#poly route

H:

holds mc close for a few minutes then urges them to sit. H will prepare mc's favorite drink and sit down with them. if mc wants to talk about it, H will listen, and if not, they won't push it. either way, they'll pull mc closer to them, run their fingers through mc's hair (or brush their fingers along mc's head if they're bald), and allow mc to sit with them as long as they want (even if they do need to grab some work to complete while sitting down).

M:

immediately holding mc very tightly-- M hugs as though it's the last hug they'll ever have. will usually be able to tell mc has had a rough day and asks what mc wants for the rest of the night. they'll make sure mc's day at least ends as well as possible

T:

they don't really react for a few second, just catching up to what's happening lol, but will eventually wrap mc further in their arms. they know mc very well after so many heists so will catch onto mc being a bit tired and down immediately. they'll ask if mc wants to talk about it and will listen very attentively if so. if not, they'll start talking about whatever is on their mind to help distract mc.

Indy:

no questions, would meet mc's energy and just pull them closer and hold them. they'd enjoy the calm intimacy of the moment and would be a little worried about mc but would wait for them to choose whether or not they wanted to talk about it. they'd def let mc lounge in their arms as long as they'd like.

C:

knows mc seems off but not entirely confident of their ability to tell so they'd be a little on-edge. will wrap their arms around mc's waist and allow them to rest their head on their shoulder. is a little stiff at first, trying to think about what could've happened, especially knowing mc's profession, and would definitely be doing what they think is a discrete check for any physical injuries. eventually settles into it and finds the hug very nice and comforting.

The Client:

very pleased with mc hugging them and would pull them even closer. however, once they really think about it they'll be concerned and will finally recognize something seems a bit off. they don't ask about it directly but see if they can figure out what's wrong through other less intrusive questions.

Poly Route:

The blood moon hung lower than usual, swollen and darkly luminous, its red light washing over the city like a fire alarm blaring inside the tight enclosure of an office building. Floating orbs of stark white light drifted between stalls while laughter spilled into the air, mingling with music filtering from drone speakers and the scent of gamey, acidic sweetness from burning resin.

You squeezed through walls of bodies, shoulders brushing strangers too absorbed in the spectacle to notice you passing. In one hand, you carried a narrow cylinder encasing four skull-shaped bottles of wine, artificial ice clinking inside, the chill biting into your palm. In the other was a wrapped paper bag tied neatly with a strand of red rope.

At the back of your mind, you already knew the gifts were simple—too simple for something this important. But you also knew your lovers had no real interest in anything else, and so you had searched relentlessly for these. Simple though they were, they had cost a fortune and proven nearly impossible to find. You’d submitted the purchase request three weeks ago and were only just receiving them now. That alone showed how scarce they were.

You released a sigh and refocused on your footing. The last thing you needed was to trip again. Gradually, the noise thinned. The glow dimmed enough that you could see your shadow stretching thin and distorted along the walls you passed. You stepped out of the crowded hub and into a quieter stretch of street, where the orbs and drones were fewer and the buildings sat farther apart.

Trees crowded both sides of the path, their branches tangled overhead. Dark smog meandered lazily between the trunks but never quite crossed onto the narrow stone walkway. You didn’t like this area.

The first time you’d come here, you’d felt watched—like something stood just beyond the thickest pockets of fog between those trees. But you couldn’t make a spectacle of it. Most of the world looked like this now, thin glass-like barriers separating civilization from the poisonous haze. Thousands of years had passed, yet humanity had never fully freed itself from the fog that had reshaped it. In some places it thinned to almost nothing; in others it hung heavy and suffocating.

And here, it was just enough to unsettle anyone. Ahead, partially swallowed by shadow, stood a grand house. It appeared dark from the outside, but you knew better. Behind those glass panes, one of your lovers was likely standing with a glass of wine in hand, lost in thoughts he never shared whenever you caught him staring off into nothing.

At the image of your molten-lava–eyed lover, your pace quickened, your heart thudding harder against your ribs as warmth crept from your chest to your cheeks. You tightened your hold on the items you carried, reminded also of your second lover—the quieter one. He preferred to sit lazily by the fire, legs folded beneath him as he flipped through ancient books from an era when one man’s iron fist ruled all four lands. He didn’t share the same taste in wine as the first, but he would sip some now and then if offered—reluctantly, and always while eyeing the other with open suspicion.

You hoped tonight wouldn’t dissolve into another childish standoff, the two of them silently competing over who got to pull you into an embrace first. A soft chuckle left you at the thought, and you shook your head.

The sound of footsteps—or perhaps just distant echoes from the festival—seemed to trail too close behind you, dragging you out of your reverie. You told yourself it was nothing, but the report from earlier that week resurfaced uninvited: someone mauled on their way home from evening studies. The investigation bureau had recovered little more than a severed arm coated in some strange, sticky residue.

No matter how powerful you were rumored to be, you couldn’t ignore the truth—you were still growing into the abilities bestowed upon you by Nothingness. You weren’t foolish enough to test them against something lurking in the dark.

Swallowing hard, you quickened your pace. Your breathing grew shallow, your heartbeat loud enough to drown out the night insects. You darted around a corner, and only when your lungs began to burn did you slow, bending as you tried to catch your breath.

That was when a hand clamped down on your shoulder, and fear locked around your throat. You shouted, the items in your hands flying upward — the bottle and bag suspended before gravity reminded them of its rules. Another pair of hands darted out, catching both with a hurried, “Whoa—there.”

You spun on your heel and stomped down hard on the foot of the owner of the all-too-familiar voice.

“Hey—!” he yelped.

Atticus winced, hopping back with a hiss, clutching his toe with his free hand while still somehow keeping hold of the bag and bottle. He looked more sheepish than threatening — bright green eyes wide, mouth opening and closing as though searching for an explanation and coming up painfully short.

You glared at him, heart still pounding.

“Atticus, for godsakes, haven’t we already addressed the fact that I do not like it when you and Cadmus sneak up on me like this?” you snapped.

He released his foot and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can explain,” he said — in a tone that made it painfully clear he absolutely could not. Or maybe he could. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of hesitation, like a man who didn’t even want to defend himself.

You smacked your forehead and turned away, choosing not to engage. Atticus didn’t protest. He simply fell into step beside you, holding the items carefully.

“These are?” he asked as the two of you started up the steps toward the house.

“Not yours, obviously,” you muttered.

His lips pressed together, suppressing what might’ve been a scowl — but he thought better of it. Instead, he nudged his shoulder gently against yours. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “Whether you got me something or not doesn’t matter. Just being with you on a day like this is enough.”

The look on his face — somewhere between longing and happiness — made something inside you ache.

Your heart tightened as the memory of your recent argument flooded back. In Atticus’s mind, you favored Cadmus. He believed you weren’t fair — that you gave more of yourself to the other. But that wasn’t true.

Maybe you deferred to Cadmus more at times — but only because you knew the demons he was wrestling beneath that composed exterior. He claimed he was fine sharing you, claimed he’d made peace with it, yet there was something darker growing within him. A possessiveness he tried desperately to cage. A part of him that could hurt Atticus if left unchecked.

Atticus, on the other hand, buried himself in books and distracted his loneliness by recreating human dishes in the kitchen, pretending not to notice the distance he sometimes felt.

But the look he gave you just now made it clear — just as Cadmus fought his inner demons, Atticus fought his own. And both battles were because of you. You stopped walking. Atticus halted immediately behind you.

Standing one step above him, you now towered over him by barely an inch. “Did you really think I’d get Cadmus a gift and not get one for you?” you asked, your voice tight — almost wounded.

Atticus’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “No, I—”

“The thought crossed your mind, didn’t it?”

His jaw flexed. The denial sat there, obvious, but it never made it past his lips. Your heart seemed to squeeze inside your chest. You hadn’t meant for it to sting this much.

“Maybe I am neglectful when it comes to our relationship,” you started, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “This is the first time I’ve been with not one but two men at the same time. And maybe this sounds like I’m making excuses — but I’m not.”

You dragged a hand through your hair, breath harsh. “I’m still trying to figure this out, with both of you. And if this relationship is going to work, you can’t just go quiet on me. Either you shut down or Cadmus does, and then I’m left guessing what either of you are thinking.”

Your voice strained, but you pushed through. “You don’t get to sit off to the side and assume I’m favoring one over the other without actually talking to me. I am not doing that. But how am I supposed to fix something no one will say out loud?” The words came out rushed, breathless — uncontrolled — but painfully sincere.

Atticus clutched the items in his hands like a drowning man gripping driftwood, knuckles paling around the skull-shaped bottle and the wrapped parcel. He didn’t argue, didn’t defend himself, didn’t even try. The silence stretched — thick and heavy.

The only sound between you was the scrape of your boots against the cobblestone steps. Realizing you weren’t going to get anything out of him, you turned away and continued up the path. Your thoughts were louder than your steps.

You hated how quiet he got. Hated how it made you feel like the villain in a story you never meant to write. The way everything felt fragile even when it wasn’t supposed to.

Behind you, Atticus followed — close enough that you could hear his breathing — like he was afraid that even the sound of it might upset you further. And that somehow made it worse.

Once you both reached the final step, you tried to plaster a smile onto your face. It came out strained, more constipated than convincing. The moss-green grass squelched underneath your shoes as you shuffled across the lawn toward the towering glass panel doors.

A thin green beam swept over you first, then Atticus. The system hummed, before flashing approval. With a soft hydraulic sigh, the doors slid open. Dim light greeted you.

The sitting room stretched wide, bathed in a muted amber glow. Hanging from the ceiling, a crystal chandelier’s raindrop-shaped orbs caught the firelight, scattering tiny prisms across the polished floor. Beneath it sat an O-shaped coffee table, with a single artificial rose in the center — its petals mid-transition, tonight settling into a deep violet hue.

Fur couches curved around the space, arranged toward the already lit fireplace. Flames crackled, casting umbral forms against bookshelves mounted high along the walls—lined with volumes salvaged from the old world, their spines worn, their pages dog-eared and titles fading. Between them hung paintings that no longer existed anywhere else but here.

You unbuttoned your jacket, shrugging it off. Before the fabric could fall from your fingers, a warm palm brushed against your arm. Atticus took it without a word. He moved past you, his back slightly hunched — as though trying to make himself smaller in a house that always felt too large. The hanger closet slid open, and he slipped inside quietly. For a moment, the only sound was the wardrobe door swinging shut.

Hearing additional footsteps descend the staircase, you looked up just in time to see Cadmus coming down. A towel was slung in one hand, dragging lazily over his damp hair as he wiped at it without much care. Strands clung to his forehead. Water traced a slow path from his temple down the line of his jaw, then slipped lower — beading along the exposed curve of his collarbone before disappearing beneath the loose fabric of his shirt.

His vermilion eyes locked onto you instantly, roaming over your figure in assessment. The corners of your lips twitched. Not now. You weren’t going to let whatever just happened outside poison tonight. Behind you, the hanger closet door clicked shut. You only tilted your head slightly. Emerald orbs met your gaze, giving nothing away.

“I bought you something,” you said offhandedly.

Crossing the room, you took only the cylinder from Atticus’s hands. The skull-marked container felt cool against your palm as you approached Cadmus. “This is for you. I realized your stock was running low, so I ordered a few more.” You extended it toward him.

He didn’t take it. With a small huff, you pressed it insistently against his chest. The impact made him react — his arms came up automatically, wrapping around it before it could fall.

“It’s the flavor you pretend you don’t have a preference for,” you added dryly. “Enjoy.” Then you brushed past him. “As for you, Atticus—”

Your fingers curled around the staircase railing as you began ascending, “I noticed you didn’t have the second volume of The Taran Archives,” you continued. “The collector’s edition. The annotated one you keep rereading excerpts from.” You didn’t look back. “So I got it for you.”

You waved your hand dismissively. “You both can enjoy the rest of the night. I have a terrible headache, and I’d like to lie down for a moment. Wake me when dinner’s ready.” Your hand tightened on the railing before you added, quieter — “And try not to assume things about me while I’m gone.” Then you continued up the stairs.

Of course the headache was a lie. You just needed time—time to think, time to retreat, time to silently lick your wounds.

You knew they both saw through it. They knew you were withdrawing, pulling back into yourself. Maybe they had wanted to stop you. Maybe they had almost reached for you. But you were already halfway up the steps, moving too fast for hesitation to catch you.

All that remained behind was likely confusion from Cadmus and the familiar sadness from Atticus, who would, without fail, find a way to blame himself for saying something he shouldn’t have.

You managed a small, sad smile as you walked down the corridor. You weren’t in any state to comfort yourself—much less him. Because what were you even supposed to say?

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

Minutes later, you adjusted the final plate on the table, nudging it until it aligned with the others. The routine grounded you in a way nothing else had that evening.

Even though most food was like poison to Cadmus, a place was always set for him. It had become an unspoken rule in this house—not because he needed it the way you or Atticus did, but because leaving the space empty felt wrong. Excluding him from something as simple as a shared meal felt like drawing a line no one wanted to acknowledge.

On better nights, Atticus would disappear into the lower storage rooms or beyond the estate walls, returning with strange ingredients you didn’t recognize—dried stems that twinkled, thick roots that seeped dark sap when cut, powders that smelled metallic and pungent. He would combine them into a murky liquid that steamed as if resisting containment. You never knew where he sourced them, and he never offered the information. Cadmus always consumed it without hesitation, drinking deeply—almost hungrily—before returning for more.

Tonight, however, the atmosphere had too much tension for such effort. So Atticus had prepared something straightforward and distinctly Vathilian in design— austere, rooted in the harsher culinary traditions of the four lands.

At the center of the table rested a broad obsidian platter layered with char-seared marrow tubers split down their centers, their wan interiors smeared with ash oil and coarse mineral salt harvested from the southern flats. Alongside them lay thin cuts of razorleaf venison, cooked rare enough that deep red bled into a reduction of fermented blackthorn berries—the sauce dark and bitter, laced with aromatic smoke that made your mouth water.

In front of Cadmus sat a large bowl filled with pale broth, silver strands swirling through it—ember-vine extract mixed with dusk spores and something mineral-rich enough to carry an iron tang. It lacked the elaborate preparation Atticus sometimes indulged in.

Atticus took his seat once he saw that you had taken yours. He folded into himself as he always did when something happened between you, his posture composed but guarded as he reached for his cutlery.

Cadmus remained standing a moment longer before finally sitting, his vermilion eyes flicking between the two of you as though considering something he chose not to voice.

“Let’s just eat,” you said, keeping your tone neutral, unwilling to reopen what had already broken apart earlier.

Stretching across the table, you reached for the knife already resting beside the venison and cut a strip from one of the slices. The juices splashed against the cold blade before dripping into the thick sauce on the plate. You placed the piece onto Atticus’s empty plate.

His hand trembled when the meat touched porcelain.

Without acknowledging it, you cut a portion of the ash-brushed tuber as well and set it beside the venison. Then you reached for the sauce jug and poured a generous amount over both, letting the dark reduction spill thickly across the plate. If there was one thing Atticus loved second only to his books, it was gravy—the more, the better. You didn’t give him the space to form a thank you. Instead, you turned your attention to Cadmus. Picking up the ladle, you poured three scoops of the pale broth into his bowl, watching the silver threads dance through the liquid as it settled.

In return, Cadmus leaned forward almost immediately. With a look of deep, almost exaggerated concentration, he repeated your earlier actions—cutting venison, slicing tuber, arranging them neatly onto your plate. Atticus stilled at that, as if he had intended to serve you himself but hadn’t known whether you would accept it. Cadmus finished arranging the food, then retook his seat, picking up his spoon.

The silence that followed wasn’t the kind that felt like an elephant in the room. No. It carried the weight of three people trying, in their own flawed ways, to show care without admitting how badly they needed reassurance. Cadmus finally dipped his spoon into his bowl and scooped up a mouthful eagerly. Atticus stared at his plate a second longer before cutting into the piece of tuber.

You picked up your utensils, your stomach growling in anticipation. You had been waiting—if not eagerly—all week to once again taste Atticus’s cooking. Though you were still tense from everything that had happened earlier, it hadn’t waned your hunger one bit. If anything, it had made you even hungrier. Maybe this was what they called stress eating. Cutting a piece of venison and a portion of the ash-brushed root, you pulled them through the thin layer of sauce on your plate before lifting the fork to your mouth. You chewed slowly at first.

Atticus truly did know his way around a kitchen. Even now—when the world that had once made edible, commonplace meals possible had long since crumbled into something harsher—he still managed to recreate that feeling. The flavors were rich without being overwhelming, the seasoning balanced in a way that didn’t feel improvised. It was like finding home far away from home. As the spices bloomed against your tongue, you found yourself nodding in approval before you even realized you were doing it. Your fork moved again, piling up more food and sauce. You ate with more impatience than elegance, as though proving to yourself that at least this part of the night could remain simple.

Across from you, Atticus kept his gaze lowered. “Thank you… for the books,” he murmured, the words barely rising above the clink of cutlery. He nudged the meat on his plate rather than looking at you, as though unsure where to begin. His voice wasn’t ungrateful—just careful, as if he expected the acknowledgment to cost him something.

Cadmus’s vermilion eyes moved between the two of you, watching the exchange with quiet interest. He said nothing, only lifting another spoonful to his lips while the silence stretched in a way that felt less brittle than before.

You placed your fork down and reached for your napkin, dabbing at your mouth before lifting your glass. Small bubbles raced to the surface and burst in soft succession, the mellow scent of raspberry and olive brine wafting to your nose. You pushed your chair back and stood.

The movement drew both of their attention, though neither tried to stop you.

Crossing the room, you passed through the tall doors where the curtains fluttered restlessly in the night air. Loose red petals—blown in from the climbing vines that traced the balcony railings—brushed against your hair and shoulders as you stepped outside. The city stretched below, a spread of distant lights against the carmine glow of the moon. You raised your glass toward it, as though offering a private toast.

Behind you, a chair scraped against the floor, followed by approaching footfalls. “What is your concept of love, Atticus?” you asked without turning.

The question floated back into the room as you leaned against the balcony railing, your gaze fixed on the open yard beyond the estate gates. The world felt unusually still, even the breeze that had brushed your skin moments ago seemed to stop, as though waiting with you.

When Atticus stepped onto the balcony, he stopped just short of your side. You sensed him there without looking — as always, keeping a respectful distance unless invited closer. “I think…” he began, his voice soft thoughtful rather than defensive, “love is choosing someone repeatedly. Even when it would be easier not to.”

He paused, searching for the rest. “It’s wanting to mend the things that could tear apart the foundation you’ve spent years — or even centuries — building. It’s remembering the small details. Trusting your partner. Accepting their flaws, because those flaws are what make them distinct. Love is… just…” He trailed off.

“Loving someone despite the odds being stacked against you.” There was no embarrassment in his tone—only sincerity.

Cadmus appeared in the doorway but did not step fully onto the balcony. The red moonlight reflected in his vermilion eyes, rendering them unreadable. He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, the other hand braced against the glass panel.

“Do you wish to add your two cents as well, Cadmus?” you asked, finally turning to face them.

He craned his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement touching his expression. “What is the concept of love?” he mused. “Isn’t it sacrificing billions for the one you love? Crossing realms to retrieve their scattered soul shards just to make them whole again—”

Before he could finish, Atticus jabbed him in the side. Cadmus cut off mid-sentence and shot him a glare.

There it was again — that fleeting, secretive glance they shared whenever one of them said more than they should in your presence.

Both of their lips curved upward into smiles that looked carefully arranged rather than felt. “Whatever Atticus said,” Cadmus replied tightly, though he jabbed Atticus in return — harder this time.

Atticus flinched at the unexpected retaliation, nearly losing his balance from the force of it before balancing himself against the railing.

“Are you both sure that what you feel for me isn’t just lust… or maybe obsession?” It was your turn to fall silent. The night was already ruined, but that didn’t mean you wanted to tear it open further—didn’t mean you wanted to step into a chasm you might never climb out of, simply because you couldn’t contain your thoughts.

You wouldn’t lie. You did love them, even if it felt too soon to be imagining white fences and futures like the ones you had pictured in your past life.

“Lust? Obsession? Do you have so little faith in me?” Cadmus asked, his voice slicing through the spiral of your self-reproach.

Were you wrong to feel this way? Wrong to think that the love they offered might not belong to you, that perhaps it was meant for someone else—someone long gone, replaced? But fear clenched your chest: fear of losing them, fear of what would follow if everything fell apart.

The light in Atticus’s eyes dimmed, as though something fragile inside him had cracked without warning. In near-perfect unison, both men shook their heads and took a step back, regarding you as if you had committed the most unforgivable betrayal.

“I…” you began, but the words refused to form. How could you tell them the truth? How could you confess that the person they had fallen for no longer fully existed—that they had died months ago, leaving you in their place? Something warm slid across your knuckles. Your grip loosened, and the glass slipped from your hand, shattering against the balcony floor.

You turned away, hurt—hurt because they hid behind careful smiles and silent suffering, each living in their own guarded world. But you were worse. Your foundation was built on concealment. Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible if it ended here. Maybe this was inevitable.

Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your chest. Tears streamed down your face as a sharp ache stabbed at your heart. “A foundation built on lies will eventually crumble,” you whispered, a broken laugh escaping—so hollow it seemed to vibrate through your ribs.

“What is love, anyway?” Your voice quivered but did not stop. “Manipulation? Gaslighting? Cheating? The power of knowing that no matter what you do, your partner will forgive you?” You swallowed hard. “Or is love just a myth? A convenient illusion—using someone as a placeholder because you’re afraid to be alone?”

Your shoulders shook. “Everyone else seems to receive it so freely… but not people like me.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I’m undeserving of it. Isn’t that right?”

For a short while, nothing was said. You were left staring at the broken pieces of glass scattered across the floor, your reflection staring back at you from every shard. It made you feel like you were trapped in a room full of distorted mirrors, every version of you warped and unfamiliar, and there was no clear way out. The night air felt colder now. Your breathing came out in uneven gasps, your vision blurring despite how hard you tried to steady it. Then steely arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind.

Atticus drew you back against him until your spine rested against the solidness of his chest, his warmth seeping into you like he was trying to hold you together. “Undeserving?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Is that really what you think we see when we look at you?”

His face dipped into the crook of your neck. “You think this is convenience? That you’re just filling space?” His breath fanned across your skin.. “I won’t lie — sometimes we argue. Sometimes we don’t see eye to eye. Sometimes I go quiet because I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll regret. But that doesn’t mean I’m here because I’m afraid to be alone.”

Atticus's voice softened. “If this were convenience, I would have left a long time ago.”

At the same time, Cadmus stepped forward and took your hand, his fingers threading through yours. His jaw was tight, shoulders stiff, but his eyes didn’t leave your face — like you might disappear if he blinked. “You don’t get to decide what our feelings are,” he said calmly. “And you don’t get to reduce them into something shallow just because you’re scared.”

He lifted your hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. Goosebumps spread across your skin, and you shivered. “If this were lust, we wouldn’t still be here after everything. If this were obsession, we’d try to cage you, control you, make sure the only thing you saw was us.”

His grip tightened just slightly. “But we’re standing here, listening to you, letting you question us, that’s not obsession.”

“You said a foundation built on lies will crumble,” Atticus murmured. “Then let’s stop pretending we’re building on lies. What we’re building is trust. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re still learning.”

Cadmus glanced at him before speaking again. “If this is a mistake — if this is some dream we shouldn’t be in — then I don’t want to wake up. Because a world without you in it isn’t one I care to return to.”

“I’d rather stay here too,” Atticus added quietly. “With you. With us.”

You reached back and gripped Atticus’s wrist, your other hand tightening around Cadmus’s fingers. You didn’t speak. But you didn’t pull away either.