interaction off as soon as possible. Getting some distance from him should right cure you of this horrid malady, these feelings.

"Believe me, I can very well afford to be late!" he says, making a soft, amused sound—a gentle stuttering of his breath, too light to be a laugh, "In fact, it may do some good for my correspondent's ego."

He lets you push him over the door's threshold, turning to face you with a staggering little step, fond smile creasing his lips. Again, you find yourself disarmed. You clutch the door knob, leaning against the frame. All of your gusto leaves you, faced with the notion of parting before you've sunk your fangs in deep. It's an instinctual, gut feeling. One that rises unbidden, "Until next time, Professor Moonglade. Safe travels home."

"Until next time," the words find their way out of your dry mouth. You trace the curve of his nose, quirk of his mouth, trying to commit each feature to memory—an admiration both artistic and animal. You watch him all the way down the hall, figure in swishing white, a ghost in and out of your life. If not for his handwriting in your notes, you might have assumed him a mere delusion.

—

Qifrey wonders if this all, in fact, has been an enormous waste of time. His feet trek the familiar path to Beldaruit's quarters. The winding labyrinth unfurls before him, every cobblestone and notch in the aged stone still known to him. The years away haven't even made a dent in his muscle memory. He doesn't feel relieved, knowing that. He slips through the gauzy curtains in the entryway. The soft scent of incense and tea lingers in the air.

"Ah," Beldaruit brightens. His smile drags the aged lines beneath his eyes long. Qifrey is old enough to know that there is an inevitable sense of dread behind that glee. Every visit he makes is another reminder that he has yet to give up chasing old ghosts, that despite the years he remains that same contumacious boy, "There you are. I was about to come fetch you myself… Wiling the hours away with our Frostfang friend, were you?" he asks, tone rife with insinuation.

Qifrey does not smile. He does not find his former mentor's attempts at levity cute, "It was fine, she proved an exceptional teacher," he replies coolly, "I suspect she would have done well enough without my help."

"And yet, you insisted on assisting her," Beldaruit says, countenance giving way to quiet contemplation. Now that he has reckless his own reckless apprentices, he finds himself understanding Beldaruit in ways that evaded him before. These discussions feel, uncomfortably, like he is looking out at himself through the other's eyes, watching himself sprint to burn out, desperation palpable. The understanding does not soothe him. Beldaruit cups the point of his chin in his palm, eyelids lowering, "You've discovered nothing of import—" he observes, "and you're upset about it. I knew I shouldn't have allowed you two to meet."

"Allowed me?" Qifrey scoffs, "I will go where I please, thank you very much! I came to investigate of my own volition."

"You needn't tell me that. I am painfully aware that I hold no sway over what you do or where you go," Beldaruit laments, "I only regret that you came all this way, only to be disappointed."

Qifrey holds his gaze for a moment, and sees nothing but truth reflected in those gentle greys. He takes in a breath, forcing the tight, angry line of his shoulders to relax. He lifts his chin when he says, "I still believe it possible that Gavrill Korolyov was involved with the Brimhats, if not one himself."

Beldaruit's mouth balls up like a fist. The mention of his erstwhile friend calls a flicker of guilt to briefly haunt his expression. In that moment, he looks older than he ever has, weighed by burdens uncountable. Qifrey by now is an expert in delivering unfortunate news with tact, but to do so with Beldaruit would be a disservice. Let the pain be laconic.

"…I believe you may be right," Beldaruit's fingers weave together atop his lap, "Never will I forgive myself for allowing that man to commit such terrible, repugnant crimes."

"You were bed-bound and hundreds of furloughs away," Qifrey says, softening despite himself, "You saw him but twice a year. How could you have known?"

"I am one of the Wise," Beldaruit says, voice aching something tender, something pained, "It is my duty to correct where others err, to notice what the flock does not, to protect the children we witches guide down the path of mastery. I should have noticed. Do not seek to absolve me of that," it is said quietly, yet firmly. A command. The first his professor has issued him in a long while.

"…I'll be visiting the Moonglade Atelier within the month," Qifrey says, glad to change the subject. He may often disagree with Beldaruit, but he has no desire to cause him any pain. He will investigate the potential dealings Gavrill Korolyov had with the Brimhats. To burden Beldaruit with such a task… it doesn't sit right with him, "I intend to bring my apprentices there, later in the year. If there is any evidence of wrongdoing, I will find it."

"Whether you will report your findings to me, though, remains entirely uncertain," Beldaruit remarks, lips quirking, wryly and painfully amused.

"I wouldn't withhold closure from you," Qifrey says softly. This is a lie. Not one made of malice. He can't tell whether Beldaruit believes him or not. Despite all of the years they have known each other, the old man evades him even now.

The back of Beldaruit's head thumps lightly against his pillows, silvery hair fanning out a mess, "You're pitying me, now," he accuses. Is he pouting?

Qifrey levels him with a flat look, "No—"

"No, it's alright," Beldaruit waves his hand, already resigned to it, "Pity this old, frail man to your heart's desire."

"The last thing I feel for you is pity!" Qifrey bristles. He resists the urge to lash out, reminding himself that he is no longer a boy, that to be so easily provoked would make him no better than the squabbling apprentice he had once been, "Forget it. Forget I said anything at all," he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. It is unfathomable that one of the Wise and a seasoned witch cannot hold a conversation that doesn't devolve into meaningless argument. They push and pull, and in the end, all they ever manage to do is get on each other's nerves.

Beldaruit levels him with a calm gaze. A moment passes in delicate silence, before the conversation is redirected.

"If you really mean to travel up north, exercise the utmost caution," Beldaruit says. There is no shred of humor to the warning. Qifrey has heard descriptions of what happens at the continent's northernmost tip. He's visited all but once, during the peak of summer, when the snow-melt left the lowland forests flooded. That was ten years ago, maybe more. The memories are washed in golden haze, bathed in the scent of pine and grass, "The weather will be turning when you arrive, and there is truly nothing that can prepare you for that devastating cold," he continues. A shiver wracks his shoulders at the mere memory, "That goes doubly for your young apprentices."

Qifrey grimaces. He knows well how quickly the cold sets into a younger, smaller body. Wisps of the past threaten to surface from the recesses of his memory. The smell of stale stone, the chill of the rain— he shoves it all down. A nasty retort dwells on the tip of his tongue, but he very mercifully withholds it.

"I'm well aware, thank you," he nods, casting a glance towards the door, "…That was all I came to report. Is there anything else you need of me?"

"No, not now," Beldaruit sighs, "Be well, Qifrey, stay safe… and please, do not forget to write."

—

Afternoon creeps into early evening. You leave tonight. You'll travel via window-way and then take the hour-long reindeer ride back to the atelier. Most would hesitate to make such a trek in the dark, but most are not you—primary taker of nighttime patrols, captain of the Frostfang witches. Being cooped up in the high towers of the Hall have rendered you restless, legs twitching with the urge to climb, to run, to move. It'll take at least a full day of fresh air to flush the sickly sea scent from your lungs.

Against your better senses, you make the climb to the secluded outcropping you visited with Qifrey a mere few days ago. You climb the narrow staircases and slip through the pathways, cobblestone uneven yet still too smooth beneath your boots. You managed to resist the urge to bring a bottle of wine with you, but upon reaching your destination, you fear you may very well need it.

A tall, familiar figure stands close to the edge, gazing into the sea of dark stone structures and orange lights, flickering lanterns fighting the canopy's perpetual gloom. Inky black hair slicks down the long crimson cloak, silvery shoulder pads catching the distant light.

"You're in my spot," you accuse Easthies, without any heat. He doesn't turn to regard you as you approach. Standing shoulder to shoulder, you cast a long look up at his profile, the lines under his eyes, the cut of his nose, pout of pale lips. He's frowning, as he is wont to do. One of the very few things that hasn't changed in the years since you first met him.

"You're not here enough to have a 'spot'. Do you even remember the last time you visited the Great Hall?" he replies dryly.

"Well, you've got me there," you relent, shoving your hands into your pockets. Easthies turns to look down at you, brows setting into a firm, downwards angle.

"You still don't wear your cap," he observes, disapproval etched firm into his expression.

"They're still dorky," you dismiss him, "Everyone here is a witch, anyways."

"You should still wear it," he tells you, "Every generation of witches before you has, without exception."

You ignore his nagging, "Did you think about my offer?" you ask instead, eager to change the subject. His nose wrinkles. His indigence smooths into his regular bitterness.

"No, I'm not going to fuck you," he says, deadpan.

"Gods," you sigh, beginning your lament, "You really do hate me, don't you? Was it the letters? Were they too much? Not enough?" you rub your closed eyes with your forefinger and thumb, attempting to scrub away some of the day's fatigue. Talking to Easthies is nice. You don't need to filter yourself around him. He takes whatever you drop onto his lap and throws is back at you, no exceptions. He's fun to needle only because he hits back.

"I don't think about you enough to hate you," he replies dryly, turning to look back out into the city. Silence settles between you. An easy kind of quiet. It doesn't matter how long it's been since you last saw him. You slip back into the familiar rhythm with an ease that, when you really think about it, unnerves you. Maybe he feels the same, because he breaks it but a moment later, "I heard about the lecture you gave."

"Oh?" you side-eye him, raising a brow.

He meets your gaze, "And who worked you collaborated with."

"Oh," you go. Then, with purposeful hope, "Are you jealous?"

He scoffs, as though cruelly amused by the possibility. Him, jealous? No, never, "No, I'm worried about you two influencing innocent witches with your ridiculous, dangerous ideals. You get away with as much as you do because you're so isolated. The moment you begin to infect others—"

You snort, cutting him off before he can work himself into another rules-crazed frenzy, "Believe me, the only person I wanna spread ideas to is you." You nudge him with your elbow, pressing your forearm into the side of his body. He's slender underneath all his clothes. He doesn't seem amused, but he does not try to move you, or move away from you.

"Don't worry. I'll be out of your hair in like an hour," you assure him, looking back to the city, "Maybe even less, depending on when they get the window way up…"

"Give your colleagues my regards," Easthies says quietly, "And don't give me a reason to come up there."

You hum in quiet acknowledgement. The fabric of his uniform is cool and smooth against your cheek. It's nice, that you met Easthies before he became the person he is now. Useful. If you hadn't gotten to know him so early, you imagine you would be under even more scrutiny, forced to appease his strict, intrusive standards on what a witch should do and should be. You wonder, briefly, if he still thinks of you as the small, quavering child he dug out of the snow. You hope he does. It'll be easier to sink a knife into his back when the time comes.

He stands there for a minute, at least. Mydei is more patient than most give him credit for. If his disposition was as ferocious as the Okhemans claimed, he would have a truly intolerable temper.

Luckily, most opinions regarding him are based on hearsay. Mydei does not raise his voice to get your attention. He simply says your name, soft as a caress. Always so gentle with you.

You look up from the text. You'd been reading the same three passages over and over, unable to concentrate with him looming large in the corner.

"Yes, my dearest?" you croon, sickly sweet. The corners of his lips twitch into a small frown.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks, and he sounds wearier than before. And what right does he have, tireless immortal that he is? What right does he have to exhaustion after strong-arming you into this twisted facsimile of a relationship?

Your countenance betrays none of your growing irritation. Starting an argument wouldn't be worth the breath. And as irritated as you are, you don't quite want him to leave. Mydei is a peculiar poison–an addictive substance you've yet to purge from your life (and likely wouldn't be able to). He's tactless. He's forceful. But he's also, unfortunately and inevitably, quite the specimen.

And as far as men go, you could do worse. He doesn't confine you to the house all day. He doesn't monitor your every waking hour. When he isn't around, it's easy to pretend that you live alone. That you're a citizen like any other, living a regular, boring life.

But if you stay out for too long, he'll hunt you down. If you dare venture outside of city lines, he'll drag you back by the scruff of your neck–and then breathe down it for the next few days. Suffocate you with his presence, not let you out of his sight until he's sure the lesson sticks.

"Oh, who knows... I have such trouble sleeping when you're not around," you blink at him with big doe eyes, lashes fluttering. Time is difficult to track when the sun never sets. Even if it has been a few days–who can tell? Who's even counting?

He sighs, and takes another daring step into your chambers. He crosses the breadth of the room and shuts the heavy curtains, blotting the sunlight out.

"Mydei, I was trying to read."

"It's time for you to sleep," he says, simple as that.

"What?" you ask, face falling flat. You tip-tap your fingers against the surface of your desk, resisting the urge to sock him in the jaw.

"Was I not clear enough?" His brow furrows. He looks at you like you're the unreasonable one, here.

"You can't seriously be trying to set a bedtime for me, Mydei," you lean back in your seat, regard him blatantly.

"You have no one but yourself to blame," Mydei insists. "When you neglect your health like this, you leave me no choice but to step in."

"Is that so. Did it ever occur to you that I might have trouble sleeping... because of you?" you drawl. There's a tic in his jaw, now, but he lets you continue because he's sweet like that. He could grab you by the jaw and pop your head like a grape with his bear hands. But he doesn't.

"Let's be clear. The obsession you have with me is one-sided. You try to be a gentleman about it, but..." you trail off pointedly. "That can't last forever, right? One day," you lick your lips. Boldly. In clear view of him. Your blood thunders in your ears. "You'll lose control and rape me, Mydeimos."

He flares to life instantly, eyes flying wide. "I would never–" he begins, voice heavy, fervent, wounded.

"You'll rape me, Mydeimos," you repeat, dig the metaphorical blade deeper. Put it right between the ribs. You can't kill him, but you'll sure as hell make him hurt. "You'll hold me down and huff and growl like the beast you are and you won't even care–" Oh, and you can see the impact of each word, etched into his face, into his body language. He gets tenser with every moment, sampling a portion of the anxiety you've endured since crossing paths with him those months ago.

"You're–"

"I'll bleed all over the sheets. You'll rip me open but you won't care, you'll lap all that up too," you continue, sweat beating on your brow, rolling down your temple. "You'll grind me into pulp and swallow the bloody, cum-stained mess you leave–"

His hand slaps over your mouth. Not hard enough to rattle you. But solid. Firm.

"Stop. Talking," he breathes. "This impression of me that you have, I..." he trails off. He has the nerve to sound pained, to look nauseous. He takes in a deep breath, then, gathering himself. "I'll leave you be, for now. But–" His hand drops from your mouth.

"Don't," you hiss.

"I would never force myself upon you. I need you to know that," you can feel the piercing gold of his leonine gaze on you, searching for the eye contact. He wants some sort of moment of understanding between you both. He wants you to believe him and see that belief written across your face, in your eyes. Disgusting. "I swear it to you." he says as he steps away.

You're staring up at the brumous skies with eyes glazed and half-open. Your gaze wobbles over to him as he steps into the clearing. That's how he knows your alive.

"You poor thing," he coos. He stands next to you and bends over to get a closer look, lifting his umbrella over you. The raindrops batter against the dark, cherry red satin. "Are you all alone out here?"

He wonders if you're even lucid enough to answer. But then you nod. He smiles. Bares his teeth. You blearily eye his sharpened canines. Long, ivory needles built for piercing and holding. You eye them wearily, perhaps too exhausted to make any show of fear. A bed of dead, brown leaves surrounds your vulnerable body like a chipped old photo frame.

"Alright, then," he says, bending down. "Let's get you somewhere safe and warm." It's a task to pluck you from the ground while also keeping a hold of his umbrella, but he manages. You breathe quietly against his chest. Your face presses into his shoulder. "I imagine you've been through quite the ordeal. Rest, now. You have nothing to fear from me."

You're limp and silent all the way home.

—

Blade is home. Jing Yuan can tell by the coat slung over the rack by the door. It's a dark, fine thing made of heavy wool, with shiny copper buttons. A simple, yet elegant garment that Jing Yuan selected specifically because of how well it suits his frame.

Somewhere on the road home, you passed out. You're still breathing. The pulse of your heartbeat remains strong and steady, each soft thud beckoning instincts he's long tamed Alive you may be, but still wet and cold. He won't be surprised if you come down with a cold or some other mortal malady. It wouldn't do to have you spoil before you can be savored. If all unfolds according to plan, you have quite an indispensable future within their household. He abandons his umbrella at the door, not willing to put you down quite yet.

The main living area is a chasm of a room. It's cathedral ceilings are coal-colored. A tiered, wagon-wheel chandelier hangs from the ceiling, scarcely used. It's made of purely dark metal. Bookshelves line the innermost wall. leave room for a mezzanine view of the second floor. The furniture is all dark wood and and fine upholstery. Dark cherry reds mingle with warm golds and oranges. Blankets thrown over the backs of the arm chairs and pillows littered on the ground give the room a lived-in feeling.

Blade is splayed out on the loveseat, an arm slung over his eyes. At the sound of Jing Yuan's unsubtle entry, he sits up. His candlewick gaze rests on the bundle in Jing Yuan's arms, before looking up a this face.

"What is that?" he asks.

Jing Yuan heads deeper into the house, intent on ferrying you to a warm-bath post-haste.

"I stumbled across a poor, innocent kitten left out in the rain," Jing Yuan replies as he passes by. Blade hums in reply. He makes no move to follow. Which is no trouble. There don't need to be any context clues or clear explanations just yet. The red-hot stare he digs into Jing Yuan's back already betrays his interest.

—

When you wake up, it is in a room that is not your own. Awareness trickles back in. The memory of what had happened—your ill-fated excursion, the man who stumbled upon you half-conscious in the forest, being hefted into unfamiliar arms—comes back in a slow trail of images and sounds, one bleeding into the next. Where are you, now? Who has taken you into their home? A cursory inspection of your surroundings, and yourself provides you with a few vague clues.

They had bathed and redressed you. Your jeans and jacket are nowhere in sight. The pajama shirt they've shoved you into is warm and oversized, cream-colored fabric smooth against your bare skin. The trousers, too, don't belong to you. But they're of equally fine make. Your panties, as far as you can tell, are your own. There's no other sign of your belongings, not on the nightstand, nor the nearby bookshelf, nor the small seating area you can just barely see over the foot of the massive bed.

You shut your eyes, head already spinning.

The doorknob jostles. Your entire body strings taut, pulse spiking heavy in your ears. The door creaks open. The intruder(?) sets one foot into the room, floorboards creaking beneath steady footfalls.

"You're awake," the voice says. It's deep and smooth as molasses, warm with unconcealed warmth.

Caught, you open your eyes and face the man who rescued you. He's a handsome fellow with a mane of thick, greyish-white hair. It collapses over his shoulders in smooth waves. The rogue strands which curl outwards somehow feel styled. He has a lot of hair, you then realize upon spotting the ponytail he sports. Another entire column of it is tied with red ribbon, cascading over the broad frame of his shoulders and down his back, where you cannot see. He's dressed finely, a in pale robe with gold, patterned trim. The pearlescent sleeves are wide and flowing. The garment is cinched at the waist by a red sash light.

He's ethereally handsome. A kind of pale, uncanny perfection lingers in every aspect of his face, from the curve of his nose to the gentle upturn of his eyes when he smiles. And those teeth… You can see them now, as he speaks.

"Did you have a good rest?"

"…Yes, I think so,"

"Good. You seemed like you really needed it, poor thing," he says, sweet and smooth. It should offend you, but it doesn't. It just makes your gut squirm with a strange sort of heat. You shift uncomfortably beneath the covers, drawing your legs closer to yourself. "My name is Jing Yuan. You're in my home. I came across you while I was out for a walk. You were in quite a state. How are you feeling, now?"

"Better," you swallow.

"Good, very good," he says, and lets the silence sit between you. His golden gaze slowly traces your expression, slides down the column of your neck to reach your chest—mercifully covered by the blankets. "If you don't mind me asking, what were you doing out there all alone?"

"I was just… taking a walk," you murmur.

"Taking a walk on… private property?" he tilts his head to the side, still smiling. You swallow nervously, "You had to climb over a gate to reach the spot where I found you. Seems like an excessive amount of effort for just 'a walk'."

"I-I don't…" your fingers twitch atop the blankets, gaze dropping from his handsome face. Your temples throb as you wade backwards in memory, trying to recall what exactly motivated you to climb that fence. The cold, is what comes back to you first. The winds whipping your cheeks raw and your eyes teary. You'd been running from something—but what exactly it was evades you. Which is quite strange. And frustrating, given that it'd only happened… yesterday? A few days ago? How long have you been unconscious for?

"My apologies—I'm not upset with you," he shakes his head with a smile, "If anything, I'm glad someone besides myself was getting use out of those old trails. But for you to wind up like that… you must have ran quite a distance," he tilts his head to the side, a silent question.

You swallow nervously. "Something was chasing me. I can't remember what."

"Oh?" his face softens, "How scary, that must have been."

"Yeah… It was," you confess. Admitting it aloud takes a weight off your shoulders, for some reason. You decide not to think about all of it, anymore. You should be safe here, shouldn't you? A rich person like him… he should have security or something, right?

"Well, you needn't worry. Nothing can reach you, here," he soothes,

You blink at him several times in rapid succession. "Sir, I, uhm—"

"Please, just call me Jing Yuan," he says, "You'll remind me of my years if you call me 'sir'." he shakes his head with that same molasses smile, a glint of mischief in his one, visible eye.

"Jing Yuan," you say, testing how the name feels in your mouth. His grin widens, pleased. "Thank you for helping me out. I probably would've died if you hadn't been there," you shiver. The idea of death has never overly frightened you. All that waits you there is oblivion. There won't be any space to fear or hurt, because you won't exist anymore at all. But facing it down for real—staring up at the churning clouds and feeling it come close—had been something else entirely. "And I'm really grateful for everything… but I should probably get going, now."

He looks at you with deep sympathy.

"I would much like to personally escort you home myself, but the forecast says that we're due a horrible storm tonight. I wouldn't want you getting caught out in that kind of weather a second time," he informs you.

He comes closer. His steps are slow and measured as he ventures to your bedside. At his approach, some ancient and long-neglected instinct lights up in your hindbrain. You bundle your knees to your chest and press back into the headboard. He pauses to give you another pitying look.

"I mean you no harm," he says, softer this time. Like he's handling a skittish animal, "Going through all of that and then waking up in a strange place, only to be greeted by a strange man… you've been through quite the ordeal. I assure you, though, you are safe as long as you remain under my roof."

A beautiful man insisting you enjoy an extended stay within his lavish manor sounds nice on paper, less so in real life. What does he want from you? Is your immediate and most pressing query. Your organs? Your body? It certainly can't be your money. The questions rattle around your head. Restless qualms about your future return alongside your newfound wakefulness. Even if you were able to leave, where would you even go…?

You are rife with unease, palms beginning to sweat. The blankets which shield him from his feline gaze suddenly become sweltering.

"I wouldn't want to impose," you say instead.

He smiles again, not even trying to hide his fangs. Why would he? He has nothing to fear from you, and you have nowhere to run. He's an apex predator in the comfort of his own territory, and you are a field mouse darting between tall grass and reeds.

He brings his hand up to press against your forehead. And it strikes you then, how big his hands really are, and how easily he could wrap one around your throat. You go stock-still.

The touch is shockingly cool. If you were less awake, perhaps you could blame it on your lingering fever.

You're almost certain you know what he is. It's a laughably obvious conclusion, yet one you refuse to speak aloud.

For the moment you acknowledge it, it will become real. And when it becomes real, you fear that you will have to confront it in some way.

Jing Yuan, if he notices your discomfort, doesn't say anything about it. He's still smiling, and when he speaks to you again, his voice is calm and even.

He tracks them manually, a hound on the hunt. They’ve left behind footprints and breakages in the underbrush. Drops of water roll off the lush strands of overgrown ferns and hedges. The paths here are clotted by creeping branches. Grass has grown over most of the trail, indicating a lack of use. If he were a normal man, perhaps he would wonder what’s happened to the goodly people of Seanmhair, but he isn’t. So he doesn't think of anything besides the fading scent of his prey.

The trail leads down a small slope where a fat river churns. Several smaller streams run parallel to it. Beyond the banks on the other side looms a great and vast wreckage. It is the ruins of a town, stained dark with water. Its brick structures have been gutted. The metal skeletons of several larger buildings have rusted over.

He stands at the bank of the river. This is where the scent disperses. They most likely crossed, and the water washed away the trail. It is frustrating, but it does not render his task impossible. His gaze wanders to the shallowest parts of the river, where stones and broken branches tangle together, and makes out the unmistakable shape of a person caught on the remains of a toppled tree trunk. Floating motionlessly, tattered clothes pulled by the current.

They don’t move when he approaches the bank. The water is bitterly cold. It sloshes around his calves and soaks him to the bone. The material of his pants sticks to his legs. His hair has long become soaked and flattened against his skin. Fat raindrops slap against the rushing water. The weather shows no signs of clearing. He makes his way beyond the unfortunate lost soul and reaches the deepest point. He’s up to his waist, now.

His sole goal is to reach the other end and continue the search. His prey cannot have gone far.

A soft, agonized cry splits the air. The sound zaps at a long untouched, instinctual part of him. The alpha is known for bearing its teeth and quarreling for dominance, but it also covets the safety of its inferiors. Ancient instincts, written into the biological fabric of his belong, move him.

He pivots towards the source of the sound, trudging through the silt and mud at the river’s bottom to reach you, the poor, waterlogged thing he assumed to be a corpse. You can barely lift your head up. Too weak to make another sound, even a whimper, as he reaches you. He looms over you. The water washes away your scent. It should be impossible for him to tell, but somehow, someway, he knows that you are an omega. You look up at him with big, bleary eyes. When he wraps his arms around you and heaves you into his chest, you make not a sound. Too weak and weary to do anything but stare into the distance. Your gaze is glassy. He’s not sure if you can even see him.

He wades through the current and emerges on the other side.

—

There are a few things he has to get in order. First, he finds shelter in one of the sturdier abandoned structures and manages to light a fire. He does not have any plush bedding to swaddle you in, no plumped-up pillows. The old, yet dry tarp he finds rolled up in one of the corners will have to do. He lays you on top of it and peels your clothes off, layer by layer.

Your shirt comes first. He spreads it out in front of the flames. A whimper cracks out of your chest as he reaches for you again. Your hand, cold and shaking, weakly grips his wrist.

“Let me,” he murmurs, “You will catch your death in these clothes. I won’t do anything… untoward.”

Next comes your trousers, your underwear. You are bared to him inch-by-inch. He doesn’t stop to drink in the sight. He does not have the time. You are cold, your body wracked with shivers. The sight again strikes something in his chest that he thought dead. Embers to spur old, forgotten instincts alive. He wraps you in the tarp and nudges you closer to the fire.

His own clothes come next. If he had not stumbled across you, he would have continued to trek in them. But you are freezing, and the fire alone will not be enough to warm you. The mara which strains at the underside of his skin provides constant, feverish heat. You’ve squeezed your eyes shut.

Once he is bare, he peels open the tarp. Your eyes shoot open. They go wide as dinner plates, and another whimper rattles from your chest. On weak arms, you attempt to scramble backwards, but he seizes you by the hips and pulls you to his chest. A sob cracks out of you. The knotted root that has replaced his heart seizes at the sound, but he doesn’t release you. You squirm and beat a fist against his chest.

The fight leaves you very quickly. Your breathing is loud and quick. Hyperventilating, he realizes. Panicking. The sour scent of omega distress salts the air. It makes his nose wrinkle, stings him with the urge to soothe.

“I’m keeping you warm,” he rasps. For the first time, his voice seems to reach you. You squint up at him. The fog of looming death is relinquishing its grip on your senses. Your eyes are a little clearer.

“That’s… it?” you say, voice a disbelieving croak.

“That’s it,” he confirms quietly. He nudges his arm below your head, makes a pillow out of his bicep. His other arm wraps around your side. Your skin is cool and damp to the touch. His calloused palm rubs up and down the trembling length of your back. The friction will help warm you. “Rest.”

You tuck against his chest, cheek pressed over the space where his heart would be. Every possible inch of your naked skin is pressed together. It stirs something inside of him. Animal satisfaction hums behind his closed eyelids, as if he has fulfilled some indispensable, animal need. The incessant buzzing of the mara grows quiet, drowned out by the rain, the soft wheezes which rattle from your lungs.

He does not sleep. He rests.

The rations he brought with him have remained dry, in their plastic packaging. He cracks one of them open and holds it out for you. Your hands are still shaking, but you’ve warmed significantly. Your clothes are halfway dry. After ensuring you would not catch your death of cold, he shrugged his back on. You take a bite and chew. The dead look in your eyes still lingers. You harbor a bone-deep sort of weariness. Resignation wears into your features, rendering you small and gaunt, hunched in on yourself.

“Denizens of Abundance landed on this planet not long ago,” he breaks the quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

“Is that what those monsters are called? They threw me into the river…” you mumble. It is only then that he realizes just how little you know. Are the people of Seanmhair even aware of the power that exist outside of their atmosphere? Do they know that traveling the cosmos is indeed possible? A picture of the people who once inhabited this place begins to form. A less advanced population, who had no clue about the dangers beyond the sky until it was too late.

A flare of righteous indignation suddenly bites at him. The creatures who put their hands on you will suffer, he decides, even at the cost of efficiency.

He is starting to feel too much. He’s spent years blanketed in nothingness. A tool has no need for righteous anger or gentle sympathies. How odd, that they be spurred now. Is this the power of an omega? To move him from "thing" to "beast"?

“Do you know where they are now? I’ve come to eradicate them. Every last one,” Blade informs you. Perhaps, this will serve as some form of comfort.

“They’ve been here for a while,” you shrug, “They live at Glasvain.”

A while? They’ve been using this planet as a foothold, then. A base of operations as they conduct their raids on other, nearby worlds. In attempting to flee, they’ve led him straight to their hive. This mission will bear more fruit than initially expected. Jing Yuan, and the council of fools he often grapples with will be pleased.

“Are you able to lead me to this Glasvain?” he asks. “After the rain stops.”

You look at him strangely, then. Through squinting eyes. Your mouth goes slack, eyebrows nettled in an incredulous expression.

“You… the rain won’t stop,” you tell him, “It’s been raining for the past twenty years. I can’t even remember what it was like before it started–who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I am Blade. I came from the Xianzhou Luofu,” he says, soaking in all you have said, “I’m here to hunt the monsters that attacked you. Are they also responsible for what’s happened to this place?”

“...No. People started leaving after the rain started. I’m the only one who lives here now,” you murmur. “I live on the far side. But I’ll probably have to leave soon. The river you found me in–it wasn’t there a few days ago. It’s flooding fast.”

“And will you lead me to Glasvain?” he repeats, since you hadn’t answered the first time.

“Yeah. It’s not far,” you say, staring into the fire. You curl into yourself, tug the tarp as tight as you can. Another shiver rolls through you. He’s not keeping you warm enough, he thinks, but attempting to rectify the problem would only frighten you. The acidic smell of your fear died down after it became clear that he meant no harm. He has no desire to betray this small measure of confidence you’ve placed in him.

—

Your home is a small, brick building placed on the border between town and the vast emerald field beyond it. It is almost a perfect cube with a gabled roof. You shove the door open–it’s been left unlocked. The inside is small and homey. A mugs and books and various miscellaneous items sit atop the chipped fireplace and coffee table. The embroidered curtains are shut.

He has to hunch to enter. He stands in the foyer while you bustle to a small hallway in the back. Your scent, soft and clear as earth after rain, sticks to every surface. A few picture frames rest on a dusty shelf. The worn leather spines which crowd wall-to-wall are labeled in a language he cannot read. Pillows and clothes are piled on a loveseat. He can’t blame you for the mess. He wouldn’t care to clean either, with no prospective visitors. Alone in a world in the middle of its apocalypse.

You’re in new clothes when you re-emerge. Blade parts his lips, whets his palette with your scent. The shadow of the hallway is dark behind you. It makes you look smaller, somehow. You hover uncertainly, as though you had forgotten he was here. There’s a spooked look in your eyes. Have you just now realized the potential consequences of inviting a strange alpha into your den?

For you, this afternoon has been one extended rush of adrenaline and sensation. One terrible thing happening to you after the other, all while mired in a dying world. The danger has passed. You’re exiting survival mode. Giving yourself space to think. Space to fear. You’re fortunate that he’s the one who found you, he thinks.

“We… it’s getting dark out,” you inform him, “We’ll stay here, tonight. I can dry your clothes, if you want. And I have some food. If you’re hungry.”

Blade blinks mutely at you. He doesn’t know if he should tell you that he doesn’t get “hungry”. Consuming organic matter speeds up his regeneration. He shakes his head. After an extended period of silence, you cautiously pad over to the couch. You perch there, baggy pants crinkling as you draw your legs up to your chest, taking up as little room as possible.

Quiet blankets the room yet again. He stands in front of the door. Hovers like a ghost. It takes you about five minutes to grow tired of his awkward looming. You tell him he can sit.

“What happened to this world?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable. He takes up residence on the loveseat opposite from you, ensuring you have a full view of him.

“Started to rain real hard,” you croak miserably.

“And what caused the rain?”

“I don’t know. Most of it happened before I was born,” you begin, tracing the fabric of the sofa with a finger. “It had something to do with mining. They were mining and–and they found something. It came up through the earth. The people in charge seemed to change after that. The companies in charge hired more and more people. Until there was no one left that wanted to work–so they started making people do it.”

“There was an uprising. It started raining after that. Everything fell apart. Or maybe it’d fallen apart when they first found… whatever they found. I still don’t know what exactly caused the rain. Mama and Papa didn’t like to talk about it much,” you shiver, and draw in on yourself. “I saw some pictures. I don’t blame them.”

“Mm,” Blade acknowledges, drawing in the information with half-lidded eyes. It’s a vague, secondhand summarization of events, but it still helps paint a picture. By the state of this place, and the fact that you are alone, he assumes that your parents have either abandoned you or passed away. The dead state of this town and Glasvain indicate that this world, or this part of the world, has become rapidly depopulated. It makes sense, then, that the Denizens of Abundance would find it a fitting resting ground. With no natives, they can come and go undisturbed.

His train of thought is broken as you shift in your seat. You want to say something. Your lips press together, expression stormy. Blade grows tired of the silence after a few moments. If you want something, you only need to ask.

“Speak, child,” he commands. He keeps his voice soft for you.

“I can… hang your clothes to dry,” you finally say. “If-if you want. It just… I thought you might be uncomfortable. Sitting in them.”

His clothes, damp and cold, cling to his skin in way that a mortal, flesh and blood man would certainly find uncomfortable. He’s no longer concerned with his own comfort, but he cannot help but be amused. By you. By the situation.

“You invite a strange man into your home, and then you ask him to strip naked,” Blade says, wryly amused. “You play dangerous games, girl. How have you managed to survive this long?”

And then, you surprise him. The space between your brows wrinkles, and your hands curl into fists. The corners of your lips twitch into a churlish frown. Ah. He's upset you.

“You think I don’t know? Of course I know how dangerous this is!” you snap, “If you were gonna do anything, you would have done it already,” you rapidly lose steam as you continue, pointed rage dissolving into lost, disjointed rambling. “Even if you were a bad person, I–you’re the first real person I’ve seen in months. And I can’t keep talking to myself anymore.” you continue, voice pitching into a distraught whine. “I don’t care if you hurt me. A-And you’ve already seen me naked. None of it matters, anymore. None of it.”

You’re wrapped tight into yourself by the end of it, knees pulled up to your chest. You sound like you're trying to convince yourself more than anything.

Blade finds himself effected.

—

Glasvain.

The green fields are empty, save a dilapidated hut that sits by the treeline. A few bleating animals with thick, white pelts absentmindedly roam the space. A few of them are grazing. You pause next to him.

“A shepherd lives there. I visited him… a month ago? A month or two ago,” you mutter feebly, motioning towards the hut.

Coming closer, the poor state of the dwelling becomes more apparent. The front door is splintered off its hinges, as if it’d been battered in. The windows are shattered. Shards of opaque glass litter the dirt around the pitiful hovel. You stumble forwards, heading towards it with a manic look in your eye.

“Hello!?” you call out. “Is anyone there!” The rain drowns out your voice. No one replies.

Blade spies a rust-colored, spattered stain on the white, still-standing wall. He wholeheartedly believes you are now the last, living native of this region. You take in the sight, trembling and breathing too quickly.

“Come,” he rests a hand on your quivering shoulder.

“N-No,” you shake. “He could be out there somewhere. We should go looking–what if he’s hurt!?”

He says your name. Slow. Purposeful.

“We should at least check the place out–” you take another step forward, and Blade reels you back into his chest. You stumble on the wet grass, crashing into his chest. He doesn’t move an inch. You crane your neck to look up at him, mouth balled up tight. Clearly on the verge of tears.

“I’ll look,” he says.

Inside of the home, curled up on the exposed floor, is presumably the corpse of your shepherd acquaintance. Up close, he can smell the acrid tang of blood and rot. The kill is relatively recent. Over the last few days, the decay sped up by the downpour and the humidity. You shouldn’t see this, he decides then and there. Not when you’re already so fragile.

He–he needs you to be his guide. Never mind the long buried things you’ve shaken alive. They write within him. He steps back into view and shakes his head. You look stricken, for a moment. The gauntness in your face grows deeper, shadowed and weighed by grief. For the briefest of moments, he fears that you will topple over where you stand. But you don’t.

Your face relaxes. Or, rather, it deadens. The light in your eyes snuffed out by the unfortunate news. He is deathless, but it kills him to be unable to provide the comfort you so desperately need. How does one even begin to reach out? There is nothing he could say that would alleviate the pain of the lives lost, of the isolation you’ve endured.

"Stay here," he says in a voice which brokers no argument.

He leaves you there, stood emptily underneath the branches at the treeline. The denizens of Abundance have holed themselves up in the dilapidated ruins of the town Glasvain. He combs through the jagged, ruined cobblestone streets like an oncoming flood. The fight lasts hardly an hour. The feathers of the birdmen were weighed down by the water, stealing their prized agility. He is coated in their blood by the time he staggers outside the rusted gates.

It washes off by the time he returns to you.

When he returns to you, you are clutching a small, bleating creature in your arms. You look at him with haunted eyes. He looks at you. The silence lasts for several, awkward seconds.

"Are… are you alright?" you speak first. There is fear on your face. His stomach with writhes with discontent. He's frightened you. What if you try and leave? Things will get complicated without a guide. The need to soothe you rattles his brain with sudden intensity. He is no good with words.

"I'm fine. What is that?" he nods at the hoofed animal clutched in your arms.

"A lamb," you inform him, "I was here when she was born. I went to check on her while you were…" you swallow, breathing in wetly, and bring a hand up to rub at your eyes. "Her mother is gone. I can't just leave her like this."

"Surely, it will be safer with its herd?" Blade jerks his head in the direction of the rest.

"For a little while, maybe, but sheep need to be sheared every year. If they aren't, they get matted and the water only makes it worse," this is the most you have ever said to him at once. Blade eyes the pitiful creature in your arms and imagines all the ways in which it could meet its end on your journey. It shakes in your arms and nestles close to you, seeking the warmth of your body.

What a fitting pair. He could laugh.

"Very well, but you will see to its handling," Blade concedes. His jaw relaxes as relief blooms across your face. The edge of fear in your scent dies down. He casts a glance upwards, as though the eternally grey skies will tell him what time of day it is. At his best estimation, it's late afternoon. Still enough time to make some progress on reaching the second stronghold, wherever it may be.

"The next place where the vermin hide. Where is it?" he asks. Your hands clutch the small beast's curly fur.

"A place called Cailleach's Washing. It's a fort built between two peaks, above a lake," you murmur, "If we follow the river, we should reach it within… a few days, maybe? I've never made the trip on foot."

"Very well. Then it is there we go next," Blade decides.

You don't offer any rebuttal. Before you leave Glasvain, you find tarp in a nearby, brick building. With his help, you're able to cut it to a small size, fashioning it into a makeshift coat for your small, furry friend.

"It'll be bad if her wool gets wet," you tell him, delicately tying the tarp around the lamb's neck. The animal is small enough for you to carry. You heave it into your arms. Something old and forgotten twinges in Blade's chest. Rust shaken off a rusty fence. Seeing you so caring, so nurturing warms him in ways he had no longer thought possible.

You cradle the thing to your chest, one arm beneath its back and the other over its side. The beast seems content in your embrace. It nestles its little head against the breast of your jacket, leeching your body warmth.

Blade looks away.

"There's a… building on the road. Used to be a store, before everything went real bad," you tell him. "I used to buy taffy candies from there. When… sorry, you probably don't care," you trail off with a small, yet empty laugh. Blade glances at you.

"No. Continue," he says. For your voice makes much sweeter background noise than the endless pattering of the rain.

"Oh. My grandma lived in a small town close to Cailleach's Washing, so we would take trips there, sometimes. Usually on the weekends. Her cabin was right on the water, and if you climbed high enough on the peaks, you could see the whirlpool," the look in your eyes brightens, and he knows then that you are far away. Gone into the past, to enjoy the halcyon days of your youth, when the most you had to worry about was staying dry.

"The whirlpool?"

"I didn't mention it, did I? There's a whirlpool in the middle of the lake. It's actually below the the fort. They—the people in charge, used to throw prisoners down there… back in the day," you punctuate the sentence with a small sigh. Just like that, you've returned to the present day. You live a life painted in shades of miserable grey, and likely have for quite some time.

Perpetual misery is something you have in common. How easily he could lift this burden from your shoulders. It's odd—that he would even want to. He typically doesn't concern himself with the welfare of parties unrelated to his missions.

…

Well, you are related to his mission now. And you have done an admiral job, leading him this far only a day after he fished you from the river. He'll reward you, he thinks.

But with what?

The answer is clear. The sun. For the first time in your life, when you leave this accursed planet, you will see the sun. He doesn't remember exactly when he came to the conclusion that he will take you with him when he leaves. It just seems like a natural conclusion, easy as breathing used to be.

A comfortable quiet settles between you. It carries on for what must be an hour, maybe two, only broken by the occasional braying of an off-path beast. You startle at each one, and he wonders if there are any natural predators here worth fearing. The path winds around sloping hills, straddled by the river and the treeline. Eventually, the treeline lifts as a jagged cliff rises from the earth. Eventually, a stone building looms in the distance. It's single story and square in shape. A single, rickety door with a brass knob sits at its dead-center.

"This is it" you murmur, hastening over. Blade clicks his tongue, catches up with you in a few, easy strides. You reach for the doorknob. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can get there. You jump. The suddenness of the motion jostles the lamb in your arms, causing it to bleat softly. A wobbly, pathetic sound. This close, he can smell the scent of your alarm, buried beneath the rainwater.

"Let me," is all Blade says. You take in a deep, grounding breath and retreat.

When he opens the door, he finds the abandoned store to fortunately, as you said, still be abandoned. It's a small space. Dark wooden shelves comprise the aisles. They aren't nailed to the floor. It's a simple enough task to shove them out of the way, strong-chord muscle bunching and flexing as he works to create a space open enough for the three of you to huddle. With the wood furnishings, it won't be safe to start a fire.

You don't seem to be thinking that far ahead. You deposit both lamb and backpack onto the floor with a relieved sigh.

"You should eat something," he says, watching you settle against the wall, bringing your knees tight to your chest. "You packed rations, didn't you?"

"Yeah," you reach into your pack and pull out a package of thin, dried sticks of meat. You don't look particularly enthused about the meal, but you don't complain. Instead, you look up at him. "Do you want any? I think I packed enough for both people…"

Blade shakes his head. "There's no need," he assures you softly. You cast him a doubtful look, but don't protest. Obedient. He watches you peel the package open with shaking fingers, admires the shape of your lips, the edges of your teeth as you take bite after bite. Visual proof of your nourishment. Something in him coos and shudders in satisfaction. He imagines the feeling of your canines embedded in the taut skin of his shoulder.

He stares at you until you've finished eating. Then, he slinks away. He moves up and down the aisles like a drifting specter, searching for other non-perishables. Unfortunately, he finds none. His search lasts for all of a pithy five minutes. Peering outside the doorway, he notes the change in light. Evening has settled over Seanmhair. The planet has three, separate moons but not a mote of light seeps in through the clouds. He doesn't feel the cold as keenly as used to, but you certainly do. Pressed up against the wall, curled around the body of the lamb, shivering.

He is failing you, in some way. The notion overtakes him with a sudden viciousness, provokes him into action. He settles beside you. You don't startle, this time. Have you grown more comfortable? Or are you too distracted by the dropping temperatures to notice? He undoes the latches on his overcoat and opens it.

"Come here," he says softly.

You blink up at him. "What?"

He sighs, "Come here," he repeats.

He brokers no room for argument. Without waiting, he reaches out. One hand clutches your hip, the other wraps around your waist to pull you to to the side. You squawk, and the lamb fusses. It kicks out of your arms and lands a pace away. Blade pays it no mind. He wrangles you into his lap, your back pressing up against his chest.

"Blade," you swallow nervously. The scent of your distress hits the roof of his mouth, making him frown. "What are you doing?"

"It's too cold for you," he tells you. His legs bracket yours, caging you in. You're shifted into the cradle of his hips. He's hard. You curl up like a clam, knees brought up to your chest.

"I'm fine, really," you insist with a swallow. Trembling hands find purchase on his broad thighs as you struggle to extricate yourself from his grasp. His brows set into a flat line and he pulls you back, arms like metal bars, securing you tight against his body.

For someone caught in death's ruthless clutches, he runs quite warm. Abnormally warm, even. Scorching on days when the mara runs thick and heavy through his bloodstream. It's connected to the constant regeneration of his body, in some way. The researchers hadn't seem keen to explain it to him. They preferred to conduct their examinations and tests as quickly as possible, all the while avoiding the dead empty of his gaze. He hadn't thought much of it, since. A mere curiosity related to his peculiar physical makeup.

Here, though, it lets him keep you warm. The long-neglected half of his being that is Abundance finds solace in this.

"Blade," you interrupt his train of thought, panic kicking into your voice. He hums, low in his chest, and brings you flat to his chest with minimal effort. "Blade," you're whimpering, now. Scared. Struggling and weak. He finds satisfaction here, too, knowing he can keep you anchored in place with such ease.

He exhales softly, "Hush," he murmurs, "I mean you no harm. The cold is setting in. Your clothes aren't thick or dry enough to keep you warm."

He explains it to you slowly, in a matter-of-fact kind of voice that seems to soothe your uncertainty. The sour, looming scent of your distress dissipates. He lets his weary eyes shut, head tilting forward. His forehead presses against the curve of your left shoulder. Scenting you, effectively. If you have any further objections, you refrain from voicing them. You're a ball of tension, settled but not relaxed. His thumb twitches against your hip. He could easily dip beneath your trousers and rub gentle, soothing circles onto your hip–but he doesn't think that would comfort you.

Eventually, the lamb returns. It curls its knobby little legs and presses into his side, curled tight to leech the warmth from his body. He doesn't shut his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling, across the room, scans the deep shadows for any sign of threat. An hour is spent like this. Then, your breathing evens. The tension releases its death-grip on your body. You melt into him–and an hour later, you turn onto your side. Your cheek pillows on the swell of his chest, legs curling beneath you. A facsimile of the little beast nestled next to him.

—

The path to Cailleach's Washing takes you between towering trees and thick foliage. The lack of foot traffic means that the path should be somewhat obscured by the encroaching wilderness, but Blade recognizes signs of recent traversal, including several footprints. The three-toed bird-beasts have been here within the past few days. It calls for an elevated state of caution.

You've started talking to him. Little things here and there, small comments about local wildlife, or places you used to visit frequently. Blade responds as adequately as he is able to. The handlers from the Luofu do not bother with "small talk". Or any other kind of talk, really. They give him orders, and he follows. He doesn't know if his responses suffice, but to spoken to easily, so casually… it makes him feel a certain way, which he has not felt before. Not in this life, in this new body.

When afternoon swings around, Blade shepherds you away from the path to take a rest. He doesn't cut through the bushes and shrubs, lest the enemy notice and follow the trail. There's a craggy ledge close by, jutting from the earth to create an overhang. A creek babbles in the near distance. You seem leery of the water, but Blade isn't willing to journey any further from the road, lest he lose track of it completely.

Your wariness seems soothed by your animal companion. Despite the dreariness of its surroundings, it frolics and gallops with the playfulness typical to an animal of its age. Blade is, for the first time, grateful for its presence.

"You said you were there when it was born," he says. He can tell you've forgotten his presence, because you startle. You eye him out of the corner of your eye like a wary dog. His heart twitches at the notion that you are not by now at ease with him. The pain is foreign. Never in the long years of his undeath has he felt discontent for this reason. "Did you take care of the animals often?"

"Oh, well, yeah… My family had a bunch, growing up," you lick your lips, hands fidgeting. The lamb trundles up to you and butts its little head into your knee, prompting you to bend down and pet it. "Back then, the entire field was covered with an overhang to keep the animals from getting wet. A big, metal thing. I would have to help patch it up, sometimes… and the sheep–one time, they headbutted the ladder I was using." You tell him, a bit of humor in your voice. "During the winter, we'd have to keep them indoors. I used to go into the barn and play with them, 'cause I felt bad, keeping them cooped up."

This is the most you have spoken to him all day, so he remains quiet. He can hardly imagine you, wobbly and pathetic as you are now, helping with such manual labor. Perhaps its an error of perspective on his part. It takes someone of strong character to survive in such a bleak environment, alone, for as long as you have.

"And it's weird, because I never really liked kids, but whenever the foals would cry–I just couldn't ignore them," you continue. "Sometimes, they'd have you up in the middle of the night… It was annoying at the time, but now… I just miss it." Your gaze again grows distant, as it often does when recounting fragments of your past.

His life has never been any better, or worse than it is now. He goes to far-flung planets to eviscerate enemies of the Luofu. They come to collect him. He's dutifully returned to Jing Yuan's estate, where the general handles his upkeep and makes delusional attempts to play house until the next time he is deployed. He does not have any friends. He is not allowed the privilege of free-roaming outside of the general's purview.

So these memories of yours, they are peculiar and novel to him.

"Sorry, I'm probably boring you," you apologize.

"You aren't," Blade corrects. He regrets his inability to comfort you. "I know no life beyond my own. The experiences you describe are therefore new to me."

"Oh," you go, and then go quiet. You appear to be ruminating on something, so Blade leaves you be. The lamb, realizing the game has ended, dips its head and begins to graze again. "Your life—" you cut yourself off with a laugh, "I just realize I don't really know anything about you. Is this—do you hunt those bird things? Is that your job?" you ask, and then swallow, looking sheepish.

"Sometimes," How does he explain it to you, in a way that won't make you even more wary than you already are? He can't think of one. He would rather tell you the truth then sugar-coat the brutal reality of what he does and what he is. "I do what the Xianzhou Luofu requires of me. Most of the time, my missions involve tracking our foes to other planets and disposing of them, before returning. I remain in the custody of the ship's general until I am again needed."

"Like a hit man," you nod. Fortunately, his explanation doesn't seem to unnerve you.

—

It takes another two days for you to reach Cailleach's Washing. Blade walks in front of you, more often than not. But he wishes he could also be behind you, as well. The wildlife here is so far, unremarkable. There are no large or particularly insistent predators. At least, none that seem to view humans as prey. That doesn't reassure him. Despite his undying nature, he is not infallible. While unlikely, the enemy could sneak up behind you, the sound of their footsteps drowned out when the downpour becomes a drizzle. It would take hardly a moment for the talons to sink into your back, to dig into your spine and kill you—he wishes he could surround you, cradle you in your entirety, hold you in his mouth.

Fortunately, no such incident occurs. You crest a particularly steep hill together—and the landscape beyond is truly breathtaking. The green grass rolls up to one of the dark peaks. The other sits far across from it, with a section of the lake between. From here, he can't quite see the whirlpool, but he can see the fort. It looks like a dam, made up of multiple stores. Tall windows reflect the dull cloud-light—many of which are broken. It's impossible to see inside.

Once he's content with his analysis of the landscape, he turns his gaze to you. You speak, but the language is foreign to him. It's a series of quick annunciations with soft, flowing vowels. Musical in quality. When you have finished, you glance up at him.

"It's just a prayer," you tell him, looking off to the side. Blade tilts his head. Dark strands tease at the top of his vision. It's been quite some time since he had a haircut.

"To whom, and for what?" he asks.

"To Cailleach. They say she made these mountains," you reply, "I just asked her to make the climb a little easier, and to hold off on any rock slides until we're gone."

"Do you truly believe you can bend the forces of nature through prayer alone?" Blade inquires.

"Well… not really," you look down. The lamb stirs against your chest. Your jacket has become a makeshift bundle, securing it to your chest when it grows too tired to walk. You bring a hand up to stroke its hearty, warm wool. "We can't avoid nature. Or change what it does. But maybe, if we—or someone else is strong enough, we could… direct it?" you sound more unsure with every word. Blade imagines his inexpressive disposition doesn't help you feel particularly validated, but he doesn't know any other way to be.

"I see," he nods. Your hope is halfhearted and, in the end, completely fruitless. In the vast expanse of the universe, you are but two grains of sand. The only aeon which ever looked upon him did so at another's behest. And you… well, if they haven't helped you by now, they likely never will. But that would be a vicious thing to say, especially when you seem aware of the futility already.

"We might as well try, you know?" you elaborate with a small shrug. "No harm in it."

"You needn't beg the gods for their favor. I will traverse the peaks, complete my mission, and then return to you," he tries to assure you, but it comes out more like an explanation. A iron-clad fact. And you laugh. The noise is abrupt and humorless. You stifle it immediately.

"I'm sorry. I just don't know how you can be so confident," you wrap your arms around the bundle secured tight to your chest, rocking back and forth on your heels. Ah. You're afraid that he will perish in battle, and never return to you. You're afraid that you'll again be left alone. The scent of omega anxiety carries light on the breeze. Blade's jaw twitches,

"I will not die," he says, "I cannot," without waiting for a reply, he turns and begins to descend the hill, motioning for you to follow. Your footsteps plod after him, but he glances back regardless just to be sure. "You will hide in that patch of forest by the peak. I will slay the abominations. This may take more than an hour. Do not come looking for me. I will find you." He stops at the treeline, giving you a look, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," you peep, eyes a little wide. Despite his attempts to reassure you, you are still uneasy.

Well. You are uneasy most of the time, with small lapses of reprieve here and there. But here, in this moment, you are especially uneasy. Blade wishes he could assuage your fears, but he's no good with words. He'll simply have to provide a demonstration.

He turns around, motions along the path with a jerk of his head. Unkempt strands of his hair stick to his cheek, slicked by rain. "Good. Now come."

—

Massacring the entire base isn't particularly difficult. There are no emanators present. Their strongest fighters all perished in the encounters that lead them to flee here in the first place. The culling is mostly cumbersome. They throw themselves at him in waves, wielding talon and sword and loaded gun, but none manage to fell him. Not even once. He regenerates too fast for them. While most are killed inside of the base's walls, a few get tossed out of the windows. Their screeches pierce the air as they plummet into the whirlpool below, one after the other.

Only after ensuring he has cleared each floor does he emerge. He treks back down the peak, boots scuffing the hard dirt, gravelly dirt until he's back on level ground.

You are exactly where he left you, huddled beneath the canopy of the forest, umbrella in hand. You listened to him. The taut line of his shoulders smooths out, pleased by the obedience. If nothing else, you trust him to come back. As he soon approaches, your wary gaze darts to him, eyes lighting up in recognition.

You're relieved to see him. You understand that you are safe with him. You meet him in the middle, opening your mouth to speak—before cutting yourself off with a flinch. The rain hadn't been thick enough to wash away the blood. And even if it had, it's soaked into his clothes. His jacket and pants have new tears in them, fabric sheared open by talons and beaks and blades. The flesh beneath, though, is unmarked. The scent of copper permeates the air, invasive and sour. You wrinkle your nose and gently squeeze the lamb closer to your chest, wrapping your arms tight around it.

“This area is secure, now.” Blade says.

"Yeah,” you murmur, after a moment. “Secure… Is that your blood, or theirs?"

"Both," Blade replies. Your eyes get big and round.

"What!? How?" you lurch forward, but jerk to an awkward, staggering stop before you touch him. You squint at him, a dual mix of suspicious and concerned.

Does he want to tell you? Will you believe him if he does? You don't even know what the Abundance is, let alone the being that propagates it. Will you fear him, when you realize the truth of his undying nature?

"My flesh resews itself at a rate most would consider impossible. You have no reason to fear. There is no blade or bullet within this galaxy capable of granting me death."

You blink at him slowly. "Oh… Is that so?" you ask quietly. It's almost like you hadn't even heard him, "Well… are you sure? That you're not hurt?"

Do you not believe him? He supposes he can't blame you. In a world without any long-lived species, he is an unknown, alien thing, stupefyingly opposite to your soft flesh and tender disposition. Would you be so concerned if you knew what he is? Perhaps. You've already and unflinchingly faced down the fact that he kills without remorse. It isn't unreasonable to believe that you could stomach his altered state.

He knows better than to cling to hope, but finds himself holding onto the thought, anyways. Even if you were frightened of the truth, there was nowhere else for you to go. He'd catch you before you could get very far.

—

The last of the abominations are holed up at an old lighthouse at the very edge of the island. Blade learns, a little late, that the block of land you've been leading him through is a dense peninsula. It will take another two day's trek to reach it. You seem relieved that the journey is almost at its end. Your collection of non-perishables is growing thin. You'll need to return home to restock. While you bemoan the long road back home, Blade tends a small campfire. The small cave you've settled in for the night is one, long room dug out in the side of a cliff.

"It'll be weird when you're gone," you muse aloud. Your head is leaned back against the hard rock wall, eyes shut. The line of your throat is completely exposed to his prying gaze. Even from this far away, he can hear the gentle thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat. Do you know how much trust you have shown in him by this gesture alone? "It's been scary, having those bird things around. But once they're all dead, it'll be so quiet."

For a moment, he wonders if he should tell you that you will be returning to the Xianzhou with him. There is nothing left for you on this planet. Should he leave you, you will undoubtedly wither under the weight that comes with being the last of your kind. The loneliness will eat you alive. Drive you into insanity beforehand, if you are particularly unlucky. He would spare you that fate, but he has an inkling that you will put up a fight.

This place has sentimental value to you. He did not have a childhood. He does not remember who birthed this earthen vessel which he inhabits. Therefore, it is impossible to empathize. But he knows you'll be upset, and he doesn't want to make you upset. Or risk scaring you. If he scares you now, you might run away.

And even if he catches you, you'll treat him with fear and suspicion. You might give up and go limp, let fate take you in its heavy may. But you might also cling on and search for any attempt at escape you can find. Blade has enough to focus on, and he already frets over you enough. To a nonsensical degree for someone he met hardly a week ago.

A week ago. He's been alive for centuries, yet you have managed to capture his attention in such a short amount of time.

"It's been nice, having someone to talk to. Even if you don't talk very much," you continue.

"…You'll have no one else, once I've left," Blade says. And immediately, he gets the sense that it's the wrong thing to say, because you go quiet, and look away. "But you've done well for yourself. You're strong, to have survived for so long under such drastic conditions." he continues.

"I don't know if I would go that far," you mumble, "I can't swing a sword. I can't hunt… All I can really do is scavenge and hope for the best…"

"A weaker person would have given into the despair wrought by such a hopeless situation," Blade argues quietly. "Do not discredit yourself." The look he gives you is sharp, brokering no room for argument. You blink at him with wide eyes, and break out into a small, sheepish smile.

"If you say so," you mumble.

And he does indeed say so.

—

The forest disappears as you near the shore, replaced by hills of verdant grass. The path is overgrown. Grass turns into gravel as you reach the grey wave beaches of the coastland. The lighthouse juts towards the heavens in the distance. A fittingly grandiose

You gasp, and Blade's attention darts to you. You've reflexively positioned yourself closer to him. He follows your wide-eyed gaze to the beach. Odd, de-saturated, green lumps cover the gravel. Only when squinting does he make out the sight of jutting ribs and odd, piscine tails. The corpses of finned creatures with long-horse like faces are strewn about, in various stages of decomposition. Their maws hang open to reveal two jagged rows of teeth. A few of them still have their milky pale eyes, hung open wide and unseeing.

"What are they?" Blade asks. While they all seem very much dead, he must hear the truth from you before he can successfully decide whether they pose a threat or not.

"Kelpies," you whisper after a moment, as though afraid they will hear. "I've never seen one, before. They used to live by the old lighthouse. The military drove them out, after they started taking people. But my parents still never let me go near the water. Better safe than sorry, I guess."

"They're all dead," Blade observes. He presses his palm to the small of your back and bodily urges you along. But your gaze is glued to the sight, eyes wide.

"They must have come back after the military stopped patrolling the waters. Or maybe they were so desperate for food that they took the risk…" you swallow. "But they couldn't find anything, anyways. There's no one here, anymore. Nothing for them to eat."

"Enough," Blade hushes you, and cups your jaw. You startle again, cheek jostling into the meat of his palm. The gesture serves its intended purpose. Your gaze is forced away from the grisly scene, which he would have you forget as soon as humanly possibly. This world has subjected you to more than enough brutality for a lifetime. "They're all dead. They pose no threat to you." He looms close. You stare at him with big, bulging eyes. The acrid scent of omega fear does not punctuate the air. The line of your body sways towards him, to a minuscule degree. And your pupils expand. Barely. Just enough to be noticed.

He doesn't let you linger in the moment, as much as he would like to. He fears that the moment you realize how you have yielded to him, you will scurry to once again cover your soft underbelly. So he parts from you, urging you further along the path with his palm pressed to your lower back. This time, you follow as he guides you.

Closer to the lighthouse, there is an outcropping of bushes and a few, thin trees. You're higher up, now. Far enough away from the beach to be safe, lest any kelpies still be alive and lurking.

"You will wait here," he tells you, and you do not argue. He leaves you, albeit reluctantly. If he had it his way, he would fit you in his mouth, swallow you whole, keep you safe inside of him until the job is done.

The abominations could easily be patrolling the areas surrounding the lighthouse. He hastens his approach. On the path, in front of the lighthouse sits a pale statue. A bearded man has his arm braced back, trident clenched in his fist. Flanking him are two kelpies. Their fangs are bared. The position is such that they are clearly meant to be his allies, rather than his enemies. A strange choice for a creature that supposedly predates on humans.

He isn't given much time to ruminate. A shrill shriek rings out across the open way. He's been spotted.

Again, the enemies fall upon him with talon and beak and blade and gun. This lot is frailer, hungrier than the last. The prey must run poorly here, or perhaps they too have over-hunted and been left with nothing to eat. He doesn't much care. It just makes them all the easier to cut down. He slices them through what feels like the dozen. Lives extinguished one after the other. Some balk in horror as their comrades and friends are ripped apart before their very eyes—and in their moments of hesitation, they go next. It's a messy, but timely affair.

Only after he's determined them all dead does he return to you. But in the dirt, he makes out footprints, fresh, headed away from the lighthouse. The tracks weren't there when he entered. One of them has fled straight in your direction. His gut drops. Cold dread, an emotion he has never felt before, seizes him.

He bolts down the slope. He follows the scent of blood and poultry down, down until he sees it, and you. You, cornered up against the trees and it, poised to attack. What follows plays out, for him, in slow motion. The next few moments stretch on and on, mocking him for his foolish mistake. Ensuring he knows the consequences of his folly.

Its talons pierce the material of your jacket, tearing plain through it—reaching the soft, small body underneath. The lamb bleats a terrible, shrill noise as its flank is pierced and slashed.

Blade sinks his sword into the abomination's flank, spearing it to the ground. He pierces it over and over, blade beating into its flesh with brutal, wet thwacking sounds. He sees red. Blood sprays into the grass and dirt. Feathers flutter in the air, like they're being tossed out of a punched pillow. Its screams and caws eventually die into wet, gurgling sounds and still he is not satisfied.

"Blade!" your voice is a wet, reedy thing. Blade raises his sword in an arc. The rain pounds his heaving shoulders. His hair cascades down the broad line of his neck like an oil slick. A crack of lightning sends sparks scattering across stone in the distance. None of it, not sound nor sensation, break him from his episode of fervent blood-lust.

Then you grip his sleeve with trembling hands. The spell is broken. He looks down at you—you're kneeling, now. In the dirt, in the grass. You've removed your jacket, and pressed it to the wound in the lamb's side in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. Fruitless. The wound was too large and the beast too small. His blade clatters to the ground, and he is crowding you. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cradle it close.

"Please, Blade, there has to be something you can do please—" you beg.

For a cruel, quiet moment, Blade contemplates whether it would be kinder to let it bleed out here. When he takes you from this planet, you will insist on bringing it with you. He knows, already, that he will oblige you.

He will take you, and by circumstance it from this place. It will live away from its fellows in a world so unlike its own. Evolution shaped it to live on these open grasslands. There are no such places aboard the Xianzhou. None that you will have access to. Will it feel the the loneliness of that existence? Can you, cowering you—a lone human, fill the void left by its herd?

You're not cowering, anymore. You're looking up at him with big, panicked eyes and begging him to fix it for you.

He reaches a hand out and presses it to the poor creature's flank.

Rarely ever does he call forth the powers granted to him by Abundance. Doing so makes an ache flare to life in his chest, as though something is being pulled from him by the root. A bitter taste crawls up the back of his throat and the smell of autumn, of sweet rot and ginkgo leaves fogs his senses. But he maintains focus.

The lamb's frail flesh stitches back together. He shoves the bleeding life back into it, soothes its pains and wills it to survive for the sake of your sanity. You watch him, eyes blown wide in awe. What he's doing may very well appear as magic to you. Have you ever even met a path-strider, before? Or were the people of your world confined to paltry guns and turrets and tanks? He regrets not having the time to research more thoroughly before landing.

The lamb's pained bleats die down. Its flank still heaves for breath, but the wound is healed.

"It will need to eat, to replenish the energy I have used to heal it," he tells you softly. The sound of his voice shocks you from your stupor.

And then your arms are around him. You launch yourself into his chest and he brings his arms up to catch you, wrapping around your lower back. He tilts back into the dirt and grass and you rattle out a reedy little wheeze.

"Thank you," you press your face into his shoulder and mumble. "Thank you so much,"

This is the first time you've initiated bodily contact with him. The warmth of you, squirreled against his body, instills him with a sense of deep-set, instinctual fullness. It is as though he was made for this, lone purpose. As though a gnawing, endless urge he wasn't aware of has suddenly been sated. Even through the rain water, he can smell you. Exuberance and relief and gratefulness, all wrapping around him like a blanket. He presses his face into the crown of your head and breathes in.

His cock bulges against the confines of his trousers, pressed flush against your body. He wants to be inside you, now. Carnal pleasures of the flesh have never intrigued him. The cycle of his rut has always been a mere annoyance. During his season, Jing Yuan douses the blazing fire of his urges, takes him apart with gentle hands. Blade has always hated it. But you, here, so warm and soft and delicate—he wants to fuck you into the dirt. Wants to see your eyes go glossy and blank with pleasure.

His hands twitch. His tongue feels heavy and misshapen in his mouth. His teeth ache.

You look up at him, face still streaked with tears.

"I mean it," you mumble, and awkwardly clamber off of him. Blade lets you. These are the last few hours you'll have on this planet, to yourself. When the Xianzhou skiffs come to ferry him back to the mother ship, you will board with him, regardless of how you feel. He'll allow you as much leeway as he can within this precious, limited amount of time.

In the wake of the moment, you seem embarrassed. You rub your face with the sleeves of your jacket, eyes red-rimmed and raw.

"It's no trouble," Blade murmurs. You stumble back to your hoofed charge, gathering the pathetic thing into your arms. While you're occupied, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdraws the beacon. It's a complex, cube-shaped thing seated on a shiny metal platform. It's six faces gleam iridescent under the muted sunlight. He wanders a few paces away. He presses the intricate set of switches and buttons. It emits a pair of soft, chiming dings around every thirty seconds.

"What are you doing?" you ask as he sets it down.

"The beacon will let them know that my mission has been completed. They will come to retrieve me, soon," Blade informs you.

For a moment, you look like he's physically slapped you. He finds it impossible to blame you. From your perspective, the first person you've spoken to in months, perhaps years is about to leave and never return. In a mere moment, you're forced to confront the possibility of living the rest of your life in total isolation.

"So… this is goodbye, then," For the most part, you bear it. You swallow. Your expression gives the slightest twitch as you choke down another round of tears. A mournful feeling strikes Blade's chest.

He looks at you, blinks slowly.

"No," He says, after a pregnant pause. "You're coming with me."

This will be the most efficient way to break the news, he thinks. A clean break. Ripping the bandage off.

"What?" you frown, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"There's nothing left for you here," Blade tells you coolly.

"That's not true—and even if it was, I can't up and leave," you splutter. What he said is fact, but you still feel wounded by it. This will be a difficult period of adjustment, Blade can already tell.

"Is it that you can't, or that you never thought you would be able to?" he counters, "The lamb may keep you company—but for how long will it live? What do you plan to do once your supply of food runs out, and the shelves of the local stores have been picked clean?"

"I can find food," you protest, "I've gardened, before. And—and there are plenty of animals still around."

"Oh? And will you be able to catch any?" Blade pries. He narrows his eyes, looming over you like a long shadow. There is nowhere for you to run.

You lick your lips and swallow, beginning to fidget in place. "The animals at the farm. They're slow, and they know me. They won't be afraid."

Blade scoffs. Even you don't sound convinced.

"Animals you've raised, known and loved since they were born. Will you be able to look into their wide, trusting eyes and strike the killing blow?" he presses, leaning down. His hair slips from his shoulders, curtains you in, a dark waterfall. There is nowhere else to look but him, now. "Are you truly prepared to do what it takes to survive? To slaughter others that so you may live?"

When you remain silent, Blade exhales a weary sigh. "The beasts on that farm are brittle and weak. They'll soon begin to die on their own, and meat spoils quickly in such humid conditions—"

"Stop," you choke out. He looks back to you. "I-I already told you, I don't want to go! Why won't you listen to me!?"

This was what he had feared initially. The sentimental value of this place has a hold on you, no, a death-grip. It's impossible for you to see reason at this given moment. Blade is, for a moment, at a loss of what to say. He is struck, again, by how your tears strike him. They roll fat down your cheeks, parallel to the streaks of wetness left behind by the rain. Your umbrella is nowhere to be seen, likely knocked away by the coastal winds during the struggle.

A heady mixture of awe and arousal and horror hits him. It's a Molotov cocktail of emotions for someone so unused to feeling anything at all. A thousand bees buzz beneath the surface of his skin. It's a feeling not dissimilar to the mara surges.

It's sheer instinct that makes him grab you. He shepherds you into his arms and you struggle, at first.

"Blade! What're you doing!?" you cry and beat your fists against his chest. Your struggles are feeble and empty. The shock of everything that has transpired within the last hour renders you weak. He seizes your wrists with roughened hands and hauls you close.

He leans down, and presses his lips to yours in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You freeze. The fight drains from you, replaced by world-weary exhaustion. After years of struggling, the weight of your home's extinction finally crumples you. Right into his waiting arms. Into his maw, stretched just wide enough to hold you. A deep, primal urge is sated. The pieces slotting together just right.

"I can't leave," you whimper, once he parts from you. Your eyes are unseeing. Glazed with shock. You sway on your feet, mind and body battered. "Everything I own is here—my parents' graves are here—"

"Hush," Blade sighs, and brings you to his chest. He urges your face into his shoulder. The gesture is tender but his muscles are coiled tight, an iron hold. You cry wet, fat tears into his already soaked jacket. Already, you've begun to shiver with fear and cold, "Hush, now."