#syn chats

When that hand encloses on yours, you startle, but then it clamps you down, a signal, a warning not to jump from your seat. You refuse to turn around and see what Sylus's expression is—or what he's masking.

After a few moments, once you've settled back and made no further motion, the thumb over your hand begins to travel down the prominent bone of your wrist. Then the fingers: reorienting themselves so that they nestle in the seams of yours, ready to press down.

“Enjoying the performance?” Sylus asks. The lilt in his voice makes you question which subject he is talking about: the ballet or his hand. Either applies; they're both similar—except they diverge on the how.

You hum in response, because there's no other way to answer him, not with that hand that's already bearing down the spaces between your fingers.

You're still not looking at him.

He hums in return, and his fingers entwine with yours, clasping tightly.

On the stage the dancers congregate for the climax.

Your hand is turned over, palm up, exposed, and for a second Sylus's hand leaves you and then returns, middle finger tapping lightly at the base—then tracing your fate line slowly, a whisper of a caress. The sensation begets a murmur down your spine.

Then his index finger goes next: along your life line, drawing an attentive circle once it reaches the apex. It tickles, and you jerk, but Sylus immediately flattens his palm over yours, stopping you from snatching your hand back.

Then he starts over: this time, from the tips of your fingers, his own weightlessly sliding down until they stop at the center, where his thumb takes over, one firm press before tracing geometries on your now-sensitive palm.

You take a deep, heavy breath.

He does this the entire duration of the climactic scene. On your palm indecipherable shapes coalesce invisibly from the heat left by his thumb—and when the music crescendoes to its peak Sylus brings your hand to his face and mouths the remnants of sensations lingering on your palm. You can hear the wetness of his kiss and you lean back and shut your eyes.

The music bursts to a stop.

Applause thunders throughout the hall. You want to join in the adulation, but Sylus keeps a stubborn grip on your hand. When you finally direct your gaze to him and find that his is on yours, you realize that his attention has been on you all this time.

“What do you think?” he asks into your palm; you tamp down a shiver.

Biting your lip, you exhale through your nose. Sylus does not relinquish both his grip and his focus on you.

“Electrifying,” you answer. You don't specify which.

A smirk, cocky and satisfied, graces his lips. He finally lets go of your hand, and you clench it into a fist, willing your body to take back control.

“There's more of that tonight,” he says. “We are not done yet.”

He leans over and traces the outline of your lips with his ring finger. Then he gets up and offers his hand to you.

The moment she reunited with Lucas, he grabbed her wrist and teleported to the gardens. Surrounded by blooming flowers, Lucas turned over the hand he's holding, his fingers lightly pressing on her pulse point.

Baffled, Athy had said, “I'm not dead.”

“I know you're not,” Lucas had answered testily.

Then, as if it was on a whim, Lucas trailed his free hand down the cascade of Athy's hair.

It had been a curious exchange, but from then on, without an apparent pattern to figure out his motivations, every now and then Lucas would pull Athy aside, place his fingers on either her neck or her wrist, and feel her pulse beating for a few seconds, after which he would release her and move on as if it was normal for him to perform a random check on her for signs of life.

Athy tried to confront him, but Lucas stubbornly denied it or pretended not to know what she was talking about. So she let the matter go.

But now, though, squeezed inside a nook at the palace library, Athy surrenders to the urge to confront him again.

“Why are you doing that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That,” and she angles her chin to point at his hand, currently enclosed around her wrist, index and middle fingers positioned over her pulse. “You've been doing that so frequently the others have begun to notice. Lily's started to worry about my health, and Felix thinks you're studying to become a part-time nurse. Be thankful that it hasn't reached Dad yet; who knows what he might do.”

The disbelief rocks Lucas's bearings, and he drops her hand and steps away from the tight corner he sequestered themselves off to. Dragging a hand through his hair, he scowls into the aether as Athy emerges from the shadows and stretches her limbs out.

“It's just—” He grits his teeth and snaps his mouth shut. Athy zeroes in on him; it's rare to see Lucas this flustered. If only she had a camera to capture this moment ...

“It's just what?”

“It's just that—” A frustrated sound cracks out of him. Then he whirls back to her, irritated. “Ten months was a long time. Anything could have happened. I just had to make sure you're not undead or a marionette puppeteered by some evil guy out there.”

Athy blinks. And stares at Lucas. And blinks some more.

Then she bursts out laughing.

Lucas clicks his tongue, somehow expecting that reaction.

She wipes the tears off her eyes. “You could've just told me you missed me.”

“That's not what I was saying.”

“Sure, sure.” She waves her hand to show that she understands, and that incensed Lucas further. “Don't worry; in those ten months I was missing you too. I was wishing that you could have been with me. Felix was great, sure, but I was hoping for your expertise in getting on people's nerves because so many of them had been annoy—”

“Then should I put a ring on your finger?”

Athy stops laughing.

“What?”

“What?”

She points an accusatory finger at him.

“What did you just say?! Did you just—”

“Ah, I think my mana's acting up. I'll go somewhere else and fix this.”

“Hey! That's an obvious lie! Lucas, don't run away!”

You keep glancing at Zayne as the two of you walk along the pathway towards the peach trees. Some architecture students pass you by, hastily shifting their blueprint tubes. One is loudly complaining about their plates. The walls are filled with murals, painted by former fine arts students as part of their degree requirement. It had been several years ago and you were still in high school then, but Zayne mentioned them once as an afterthought to a topic you've already forgotten, and now, seeing the art, you think that it would have been cool to watch them work.

The breeze hits your skin as you emerge from the building, the peach trees coming into view. The blossoms sway in accordance to the wind, petals dancing in spirals. Like reflex, your hand gropes for your phone, lining it up and taking a snap. Next to you Zayne hides his laughter by pretending to cough into his hand.

Notably enough, there are no other people around.

“The first time I was here,” Zayne begins, “was for a class homework. I had to sketch different plants and label their parts. It was spring, so I thought to come here to draw the peach blossoms—never mind that I was the only person alone and the rest were couples.” A twitch of his mouth hints of reminiscence.

You imagine Zayne, sketching. In your head, his back is straight, posture perfect, as he looks up at the flowers, one arm supporting the drawing pad, one hand holding a pencil, each stroke drowned by murmuring couples around him. He must have made an effort to ignore all other people doing romantic stuff as he sketched the peach blossoms. “How lucky for your professor to have a copy of your artwork!”

He smiles. It lights up his face.

“I didn't come back here after that,” he continues, “because I saw no reason to. Now, though ...”

You take a sharp inhale, blinking rapidly. There must be a reason for Zayne's invitation, his words about this place, the implications of it—the anticipation. There aren't any words for you to say; the nerves pull you into keeping silent. Just looking at him, feeling your eyes widening by the second.

And then—

And then his phone rings, and the anticipation crumbles. Zayne's frown could dampen even the mood of an excited dog. He pockets the phone, lost in thought.

You bite your lip and ask, “Did something happen?”

His focus on you returns, and it is troubled. “Nothing significant. Just ...” He exhales, pained. “I need to check something. I'll be back. Don't leave here; wait for me.”

You reach out, attempting to stop him by grabbing his arm. But midway you falter, your hand dropping back to your side.

And then you're watching him rush back to the building.

When his shadow recedes into the hallway, another breeze whips by, and the rustle of flowers follows. Having no choice you turn back to the peach trees, surveying them more closely this time, solitary in your marveling.

A small part of your brain worries at you; an itch that manifests at the base of your neck crawls upward. You glance back at the architecture building again, the beginnings of apprehension squirming inside your gut.

He's coming back, you tell yourself. Why wouldn't he? Something must have happened, something important. Otherwise he wouldn't have left you here.

This uncertainty urges you to follow him, your feet ready to pivot. But.

You trust Zayne—you'll wait for him.

The wait prolongs. Seconds turn into minutes. Ten. Twenty.

Thirty.

The peach blossoms undulate with the wind, unaware of your concerns. You're pacing at the end of the row of trees, ready to dial Zayne's number. When your whirl around—

Flowers. A bouquet of them. Roses. And the one holding the bouquet—

“Zayne!”

His breathing is a little uneven, and a trickle of sweat lines down the side of his face and down his neck, where it disappears inside his shirt. He must've run all the way back here.

“Apologies for my sudden departure,” he says, mostly level. “I hadn’t foreseen the possibility of a ... problem in my plan.”

The knot between his brows indicates how much he's troubled by this; but now that he's here—and the weight that's borne you down finally lightens—you find his worried expression cute.

You take the roses and inhale their scent. Zayne exhales, relieved, and you smile at him, slightly ruefully.

“Can you tell me what's going on now? I got a little worried there, you know.”

“I'm sorry,” he says again. And then: “I believe you already have an idea of what I was—still am about to do.”

You have, but you do not want to utter it out loud. He has to be the one to say it.

“I have an idea,” you agree, “but I'm not sure if I’m right about it.”

A smile of his own emerges; Zayne shakes his head. “I believe you are. And I would have done it already, were it not for the matter earlier.”

“And what matter would that be...?”

He doesn't answer you right away; just stares at you at length. The quality of his gaze stirs soft warmth within you, and you feel a splotch of blush creeping onto your cheeks.

“I wanted to invite you to dinner, so I made reservations—both here and at a restaurant,” he says. “But due to an unforeseen circumstance, the restaurant had to cancel my reservation.” A pause. “I had to act quickly.”

“So what did you do when you left?”

“I had to call in a couple of favors. And now ...” His hand reaches out and trails down your hair, then tucking a stray lock behind your ear. “I can start over.”

The hand migrates to your hand that's cradling the bouquet; encloses it over yours. Zayne steps closer, head tilted down, close enough for his breath to warm your skin. The strands of his hair mingle with yours. He smiles.

“The peach blossoms surrounding us are beautiful. It's a good decision to bring you here,” he says. You remain looking at him, heart pounding loudly in your chest. “May I take you out to dinner?”

You draw a breath. “Just dinner?”

A laugh, low and clear. “Not just dinner. That’s only the beginning.”

You feel your mouth stretch into an elated smile. The bouquet crinkles as you close the gap between you and Zayne, resting your head on his shoulder. His free hand comes up to settle on your back.

“Yes,” you say into his neck. “Yes to all. Yes to everything. For you of course it’s a yes.”

He chuckles. “You still don’t know what I’ll ask next.”

“Don’t care.” You step back and show him your joyful expression. “It’s you. What else would be my answer?”

“Uh, you may want to ...” you trail off, gesturing around the lower half of your face. Xavier takes the hint and snatches the flower off. He also wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Now that the rose no longer distracts you, a cursory look at Xavier answers most of the questions burgeoning in your head.

He's wearing the bunny ears again, which could only mean one thing. Without your consent heat flashes within the core of your belly, and you're reminded of that one particular night involving Xavier and bunny ears and necktie wrapped around his neck like a bow ... and the promise of a sleepless night that he fervently fulfilled—and that extended till the day after.

He's also wearing a silk dress shirt that he may or may not have forgotten to button.

A twitch of his mouth pulls you back to his face, and you gather your bearings to say, ineffectively: “You look ridiculous.”

He tilts his head at that, all innocent wiles. “You don't like it?”

The open floor and its spatter of rose petals, the playful yet sweet tune of the violin, Xavier with his silk shirt that reveals the tantalizing gleam of his chest—it all feels like an overload of senses, but you swallow the mangled laughter bubbling out of you. He did catch you off guard the first time he surprised you with the bunny butler roleplay, after all.

“I've been practicing my skills in dancing,” he continues when he realizes that you're not going to talk. “I was planning to show you later, but you came in too early. I'm not prepared.”

This time, you allow that little bark of laughter. He's so full of shit, this Xavier. He claims he isn't prepared, yet he greeted you with a rose on his mouth while passionate music fills the space of the living room. What else can you do but smile helplessly at his charm?

“Still,” you say, a little coy, “can you show me your progress?”

And it's like a ripple: Xavier's gaze sharpens, and his poise gains an edge you usually see when he fights Wanderers. He should look silly with the bunny ears on, but it makes no fatal dent to his whole aura.

Slowly, like a leopard prowling towards its prey, he takes a step in your direction, eyes locked onto yours. Warmth curls in your gut and your breath catches—but you remain on your place. When he is a hair's-breadth distance from you, the heat of his body palpable against yours, his breath fanning your skin, one of his hands slides into the space between your side and your arm. It then molds its palm according to the curve of your waist, its weight heavy and searing, like a brand that you cannot rub away. And this hand, this clever hand, slips further to press onto your back—and yanks you to him, face to thighs.

The music's refrain picks up, notes swelling and pulsing around you and Xavier. He moves and you follow, relying on his guidance. Overall, the dance is a little clumsy, but Xavier is so focused on you and the closeness between you and him, that you feel the crawl of a flush climbing to your cheeks.

He twirls you then pulls you back to him, your thigh between his legs. Something brushes against it, but Xavier, intent on finishing the dance, steers you into a sweep across the room. And as the melody winds down to its conclusion, you feel your body angled into an incline, and, supported by his arms, bit by bit you fall into a dip, with Xavier following you.

For a few seconds he doesn't get up, and neither do you; you're just looking at each other, breaths gradually growing heavier, and for a fleeting moment Xavier's eyes drop to your mouth.

Slightly above your head, the bunny ears sway, their tips almost touching your hair.

“Impressive,” you say, airy.

“Anything for my lady,” he answers, voice low and husky.

“Then should we reward our loyal bunny butler for his efforts?”

A beat passes. Then stretches. And then the hands under your back shift and suddenly the world tilts until your body is laid on the soft carpeted floor. Xavier straddles you, both his hands traveling up the length of your arms, light, ghostly, but scorching. And when your eyes meet, he leans down, noses along your cheek to your ear, hot, moist breath tickling your sensitive skin.

He whispers: “I live for your grace, my lady.”

It just so happens that the tip about a Metaflux occurrence takes place in a pop culture convention, and plenty of people arriving are dressed in their favorite characters. As you made your way towards the entrance half an hour ago you did a double-take on a cosplayer dressed as a giant blobbu. Next to them was a well-made costume of Heartbreaker. Vaguely you hoped that the real Heartbreaker wouldn't wander here.

You could have, of course, chosen to wear your hunter uniform; when asked, you could have passed it off as cosplay. But it's not often that you get to dress up as one of your favorite characters and drag Zayne into the fun too. Easier to blend in, you had said when Zayne frowned at the costume intended for him.

“Wrong hair, man!” somebody calls out to Zayne once you and he emerge into the hall.

Zayne sighs and you snicker, the paper bag containing the wig and contact lenses crinkling with the movement.

Lunch comes along and still no Metaflux alert. After your eighth lap around the perimeter looking for any sign of anomaly and finding none, you recoup with Zayne to buy a meal.

One hour later your watch blares.

“It's here!” And Zayne, now with a wig and contact lenses on, nods in understanding and prepares as well. You note to yourself that after this, you'll take a photo of him in his full cosplay regalia.

It's impressive that the organizers of this convention have arranged contingencies in the event of Wanderer appearance. The people are generally calm, guided away by calm ushers, though some have the mistaken impression that this is also part of the event—not that anybody's inclined to correct them.

There's only few Wanderers due to the low level Metaflux, which you and Zayne can take care of pretty quickly. Zayne freezes the Wanderers from attacking and you fire your guns at them for ultimate damage. It doesn't take too long, and the crowd cheers as the last remnants of Wanderers disappear in the air.

Swept by the energy, you turn around and wave at the onlookers. Behind you, Zayne shakes his head, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Cleanup is minimal, and the last of the organizers thanking you has already left. Sitting on a small bench next to a giant Astro Penguin statue, you stretch your limbs and pop your joints, and watch as Zayne approaches you holding two cones of ice cream. He hands you one.

“Any wounded or injured?”

“None, just minor scratches from their costumes,” Zayne answers in between licks.

“That's good to hear.” You scoot a little towards the statue and pat the space on your other side. “Why don't you sit next to me?”

On that small bench you and Zayne just barely fit, your sides flushed. Zayne's abandoned his longcoat and laid it on his lap and yours. The wig and contact lenses stay on.

“This is a nice reward,” you say, gesturing at the ice cream, and Zayne hums. “Let's stay like this for now, I'm very comfortable where I am.”

To punctuate your comfort, you entrust your weight to Zayne, who wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you even further to him. He laughs, low and content. “What else do you want as reward?”

You make a show of thinking about it deeply. “Weeellll ...”

Then you look up at him—he's so close! enough to steal a quick kiss—and grin.