fixated fantasist

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That night, after a fruitless, frustrating few hours of learning nothing, Ivan climbed the creaking stairs to the inn for the first time.

He’d set out empty of expectations, but still felt his nerves whirring with the dissatisfaction of unanswered questions even as he unlaced his scant leather armor with a sigh of relief and laid it atop the stout chest in the corner of this rented room.

Freed from every stiff, protective layer, he glanced around this warm and unfamiliar place. He got the sense that this was a simple space to whomever had created it as he began to sniff around its amenities, many of which he’d passed months on end, in multiple seasons of his life, without. In his prowling, he came upon a small but scrappy-looking iron stove with a long arm tethering it to the ceiling and, across from that, a smooth, stone basin, filled halfway with clear, still water. He stopped in front of it and peered into it like a wishing well. A single drop escaped the brass tap perched above, falling to the surface with a soft plink. Ivan wasted no time–he bent over the basin and plunged his hands into the cool water, splashing a few indulgent handfuls over his face, feeling revived enough to utter a near-indecent gasp for no one but himself as he came up for air. Running his palms over the contours of his face, he felt the bandage looped around his right thumb scrub roughly against his cheek and paused, still dripping, to stare for a moment at his own hand.

He thought about removing the bandage, but didn’t. Certain it looked as hideous as it felt under there and unprepared to face or answer for it, instead he reached out and gripped the metal lever in front of him (with his left hand) and yanked it upright. The tap rushed to life and the surface of the water climbed higher up the curved sides of the basin–so clear he could see every speck in the polished stone that held it even through the agitation of the stream. He pulled the handle back down and the tap shut off with a squeak. He shrugged privately to himself, half-drying his face on the hem of his shirt as he padded over to the glass paneled door beyond–left ajar, hemmed with little braided wards whose beads clacked together softly as the salt air sifted through.

Roving the city these past few hours, Ivan had found people friendly and forthcoming, well beyond what he’d expected–a side-effect he’d noticed during blackouts in the technologically-younger cities of this kind that he’d travelled to in the past. The lights would go out and, suddenly, people would start to loosen up. They’d begin to share food with their neighbors they used to avoid. They’d titter in the ears of near-strangers all the things they’d never say in the light. Despite their discomfort or because of it.

There was a bashfulness to it here: the townsfolk had begun to accept this new routine of gathering outside their homes, lighting candles or torches or planting makeshift spells inside of globes where heatless, flameless lights driven by the sun and sea once hummed to life on their own as soon as the sun went down. They sat upon their darkened doorsteps, sheepishly strumming stringed instruments like it wasn’t quite allowed, sharing meals in the open air at more than an arm’s length away. They laughed together at the mundane and disastrous with the relief and quiet uncertainty of people who weren’t used to connecting in this way. It was sweet and easy to get swept up in as an expert in making the most of a terrible situation, as a shepherd of saying too much at the improper volume in the dark.

Still, no one could tell him what was happening to the outermost island or why. They struggled to even speculate what reason someone might have for laying a curse upon that land, and could not decide whether it was intended to punish them, as well. But it was. It was punishing them. Ivan felt a swell of pride, watching these strangers shyly revel in expectations lost, but noticed, too, the way they shuffled uneasily, swimming against the sinking knowledge of what would happen next if the sun did not shine soon over this solar city. Here was a place where science and nature had held hands in a perfect, unbroken circuit for many years…starting to stutter. So far, the storms had not harmed the people on this side of the sea–give or take the loss of electric light and few inches of creeping coastline–but the looming threat of what would happen if the lights stayed out hung acrid in the air, heavier than the smoke sailing skyward from the now-nightly campfires that burned in the town square.

Ivan slid the door open the rest of the way (with his left hand) and slipped out, soundlessly, into the crisp, reviving night.

Stepping out onto an earthy balcony overlooking the sea in all its vastness, he could see the day’s fog had lifted enough to grant a clearer view of the misty horizon and the imperfect torchlight dotting the strata of the darkened city below. While the clouds had not settled in the city, they still hung heavily above it, keeping a tight seal on any starlight, keeping the moon all to themselves.

“I can’t make sense of it Ivan.”

He found Amaranth sat with his knees drawn up loosely, forearms resting lightly atop, gazing out across the dark ocean with a steady, unbroken stare.

“It does not behave like magic, but it must be. This storm.” Amaranth cleared his throat softly behind a curled fist, his brow tensing as he did. There was a rasp creeping in at the very base of his voice, a kind of brittleness that this did nothing to repair. “I have never seen anything like it, or…” he murmured darkly, eyes still transfixed on the cursed island, now hardly a speck on the horizon. “... if I have, it was only once before. When I was too young to understand.”

Ivan slid down the wall to sit next to him on the deck. Settling close enough that he could feel the heat held between them where their knees nearly touched.

“If there is still an island to speak of,” Amaranth mused, eyes narrowed, breath quickening. “If there is any life left on the other side of this storm, I can’– t– hh!”

His voice thinned out at the end, light as air in the instant before he pinched his nose with haste, stifling a sneeze between thumb and forefinger. It was a shuddering implosion that seemed to rattle every one of his bones just a little, yet suppressed so expertly, it hardly made a sound. Ivan could see the tendons in Amaranth's free hand flex with the effort, then relax, fingers settling loosely around his own knee again as he regained control with a cautious half-exhale. 

“--I cannot see it,” Amaranth finished breathlessly, releasing some and then all of that unspent tension in a sigh. Too soon, Ivan could tell, but when the second sneeze did not come, he replied:

“I didn’t know you were so worried.”

Amaranth turned to look at him then.

Cheekier, Ivan added, “There will be no life left on this balcony if you sit out here much longer, worrying yourself to death.”

A flicker of a sly smile started on Amaranth’s lips, an earnest admission on the tip of his tongue, but both were carried off on a quick gasp as his breath caught in his chest. “I– ah–”

Ivan watched his brow furrow and his lungs empty irritably, chased by a sharp gasp, then another, each hitching his shoulders a little higher. Watched a few waves of dark hair spill over his shoulder in a slow cascade as he tipped his head back imploringly, the ends brushing over his collarbone with the agitated rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders started to sink again, impatiently, the longer it tortured him, until a final, desperate heave of an inhale drove it out of him at last: he curled in on himself and sneezed again, into the crook of his arm this time and still holding most of it in, but a tiny, miserable “hdt’—uhh…!” still escaped despite his best intentions, muffled by the folds of his cloak.

Ivan nudged Amaranth's thigh playfully with his own. “Bless you...” he hummed like a condolence. “Come inside. You are making yourself sick, thinking about these things.”

Amaranth lowered his arm and sighed–lamentous, conceding–then turned to Ivan again, tipping his head back against the wall with a look of pure surrender. “I have missed you terribly,” he murmured with an apologetic half-smile.

There was a repentant sort of gleam in his eye as he said this. It was the face of someone who had just watched themselves knock over something fragile, a fraction of a second too late to catch it before it reached the floor with shattering finality. Felt the flash of disappointment at the avoidable loss, already moving to dutifully sweep up the mess amidst the shame of knowing that it was all their fault. It was the same. Amaranth looked at him, eyes lidded with weariness and longing, and he paused. Hesitant, like he must now admit to doing something clumsy.

“Certainly, I am coming down with something,” he confessed with a guilty smirk. “And I’d rather you not join me in that.”

Somehow, the obvious plainly stated, still came as a surprise. It was written all over his face; Ivan could tell the man was getting sick at close-to-first glance and, still, how could this be? That he could be vulnerable to such a thing. That he would be vulnerable enough to name it now.

Ivan scoffed.

“Please.” He shifted closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he laid a hand on Amaranth’s thigh. “It would make me far sicker to spend another night away from you than it would to catch your cold.” He felt a bit of heat rise to the hollows of his cheeks as he said it. How far he’d fallen from the man brawling on a passenger ferry just a few short hours ago. Without waiting for a response, he withdrew his hand and sat up with a teasing smirk. “If I make you some tea, will you drink it?”

Amaranth’s eyes drifted closed with a wry, wisp of a laugh that ruffled the evenness of his voice as he said, “Have I been such a terrible patient?”

“Rapscallion,” Lucien says.   

Marrok flashes him a smile that showcases both sets of canines. “Don't fuck with me or you'll be watching my face instead of the stage while I devour you.”

“Right here? Amongst all of these mortal gazes?” Lucien feigns a gasp, one hand upon his heart. “Why, I am scandalized!”

“Yeah,” Marrok rumbles. “Just like this.” 

Massive hands cup Lucien's face and Marrok kisses him with brief, but passionate fervor. 

“Well,” Lucien murmurs against his mouth.  “Scandalous, indeed.” 

The lights dim and the overture begins and Lucien is grateful for the change in lighting.  Why must mortals have the interior of everything bright as the midday sun?  Infuriating, to say the least.  At least he could manage without the sunglasses indoors.

For the most part.  

The effects of his latest sunlit excursion still persist, however.  Twenty minutes into the performance, Marrok is silent and attentive to the onstage antics.  Not at all what Lucien had expected.  

There is, of course, the occasional wince during a piercingly high note from the soprano or the ghastly idiocy of the assistant principal violinist, who clearly has the ear of deaf man.  Lucien himself does his fair share of teeth grinding aggravation.

“The fuck is wrong with that guy?”  Marrok’s breath is warm against his ear.  “The violin player.  I’m about to go break that screech plank over his head.”

Lucien nods. “Would it be unethical of me to drain him for such heresy?”

“No,” Marrok scoffs a laugh.  “I’d eat his heart in a fucking second.” 

“Hmn.  Better perhaps to consume his fingers, non?”

Marrok chuckles. “Something like that.” 

And while Lucien does his best to feign that nothing is out of the ordinary, things within his body are certainly amiss.  Particularly within his sinuses.  

Now?  His immortal body is choosing this moment for such nuisances?  Honestly . . . 

Lucien rifles through his inner coat pocket and cups the still-folded handkerchief in his palm for an instant before clamping it over his nose to muffle a tightly contained “Hhhuh–NKGT!”  His breath hitches and his chest heaves. “. . . IHHKGGTCH!” 

Marrok's hand  lights upon his own and squeezes. “You okay?” 

Lucien nods with a sniffle. “Yes, mon cher.” 

He tucks the handkerchief back into his jacket as Marrok's arm settles around his shoulders. 

He does, however, lean into the gesture just a touch, which elicits a dark rumble of approval from his companion. 

But putting away the handkerchief so soon was not the soundest decision. A pre-incident paralysis seizes him and he stifles the sound against the back of his hand with a clenching “--NXGT!” The one that follows is near silent, but the shuddering of his shoulders is far more pronounced. 

“Goddamn,” Marrok swears under his breath with such displaced frustration that Lucien chuckles. 

“Tres désolée,” ¹ Lucien says. “I could not prevent it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Marrok says, but the words hold no true irritation now. 

After a good hour or so, the end of the first act signals an intermission and the werewolf clearly needs some air. 

Or perhaps, something more vital. 

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A brisk walk around the fountain seems to cool the werewolf's near boiling need just a touch, which is, of course, amplified by the impending full moon.

“You're making it hard for me to pay attention to the damn story,” Marrok says, his fingers laced through Lucien's own.

The vampire offers him a coy smirk. “And for this, I am not sorry.”

“I'm so goddamn shocked.” Marrok rolls his eyes. “You French fuck.” 

Lucien laughs, but the sound is cut short by the very thing that has been incensing his companion for much of the evening.

He  holds up a hand in a halting gesture and leans away, the other hand pressed against his against the side of his nose in deflection.

“Hhih-iiih. . . ! HiihIESSCHHUh! –UhhISSCH! Hhk. . . ISSSCH–iiUUH!” 

The way his shoulders heave and shudder in such a horrid betrayal of decorum is mortifying, but not nearly as much as the fact that he has misplaced his handkerchief. Which, of course, had forced this ghastly display of indecency in the first place.

But Marrok has come to his rescue, pressing a clean fold of cotton into his palm. 

“Ah, such keen foresight you have,” he says, his voice softened and a bit breathless from the covert indiscretions of his body. “Mon dieu, that came upon me with such suddenness.” 

“Yeah.” Marrok's voice is a low, penetrative bass. “Yeah, it did.” He grabs the edge of Lucien's coat and pulls him into a claiming embrace. “I kinda feel like I should say something to you.” 

“What something?” Lucien arches an eyebrow.

“Whatever it is that humans say to each other. They still say it, right?”

“Indeed, they do.” Lucien smirks as he meets the werewolf’s stare. “But that would be nonsensical, non? Blessing the damned.”

He laughs at the absurdity of the thought, as does his companion. 

“But. . .'' Lucien drags a nail along the most delicate skin of Marrok's neck near the base of his throat. “You may say it to me, if it pleases you.”

“Nah, it's weird.” Marrok's claws sink into the shoulder of his coat. “Gonna do this instead.”

Marrok cups Lucien's face between his massive palms and imparts a growling kiss unto his lips.

“I'm wanna eat your fucking face,” Marrok murmurs against his mouth.

“Mmn, and here I believed your kind to be far more partial to the heart.”  Lucien nips at his lower lip and Marrok’s growl becomes increasingly more wolf and less human. 

The werewolf pulls back enough to showcase just how gleaming yellow his eyes have become, a tiny beading of blood upon his bottom lip.  And the ears.  Marrok never had bothered to hide those.  Decidedly pointed. And of course, the canines.  

What a magnificent, intimidating beast.  Remarkable in both mind and body.  Truly lethal, yet with the capability for chivalry and decorum.  

Lucien slides a hand over Marrok's cheek, nails skimming the skin with the most delicate of touches. 

“Je t’aime,” ² he murmurs.

Marrok cocks his head, ensnaring the fingers in his own.  “Yeah?” He pulls Lucien into a tight cinch of an embrace, pressing his forehead to that of his companion.  “You're mine.”  The kiss that follows is breath-stealing in its claim. “Say it.” 

Lucien’s voice is like warm velvet, softened by the wind. “I belong to only you.” He brushes a kiss over the hollow of Marrok's throat where the skin is visible and enticing through the cover of his scarf. “Only. To you.” 

Amber eyes flash back to bright yellow. “Je t'aime aussi.” ³

For once, the werewolf's accent is near perfection. 

“Ooh.” Lucien shivers, taken aback, a hand upon his chest. “You have been practicing, non?”

“Maybe.” Marrok tucks a loose strand of pale golden hair behind Lucien's ear. “Wanna skip the second half of this and go for a hunt instead?”

“Such a romantic,” Lucien says.

But he concedes to the change in plans nonetheless.

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Ivan re-wrapped his forearm as he traipsed down the hall, tucking the loose ends under his leather vambrace just in time to bump the next door open with his hip.

The dim corridor burst open into a riot of glass and jewels and living things. He found himself standing on the low balcony of a vast, crystal atrium, hemmed by pillars of quartz thick as ancient trees and wreathed in climbing ivy. The smooth stone flooring of the palace proper gave way to an intricate mosaic underfoot; he followed its winding pattern all the way to the very edge of a mezzanine overlooking this grand cathedral to natural light. Far, far overhead hung a clear, faceted skylight, held aloft by soaring arches, high enough to kiss the cosmos (for all he could tell–puny, craning his neck to admire it from the first-and-a-half floor).

The hall was lit on all sides, sort of, by what passed for daylight here. Even cast in the cold pallor of a relentless drizzle just outside its semi-translucent walls, the geometry of this place glittered prismatic in Ivan’s periphery with every step he took, framing everything in a dreamlike opalescence that moved as he did. Every column, every tile, every image worked into the stone around him held every color he could imagine and some he may have never spared a single thought for until now. It was easy to envision this room dazzling in true daylight: flooded with rainbows, sun pouring in from all angles and igniting every smooth surface it could touch. Sunless as it was now, the hall did not fail to impress, but it was a hazy sort of wonder–a precious gem cocooned in cobwebs, weary in its beauty. Elegant, but asleep.

Ivan leaned over the railing.

Rooted at the center of the expanse sat a polished sundial of mottled stone, twice his height or more in diameter–inert, but brilliant. Its face was carved with orbits of elaborate glyphs and rich veins of malachite, etched in every mode of demarcating time or fortune that its architect could have possibly learned before their own ran out. With only the endless, unbroken grey overhead and all around, its stiff arm failed to cast any meaningful shadow. It could not tell him the time and, frankly, he could not blame it. It simply sat, portentous, pointing its static gnomon accusatorily at the heavens, holding the tension of an entire citadel in its burnished splendor.

Ivan heard the gentle rattle of a latch and watched one of many ornate doors swing open half a floor below. A hooded figure slipped through, closing the door carefully behind with a soft click before drifting across the room in the direction of the sleeping clock’s midnight. The soaked hem of a dark cloak trailed along the floor behind–rain-blackened in most places, gradienting to a deep violet at the shoulders where it had begun to dry just enough for little whorls of embroidered acanthus to stand out on the surface again.

Ivan felt a rush of sparks course through him.

The only sight he would have welcomed standing in a hall of precious stones.

He planted his boots between the rungs of the balustrade and stepped up, easily, onto the railing. Balanced there, he felt the world turn under his feet and forgot ever having been at-odds with its machinations. Rain began to pluck at the glass ceiling, and a well of sunlight filled the emptiness in his chest.

“Hail, sorcerer!” his voice rang out in the high arch of the hall. Light as a ghost, he drifted over the railing and dropped the short distance to the sunken tiles below. “Your reputation preceded me,” he said, straightening up with a crooked grin. “Else I’d’ve gotten here much sooner.”

Amaranth did not flinch, but turned to face him, slowly.

In the instant the sorcerer’s gaze fell upon him, Ivan caught a glimpse of something that forced his brazen gait to falter. He could feel the push of some unearthly veil between them, radiating in the residual gleam of uncanny light emanating from somewhere behind Amaranth’s eyes. They had been apart for days, but never more than in this moment. Something in the fathomless distance held in the tension around his eyes, the rain-slicked hair still clinging to his brow, or whatever burned inside of him now that Ivan was not supposed to see–even just for one suspended second, it hollowed him out with a terror unknown. How easy it was to imagine him like this, holding a storm in the palm of his hand, features hardened with fury and indifference, his attention lit from within by waves of boundless destruction that took more effort to restrain than to unleash. Ivan felt something he could not know settle between his lungs and squeeze. He had never had to stare it down like this, had never seen him this way, but knew, for a moment, that he was seeing through the eyes of all who had, and who had seen nothing more after that.

Worst of all, it wasn’t enough to stop him. This cruel engine drove him forward still, no glimpse of fear enough to unseal his fate.

Amaranth’s expression softened immediately. Recognition dawned, and the warm dark returned to his eyes. “Ivan…” he breathed, voice heavy with relief, awash with such devotion that it could have split Ivan in two. By the time he was within reach, his eyes reflected no afterimage of carnage, no window to any hellish magicks that he carried within him always–only the waning light from the hall and an utter adoration.

Wasting no more time, Ivan pulled him into an aching embrace–clapped him on the back and felt himself exhale. In spite of himself, his grip tightened, clutching a fistful of the back of Amaranth’s cloak, hard enough to make himself wince as the friction seared his hastily-bandaged hand. Still, he only sunk into it deeper, leaned against him, full-bodied, and was lost. Allowed himself to be held for just a moment. How long didn’t matter. Time wasn’t welcome in this doomed space.

Eventually, Ivan laid both hands on Amaranth’s chest and eased himself up so that they may speak face-to-face. He looked down to find his own chest now damp with rain and shook his head, making a show of brushing it off with a cheerful scoff.

“Where have you been?” he admonished teasingly, reaching back down to pinch the hem of Amaranth’s cloak, squeezing until water ran down the heel of his hand before he released.

He felt a quiet chuckle rumble through Amaranth’s chest more than he heard it. “Nowhere nice,” he replied with a coy half-grin. He pivoted a half-step away and pressed the back of his wrist to his nose, looking off absently for a moment, before he continued with a sniff. “Catastrophe can never seem to strike twice somewhere warm, can it?”

He committed to detaching and, in a half-shrug or less, a subtle shiver ran through him, scattering raindrops from the surface of his cloak in every direction, evaporating before they hit the floor. Ivan laid a hand on the damp patch transferred to his own clothes and found it dry, as well. Amaranth swept the cascade of dark hair out of his eyes with one hand. His gaze alighted on the sliver of white poking out from beneath Ivan’s dark leathers. He let his hand hover over it, without touching, looking it over with curious solemnity.

“What happened here?” he asked, softly. Ivan felt a hot stinger of shame shoot through him. His jaw tightened defensively. “Nevermind,” he grumbled with an evasive smile. “I’ve gotten too used to fighting with you by my side is what happened. Sometimes it’s healthy for me to remember how to do it without the boost.”

Amaranth was quiet for a moment. Feeling pinned to a shadowbox by the look of amused skepticism on his face, Ivan decided to look anywhere else.

“A fight broke out on the ferry from Citrine,” Amaranth said calmly, as though delivering unrelated news, courtly and detached, but the corners of his eyes sharpened with oblique mischief. “--I heard.”

Eyes averted, Ivan still blinked a few times at the impact, glaring resentfully across the hall at the useless gnomon. “Oh, you heard that,” he mumbled, unable to smooth the wrinkle of defiant pride from his voice as his gaze flicked back to Amaranth, reverently looking him over.

It was unclear exactly what was off about him.

Something missing, or something weighing him down. There was nothing new in Amaranth’s posture, in the way he held himself, sharp and striking as ever. Unfair, Ivan thought, to stand before him after all these days in such unbearable, agonizing beauty. What, then? Ivan could study every contour of his face, find poetry in every muscle and bone, and never learn to read him in moments like this. But he could almost see the storm clouds that had followed him inside, watch them circling his head now. Even in all this warmth and attentiveness, he seemed somber. Worn out. Desaturated in a way that transcended the pervasive gloom of the cloud-covered hall. It was as if all these days spent standing in the rain had washed some of his colors out.

Ivan sighed, any rising mirth buttoned back up by confronting this. “Amaranth,” he said quietly, “I am not optimistic.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the formless swell of movement somewhere past the foggy, crystalline walls. Watching the shifting grey of the distant sea through this clouded prism didn’t help. It felt like standing on his toes and peeking out the windows of purgatory.

“I haven’t been to this part of the world in awhile, so maybe the local folk have gotten a little cagier, a little less trusting of strangers…” Ivan raised his eyebrows at the grumble of distant thunder. “But I think this really did come out of nowhere for them, too. Either way, it must be serious if the best answer the council could come up with was collecting every wizard who fancies themselves the greatest who ever lived at a long table and expecting them to problem-solve.” He realized he was pressing his fingers into the palm of his hand until it burned anew and hastily uncurled them. “Of all the greatest-alives I saw on that ship, none of them had the answer. And they were all full of themselves enough that they wouldn't have kept it quiet if they did. They cannot work together. Cannot set aside their egos long enough to even try. So, what’s the point of all this? They will eat each other alive before any curse gets the chance–”

He cut himself off there, feeling a prickle of self-awareness, and glanced back to Amaranth with eyes wide and apologetic, sucking in an anxious breath to delay any further flogging of his peers.

Amaranth simply looked back at him, fondly, the ghost of a rueful smile flickering across his lips as he cleared the creak from his voice. “If this is the end, they have ensured an entertaining one.”

Ivan looked up at him.

“How are you feeling?”

Amaranth frowned, puzzled. “Why do you ask me this?”

“Because I am looking into your eyes and I can tell you don’t feel well at all.”

Amaranth stared back at him, steady, unmoved, then wilted with a guilty smile. “I have not slept quite the same without you."

A heavy door beside the one through which he'd entered swung open with a sudden groan. Both of them turned.

Standing on the threshold, an angular attendant–veiled to the eyes, a set of matte horns curling from the top of their head–peered in at them with empty curiosity. Still holding the door open with one hand, they addressed Amaranth in a sibilant tongue Ivan did not understand. They were brief about it–one steady string of syllables, followed by a practiced pause. Amaranth nodded politely in response. The visitor hovered in the doorway a moment longer, but seemed satisfied with this reply. They offered a few more words, loosely, over their shoulder, with more air and thought between, before they disappeared behind the door again, shutting it without a sound.

Amaranth turned back to Ivan and, finding himself unfreed from his scrutiny, lowered his voice to a hush. “... and I will be happier when this day is done and I can return to our room,” he confessed with a disarming flash of handsome canines. He reached into his cloak and produced a silver key whose bow was bent into a sigil for the sun and offered it to Ivan in an upturned palm.

Ivan barely looked at it as he stepped forward. He reached up to stroke his hair instead--overturned the little streak of silver at his temple, then let it fall back into place. “Go now,” he murmured, running his thumb along Amaranth’s cheekbone. “I can keep my eyes and ears open.”

Amaranth sighed and blinked slowly under the tender touch, as if the rejection both of them knew he was nocking was about to wound him, too. “O, to be invisible to everyone but you…” he said in a quiet, plaintive hum–one that anyone who had ever gotten close to getting close to him might still hear in the back of their minds on a still night. One that Ivan had not passed a single one of the last thirty without imagining in his ear as he drifted off to sleep.

His hand closed around the key, lingering for a moment when he felt the chill still clinging to the surface of Amaranth’s skin. “Have it your way,” Ivan said with a smirk, making quick work of tucking the key away into his pocket.