mrpenguinpants-alter-ego

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Stepping Stone

— A stepping stone is something that helps someone advance or achieve something. He thinks his first push comes in the form of a disinfectant wipe.

— Lighter

Word Count: 17k

Part 1: Marbled Steps Light spoilers for Lighter's/Billy's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

Thank you all for your support and love for the first part! I made this for the fans and yeehawkitty. I don't know your @ but thank you for the generous kofi tip. This is for you (and just in time for Valentine’s week). I love this goofy man way too much—why does every fic I write keep getting longer and longer? The 20k word fic was a JOKE.

The first step of Lighter’s new life was sharp, clean, and tinged with a faint chemical sting. The wet synthetic fibers of polyester, soaked in a solution of water and hydrogen peroxide, smeared against his hands. He had a complicated relationship with disinfectant wipes. On one hand, they were cheap and reliable—a passable replacement for when he ran out of clean soap and water. On the other hand, the cold residue they left behind, clinging to his skin like a snail’s trail, always made him uncomfortable. He’d never liked getting anything on his hands, especially stains. The frosty bite of the air burned as much as it chilled, creeping into the tiny, still-healing cuts on his fingers. Each swipe sent a sting through his nerves. Yet, he didn’t flinch or make a sound. He’s endured far worse. By comparison, these superficial paper cuts felt almost affectionate. Instead, his gaze shifted upward from his reddening and sticky hands to the gloved ones holding the cloth. White gloves—pristine, clinical, indifferent to the nuances of patient care. His supposed new doctor, polished and bright like a freshly unwrapped scalpel, hadn’t even bothered with introductions before whisking him away to this sterile corner.

A thought crossed his mind—maybe all doctors shared a natural disregard for bedside manners, no matter where they came from.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He hears more than feels the wet slap of the disinfectant wipes landing against his cheek, the damp fabric seeping into his skin and snapping him back to the present. Lighter blinks, his eyes momentarily lost as his memories of the past rush forward in a disorienting blur—like a tangle of white noise, punctuated by the fractured, flickering remnants of TV-static pixels.

"Well? Anything to say for yourself, mister?" Your voice is still as blunt as ever, even if your tone has been weathered down at the edges. You still wear the same frown on your face, your gloved fingers warm even when pressing into this skin far too harshly, as though trying to carve your very will into his face. This time, he doesn’t hold back the shiver. The involuntary tremor courses through him, his shoulder shaking as he hunches over himself as if you've sucker punched him in the stomach. Gone are the days when he could sit still as a rock, his body locked tight, immovable while you carried on with your work. Now, he lets himself act like the brat you keep calling him.

The overdramatic shiver pulls an equally exaggerated huff from you, your breath heavy. You peel the wipe from his skin with two fingers, tossing it into the garbage without a second thought. The sound of it hitting the pile of paper is strangely final, a soft but definitive splat. Even after all this time, your bedside manner could still use a little more warmth, a little more tenderness. A small, cynical part of him wonders if that’s the way you like it. But then, maybe that’s part of the charm.

"Uh..." He paused for a moment, trying to wrack his brain for what you had just said before deciding to take a trip down memory lane. From what he remembered, Caesar had invited him into a friendly spar with the Thieren gang that had rolled into Blazewood. You, as their resident doctor, had tagged along just in case any injuries came up. Naturally, it was a complete stomp for the Son of Calydon—they were on their home turf, and it would have been embarrassing if they lost. Then, you had dragged him to your clinic to patch him up, still glaring daggers at that lynx. As soon as you’d pulled out your supplies, the scent of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide had sent him tumbling into the wormhole of the past—until you pulled him back. You’d always been good at that.

He looks up at you, noticing that small notch in your eyebrow that signals your impatience. He can’t help but let out an awkward chuckle, his voice a little shaky around the edges, "Sorry, firecracker. I must have spaced out. What did you say?"

That earns him a pinch on the cheek—one he absolutely deserves, but ow, it stings more than he expects—as you unleash a full-on lecture. He catches only bits and pieces of what you’re saying: how it was supposed to be a lighthearted spar, but he somehow kicked it into overdrive, treating it like a life-or-death battle. How he acted recklessly, for no real reason again, just to look tough. Seriously, who was he even trying to impress? That lynx?! No way, right?! The whole thing wrings out a restrained laugh from his chest, one that’s barely contained, escaping his chest like an unexpected exhale, which only makes you turn an even deeper shade of red.

It’s a striking shade—not quite as searing as the flames that roar from his gauntlets, yet no less radiant. Not as gentle as the sun sinking into the horizon, yet still rich with warmth. Bright, warm, and spontaneous, sparking to life in an instant. Just like a firecracker. He’s always loved firecrackers. They’re fleeting, reckless things—blazing across the night sky in bursts of chaos and artistry, ephemeral yet unforgettable. A single spark, a brief eruption of light, and then—gone. But for that one moment, they demand attention, carving their brilliance into the dark.

At first, he found it irritating—how quick you were to switch gears into anger, flaring up over the smallest things. It reminded him too much of the people he used to work for, the ones who barked orders and hurled insults with spit-flecked fury, who would rather scream and hound him for their lost denny's. It was always the same. The bite of their words, the suffocating heat of their rage. Huffing and puffing, throwing around threats like execution orders over a few misplaced words, as if fear alone could squeeze blood from a stone. The bloated heads of collectors who reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, who saw him as nothing more than a machine to be wound up with a crank, a weapon to be pointed in whatever direction they pleased.

Red, the shade of their fury. The shade of control, of pressure, of commands spat between bared teeth. He hated it. Hated them. Hated the way their voices rattled in his skull long after they were gone, the way the weight of their expectations coiled around his throat like a noose. He hated it so much that even the color red started to make him sick to his stomach.

And then came the blood.

Dark, dried beneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his knuckles. Bright, blinding under the harsh glare of stage lights, soaking the floor, painting his world in a shade he could never wash off.

What a revolting color it was.

"Hey... are you okay? I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up."

This time, there’s no sharp sting of another wipe smacking against his face. Instead, warmth. A palm cupping his cheek, fingers hesitant yet steady as they brush against his skin. You tilt his head from side to side, scanning his face with knitted brows and that same look of quiet worry you always get when you think something might be wrong. Your eyes flicker over his, tracking every subtle shift, every flicker of movement. You must think he hit his head again. That all the times he’s spaced out on you, all the delays in his responses, must mean he’s nursing a concussion. Never mind that he wasn’t even hit during the spar.

"It’s nothin’, firecracker. No need to apologize. I’m the one who spaced on you twice," he says, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. But the look you shoot back tells him you’re not buying it. Still, you let it go. Your reservations fall along with your hand, which drops to rest on your hip as your gaze sweeps over him, sizing him up.

"Well... if you say so. Regardless," you spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you start packing your supplies back into the white medkit, your face carefully turned away from his, "Good job as always, champ. Another tally on the chalkboard of ever-growing victories."

He watches you move around the room, each motion deliberate yet just a little too stiff—like you’re forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand rather than the person behind you. After being in this room with you for so long, he sees it all, every subtle sign: the way your hands linger just a moment too long on each item as you tuck them back into place. Even when your eyes flicker toward him, it’s brief—a fleeting connection, like the burn of a matchstick snuffed out too soon. They dart away almost immediately, finding refuge in the sterile white walls or the cold steel of the counter. Your back remains turned, shoulders taut with unspoken tension, the rigid lines of your posture starkly visible through the thin fabric of your uniform.

His gaze drops, drifting downward to his own hands. Water trails down his fingers in slow, deliberate paths, the droplets gathering at his knuckles before slipping free and splattering against the tile floor. Each impact is soundless, vanishing into the quiet that fills the room. He watches them fall, his mind oddly detached, as if the sight of the tiny ripples on the ground might somehow offer an answer he doesn’t have.

He knows he should say something—anything—to cut through the silence. The words sit heavy on the edge of his tongue, poised yet unwilling to make the leap. He opens his mouth but finds it dry, the courage he thought he could summon crumbling into dust. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, the quiet growing louder with each second, his hesitation feeding its weight.

And still, your words from earlier linger. They echo in his mind, looping endlessly, burrowing deep into the corners of his thoughts like a quiet hum he can’t shake.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath. He's never seen you this nervous before, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

He can feel his palms begin to sweat, a creeping heat against the back of his neck that's slowly traveling to his ears. Sure, any compliment you manage to wrestle out of your vocal cords makes him puff his chest up in pride and cower away in a corner, but those are usually accompanied by sincere eyes that drill into this mind. But this time, you're not even looking at him as you push each word out. Is this...?

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

He rises to his feet with an easy, practiced motion, the leather of his jacket rustling as he swings it over his shoulder in one fluid sweep. The weight of it settles against his back, familiar and grounding, but it does little to ease the charged atmosphere lingering in the air. His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, his fingers linger there, his touch hesitant, almost tentative—considering. Turning ever so slightly, with a slow inhale, he finally speaks.

"Back then, before Caesar interrupted us… what were you going to say?"

You freeze, fingers suspended mid-air, caught in the limbo between the impulse to respond and the overwhelming urge to pretend you never heard him at all. The moment stretches between you, thick and charged, pressing heavily against the walls of the room. With a sharp inhale, you force yourself back into motion, grabbing a pen and scratching hurriedly across the paper. But your movements are too rushed, too shaky, and your fingers falter as the pen slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But he always will and has.

He had a suspicion—an inkling of what you were going to say before Caesar’s interruption crashed through the moment like a battering ram. But suspicion isn’t certainty. And if he misreads this, if he takes one step too far in the wrong direction, the duck-tapped connection between you might collapse. There might be no coming back from this.

And yet, in all the moments he’s spent replaying your words, your gestures, your lingering glances, one truth remains constant: you have always been the one to reach out. The one steady hand that kept him from slipping off the tightrope he’d walked for so long. No matter how precarious his balance, you made sure he never fell alone. Even from the very beginning, when the distance between you was wider than words could bridge, you had taken his hand.

In other words, it's time to make a leap of faith.

-+-+-

The sun hangs low in the sky, just as orange and dusty as he remembers. It reflects off the sand in the Outer Ring so well that it's burning his eyes to a painful degree, but he keeps his gaze on the horizon. When the door—both metaphorical and literal—was kicked open, accompanied by a letter declaring his debts cleared and his ties to the underground ring severed, he wasn’t sure what to expect. What would greet him on the other side? Another fist to his face? A wall of steel, glass, or concrete? Instead, he finds himself here, his supposed benefactor—a red boar with a wild mane of white hair—rambles on in the background, introducing him to his gang of bikers. Their leather vests catch the sunlight, their laughter punctuated by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine. It’s mostly white noise to Lighter. The words drift past him like the wind carrying dust through the air. He catches the gang name though, or at least he thinks he does. The Sons of...something. It’s hard to care. Whatever they call themselves, it’s not important. What is important is the fact that, for the first time in a long while, no one’s breathing down his neck or throwing him into another fight. For now, at least, he’s free.

He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or to breathe a sigh of relief that, despite all the days spent in the dark, the surface remained the same every single day: normal, routine, and steady. A quiet rhythm of life he once had, back before everything shattered into glimmering pieces and neon blackholes. Back before survival became a battle against shadows, where even his memories felt more like jagged shards than whole reflections. For a moment, he wonders if there’s a name for the psychopomp who escorts people back to the land of the living. Just as Charon ferries souls who’ve received their funeral rites across the rivers Acheron and Styx, shouldn’t there be someone to guide the return journey? Instead of meeting a comforting figure, he finds himself staring into the judgmental gaze of someone who clearly doesn’t want him back among the living. Their white gloves are already curling around his wrists, alive with the faint mutterings of grime and viruses. His first steps up the mountain begin with the acrid sting of disinfectant in his lungs and the sterile touch of cotton swabs.

His new, albeit temporary, abode is deafening. It’s the kind of noise that settles deep, like the muffled pressure in his ears before a swallow makes them pop. Irritating, constant, and inescapable. While it’s undeniably better than the Underground Ring—anything would be an upgrade from that hellhole—it carries a similar kind of noise. The loudness doesn’t come from roaring crowds or fists slamming into flesh this time, but it’s loud all the same. One individual, in particular, seems to embody that more than anyone else. She’s impossible to avoid. The self-appointed ringleader of every bad idea, she lugs a spare tire around like it’s some sort of shield. No matter how careful or quiet he tries to be, she always seems to spot him whenever he attempts to sneak away. Everything about her is loud—her gestures, her laughter, even the way she stomps her boots against the ground as she barrels toward him. Today, she’s waving her arms wildly, yelling at the top of her lungs about a “top-secret mission” to hoard bottles of shampoo. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even ask why. He simply nods curtly, a silent agreement that spares him from the inevitable round of coaxing or, worse, shouting. His compliance earns him a hearty slap on the back, the kind that might’ve staggered him once, but now he barely feels. It’s as if the years have dulled his senses, leaving his body numb to gestures that should’ve felt like camaraderie. He follows her, trudging along as she chatters endlessly, her excitement filling every quiet gap. He doesn’t particularly remember what they did—only the overpowering smell of flowers and artificial fruit. The sweetness of it clings to the air, thick enough to choke him, cloying in its intensity. It lingers in his nose long after the bottles have been stashed away in her “secret” hiding spot. Later, when she moves in for another slap on the back, he dodges it with practiced ease, retreating into his own corner of blood, dust, and dirt.

You would think that, by now, he’d have acclimated to the constant assault of different scents around him. The shampoo that the girls in the gang seem obsessed with has started to lose its overwhelming sugary fragrance, so at least he no longer has to clamp a hand over his nose every time one of them passes by. Small mercies, perhaps. Yet, for all the tolerance he’s built for floral and fruity aromas, there are two scents he’s never been able to endure: blood and chemicals. Unfortunately, he finds himself in the breeding ground for both every time he even slightly nicks himself. A shallow cut on his thigh is nothing to worry about, not even enough to draw a single drop of blood. Yet somehow, he finds himself dragged to the clinic more often than anyone else. He’s certain it’s on purpose. The first time was sheer coincidence, or so he told himself. But every subsequent trip has felt deliberate, the way you grab his arm and hauls him back to that room. The doctor knows.

The realization makes his fingers twitch. It’s not the kind of tremor born of nerves, but a frustration that simmers low in his chest. His eyes glaze over as he tries to block out the sensory onslaught—the stinging scent, the white gloves, the faint hum of machinery in the corner. The irritation builds until it’s nearly unbearable, clawing its way up his throat like a scream he refuses to let out. He wants to punch something. To throw his whole weight into a single, bone-rattling motion—just to expel the tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring. Because if he can’t, he knows he’ll be left alone with his thoughts. And that might just be worse.

"You need to take better care of yourself," the doctor says, lightly pressing onto the outside of the cut and looking up at him to see if it causes any pain. There isn’t any. For something this small, there never is. He only spares you a glance before returning his blank stare back to the wall in front of him. The beige paint is chipped in places, tiny cracks crawling up the wall. You should transfer the funds for his bandages in exchange for a renovation. He hears you huff, the mumblings of someone annoyed that their help, which was never asked for in the first place, is going unappreciated. It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.

He hates people like that. People who peacock around with signs practically screaming, Look at me! I’m doing the right thing! I’m a good person! They expect gratitude, praise, maybe even a pedestal to stand on for their noble efforts. The thought makes his jaw tighten.

He hears you sigh again, the sound filled with the same familiar annoyance that he's come to expect. That passive-aggressive pity that lingers in your words when you complain to others about him. "He’s impossible," you'd said, more than once, "won’t listen, won’t cooperate, and doesn't even appreciate the help.", and that you have no idea what he's even doing here. At least he can agree with you on that last part, he doesn't know what he's doing here either in this town full of loud voices and cloying sweetness. He doesn't know how to stomach it.

He can feel your eyes roam over his stiff posture, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. As if you can practically hear Lighter's inner thoughts through his silence, those unspoken words hanging thick in the air. It's all part of the same stubborn routine, you'll push and prod hoping to find any cracks to sink your fingers into and Lighter will have them patched up and reinforced.

"You know," the doctor continues, a faint trace of irritation creeping into your tone, "I can't keep fixing you up if you keep running into trouble. I’m not a miracle worker."

Lighter doesn't even twitch, just stares straight ahead. He's learned very early on that if he stays still and shuts up, he'll be left alone sooner. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need any of this. People like a doctor—like you—always trying to help, always wanting to fix things that aren’t broken. It’s infuriating, how you all think you know what’s best for him. He hates it. And yet, here he is, with a gash that needs tending, caught between the impulse to tell you to shove it and the weight of some unspoken guilt that settles in his chest. He really wants to punch something.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, his voice a low rasp, "Never asked for your help."

The words escape him before he can claw them back, slipping through the spaces before he even realizes they’re there. Small cracks, just wide enough to betray him. Involuntarily, he braces himself. His muscles tighten against his bones, his bones harden like reinforced steel, locking in place to protect the fragile machinery inside. His lungs compress his heart, squeezing it so tightly it feels like it might burst. Those flimsy walls he’s built—made of tofu and paper mâché, laughably weak—begin to tremble under the weight of the wrecking ball swinging his way.

He closes his eyes, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in that same stubborn tone, "you shouldn’t have to."

There’s a pinch at his cheek, light but condescending, like he’s a child in need of scolding. Then the scent of disinfectant reaches his nose, sharp and sterile. Oh. Right. He was bleeding there. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Bullheaded brat,” he hears you mumble just before the door clicks shut behind you.

His first loss doesn’t begin with a fight but with a long, crumpled list shoved into his hands by a short blonde girl wearing a helmet with a metal spike sticking straight up. What was her name again? Luke? No...that was a boy’s name. Luca? No, another boy's name. She’s bossy and dishonest about her feelings, but at least she’s straightforward about what she wants. It’s easy working with her—she doesn’t waste time on small talk, which, in this gang, is practically a miracle. He doesn’t bother checking the list, already stuffing it into his pocket as he swings a leg over a spare bike lent to him for this job. With a sharp roar of the engine, he takes off from the Outer Ring, hoping to escape before anyone else can shove more responsibilities onto his plate.

That, as it turns out, is his first mistake. Sitting at a pit stop on the side of a dusty highway, he finally pulls out the list, intending to glance at it just long enough to plan the quickest route. But as his eyes skim the items scrawled across the page, a sinking realization hits him. He doesn’t know what half these things are. What even is a “Carlishe”? The words blur together, a mix of illegible handwriting and bizarre requests. There are addresses written next to each item at least—small mercies—but the real kicker is that all of them are located within the city. That almost makes him want to turn the bike around and head straight back to the Outer Ring. Almost. Instead, he exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face, and glares at the list like it personally wronged him. He can already feel the headache building.

The city is obnoxious. The constant stream of bodies rushing to their destinations, the screeching of tires against uneven roads, and the blinding flashes of lights from signs and advertisements assault his senses. He pulls his hair in front of his eyes for the nth time, brightly coloured spots popping in his vision and a stinging in the back of his eyes. His skin feels prickly, as if hives are crawling up his arms, the overstimulation setting his nerves on edge. The worst part is the lingering stares. Schoolgirls in matching uniforms clutch their backpacks in one hand, covering their mouths with the other as they whisper to each other. Giggling erupts between stolen glances in his direction. Then there are the men, distracted by their phones, who only notice him in passing—before stopping mid-step for a double-take. Their eyes dart from him to his bike, suspicion clouding their expressions, and they hurry away like he’s about to rob them on the spot. He already wants to leave. The city doesn’t need to say it outright; it’s made its message clear enough. He doesn’t belong here. He’s out of place, and he’s most certainly unwelcome.

He moves a hand to cover his nose, inhaling deeply to scrape up the lingering scents of rust and dust clinging to his gloves. His fingers tremble, his palm damp against the fabric, as he struggles to anchor himself to something—anything—other than the crushing tightness in his chest. But everywhere he turns to, he see's the same friends laughing as they bump shoulders. The bark of a dog as a little girl with a pink bow in her hair chases after it. The scent of lemonade from a nearby stand run by an equally bright yellow pill-shaped bangboo. He presses his thumb harder against the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the rising pressure, like invisible walls are closing in on him. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, his lungs clawing for air, desperate for a relief that refuses to come. His stomach twists violently, and a bead of cold sweat slides down the back of his neck, tracing a shiver along his spine. Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.

He’s panicking. He knows it. The sensation rises like a wave, crashing over him in slow, unrelenting force. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, the pulse thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands start to shake more violently now, his grip on his face slipping, the instinct to get away, to escape, clawing at him from the inside. He tries to steady himself, but the dizziness sets in, blurring the edges of his vision. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight he can’t expand his lungs, and every shallow gasp makes him feel like he’s drowning. The sensation is too familiar, too real. He’s been here before. Too many times. His back against the dirty fighting ring and the glare of stage lights replaced with billboards and concrete sidewalks.

"Lighter? What are you doing here?"

His head snaps up, eyes wild and frenzied, to see you hovering beside him. He hadn’t even realized you’d gotten so close, and the sudden proximity sends him reeling. Before he can jerk back—crashing into his bike and sending it toppling over—your hand shoots out, gripping the lapels of his jacket. His heels dig into the concrete, his hands bracing against the seat of the bike as if it’s his only anchor, but it's your grip that really holds him steady. For a second, the world blurs around him, the noise of the city dimming, and all he can focus on is the warmth of your hands, firm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. The air feels too tight, like there’s not enough room to breathe, and yet, you’re there, keeping him from falling, keeping him steady—

His heart races, the pounding of his blood echoing in his ears, his pulse thudding hard against his ribs. He doesn’t know why, but this—this moment—feels too intimate, too close. He’s not used to anyone seeing him like this: exposed, stumbling, stripped of his usual defenses. He’s always been good at keeping his distance, but now, with your hand on him, everything feels just a little too raw. Too real.

It reminds him of the past. Familiar faces flashing by. The hands that reached out to him before being swallowed in the Hollow.

His hand shoots out before he can stop it—so fast, it feels instinctive, reflexive. By the time he registers what he’s done, it’s too late. In the next blink, you’re on the ground, a startled expression etched onto your face, and his arm remains outstretched, frozen in place from when he shoved you away. The air between you feels heavy, suffused with a tension that wasn’t there before. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know whether to apologize or double down, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp at an excuse that won’t come.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly," you say instead, your voice softer than usual. There’s no anger, no accusation, just a calm sincerity as you dust off your pants and straighten up, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He blinks, your words catching him off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost doesn’t know what to say. Okay? No, he’s not okay. Not really. His mind races, trying to piece together an answer but he comes up empty. He swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult, and his eyes flicker away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I—” His throat feels tight, the words tangling together before they can make it out. He glances at you for a brief second, but the weight of your gaze is too much. He shifts his eyes down, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath his boots, as if it might somehow offer him an escape.

“Yeah,” he mutters finally, the word rough and hollow, unsure if it even makes sense in the context of this moment, “Just—yeah.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching far too long, like a rubber band about to snap. He can feel the weight of your unspoken words, the way you hesitate, lips parted but still holding back. You want to say something—he knows it—but for some reason, you don’t. Then, with a sharp breath, he shifts his weight and pushes himself back upright. The bike beneath him wobbles, the kickstand threatening to buckle before he catches it with his foot. He grips the handlebars tightly, the rough leather of his gloves creaking as he steadies the machine. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but they’re enough to keep him moving, even as his mind stays caught in that lingering moment between you.

“I should go,” he says, his voice low, clipped, refusing to meet your eyes. It sounds less like a statement and more like a command—to himself as much as to you. The words carry an undercurrent of urgency, as though he’s trying to escape the unease curling in his chest. He takes a step back, the motion stiff, like he’s physically shaking off the invisible tether between you. The space between you grows heavier, a palpable weight neither of you acknowledges. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike, knuckles pale against the leather of his gloves, before he mounts it in a quick, practiced motion. The engine growls to life, a sound that vibrates in the air but doesn’t quite drown out the tension.

And then he’s gone, the tires kicking up dust as he speeds away, leaving behind the moment, the words unsaid, and you. By the time he returns to the Outer Ring, his pockets are empty, the list crumpled in his jacket, untouched. It’s his first uncompleted job.

It’s painfully awkward for the next few days after his brief run-in with you in the city. He avoids the clinic and stays far from the supply depot, the memory of your touch and your too-soft words still too fresh, too unsettling. He doesn’t know what he expects—maybe a reprimand, maybe nothing at all—but when another girl, the perpetually sleepy one, quietly takes over the task of resupplying, it leaves him reeling. She doesn’t ask why, doesn’t mention you, just takes the list without so much as a glance his way. And yet, there’s an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, behind his ears, and it sits there like a stone lodged in his gut. Did you say something to the rest of the gang? Did you mention what happened? Complain about him, the same way you’ve done before? It wouldn’t be out of character; he’s overheard you once or twice. Still, even with all that, he wants to believe there’s a line you won’t cross. Some kind of unspoken doctor-patient confidentiality. Because if there isn’t…then why? Why did you help him? Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasn’t about him at all. Maybe it was for the town you actually care about, the place you’ve chosen to carve out a life in. Or maybe it was just reflex—what anyone would’ve done in your place. But you haven’t sought him out. You haven’t hounded him down, haven’t dragged his name through the dirt as far as he knows. And as long as you don’t, as long as you leave him alone, he can continue avoiding you. He can pretend the encounter didn’t happen. As long as he doesn’t get hurt again, as long as everything stays peaceful, he doesn’t have to face you—or the echoes of the past you unintentionally stirred.

His momentary spiraling is cut short by the sound of a cough, sharp and deliberate, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts. Lighter’s heart jumps, startled, and his leg jerks out, knocking over a chair with a loud clatter. He flinches at the noise, muttering a curse under his breath. God, he’s slipping. Pushing the hair out of his face, he glances toward the source of the cough. Through his squinted eyes, he spots...ah. Right. This was Billy. The supposed "Champion" of the gang. Hard to miss, honestly, given that he’s an Intelligent Construct. Plus, the flaming red scarf that trails after him is impressionable and Billy doesn’t look like anyone else here, his artificial frame and polished demeanor sticking out like a sore thumb among the ragtag crowd. And just like that, Lighter’s stomach sinks. If Billy’s here, then maybe—no, definitely—you must’ve said something. Of course you did. This is it, isn’t it? The prelude to him being kicked out. Again. Another mess, another failure, and now he’ll be chased out in a hail of bullets and gunpowder, all because he can’t keep his head straight for five seconds.

But instead of drawing a weapon or delivering some scathing speech, Billy does something unexpected. He holds out…a pair of tinted shades. Lighter stares, not entirely sure what to make of it. The glasses dangle in Billy’s hand, the Construct’s posture as casual and unbothered as ever. A present, Billy's voice perfectly smooth and indifferent, something the doctor picked up on a visit to the city. Lighter blinks, his mind grinding to a halt. A…present? From you? Why? For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shades, the reflection of his own dumbfounded expression staring back at him in their lenses. His brow furrows as his gaze catches the faint tint of the redish brown color across the glass, cool and distant, like a barrier between him and the world. They don’t look cheap—quite the opposite, actually. Which only makes it worse.

The weight of the gesture presses against him like a slow, sinking tide. He doesn’t know what to feel. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Suspicion? All of it tangles into a tight knot in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar discomfort he isn’t sure how to deal with. His fingers twitch at his sides, and for a split second, he debates leaving Billy hanging, ignoring the outstretched hand entirely. But the weight of of Billy’s unreadable gaze, feels heavier than his pride. Slowly, hesitantly, Lighter reaches out, his movements stiff and mechanical. The shades slide into his hand, the smooth metal and cool glass feeling foreign against his skin. His grip lingers a moment too long, like the act of accepting them is something monumental. As if he's taken the first step up the mountain.

Billy is… nice. He’s nice. Lighter can’t deny that, even if the word feels a little too plain for someone as unique as him. There’s something disarming about Billy—a balance between his quirks and his sharp edges that somehow works. Goofy around the edges, with a kind of restless energy, yet precise and almost unnervingly focused when it counts. He’s one of those people who can make awkward silences feel like they’re meant to be there, and Lighter finds an odd sense of peace in that. Maybe it’s because they share similar roles in the gang, both of them tasked with carrying responsibilities with more firepower. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something about their personalities that clicks. Lighter can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s an ease to being around Billy, like slipping into a pair of old boots that still fit just right. For the most part, Billy is quiet, observing the world around him with that detached, almost mechanical calm. But when you hit the right topic—when you find the one thing that sparks his interest—he lights up like a firework. He’ll start talking, words spilling out in a stream of excitement that’s almost contagious. Lighter has seen it happen before, usually about some obscure mechanical part he needs for upgrading or a tv show about righteous knights who battle against evil. It’s the kind of rambling that could easily be overwhelming, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow, it’s endearing. There’s something genuine about the way Billy’s enthusiasm bubbles to the surface, something that makes Lighter’s guarded demeanor chip away just a little.

What he isn’t prepared for is how his carefully planned baby steps keep turning into leaps of faith. Normally, after every job, when the gang gathers around a bonfire to celebrate—loud laughter, music blaring, and drinks flowing—Lighter sticks to his routine. He’ll slink back to wherever he came from, or at most, brood in the shadows with his back plastered against a dark wall, far away from the chaos. It’s safer that way. Easier. But this time, something feels different. When Billy nudges him with an elbow and gestures toward the sagging couches that have clearly seen better days, Lighter hesitates. He considers it, just for a moment. He could shake his head, retreat to his corner, and Billy wouldn’t hold it against him. And really, Lighter’s presence won’t make or break the party. A couple swigs of Nitro Fuel and everyone will be too drunk to notice who’s around, passing out in ridiculous sleep positions before the night’s over.

His gaze shifts toward the bonfire. The flames lick and crackle, embers glowing as they begin to dull. Behind his tinted shades, the fire isn’t as vibrant as it would be without them. The reds, oranges, and yellows are muted, softened, like looking through a filter. Yet, for once, he can look at the fire without feeling that sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. It’s a small relief, and for a moment, he feels almost… normal. His attention drifts upward, scanning the circle of people sprawled out around the fire, laughing and arguing over meaningless things. And then his eyes land on you. You’re slumped over on one of the couches, gesturing animatedly as you rant about the ever-growing stream of patients flooding your clinic. Your voice is tinged with frustration, though it’s more exasperated than angry. Something about how you haven’t had a proper break in days. That explains why he hasn’t seen you lately.

A strange realization settles over him, tugging uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He never thanked you. For the shades, for your help in the city—for anything. The thought gnaws at him, not enough to be overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He’s not good at expressing gratitude. Hell, he’s not even good at feeling it most of the time. But as he watches you flop back against the couch with a tired sigh, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. It’s not guilt exactly, but it’s close. Maybe tonight, for once, he won’t retreat into the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll take that next step.

He pointedly ignores the jolt you give when you feel the weight of the couch dip beneath him, the speed with which your head whips around to confirm what he knows must look impossible. Lighter—of all people—is sitting there, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fire like it owes him money. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly, at least. He’s almost thankful for the heat radiating from the bonfire because, with any luck, you’ll mistake the redness creeping up his ears for reflections of the flickering light bouncing off his tinted shades. It’s not nerves—well, maybe a little—but mostly it’s the awkwardness of being in your presence when he’s not glowering at you from afar or brushing off whatever comment you’ve tossed his way. This is...new territory.

A tiny, traitorous part of him kind of wants to sneak a glance at you. What expression are you wearing right now? Are you gaping like a fish, shocked that the infamous recluse has willingly planted himself within six feet of you? Or worse—are you wearing one of those disgusted looks, the kind you save specifically for when he gets under your skin? He isn’t sure which would be worse, but the curiosity lingers.

For now, though, he keeps his head stubbornly forward, his jaw tight and his arms tense, as if he’s bracing himself for a punchline to some joke he hasn’t caught on to yet. The fire snaps and crackles before them, and the raucous noise of the gang around the bonfire continues to fill the air. Still, the weight of your attention burns heavier than the heat of the flames, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget under it.

...

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just a quick glance, nothing too obvious. If you’re gaping at him like a fish out of water or pulling that disgusted face as if you’ve bitten into a lemon, then that’s a clear enough message: he’s severely miscalculated and he’ll never make that mistake again. Maybe sitting here was the wrong choice after all. His arms uncross slightly, just enough to give him the excuse to shift his weight, to tilt his head ever so slightly as if he’s adjusting his shades. His eyes flick to the side—just for a second—to gauge your reaction. It’s subtle, but enough to see if there's any tension in your shoulders, if your lips are pressed together like you’re trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide.

To his surprise, there’s no disgust, no annoyance, not even a smirk that says, Really? You’re here?. Instead, there’s something else, something brighter. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of surprise that he’s dared to sit this close to you without his usual defenses up. Like you're struggling to contain yourself before you're about to burst. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scream “wrong choice” the way he expected.

You look...elated. That’s…new.

It throws him off balance in a way he’s not prepared for. That small spark in your eyes, the faint lift of your lips—it’s not the reaction he anticipated, not in a million years. His stomach twists, not in the way it does when he’s bracing for an argument or a fight, but in that strange, uncomfortable way that happens when the ground feels weightless beneath his feet. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces his gaze back to the fire, hoping the crackling embers will right him. He focuses on that, grounding himself in the heat of the burn, anything to avoid thinking about the expression he just caught on your face. He’s not sure he’d know what to do if he kept looking. He shifts slightly, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as though that will make him feel less exposed. He hopes he looks composed, even though his pulse is racing faster than he’d like to admit. For a moment, he almost regrets sitting down. But you’re not yelling at him—or worse, walking away.

For now, that’s enough to keep him rooted in place.

Man, he really wants to go back to his secluded corner.

“Lookin’ good, Lighter,” you say with a cheeky grin, your eyes curving into crescent moons that mirror the one hanging high in the night sky.

His fingers twitch against his arms where they’re folded, and he huffs, barely glancing your way. He knows you’re teasing, but the warmth behind your tone doesn’t feel mocking—it feels...light, playful in a way that doesn’t dig under his skin.

Still, he can’t help but mutter, “Don’t push it,” though the sharp edge he tries to add falls embarrassingly flat.

The firelight dances in your expression as your grin widens, and for a moment, he’s caught between the glow of the embers and the curve of your smile. It’s not like he’s never seen you smile before—he’s seen plenty of them, but those were always directed at other people. Always at your patients, your friends, or anyone else who wasn’t him. But now, the warmth in your expression is unmistakably meant for him, and it throws him off balance. It feels strange, foreign even, like the weight of something he’s not sure he knows how to carry. He doesn’t know what to do with it—this quiet kindness you’re offering, unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker back to the fire, but the warmth of your gaze lingers, pressing against him in a way that feels both comforting and unnerving. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying to ground himself, but it’s hard to ignore the way his pulse picks up, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying so hard to maintain.

“C’mon,” you tease, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated stretch, your grin sharp and playful, “I don’t give compliments for free, you know. You could at least say ‘thanks.’”

He exhales through his nose, his lips twitching into something close to a scowl—but not quite. There’s no real bite behind it, just an attempt to shield himself from the moment you’ve trapped him in.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice gruff and low, like the word scrapes against the edges of his pride as it slips out. Your laughter, loud and unrestrained, bubbles into the sky, It doesn’t feel like you’re laughing at him, though. There’s no edge, no smug satisfaction—just genuine amusement, warm and fleeting, like the explosion of firecrackers.

Belatedly, he notices that the leather of his gloves has lost its scent of rust and dust, replaced by the lingering traces of overpriced shampoo and motor oil. He should probably mind the shift, but he doesn't, not as much as he thought he would. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting about the contrast, like a quiet marker of his unexpected immersion into this world. It's strange, but in a way, it's been a long time since anything felt so familiar. Still, for as much time as he spends in your clinic, he's surprised he doesn’t walk away smelling of antiseptic spray. Maybe it’s because he’s never been your patient, but he wonders if it’s more than that. Maybe it’s because he’s become such a regular fixture in your clinic that the place itself has started to seep into him. It’s a funny thought, one that crosses his mind every time he enters your doors to see you putter around in that rhythm you've built for yourself. He watches the way you navigate the clinic, how you hum quietly under your breath when you’re absorbed in something, and how you somehow always know just when he’s lingering near the doorway. It makes something warm stir in his chest.

Aside from him, you don’t seem to have many patients to tend to. Billy doesn't exactly need regular checkups, given that he's more machine than man, and the rest of the gang is often off on other assignments or busy with their own affairs. Now, though, he notices something that’s been creeping up on him—he’s stopped avoiding you at every turn. At first, it was a conscious effort. He’d slip out when you weren’t looking, retreat into the shadows of the clinic or take a walk to avoid running into you when you were... being you—a healer, a talker, an enigma he didn’t quite know how to handle. But now? It’s different. You seem to be everywhere he goes. Your presence is subtle, but it's there—your voice drifting from one corner of the clinic, your footsteps moving purposefully down the hallway. And he’s... used to it. More than he ever thought he’d be. The awkwardness he used to feel is slowly dissolving though there’s still a part of him that’s wary of what it means. He’s learned, in his own way, to appreciate the way you move, the way you’ve managed to fit yourself into his world.

It manifests in small moments—subtle, fleeting, but undeniable. It happens when he sees your fingers blindly reach for something on the counter, and before you can even finish your motion, he’s already sliding the object into your palm. The first syllable of your sentence leaves your lips, but it’s already too late; he’s finishing your thought, speaking the words as if they were his own. Even when you glance at something, then back at him, there’s a strange, quiet understanding. He doesn’t need you to say anything more; he can read the flicker of your thoughts in the way your eyes linger, in the soft shift of your gaze. It’s almost too intimate for him to process, this unspoken bond. His instinct is to push it away, to retreat back to the isolation he’s known for so long. But there's something strangely comfortable in it—something that makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like he's always on the outside, watching the world pass by. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He doesn’t exactly know what to make of it—this strange dance, your steady rhythm next to his stumbling between the two of you. It’s like walking through a fog, not sure if you’re heading in the right direction but trusting the path enough to keep moving forward. There are still moments when he feels like he’s on the edge of something. He’ll catch you looking at him just a bit too long, those small moments of curiosity. What’s even more surprising is how much he’s starting to do the same with you. He doesn’t always understand you, doesn’t always know the right things to say, but when he catches you working, lost in your thoughts, focused on a task, he finds a strange sense of peace in it. It’s a new thing. Before, he’d find any excuse to walk away, but now, he lingers. He stays in the space, watches the way you move with a quiet concentration, and feels that flicker of something—maybe curiosity, maybe even admiration.

He can tell you're starting to loosen up around him, too. Even when he doesn’t respond to what you say in the way you'd hope, you don’t seem to take it to heart like you used to. There’s no hint of irritation, no sharp edge to your words. You don’t push, don’t demand more than what he can give, and there’s something about that that makes him feel... safer? Less like he has to keep his guard up at all times. Bits and pieces of his old personality—those little flashes of the person he used to be before everything became so fractured—are starting to creep out from under the heavy layers of his walls. They find their way to the surface in quiet moments, in the brief pauses between conversations where you almost catch him smiling at something you've said, or when a wry comment slips out without him even thinking. It’s as if the parts of him that used to retreat into the background, hiding in the shadows of his old self, are slowly being coaxed out.

He’s holding two tubes of lipstick, one in each hand, squinting like he’s trying to decipher some ancient code. Burnice just had to be unspecific when she said she wanted to try a new color, an "orange sunset” apparently. What does that even mean? The shade of a fiery sky? A pumpkin? Tangerine? He has no idea, and it doesn’t help that both of these lipsticks look exactly the same to him. The store's bright fluorescent lights glare down from above, making his head throb. He adjusts his glasses, still firmly planted on his nose despite their dimming effect on vibrant hues. Without them, he’d probably be seeing stars. But he can't exactly turn back now. Piper is out of commission, and the rest of the gang conveniently claims to be busy with other duties—though Lighter suspects they’re all just finding excuses to dodge responsibility. That much becomes clear when Lucy shoves a crumpled list into his hands, a smirk playing on her lips like she knows exactly how this is going to go. The paper’s worn and hastily scribbled, the ink smudged in places, and as his eyes scan the contents, a wave of déjà vu washes over him. Yep. He still has no idea what any of these things are.

"Orange Sunset, my ass," he mutters, comparing it to the other like some kind of makeup detective. One might be slightly redder, or maybe it’s just the lighting messing with him. Why does anyone need this many shades of orange anyway? From the corner of his eye, he catches a clerk staring at him, probably wondering why some scruffy guy in tinted glasses is agonizing over lipstick like his life depends on it. He ignores them, sighing as he tries to recall Burnice’s exact tone when she made the request. Did she sound sarcastic? Was this a joke? Because if it was, it’s on him now.

He lets out a deep sigh, the weight of his confusion finally settling in. Yup, he's throwing in the towel. This whole "getting the right shade" thing? It’s beyond him. He has no idea what the girls were thinking when they handed him that list. Honestly, he figures he should just wait for you to come back from the pharmacy across the street. Maybe then, you’ll know exactly what to get, and they won’t think he’s the worst at shopping ever.

Before he can wallow in his lack of makeup knowledge for much longer, he hears a snicker, followed by your voice, "You want to try some on? There are testers available, but I wouldn't recommend putting them on your lips. Cross-contamination and all that."

He turns just in time to see you walk into the store, a white folded bag in hand. You pause for a second, your hand pressed against your face like you’re hiding a smile. It's the same expression you made when he approached you with the invitation to come with him back to the city, eyes glued to the ground the entire time. Lighter places the two tubes of lipstick down, his unamused expression deepening as he shoots you a look.

"What’s with that look?" you tease, clearly amused. "I personally think you'd look great with a bit of color. We can even ask someone to do a color match for you and find your foundation shade."

“I think they’d rather kick me out,” Lighter mutters, his eyes flicking down at himself like he’s seeing his mismatched appearance for the first time. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in a defensive way, "I look out of place."

"On the contrary, I think you need to get your eyes cleaned out." Your voice is teasing but there’s an edge of affection in it, the kind that’s almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention. The kind of teasing that cuts just enough to be fun, but not enough to wound. Lighter shoots you a glare, but he knows it’s probably not landing the way it used to. It's a hollowed one, more of a reflex than anything intentional. He’s not sure if it’s because you’ve grown more used to his stares or if he’s just losing his touch altogether. Either way, he can tell by the way your grin stretches across your face that it doesn’t bother you as much as it once would’ve.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

"Look," your hand unconsciously reaches out to tug him down, and, almost without thinking, he follows. He bends down slightly, tilting his head so he’s eye level with you, the close proximity sending an unexpected jolt through him. He's suddenly hyper aware of your fingers curling against the leather of his sleeve, how your breath warms against his cheek, and just how close your face is to his even when you're looking at everyone around him.

“You’re practically out of one of those dramas where the rugged boyfriend goes out to get his girlfriend’s 'personal needs,'” You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper in his ear. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you tease him, almost too easy to notice. You lower your tone, dropping your words like a soft secret into his ear, “I’m sure every girl here is living vicariously through this."

You pause, eyes scanning him up and down with that smirk still tugging at the corner of your lips. It lingers for a moment, like you're reading him, sizing him up, before your words hit him, “I’d say you’d also fill the single dad role, but you don’t look old enough for that typecasting.”

Lighter blinks, a confused frown flashing across his face. He has no idea what you’re talking about, but the way your eyes twinkle suggests it's something... positive? At least, he thinks it is. It's hard to tell when your teasing tone is wrapped up in that playful spark.

Before he can even try to sort it out, you give him a light pat on the back, the action unexpected and almost fond, “Seriously, we’ll find your lost sense of humor soon."

While the days in the Outer Ring are hot and sweltering, the nights bring a biting chill, driving its residents indoors, where only Nitro Fuel and dim lights keep the cold at bay. The boss had invited him to join her and the rest of the girls for an after-party celebrating their new champion, but he’d waved them off, telling them to go on ahead and promising to join later. That promise hangs in the air now as he walks alone down an abandoned street in Blazewood, the quiet pressing in around him. The scarf around his neck feels heavier than it should. He’s never worn one before, and the fabric’s coarse brush against his skin almost itches. Yet, despite the unfamiliar texture, it’s warm. His fingers trace the small ornament stitched into the cloth, a detail meant just for him. It’s new, like so many other things, and he’s still trying to process it all. Everything around him has shifted so suddenly. Billy’s departure—soaring to new heights yet still tethered to the ground somehow. His own unexpected promotion to the forefront. The chaos in between. It’s overwhelming, surreal even, like being thrown into a story he doesn’t quite know the script for. And this scarf, with its peculiar weight, feels like a silent reminder of it all. He glances down at the ornament again, feeling the smooth metal beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s strange, having a physical marker of his place here.

When he first joined, he thought of the gang as just another boxing show, another carousel of passing faces he’d forget as soon as the next fight rolled around. A means to an end, nothing more. Look at him now. He almost wants to pinch his younger self’s cheek—just like a certain doctor does, though she insists it’s to “keep him humble.”. Nowadays, his title as the undefeated champion is only rivaled by how many times he can dodge Lucy's fists whenever he unconsciously picks her up. It’s become a routine—her standing on her tiptoes, stretching for something just out of reach, and him swooping in before she can so much as grumble. She's quick with her jabs, but he’s quicker. The footwork he once honed in the ring is now reserved for avoiding the creaky spots on the painted wooden floorboards—Piper’s after-breakfast nap is sacred, and waking her up is a crime punishable by death or, at the very least, her pointed glare. His “losses” pile up bottle by bottle, courtesy of Burnice’s sticky fingers and her talent for swiping extra Nitro Fuel. She always claims victory in their drinking contests, though he’s the one stuck carrying her home afterward. And sure, maybe he hums her favorite song while walking her back, but if anyone asks, he’ll deny it outright. Then there’s the boss, still as loud and demanding as ever, though now he shoulders the oddly specific responsibility of keeping her stash of romance novels a secret. It's a heavy weight, in a way, but he’d take a hundred bruises in the ring before he’d let anyone find out about her guilty pleasure. It’s funny how things turn out. What started as a pit stop, just another stepping stone in his aimless journey, has become something he wouldn’t trade for anything. Each quirky routine, each odd connection, has woven itself into a life he never expected to want. Yet, some things still remain the same.

His posture relaxes as he soaks in the occasional breeze, letting it cool his skin before he comes to a stop. It’s the usual fanfare—snickers and the grating sound of metal pipes dragging through the sand, a clear attempt at intimidation. He sighs, cracking his neck and adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of disinterest. Pulling his scarf up to cover his nose, he glances over his shoulder toward the group that’s been loitering on the outskirts of Blazewood for the past week. They don’t look particularly tough, their mismatched outfits and lack of coordination betraying their inexperience. Probably a newly formed gang, he guesses, especially since there’s no sense of camaraderie between the members. They’re all bravado and no bond—lone wolves forced to share the same pack. He straightens up, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he sizes them up. There’s no need to get too worked up over this. He has a party to attend.

A simple scare should have been enough to send them running for the hills, leaving the town in peace. At least, that’s how it should have gone. It should have started with a few taunts, the kind that barely even register on his radar. It should have escalated with the rival gang growing annoyed and one of them jumping the gun, rushing at Lighter with more ego than skill. It should have ended with him throwing two well-placed punches toward the leader, the crackle of fire igniting briefly in his gauntlets, enough to remind them who they were dealing with. And it should have concluded with them scattering like leaves in the wind, Lighter strolling back to the after-party with a few extra bottles of Nitro Fuel as a peace offering for showing up late—though he knows full well the girls wouldn’t have minded.

That’s how it should have gone.

But then one of them had to open their mouth.

The words hang in the air like a bad omen, laced with an ill-advised threat toward a certain doctor. And for the first time in a long while, Lighter feels something snap.

The familiar burn of anger flares in his chest, spreading like wildfire. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into fists without thought. The world around him blurs, his focus narrowing to the gang member who had the audacity to speak your name. He doesn’t hear the rest of their jeers; all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Lighter sees red.

"Lighter! Lighter, stop! Jeez, pull yourself together, you bullheaded prick!"

Your voice cuts through the haze, sharp and grounding, like a lifeline dragging him back from the abyss. There’s a lot of blood. Too much. It stains the ground, splattered on his knuckles, pooling beneath the poor bastard who dared to run his mouth. The smell is what finally does it, sharp and metallic, twisting his stomach into knots. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. His breaths are short and shallow, his vision swimming.

And then there’s you.

You’re always there—always managing to catch him at his worst. Always steady when he’s falling apart.

"Hey, hey, easy there," you say, your voice softening as you approach him. You raise your hands in a calming gesture, palms open, careful not to startle him further, "Look at me. I won't touch you but look at me. Right here, okay? Watch."

You inhale deeply, motioning with your hand as if to guide him.

“Breathe in…”

He follows, though his breath is shaky and uneven.

“Good, now breathe out,” you continue, exhaling slowly and mimicking the motion with your hand, “Good, good. You're doing well. One more time.”

You repeat the steps, your tone patient and measured, until Lighter’s chest stops heaving and the ringing in his ears fades. The blood-soaked street feels a little less suffocating, the weight on his chest a little less crushing. The sharp tang of blood begins to fade, replaced by the sterile cleanliness of your presence. His hands, still trembling, drop to his sides. The fight in him has ebbed away, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t say a word.

His first day and he's already gone and screwed it all up.

“Jeez, you really did a number on him. We’ll need to patch him up,” you mutter, crouching down to get a better look at the poor sap sprawled on the ground. Blood’s still dripping, his fellow gang members already fled with their tails tucked between their legs, but he's still breathing. You glance over your shoulder at Lighter, who’s standing there frozen, his fists clenched and his face an unreadable mask, “Come on, I don’t have the arm strength for this."

Lighter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, like he’s trying to make himself disappear. He's never reacted like this in a long while.

You sigh, standing up and stepping closer. Slowly, you reach out, and after a moment, he lowers his head, his posture deflating. His muscles tense as your hand makes contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Your fingers find his cheek, and with no hesitation, you pinch it. Hard. He flinches, more out of reflex than pain, and you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward.

“There,” you say, your tone lighter now, patting the same cheek you just pinched. Your thumb smooths over the faint red imprint left behind, and for a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease. It’s not much, but it’s enough to break through the fog in his head. His shoulders drop a little further, his fists unclenching. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, the weight of your touch grounding him just enough to find his footing again.

"What's got you so scared?"

A lot of things, if he’s honest. Despite the cool and rough persona he wears as Lighter, the undefeated champion of the Sons of Calydon, he’s scared of more than he’d ever admit. He can’t stomach the sight of blood—it churns his insides and makes his skin crawl. He’s painfully awkward in social situations, fumbling through conversations like a rookie boxer tripping over his own feet. He still messes up Caesar’s name sometimes, even though he’s been around long enough to know better. But none of that compares to the fear that grips him now. He’s petrified of losing the people he cares about—again. That fear sinks its claws into him and doesn’t let go, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. It’s why he builds walls, high and impenetrable, around all the words he never got to say. They sit there, locked away, heavy and suffocating, so he doesn’t have to face them or the pain they carry. What if those walls break? What if he lets you see what’s inside? Would you stay? Or would you run, leaving him stranded in the mess he doesn’t know how to fix? Worse, what if admitting he needs help means losing the little control he has left? It’s easier—safer—to keep everything hidden. But as the silence stretches on, he wonders how much longer he can keep it all locked away.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in the same tone of voice, "You shouldn't have to."

Lighter realizes, a little too late, that he’s been neglecting the plaster and glue holding his fortress together. For a long while, he’s tuned out the sounds of crumbling debris and the sharp groan of widening cracks. He’s gotten so used to it, the noise faded into the background, like an annoying hum he could ignore. But when he finally looks up, his so-called fortress isn’t much of a fortress at all. It’s rubble now—scattered cobblestones barely clinging together, a patchwork of failure. And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urge to grab a hammer and pickaxe, mix the concrete, and start stacking the stones again. It all seems like too much effort for something that’s bound to collapse, no matter how carefully he tries to build it. What’s the point of piling up walls that are only going to be torn down again? For once, the more obvious choice feels… freeing. Maybe he doesn’t need to patch up every broken piece or keep retreating behind what’s left. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to leave it behind entirely. Time to walk up and out of the wreckage, away from the shoreline where he’s been stranded for too long.

He knows it’s inevitable. For the undefeated champion, he sure has been folding a lot. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s so screwed. Somewhere along the trek up the mountain, he tripped over a branch and fell onto the untraveled path—and somehow, somehow, he’s done the one thing he swore he’d never do again. He’s in love. Opening up to the Sons of Calydon, letting them see into the tiny fissures of his heart—that was one thing. But this? This is overkill. The worst part is that his body has decided, after years of running on autopilot, that this is his standard default. The switch to turn it off has rusted over, and now he can’t budge it even a little.

He’s grateful for his glasses; otherwise, everyone would know how his eyes always seem to linger on you, even when you’re all the way across town. How he quickly sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, whenever you enter a room. How he moves his red scarf to cover his mouth when his lips start to curve too high, almost like a chipmunk’s grin. How he breaks into an awkward sweat when he offers you help, terrified that you might reject him—god forbid—because if you do, he’ll spend the whole night replaying it in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. And how Piper, knowing exactly how to get under his skin, will casually say your name just to watch him freeze, making his heart race all over again.

Before, when he decided to lie to himself and shove his emotions down deep, it was easy to embody that indifferent attitude. Now? Now things are different. When you tug at the ends of his sleeves, when he instinctively bends down to hear you whisper some teasing remark about his opponent, he can't help but let out a soft huff of amusement, his lips curving into a small smile he can't quite hide. When he's lounging on the couches during their many parties, arm sprawled out across the backrest, and you join him, leaning against his side, he used to barely register it, continuing to watch the festivities like it was no big deal. But these days, it’s all he can focus on. The way your proximity affects him, the subtle shift in his attention when you're near. And then there are the check-ups. Don’t even get him started on those. He’s been half-dressed around you more times than he’s been fully clothed, and now, suddenly, his body decides it wants to get embarrassed? It’s as if his mind finally caught up to what’s been going on, and he’s not sure if he’s more frustrated or flustered.

What’s even worse is that he can tell you’re different now, too. He’s been in your orbit for so long, circling around the same familiar path, mostly because you’re always there, pulling him back when he drifts too far. You refuse to let him wander off, not entirely—like you’re always keeping an eye on him, tethered to him somehow. But now, it feels like the strings are fraying. While he's finally starting to push forward, to test the limits of whatever's been silently building between you, you’re pulling away. And it sucks. It sucks in a way that gnaws at him, this dull ache in his chest that he can’t shake off. He wants to reach out, to bridge the gap, but it’s like he’s fumbling in the dark, and you're slipping through his fingers, even as you're right there.

As much as Lighter wants to give you 100% of his attention, he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. It's only a matter of time before the girls state an intervention and it doesn’t take long for them to corner him. No escape routes left, no way to dodge the inevitable. They close in, their grins wide and knowing as they make sure he has nowhere to go but to surrender. He tries to play it cool, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what feels like hours of relentless teasing and subtle pressure, the words tumble out of him. Their champion—Lighter, the undefeated and untouchable—had been crushing hard on their doctor. Sure, it took two hours of wrangling and dusty clothes, but in the end, they had their win. If you could even call it that.

"Wait, wait, officer, wait!" Lucy shouts, her voice filled with exaggerated disbelief. She even stamps her foot for emphasis, and her helmet slips askew from her dramatic movements, adding a comical touch to the scene, "You mean you're in the 'we might be more than friends in the feelings department, but still not in the confirmation phase' period? That's the most iffy period!"

"I guess so..." Lighter mumbles, still stuck on the floor beneath the combined weight of Burnice and Caesar. He’s desperately trying to worm his way out of their hold, but it’s no use. The girls share a look that he’ll never quite understand—because apparently, women have this telepathic connection that they all seem to possess. They turn back to him, wide-eyed, as if they’ve just uncovered some huge revelation.

Ah. Those were the wrong words to say.

"Whaat?! What is this new development?! Why didn’t you tell us?!" Lucy’s voice rises an octave, as her eyes gleam with excitement. She practically jumps up and down, trying to process the new information like a live-wire.

"When? Where? Who?!" Burnice fires off her questions faster than Lighter can even blink, leaning in so close that her face is dangerously close to his. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with the thrill of gossip.

Then, Caesar clamps her hands on his shoulders, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something much more serious. The intense gaze she locks onto him is a complete mismatch for her typical bubbly personality, making Lighter feel an unsettling tension.

"Are you being blackmailed?" she asks, her voice flat.

It was the wrong decision to let the girls know that he was crushing hard on the new hire. It started innocently enough, but soon enough, they forced him into their room for what they called a "girls' night," and it quickly escalated into a marathon of magazines with increasingly specific titles. He had barely survived the first few issues, which ranged from "How to Tell If Someone Likes You" to "What to Do When You're an Emotionally and Socially Repressed Individual Who Hasn't Felt the Touch of a Woman and You Don't Want to Come Off as a Creep and Get HR Involved." What the hell kind of magazine even has a title that long? Did the author do that by accident? Was that intentional?

All in all, what he's learned is that he needs to be more talkative, but not too much—just enough so he doesn’t seem like he only cares about himself. But also, he’s supposed to ask questions about you and show interest in your hobbies, but not too many questions because that could come off as probing. And then there’s the smiling part: he needs to smile more, but not too much teeth or it'll seem intimidating, but just wide enough so it looks natural.

He thinks he's going to ask Lucy if she can use his head as a baseball.

"That was... a lot sadder than I thought it would be," you say as the credits roll, the melancholic piano score lingering in the air like an unresolved question. The weight of the story hangs between you, tangible and heavy. It was a tale of two ill-fated lovers who never managed to align their lives, perpetually missing the timing needed for their relationship to truly blossom. And just when it seemed there might be hope, everything unraveled into a hollow, bittersweet ending—one slowly succumbing to corruption, and the other staying by their side despite knowing how it would all end, sacrificing their own happiness just to hold onto the fleeting moments they had left together.

The credits roll, but Lighter doesn’t really notice them. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The darkened screen in front of him might as well be a blank canvas—his mind’s elsewhere, swirling around the movie’s ending, still echoing in his chest.

It’s funny, really. The story hit close enough to home that it should’ve left him with that familiar ache, that gnawing feeling in his gut like it always did in the past. Two lovers caught in a cycle of bad timing, one slipping away while the other stays behind, trapped in a choice they can’t undo. Yeah, it should’ve made him feel something, some kind of sorrow or regret—but it didn’t. He just feels… fine. Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. He knows he should feel more, but he’s been through too much of that pain before, and he’s not that guy anymore. Not the guy who drowns in what-ifs and could-have-beens. He’s learned how to move on. He’s learned how to survive the worst things life throws at him. A shift beside him brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over at you, your form curled up against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow. You’re quiet, almost unreadable, but there’s something about you that makes him feel like he’s not alone in the room. Like somehow, without doing anything, you’ve managed to pull him from the edge of his thoughts and into this shared silence.

For a moment, he wonders if he should feel more disturbed by the movie, or maybe feel bad about how unaffected he is. It’s odd, like something’s wrong because he’s not torn up about it, because he's not emotionally wrecked. He glances back at the screen and sighs, but it’s a different kind of sigh. It’s not regret. It’s relief.

Maybe the truth is, he’s finally found some peace with himself. Sure, he’s still haunted by some old ghosts, but they don’t have the same grip on him. He’s learned to live with the scars, to accept that he can’t control everything. He thinks that’s what the movie tried to say in the end—about choice, about letting go, about moving forward even when it’s hard. He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough for him to realize that you’re not just here, you're with him. That’s enough for him. That’s all he needs. He’s grown. He’s fine. His fingers twitch, still resting against his knees, but for the first time in a long time, he’s not holding on to anything.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice low and a little rough, "It hits harder than you expect, doesn’t it?"

"I don't know... I think the ending was kind of lame," you say, your voice cutting through the lingering weight of the movie’s somber tone. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to find the right words to explain. "If I were stuck in the Hollow, I think I’d want to run out and keep living on in their memory, you know? Like, make it mean something. If I knew I was the reason my lover passed... I’d be kind of pissed."

Lighter, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed, raises a brow at your comment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual, as though he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. When he speaks, his voice carries a faint hint of amusement. "So, dramatic sacrifices aren’t your thing, huh?"

"It’s not that," you reply, shrugging as you glance at him, "I just think... if someone gave up everything for me, it’d feel wrong to waste it. Like, what’s the point of their sacrifice if I just give up too? I’d owe it to them to live a life that’s worth it, to make something out of it."

You glance away for a moment, the weight of your own words settling in. It’s a thought that’s been with you for a while, ever since you first realized how fleeting everything really is. People sacrifice so much, sometimes without even realizing it, and you’re not sure how you would handle knowing someone gave up everything for you. Could you live with that? Or would the guilt eat you alive? There’s a deep part of you that’s always felt that need to honor those sacrifices, even if it meant carrying the weight of their legacy on your own shoulders. You meet his gaze again, but this time your expression is softer, less defensive. It’s not that you’re opposed to the idea of sacrifice—far from it. You just want to make sure it isn’t in vain. And sometimes, it feels like the best way to show gratitude is to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.

"I think you're a tiny bit biased," Lighter teases, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity,

"What about you?" you counter, leaning forward just enough to rest your arms on your knees. Your gaze lingers on him, expectant and challenging, "If you were in that position, what would you do?"

Lighter’s breath catches for a split second, and he shifts his posture, suddenly aware of the weight of your question. It’s a simple enough question, but the way you ask it—intense, unwavering—throws him off balance. His mind starts to race, torn between deflecting and actually answering. He leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, trying to buy himself a little more time to come up with something smooth, but his usual quips feel hollow now. He takes a deep breath and looks away, out toward the window where the dirt and sand stretch on for miles. For a moment, he’s quiet, too quiet. The easy confidence he usually projects feels distant, and the silence stretches longer than he’d like.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what he’d do—he does. But the idea of voicing it out loud, especially now, with you watching him like that, makes him hesitate. He knows it’s supposed to be a simple hypothetical, but everything feels like it’s loaded with more meaning than it should.

"I’d like to give it a try," he says at last, his voice lower now, "The notion of dying for love."

You blink, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. For a split second, the usual teasing edge in his tone fades, replaced by something deeper and more vulnerable.

"Huh, really?" you ask, your brows lifting in genuine surprise, trying to piece together the shift in the atmosphere between you.

"Yeah," he responds, his posture shifting as he crosses one leg over the other, the usual air of nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. He leans back just a little, the teasing grin returning to his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a flicker of something, a hint of something he’s trying to keep buried beneath the surface, "Why so surprised, firecracker?"

You can’t help but smile at the nickname, but the weight of what he said lingers in the air, pulling your focus. You take a breath before speaking, your tone soft but firm, almost as if you’ve been carrying the thought for a while. Your voice holds a quiet certainty, a belief that resonates with something deep inside you, "I don't know... I feel like you'd do everything you could to save the person you care about, or at least keep living in their memory."

His gaze falters for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes as your words settle in. It’s as though the impact of your statement lands heavier than he expected, like it cuts through the layers of his usual defenses and hits a raw nerve. It stings, more than he cares to admit. There’s a strange ache in his chest, a tightness that only grows as he processes your words. He’s not sure why it’s affecting him like this, but it’s almost painful how close you always are to the truth. How easily you manage to sift through all the rubble, the chaos, the noise inside his head, and find the small, hidden pieces of gold buried deep within. It terrifies him a little, how you seem to understand him without him even having to try. How you can see past the walls he’s so carefully built. He just hopes you don’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched, or how his chest feels like it’s about to cave in.

"Besides," you add, your voice softening as you meet his gaze. "I don’t want you to die. I’m sure your lover would think the same."

"I’ll try my best," he says with a half-hearted chuckle, though his voice betrays something deeper, something unspoken. "But, uh, no guarantees."

"Then, for both our sakes, I hope you never fall in love."

Ah…you might be a bit too late on that.

-+-+-

"I've fallen in love with you."

The words crash into the silence, sending a jolt through you that leaves your heart thumping erratically in your chest. You spin around, your eyes wide with surprise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, time seems to stretch out. It takes him a beat longer than it should for him to realize what he’s just said, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. The vulnerability in his words suddenly hits him full force, the tension between the two of you thickening in the space that’s opened up.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, an unexpected ease in their release, and now they hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. His heart stops for a moment, watching you, eyes wide like you've been struck by lightning. Everything seems to slow down, every detail in the room—how the light falls on your face, how your breath catches—feels magnified, as if the entire world hinges on this one, fragile moment.

And then it hits him. He actually said it. His stomach lurches, the realization settling deep like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mean for it to come out so clearly, so openly, and now the consequences of his words hang over him like a storm cloud.

The silence that follows is deafening, and every second that ticks by only seems to stretch the space between you both, making it feel like the world is holding its breath. He scrambles mentally for something—anything—to undo it, to take the words back, but it's too late. They're out there, raw and exposed. His pulse pounds in his ears, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. Did he say too much? Too little? Was it the wrong thing to say?

He watches you, frozen in place, his chest tight with uncertainty. This is it. The moment is already unfolding, and he can’t change it now. It’s out there, hanging like a thread between you both, waiting to unravel. He waits for you to speak, but the longer the silence drags on, the more he wonders if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and his eyes can't seem to pull away from you. Every inch of him wants to speak, to say something, anything that might undo the tension creeping up his spine. But nothing comes. His mind is blank, his throat dry, and he can feel the weight of your stare, both curious and uncertain. He half expects you to run, to say something that would make everything snap back into place, to laugh it off or tell him he’s out of his mind.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, still, your gaze not wavering. There's a moment where the world feels impossibly heavy and yet so, so fragile. His heart beats faster in his chest, a frantic rhythm he can’t control. His palms feel clammy. The longer you remain quiet, the more he feels like he’s hanging off a cliff, just waiting for the ground beneath him to disappear.

But then, finally—finally—you take a breath, and the tension breaks, if only slightly.

"I…" Your voice is soft, hesitant, as if you're still weighing the words that should follow his confession. It’s a quiet exhale, but it feels like it’s shaking loose everything that’s been keeping you both in place. He watches you carefully, hanging onto every word, his heartbeat slow and deliberate now, the heavy silence between you hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament about to shatter. What is she going to say?

"Are you dying?" you say and the world both tilts and rewinds, before sparks appear and it falls off the record player. He sincerely doesn't know how to respond to that. So he does the next best thing, honesty.

"Not that I'm aware of, I feel like you'd know that best doc."

"Ah sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I...I didn’t think you’d…" you trail off, eyes flickering to the floor briefly before meeting his again, something unreadable flashing in your gaze, "I didn’t think you’d say that."

His chest tightens. It's not a rejection, but it's not exactly a declaration of reciprocation either. The uncertainty in your voice makes him want to take a step closer, to close the distance between you two, but he's terrified. Terrified that if he moves, he’ll push you further away instead of bringing you closer.

"I didn’t either, I didn't plan for this," he admits, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it, "But yeah. I really like you."

"Oh..." you interrupt gently, your voice a mix of hesitation and something softer, more understanding, "... how long?"

Lighter freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flicker toward the floor as he grapples with the weight of it, the answer to something he'd never really considered before now. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he kept this locked up, buried under the surface?

"How long...?" He repeats your question, his brow furrowing as if he’s just now realizing the depth of the situation. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before speaking again, the words coming out slower this time, as if he's trying to find the right ones, "I don’t really know... a while. Longer than I’d like to admit, I guess."

He glances up at you, his gaze a little hesitant, but there’s something in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that’s starting to seep through, or maybe it’s just the raw honesty in his voice. Either way, he can’t help but wonder how much longer you’ll stand there, waiting, as if expecting him to unravel in front of you. Your eyes search his face for any sign that you’ve said the right thing, that you’ve cracked open a door he might have kept shut for so long. But you just stand there, waiting for him to continue, your expression soft, almost... hopeful?

"You didn’t think I’d feel that way, huh?" Lighter asks, his voice betraying a hint of surprise, as if he’s been caught off guard by his own admission. He lets out a slight, self-conscious chuckle, trying to smooth over the tension that still lingers in the air. It’s a bit forced, a little too casual, like he's trying to disguise the weight of the words he just shared. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the cool skin there, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that the silence between you has shifted. "Guess I’ve been a little good at hiding it." He shrugs, though it’s more of an awkward gesture than anything else.

You study him for a moment, watching as he fidgets, his eyes darting away for a moment before he looks back at you, like he’s unsure of whether to keep speaking or leave it at that. It’s almost endearing how out of place he seems, trying to hide behind the nonchalance he’s so good at, but it’s not enough to mask the vulnerability creeping in at the edges.

"But... now that it's out there..." he trails off, as though the weight of his own admission is still sinking in. His voice falters just the slightest bit, and for a second, it’s like the walls between you both crack just enough for something real to slip through.

"Yeah, now that it's out there..." you murmur, your voice quiet, almost contemplative, as you let the moment settle. It’s like something you both knew but hadn’t fully allowed to surface until now. The air feels different, almost lighter, as if the unspoken tension that had lingered between you for so long has finally found a release. Neither of you moves, both caught in that delicate pull of the moment. There’s a strange sense of stillness, as if the world outside of this room has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, shared understanding. You don’t need to say anything more, not yet. But something has changed, something deeper than words. And neither of you knows exactly where to go from here, but it doesn’t feel as scary as it did before. It feels... natural, in a way. Like it’s been building without either of you realizing it.

For once, you both just sit there, letting the silence stretch out, but it’s different now. It’s not uncomfortable, not loaded with awkwardness. It’s the kind of silence that follows when something unspoken has been finally brought to light, and neither of you feels the need to rush to fill it.

Lighter clears his throat, his awkwardness creeping back in. "So, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at you. "I was wondering... since, y'know, we’ve, uh... gotten that out of the way..." He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, but they don't seem to come easy.

He exhales slowly, the air caught in his chest like he’s about to dive into cold water. "Would you maybe... want to go out sometime?" He stammers, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second before darting away again. "Like, on a... date? Not that I'm... asking you to or anything... it’s just... y'know, if you... want to."

You blink, surprised by the words but not exactly sure how to respond at first. It’s a question that catches you off guard in the best possible way, and you can feel the butterflies stirring in your stomach.

"Yeah," you say, your voice slightly higher than usual, betraying the nerves building up inside you. "I... I’d like that. A date, yeah."

Lighter’s eyes widen for a moment, as though he’s trying to process your response. Then, his face flushes, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him all at once. He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you, as if he’s trying to escape from the awkwardness of the moment.

"Alright, then. I’ll, uh... figure out the details." He shuffles awkwardly, hands in his pockets, clearly trying to regain some composure. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, stiffly walking toward the door.

You, too, turn away at the same time, and the two of you end up facing the door, like a pair of statues frozen in your own awkwardness. Lighter grips the door handle, pausing for a second before pulling it open. His feet move on autopilot as he steps out, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he’s hit with a wave of relief that comes crashing over him. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, hands pressed to his face as he lets out a groan, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

"Oh god," he mutters under his breath, his cheeks burning. He’s never been this embarrassed in his life, but at the same time, the pressure that's been building in his chest all this time lifts just a little. The nervous excitement of asking you out still lingers, and he laughs softly at himself. "What did I even say?"

On the other side of the door, you stand frozen, heart still thumping wildly in your chest. You let out a breath, shaky but relieved, and press your palm to your face. You feel like your entire body is buzzing with both excitement and embarrassment. That was... ridiculous. But at the same time, there’s this goofy grin spreading across your face, and you can’t stop it if you tried.

You lean back against the door, smiling to yourself. "Oh god," you murmur to yourself, eyes sparkling with a mix of nerves and happiness. "What just happened?"

And on both sides of the door, there's nothing but a goofy, content smile and the lingering sensation that something has shifted between you two.

---

Not necessarily a tag list, but I remember you were all asking for a part 2. Here is your part 2 lovelies.

@thelocal-idot @yaoduriaa @justlilpeaches21 @fawn-kitten @seraphina02

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Part 2: Stepping Stone Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Stepping Stone

— A stepping stone is something that helps someone advance or achieve something. He thinks his first push comes in the form of a disinfectant wipe.

— Lighter

Word Count: 17k

Part 1: Marbled Steps Light spoilers for Lighter's/Billy's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

Thank you all for your support and love for the first part! I made this for the fans and yeehawkitty. I don't know your @ but thank you for the generous kofi tip. This is for you (and just in time for Valentine’s week). I love this goofy man way too much—why does every fic I write keep getting longer and longer? The 20k word fic was a JOKE.

The first step of Lighter’s new life was sharp, clean, and tinged with a faint chemical sting. The wet synthetic fibers of polyester, soaked in a solution of water and hydrogen peroxide, smeared against his hands. He had a complicated relationship with disinfectant wipes. On one hand, they were cheap and reliable—a passable replacement for when he ran out of clean soap and water. On the other hand, the cold residue they left behind, clinging to his skin like a snail’s trail, always made him uncomfortable. He’d never liked getting anything on his hands, especially stains. The frosty bite of the air burned as much as it chilled, creeping into the tiny, still-healing cuts on his fingers. Each swipe sent a sting through his nerves. Yet, he didn’t flinch or make a sound. He’s endured far worse. By comparison, these superficial paper cuts felt almost affectionate. Instead, his gaze shifted upward from his reddening and sticky hands to the gloved ones holding the cloth. White gloves—pristine, clinical, indifferent to the nuances of patient care. His supposed new doctor, polished and bright like a freshly unwrapped scalpel, hadn’t even bothered with introductions before whisking him away to this sterile corner.

A thought crossed his mind—maybe all doctors shared a natural disregard for bedside manners, no matter where they came from.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He hears more than feels the wet slap of the disinfectant wipes landing against his cheek, the damp fabric seeping into his skin and snapping him back to the present. Lighter blinks, his eyes momentarily lost as his memories of the past rush forward in a disorienting blur—like a tangle of white noise, punctuated by the fractured, flickering remnants of TV-static pixels.

"Well? Anything to say for yourself, mister?" Your voice is still as blunt as ever, even if your tone has been weathered down at the edges. You still wear the same frown on your face, your gloved fingers warm even when pressing into this skin far too harshly, as though trying to carve your very will into his face. This time, he doesn’t hold back the shiver. The involuntary tremor courses through him, his shoulder shaking as he hunches over himself as if you've sucker punched him in the stomach. Gone are the days when he could sit still as a rock, his body locked tight, immovable while you carried on with your work. Now, he lets himself act like the brat you keep calling him.

The overdramatic shiver pulls an equally exaggerated huff from you, your breath heavy. You peel the wipe from his skin with two fingers, tossing it into the garbage without a second thought. The sound of it hitting the pile of paper is strangely final, a soft but definitive splat. Even after all this time, your bedside manner could still use a little more warmth, a little more tenderness. A small, cynical part of him wonders if that’s the way you like it. But then, maybe that’s part of the charm.

"Uh..." He paused for a moment, trying to wrack his brain for what you had just said before deciding to take a trip down memory lane. From what he remembered, Caesar had invited him into a friendly spar with the Thieren gang that had rolled into Blazewood. You, as their resident doctor, had tagged along just in case any injuries came up. Naturally, it was a complete stomp for the Son of Calydon—they were on their home turf, and it would have been embarrassing if they lost. Then, you had dragged him to your clinic to patch him up, still glaring daggers at that lynx. As soon as you’d pulled out your supplies, the scent of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide had sent him tumbling into the wormhole of the past—until you pulled him back. You’d always been good at that.

He looks up at you, noticing that small notch in your eyebrow that signals your impatience. He can’t help but let out an awkward chuckle, his voice a little shaky around the edges, "Sorry, firecracker. I must have spaced out. What did you say?"

That earns him a pinch on the cheek—one he absolutely deserves, but ow, it stings more than he expects—as you unleash a full-on lecture. He catches only bits and pieces of what you’re saying: how it was supposed to be a lighthearted spar, but he somehow kicked it into overdrive, treating it like a life-or-death battle. How he acted recklessly, for no real reason again, just to look tough. Seriously, who was he even trying to impress? That lynx?! No way, right?! The whole thing wrings out a restrained laugh from his chest, one that’s barely contained, escaping his chest like an unexpected exhale, which only makes you turn an even deeper shade of red.

It’s a striking shade—not quite as searing as the flames that roar from his gauntlets, yet no less radiant. Not as gentle as the sun sinking into the horizon, yet still rich with warmth. Bright, warm, and spontaneous, sparking to life in an instant. Just like a firecracker. He’s always loved firecrackers. They’re fleeting, reckless things—blazing across the night sky in bursts of chaos and artistry, ephemeral yet unforgettable. A single spark, a brief eruption of light, and then—gone. But for that one moment, they demand attention, carving their brilliance into the dark.

At first, he found it irritating—how quick you were to switch gears into anger, flaring up over the smallest things. It reminded him too much of the people he used to work for, the ones who barked orders and hurled insults with spit-flecked fury, who would rather scream and hound him for their lost denny's. It was always the same. The bite of their words, the suffocating heat of their rage. Huffing and puffing, throwing around threats like execution orders over a few misplaced words, as if fear alone could squeeze blood from a stone. The bloated heads of collectors who reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, who saw him as nothing more than a machine to be wound up with a crank, a weapon to be pointed in whatever direction they pleased.

Red, the shade of their fury. The shade of control, of pressure, of commands spat between bared teeth. He hated it. Hated them. Hated the way their voices rattled in his skull long after they were gone, the way the weight of their expectations coiled around his throat like a noose. He hated it so much that even the color red started to make him sick to his stomach.

And then came the blood.

Dark, dried beneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his knuckles. Bright, blinding under the harsh glare of stage lights, soaking the floor, painting his world in a shade he could never wash off.

What a revolting color it was.

"Hey... are you okay? I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up."

This time, there’s no sharp sting of another wipe smacking against his face. Instead, warmth. A palm cupping his cheek, fingers hesitant yet steady as they brush against his skin. You tilt his head from side to side, scanning his face with knitted brows and that same look of quiet worry you always get when you think something might be wrong. Your eyes flicker over his, tracking every subtle shift, every flicker of movement. You must think he hit his head again. That all the times he’s spaced out on you, all the delays in his responses, must mean he’s nursing a concussion. Never mind that he wasn’t even hit during the spar.

"It’s nothin’, firecracker. No need to apologize. I’m the one who spaced on you twice," he says, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. But the look you shoot back tells him you’re not buying it. Still, you let it go. Your reservations fall along with your hand, which drops to rest on your hip as your gaze sweeps over him, sizing him up.

"Well... if you say so. Regardless," you spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you start packing your supplies back into the white medkit, your face carefully turned away from his, "Good job as always, champ. Another tally on the chalkboard of ever-growing victories."

He watches you move around the room, each motion deliberate yet just a little too stiff—like you’re forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand rather than the person behind you. After being in this room with you for so long, he sees it all, every subtle sign: the way your hands linger just a moment too long on each item as you tuck them back into place. Even when your eyes flicker toward him, it’s brief—a fleeting connection, like the burn of a matchstick snuffed out too soon. They dart away almost immediately, finding refuge in the sterile white walls or the cold steel of the counter. Your back remains turned, shoulders taut with unspoken tension, the rigid lines of your posture starkly visible through the thin fabric of your uniform.

His gaze drops, drifting downward to his own hands. Water trails down his fingers in slow, deliberate paths, the droplets gathering at his knuckles before slipping free and splattering against the tile floor. Each impact is soundless, vanishing into the quiet that fills the room. He watches them fall, his mind oddly detached, as if the sight of the tiny ripples on the ground might somehow offer an answer he doesn’t have.

He knows he should say something—anything—to cut through the silence. The words sit heavy on the edge of his tongue, poised yet unwilling to make the leap. He opens his mouth but finds it dry, the courage he thought he could summon crumbling into dust. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, the quiet growing louder with each second, his hesitation feeding its weight.

And still, your words from earlier linger. They echo in his mind, looping endlessly, burrowing deep into the corners of his thoughts like a quiet hum he can’t shake.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath. He's never seen you this nervous before, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

He can feel his palms begin to sweat, a creeping heat against the back of his neck that's slowly traveling to his ears. Sure, any compliment you manage to wrestle out of your vocal cords makes him puff his chest up in pride and cower away in a corner, but those are usually accompanied by sincere eyes that drill into this mind. But this time, you're not even looking at him as you push each word out. Is this...?

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

He rises to his feet with an easy, practiced motion, the leather of his jacket rustling as he swings it over his shoulder in one fluid sweep. The weight of it settles against his back, familiar and grounding, but it does little to ease the charged atmosphere lingering in the air. His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, his fingers linger there, his touch hesitant, almost tentative—considering. Turning ever so slightly, with a slow inhale, he finally speaks.

"Back then, before Caesar interrupted us… what were you going to say?"

You freeze, fingers suspended mid-air, caught in the limbo between the impulse to respond and the overwhelming urge to pretend you never heard him at all. The moment stretches between you, thick and charged, pressing heavily against the walls of the room. With a sharp inhale, you force yourself back into motion, grabbing a pen and scratching hurriedly across the paper. But your movements are too rushed, too shaky, and your fingers falter as the pen slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But he always will and has.

He had a suspicion—an inkling of what you were going to say before Caesar’s interruption crashed through the moment like a battering ram. But suspicion isn’t certainty. And if he misreads this, if he takes one step too far in the wrong direction, the duck-tapped connection between you might collapse. There might be no coming back from this.

And yet, in all the moments he’s spent replaying your words, your gestures, your lingering glances, one truth remains constant: you have always been the one to reach out. The one steady hand that kept him from slipping off the tightrope he’d walked for so long. No matter how precarious his balance, you made sure he never fell alone. Even from the very beginning, when the distance between you was wider than words could bridge, you had taken his hand.

In other words, it's time to make a leap of faith.

-+-+-

The sun hangs low in the sky, just as orange and dusty as he remembers. It reflects off the sand in the Outer Ring so well that it's burning his eyes to a painful degree, but he keeps his gaze on the horizon. When the door—both metaphorical and literal—was kicked open, accompanied by a letter declaring his debts cleared and his ties to the underground ring severed, he wasn’t sure what to expect. What would greet him on the other side? Another fist to his face? A wall of steel, glass, or concrete? Instead, he finds himself here, his supposed benefactor—a red boar with a wild mane of white hair—rambles on in the background, introducing him to his gang of bikers. Their leather vests catch the sunlight, their laughter punctuated by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine. It’s mostly white noise to Lighter. The words drift past him like the wind carrying dust through the air. He catches the gang name though, or at least he thinks he does. The Sons of...something. It’s hard to care. Whatever they call themselves, it’s not important. What is important is the fact that, for the first time in a long while, no one’s breathing down his neck or throwing him into another fight. For now, at least, he’s free.

He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or to breathe a sigh of relief that, despite all the days spent in the dark, the surface remained the same every single day: normal, routine, and steady. A quiet rhythm of life he once had, back before everything shattered into glimmering pieces and neon blackholes. Back before survival became a battle against shadows, where even his memories felt more like jagged shards than whole reflections. For a moment, he wonders if there’s a name for the psychopomp who escorts people back to the land of the living. Just as Charon ferries souls who’ve received their funeral rites across the rivers Acheron and Styx, shouldn’t there be someone to guide the return journey? Instead of meeting a comforting figure, he finds himself staring into the judgmental gaze of someone who clearly doesn’t want him back among the living. Their white gloves are already curling around his wrists, alive with the faint mutterings of grime and viruses. His first steps up the mountain begin with the acrid sting of disinfectant in his lungs and the sterile touch of cotton swabs.

His new, albeit temporary, abode is deafening. It’s the kind of noise that settles deep, like the muffled pressure in his ears before a swallow makes them pop. Irritating, constant, and inescapable. While it’s undeniably better than the Underground Ring—anything would be an upgrade from that hellhole—it carries a similar kind of noise. The loudness doesn’t come from roaring crowds or fists slamming into flesh this time, but it’s loud all the same. One individual, in particular, seems to embody that more than anyone else. She’s impossible to avoid. The self-appointed ringleader of every bad idea, she lugs a spare tire around like it’s some sort of shield. No matter how careful or quiet he tries to be, she always seems to spot him whenever he attempts to sneak away. Everything about her is loud—her gestures, her laughter, even the way she stomps her boots against the ground as she barrels toward him. Today, she’s waving her arms wildly, yelling at the top of her lungs about a “top-secret mission” to hoard bottles of shampoo. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even ask why. He simply nods curtly, a silent agreement that spares him from the inevitable round of coaxing or, worse, shouting. His compliance earns him a hearty slap on the back, the kind that might’ve staggered him once, but now he barely feels. It’s as if the years have dulled his senses, leaving his body numb to gestures that should’ve felt like camaraderie. He follows her, trudging along as she chatters endlessly, her excitement filling every quiet gap. He doesn’t particularly remember what they did—only the overpowering smell of flowers and artificial fruit. The sweetness of it clings to the air, thick enough to choke him, cloying in its intensity. It lingers in his nose long after the bottles have been stashed away in her “secret” hiding spot. Later, when she moves in for another slap on the back, he dodges it with practiced ease, retreating into his own corner of blood, dust, and dirt.

You would think that, by now, he’d have acclimated to the constant assault of different scents around him. The shampoo that the girls in the gang seem obsessed with has started to lose its overwhelming sugary fragrance, so at least he no longer has to clamp a hand over his nose every time one of them passes by. Small mercies, perhaps. Yet, for all the tolerance he’s built for floral and fruity aromas, there are two scents he’s never been able to endure: blood and chemicals. Unfortunately, he finds himself in the breeding ground for both every time he even slightly nicks himself. A shallow cut on his thigh is nothing to worry about, not even enough to draw a single drop of blood. Yet somehow, he finds himself dragged to the clinic more often than anyone else. He’s certain it’s on purpose. The first time was sheer coincidence, or so he told himself. But every subsequent trip has felt deliberate, the way you grab his arm and hauls him back to that room. The doctor knows.

The realization makes his fingers twitch. It’s not the kind of tremor born of nerves, but a frustration that simmers low in his chest. His eyes glaze over as he tries to block out the sensory onslaught—the stinging scent, the white gloves, the faint hum of machinery in the corner. The irritation builds until it’s nearly unbearable, clawing its way up his throat like a scream he refuses to let out. He wants to punch something. To throw his whole weight into a single, bone-rattling motion—just to expel the tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring. Because if he can’t, he knows he’ll be left alone with his thoughts. And that might just be worse.

"You need to take better care of yourself," the doctor says, lightly pressing onto the outside of the cut and looking up at him to see if it causes any pain. There isn’t any. For something this small, there never is. He only spares you a glance before returning his blank stare back to the wall in front of him. The beige paint is chipped in places, tiny cracks crawling up the wall. You should transfer the funds for his bandages in exchange for a renovation. He hears you huff, the mumblings of someone annoyed that their help, which was never asked for in the first place, is going unappreciated. It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.

He hates people like that. People who peacock around with signs practically screaming, Look at me! I’m doing the right thing! I’m a good person! They expect gratitude, praise, maybe even a pedestal to stand on for their noble efforts. The thought makes his jaw tighten.

He hears you sigh again, the sound filled with the same familiar annoyance that he's come to expect. That passive-aggressive pity that lingers in your words when you complain to others about him. "He’s impossible," you'd said, more than once, "won’t listen, won’t cooperate, and doesn't even appreciate the help.", and that you have no idea what he's even doing here. At least he can agree with you on that last part, he doesn't know what he's doing here either in this town full of loud voices and cloying sweetness. He doesn't know how to stomach it.

He can feel your eyes roam over his stiff posture, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. As if you can practically hear Lighter's inner thoughts through his silence, those unspoken words hanging thick in the air. It's all part of the same stubborn routine, you'll push and prod hoping to find any cracks to sink your fingers into and Lighter will have them patched up and reinforced.

"You know," the doctor continues, a faint trace of irritation creeping into your tone, "I can't keep fixing you up if you keep running into trouble. I’m not a miracle worker."

Lighter doesn't even twitch, just stares straight ahead. He's learned very early on that if he stays still and shuts up, he'll be left alone sooner. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need any of this. People like a doctor—like you—always trying to help, always wanting to fix things that aren’t broken. It’s infuriating, how you all think you know what’s best for him. He hates it. And yet, here he is, with a gash that needs tending, caught between the impulse to tell you to shove it and the weight of some unspoken guilt that settles in his chest. He really wants to punch something.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, his voice a low rasp, "Never asked for your help."

The words escape him before he can claw them back, slipping through the spaces before he even realizes they’re there. Small cracks, just wide enough to betray him. Involuntarily, he braces himself. His muscles tighten against his bones, his bones harden like reinforced steel, locking in place to protect the fragile machinery inside. His lungs compress his heart, squeezing it so tightly it feels like it might burst. Those flimsy walls he’s built—made of tofu and paper mâché, laughably weak—begin to tremble under the weight of the wrecking ball swinging his way.

He closes his eyes, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in that same stubborn tone, "you shouldn’t have to."

There’s a pinch at his cheek, light but condescending, like he’s a child in need of scolding. Then the scent of disinfectant reaches his nose, sharp and sterile. Oh. Right. He was bleeding there. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Bullheaded brat,” he hears you mumble just before the door clicks shut behind you.

His first loss doesn’t begin with a fight but with a long, crumpled list shoved into his hands by a short blonde girl wearing a helmet with a metal spike sticking straight up. What was her name again? Luke? No...that was a boy’s name. Luca? No, another boy's name. She’s bossy and dishonest about her feelings, but at least she’s straightforward about what she wants. It’s easy working with her—she doesn’t waste time on small talk, which, in this gang, is practically a miracle. He doesn’t bother checking the list, already stuffing it into his pocket as he swings a leg over a spare bike lent to him for this job. With a sharp roar of the engine, he takes off from the Outer Ring, hoping to escape before anyone else can shove more responsibilities onto his plate.

That, as it turns out, is his first mistake. Sitting at a pit stop on the side of a dusty highway, he finally pulls out the list, intending to glance at it just long enough to plan the quickest route. But as his eyes skim the items scrawled across the page, a sinking realization hits him. He doesn’t know what half these things are. What even is a “Carlishe”? The words blur together, a mix of illegible handwriting and bizarre requests. There are addresses written next to each item at least—small mercies—but the real kicker is that all of them are located within the city. That almost makes him want to turn the bike around and head straight back to the Outer Ring. Almost. Instead, he exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face, and glares at the list like it personally wronged him. He can already feel the headache building.

The city is obnoxious. The constant stream of bodies rushing to their destinations, the screeching of tires against uneven roads, and the blinding flashes of lights from signs and advertisements assault his senses. He pulls his hair in front of his eyes for the nth time, brightly coloured spots popping in his vision and a stinging in the back of his eyes. His skin feels prickly, as if hives are crawling up his arms, the overstimulation setting his nerves on edge. The worst part is the lingering stares. Schoolgirls in matching uniforms clutch their backpacks in one hand, covering their mouths with the other as they whisper to each other. Giggling erupts between stolen glances in his direction. Then there are the men, distracted by their phones, who only notice him in passing—before stopping mid-step for a double-take. Their eyes dart from him to his bike, suspicion clouding their expressions, and they hurry away like he’s about to rob them on the spot. He already wants to leave. The city doesn’t need to say it outright; it’s made its message clear enough. He doesn’t belong here. He’s out of place, and he’s most certainly unwelcome.

He moves a hand to cover his nose, inhaling deeply to scrape up the lingering scents of rust and dust clinging to his gloves. His fingers tremble, his palm damp against the fabric, as he struggles to anchor himself to something—anything—other than the crushing tightness in his chest. But everywhere he turns to, he see's the same friends laughing as they bump shoulders. The bark of a dog as a little girl with a pink bow in her hair chases after it. The scent of lemonade from a nearby stand run by an equally bright yellow pill-shaped bangboo. He presses his thumb harder against the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the rising pressure, like invisible walls are closing in on him. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, his lungs clawing for air, desperate for a relief that refuses to come. His stomach twists violently, and a bead of cold sweat slides down the back of his neck, tracing a shiver along his spine. Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.

He’s panicking. He knows it. The sensation rises like a wave, crashing over him in slow, unrelenting force. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, the pulse thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands start to shake more violently now, his grip on his face slipping, the instinct to get away, to escape, clawing at him from the inside. He tries to steady himself, but the dizziness sets in, blurring the edges of his vision. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight he can’t expand his lungs, and every shallow gasp makes him feel like he’s drowning. The sensation is too familiar, too real. He’s been here before. Too many times. His back against the dirty fighting ring and the glare of stage lights replaced with billboards and concrete sidewalks.

"Lighter? What are you doing here?"

His head snaps up, eyes wild and frenzied, to see you hovering beside him. He hadn’t even realized you’d gotten so close, and the sudden proximity sends him reeling. Before he can jerk back—crashing into his bike and sending it toppling over—your hand shoots out, gripping the lapels of his jacket. His heels dig into the concrete, his hands bracing against the seat of the bike as if it’s his only anchor, but it's your grip that really holds him steady. For a second, the world blurs around him, the noise of the city dimming, and all he can focus on is the warmth of your hands, firm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. The air feels too tight, like there’s not enough room to breathe, and yet, you’re there, keeping him from falling, keeping him steady—

His heart races, the pounding of his blood echoing in his ears, his pulse thudding hard against his ribs. He doesn’t know why, but this—this moment—feels too intimate, too close. He’s not used to anyone seeing him like this: exposed, stumbling, stripped of his usual defenses. He’s always been good at keeping his distance, but now, with your hand on him, everything feels just a little too raw. Too real.

It reminds him of the past. Familiar faces flashing by. The hands that reached out to him before being swallowed in the Hollow.

His hand shoots out before he can stop it—so fast, it feels instinctive, reflexive. By the time he registers what he’s done, it’s too late. In the next blink, you’re on the ground, a startled expression etched onto your face, and his arm remains outstretched, frozen in place from when he shoved you away. The air between you feels heavy, suffused with a tension that wasn’t there before. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know whether to apologize or double down, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp at an excuse that won’t come.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly," you say instead, your voice softer than usual. There’s no anger, no accusation, just a calm sincerity as you dust off your pants and straighten up, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He blinks, your words catching him off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost doesn’t know what to say. Okay? No, he’s not okay. Not really. His mind races, trying to piece together an answer but he comes up empty. He swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult, and his eyes flicker away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I—” His throat feels tight, the words tangling together before they can make it out. He glances at you for a brief second, but the weight of your gaze is too much. He shifts his eyes down, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath his boots, as if it might somehow offer him an escape.

“Yeah,” he mutters finally, the word rough and hollow, unsure if it even makes sense in the context of this moment, “Just—yeah.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching far too long, like a rubber band about to snap. He can feel the weight of your unspoken words, the way you hesitate, lips parted but still holding back. You want to say something—he knows it—but for some reason, you don’t. Then, with a sharp breath, he shifts his weight and pushes himself back upright. The bike beneath him wobbles, the kickstand threatening to buckle before he catches it with his foot. He grips the handlebars tightly, the rough leather of his gloves creaking as he steadies the machine. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but they’re enough to keep him moving, even as his mind stays caught in that lingering moment between you.

“I should go,” he says, his voice low, clipped, refusing to meet your eyes. It sounds less like a statement and more like a command—to himself as much as to you. The words carry an undercurrent of urgency, as though he’s trying to escape the unease curling in his chest. He takes a step back, the motion stiff, like he’s physically shaking off the invisible tether between you. The space between you grows heavier, a palpable weight neither of you acknowledges. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike, knuckles pale against the leather of his gloves, before he mounts it in a quick, practiced motion. The engine growls to life, a sound that vibrates in the air but doesn’t quite drown out the tension.

And then he’s gone, the tires kicking up dust as he speeds away, leaving behind the moment, the words unsaid, and you. By the time he returns to the Outer Ring, his pockets are empty, the list crumpled in his jacket, untouched. It’s his first uncompleted job.

It’s painfully awkward for the next few days after his brief run-in with you in the city. He avoids the clinic and stays far from the supply depot, the memory of your touch and your too-soft words still too fresh, too unsettling. He doesn’t know what he expects—maybe a reprimand, maybe nothing at all—but when another girl, the perpetually sleepy one, quietly takes over the task of resupplying, it leaves him reeling. She doesn’t ask why, doesn’t mention you, just takes the list without so much as a glance his way. And yet, there’s an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, behind his ears, and it sits there like a stone lodged in his gut. Did you say something to the rest of the gang? Did you mention what happened? Complain about him, the same way you’ve done before? It wouldn’t be out of character; he’s overheard you once or twice. Still, even with all that, he wants to believe there’s a line you won’t cross. Some kind of unspoken doctor-patient confidentiality. Because if there isn’t…then why? Why did you help him? Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasn’t about him at all. Maybe it was for the town you actually care about, the place you’ve chosen to carve out a life in. Or maybe it was just reflex—what anyone would’ve done in your place. But you haven’t sought him out. You haven’t hounded him down, haven’t dragged his name through the dirt as far as he knows. And as long as you don’t, as long as you leave him alone, he can continue avoiding you. He can pretend the encounter didn’t happen. As long as he doesn’t get hurt again, as long as everything stays peaceful, he doesn’t have to face you—or the echoes of the past you unintentionally stirred.

His momentary spiraling is cut short by the sound of a cough, sharp and deliberate, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts. Lighter’s heart jumps, startled, and his leg jerks out, knocking over a chair with a loud clatter. He flinches at the noise, muttering a curse under his breath. God, he’s slipping. Pushing the hair out of his face, he glances toward the source of the cough. Through his squinted eyes, he spots...ah. Right. This was Billy. The supposed "Champion" of the gang. Hard to miss, honestly, given that he’s an Intelligent Construct. Plus, the flaming red scarf that trails after him is impressionable and Billy doesn’t look like anyone else here, his artificial frame and polished demeanor sticking out like a sore thumb among the ragtag crowd. And just like that, Lighter’s stomach sinks. If Billy’s here, then maybe—no, definitely—you must’ve said something. Of course you did. This is it, isn’t it? The prelude to him being kicked out. Again. Another mess, another failure, and now he’ll be chased out in a hail of bullets and gunpowder, all because he can’t keep his head straight for five seconds.

But instead of drawing a weapon or delivering some scathing speech, Billy does something unexpected. He holds out…a pair of tinted shades. Lighter stares, not entirely sure what to make of it. The glasses dangle in Billy’s hand, the Construct’s posture as casual and unbothered as ever. A present, Billy's voice perfectly smooth and indifferent, something the doctor picked up on a visit to the city. Lighter blinks, his mind grinding to a halt. A…present? From you? Why? For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shades, the reflection of his own dumbfounded expression staring back at him in their lenses. His brow furrows as his gaze catches the faint tint of the redish brown color across the glass, cool and distant, like a barrier between him and the world. They don’t look cheap—quite the opposite, actually. Which only makes it worse.

The weight of the gesture presses against him like a slow, sinking tide. He doesn’t know what to feel. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Suspicion? All of it tangles into a tight knot in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar discomfort he isn’t sure how to deal with. His fingers twitch at his sides, and for a split second, he debates leaving Billy hanging, ignoring the outstretched hand entirely. But the weight of of Billy’s unreadable gaze, feels heavier than his pride. Slowly, hesitantly, Lighter reaches out, his movements stiff and mechanical. The shades slide into his hand, the smooth metal and cool glass feeling foreign against his skin. His grip lingers a moment too long, like the act of accepting them is something monumental. As if he's taken the first step up the mountain.

Billy is… nice. He’s nice. Lighter can’t deny that, even if the word feels a little too plain for someone as unique as him. There’s something disarming about Billy—a balance between his quirks and his sharp edges that somehow works. Goofy around the edges, with a kind of restless energy, yet precise and almost unnervingly focused when it counts. He’s one of those people who can make awkward silences feel like they’re meant to be there, and Lighter finds an odd sense of peace in that. Maybe it’s because they share similar roles in the gang, both of them tasked with carrying responsibilities with more firepower. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something about their personalities that clicks. Lighter can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s an ease to being around Billy, like slipping into a pair of old boots that still fit just right. For the most part, Billy is quiet, observing the world around him with that detached, almost mechanical calm. But when you hit the right topic—when you find the one thing that sparks his interest—he lights up like a firework. He’ll start talking, words spilling out in a stream of excitement that’s almost contagious. Lighter has seen it happen before, usually about some obscure mechanical part he needs for upgrading or a tv show about righteous knights who battle against evil. It’s the kind of rambling that could easily be overwhelming, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow, it’s endearing. There’s something genuine about the way Billy’s enthusiasm bubbles to the surface, something that makes Lighter’s guarded demeanor chip away just a little.

What he isn’t prepared for is how his carefully planned baby steps keep turning into leaps of faith. Normally, after every job, when the gang gathers around a bonfire to celebrate—loud laughter, music blaring, and drinks flowing—Lighter sticks to his routine. He’ll slink back to wherever he came from, or at most, brood in the shadows with his back plastered against a dark wall, far away from the chaos. It’s safer that way. Easier. But this time, something feels different. When Billy nudges him with an elbow and gestures toward the sagging couches that have clearly seen better days, Lighter hesitates. He considers it, just for a moment. He could shake his head, retreat to his corner, and Billy wouldn’t hold it against him. And really, Lighter’s presence won’t make or break the party. A couple swigs of Nitro Fuel and everyone will be too drunk to notice who’s around, passing out in ridiculous sleep positions before the night’s over.

His gaze shifts toward the bonfire. The flames lick and crackle, embers glowing as they begin to dull. Behind his tinted shades, the fire isn’t as vibrant as it would be without them. The reds, oranges, and yellows are muted, softened, like looking through a filter. Yet, for once, he can look at the fire without feeling that sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. It’s a small relief, and for a moment, he feels almost… normal. His attention drifts upward, scanning the circle of people sprawled out around the fire, laughing and arguing over meaningless things. And then his eyes land on you. You’re slumped over on one of the couches, gesturing animatedly as you rant about the ever-growing stream of patients flooding your clinic. Your voice is tinged with frustration, though it’s more exasperated than angry. Something about how you haven’t had a proper break in days. That explains why he hasn’t seen you lately.

A strange realization settles over him, tugging uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He never thanked you. For the shades, for your help in the city—for anything. The thought gnaws at him, not enough to be overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He’s not good at expressing gratitude. Hell, he’s not even good at feeling it most of the time. But as he watches you flop back against the couch with a tired sigh, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. It’s not guilt exactly, but it’s close. Maybe tonight, for once, he won’t retreat into the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll take that next step.

He pointedly ignores the jolt you give when you feel the weight of the couch dip beneath him, the speed with which your head whips around to confirm what he knows must look impossible. Lighter—of all people—is sitting there, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fire like it owes him money. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly, at least. He’s almost thankful for the heat radiating from the bonfire because, with any luck, you’ll mistake the redness creeping up his ears for reflections of the flickering light bouncing off his tinted shades. It’s not nerves—well, maybe a little—but mostly it’s the awkwardness of being in your presence when he’s not glowering at you from afar or brushing off whatever comment you’ve tossed his way. This is...new territory.

A tiny, traitorous part of him kind of wants to sneak a glance at you. What expression are you wearing right now? Are you gaping like a fish, shocked that the infamous recluse has willingly planted himself within six feet of you? Or worse—are you wearing one of those disgusted looks, the kind you save specifically for when he gets under your skin? He isn’t sure which would be worse, but the curiosity lingers.

For now, though, he keeps his head stubbornly forward, his jaw tight and his arms tense, as if he’s bracing himself for a punchline to some joke he hasn’t caught on to yet. The fire snaps and crackles before them, and the raucous noise of the gang around the bonfire continues to fill the air. Still, the weight of your attention burns heavier than the heat of the flames, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget under it.

...

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just a quick glance, nothing too obvious. If you’re gaping at him like a fish out of water or pulling that disgusted face as if you’ve bitten into a lemon, then that’s a clear enough message: he’s severely miscalculated and he’ll never make that mistake again. Maybe sitting here was the wrong choice after all. His arms uncross slightly, just enough to give him the excuse to shift his weight, to tilt his head ever so slightly as if he’s adjusting his shades. His eyes flick to the side—just for a second—to gauge your reaction. It’s subtle, but enough to see if there's any tension in your shoulders, if your lips are pressed together like you’re trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide.

To his surprise, there’s no disgust, no annoyance, not even a smirk that says, Really? You’re here?. Instead, there’s something else, something brighter. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of surprise that he’s dared to sit this close to you without his usual defenses up. Like you're struggling to contain yourself before you're about to burst. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scream “wrong choice” the way he expected.

You look...elated. That’s…new.

It throws him off balance in a way he’s not prepared for. That small spark in your eyes, the faint lift of your lips—it’s not the reaction he anticipated, not in a million years. His stomach twists, not in the way it does when he’s bracing for an argument or a fight, but in that strange, uncomfortable way that happens when the ground feels weightless beneath his feet. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces his gaze back to the fire, hoping the crackling embers will right him. He focuses on that, grounding himself in the heat of the burn, anything to avoid thinking about the expression he just caught on your face. He’s not sure he’d know what to do if he kept looking. He shifts slightly, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as though that will make him feel less exposed. He hopes he looks composed, even though his pulse is racing faster than he’d like to admit. For a moment, he almost regrets sitting down. But you’re not yelling at him—or worse, walking away.

For now, that’s enough to keep him rooted in place.

Man, he really wants to go back to his secluded corner.

“Lookin’ good, Lighter,” you say with a cheeky grin, your eyes curving into crescent moons that mirror the one hanging high in the night sky.

His fingers twitch against his arms where they’re folded, and he huffs, barely glancing your way. He knows you’re teasing, but the warmth behind your tone doesn’t feel mocking—it feels...light, playful in a way that doesn’t dig under his skin.

Still, he can’t help but mutter, “Don’t push it,” though the sharp edge he tries to add falls embarrassingly flat.

The firelight dances in your expression as your grin widens, and for a moment, he’s caught between the glow of the embers and the curve of your smile. It’s not like he’s never seen you smile before—he’s seen plenty of them, but those were always directed at other people. Always at your patients, your friends, or anyone else who wasn’t him. But now, the warmth in your expression is unmistakably meant for him, and it throws him off balance. It feels strange, foreign even, like the weight of something he’s not sure he knows how to carry. He doesn’t know what to do with it—this quiet kindness you’re offering, unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker back to the fire, but the warmth of your gaze lingers, pressing against him in a way that feels both comforting and unnerving. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying to ground himself, but it’s hard to ignore the way his pulse picks up, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying so hard to maintain.

“C’mon,” you tease, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated stretch, your grin sharp and playful, “I don’t give compliments for free, you know. You could at least say ‘thanks.’”

He exhales through his nose, his lips twitching into something close to a scowl—but not quite. There’s no real bite behind it, just an attempt to shield himself from the moment you’ve trapped him in.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice gruff and low, like the word scrapes against the edges of his pride as it slips out. Your laughter, loud and unrestrained, bubbles into the sky, It doesn’t feel like you’re laughing at him, though. There’s no edge, no smug satisfaction—just genuine amusement, warm and fleeting, like the explosion of firecrackers.

Belatedly, he notices that the leather of his gloves has lost its scent of rust and dust, replaced by the lingering traces of overpriced shampoo and motor oil. He should probably mind the shift, but he doesn't, not as much as he thought he would. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting about the contrast, like a quiet marker of his unexpected immersion into this world. It's strange, but in a way, it's been a long time since anything felt so familiar. Still, for as much time as he spends in your clinic, he's surprised he doesn’t walk away smelling of antiseptic spray. Maybe it’s because he’s never been your patient, but he wonders if it’s more than that. Maybe it’s because he’s become such a regular fixture in your clinic that the place itself has started to seep into him. It’s a funny thought, one that crosses his mind every time he enters your doors to see you putter around in that rhythm you've built for yourself. He watches the way you navigate the clinic, how you hum quietly under your breath when you’re absorbed in something, and how you somehow always know just when he’s lingering near the doorway. It makes something warm stir in his chest.

Aside from him, you don’t seem to have many patients to tend to. Billy doesn't exactly need regular checkups, given that he's more machine than man, and the rest of the gang is often off on other assignments or busy with their own affairs. Now, though, he notices something that’s been creeping up on him—he’s stopped avoiding you at every turn. At first, it was a conscious effort. He’d slip out when you weren’t looking, retreat into the shadows of the clinic or take a walk to avoid running into you when you were... being you—a healer, a talker, an enigma he didn’t quite know how to handle. But now? It’s different. You seem to be everywhere he goes. Your presence is subtle, but it's there—your voice drifting from one corner of the clinic, your footsteps moving purposefully down the hallway. And he’s... used to it. More than he ever thought he’d be. The awkwardness he used to feel is slowly dissolving though there’s still a part of him that’s wary of what it means. He’s learned, in his own way, to appreciate the way you move, the way you’ve managed to fit yourself into his world.

It manifests in small moments—subtle, fleeting, but undeniable. It happens when he sees your fingers blindly reach for something on the counter, and before you can even finish your motion, he’s already sliding the object into your palm. The first syllable of your sentence leaves your lips, but it’s already too late; he’s finishing your thought, speaking the words as if they were his own. Even when you glance at something, then back at him, there’s a strange, quiet understanding. He doesn’t need you to say anything more; he can read the flicker of your thoughts in the way your eyes linger, in the soft shift of your gaze. It’s almost too intimate for him to process, this unspoken bond. His instinct is to push it away, to retreat back to the isolation he’s known for so long. But there's something strangely comfortable in it—something that makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like he's always on the outside, watching the world pass by. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He doesn’t exactly know what to make of it—this strange dance, your steady rhythm next to his stumbling between the two of you. It’s like walking through a fog, not sure if you’re heading in the right direction but trusting the path enough to keep moving forward. There are still moments when he feels like he’s on the edge of something. He’ll catch you looking at him just a bit too long, those small moments of curiosity. What’s even more surprising is how much he’s starting to do the same with you. He doesn’t always understand you, doesn’t always know the right things to say, but when he catches you working, lost in your thoughts, focused on a task, he finds a strange sense of peace in it. It’s a new thing. Before, he’d find any excuse to walk away, but now, he lingers. He stays in the space, watches the way you move with a quiet concentration, and feels that flicker of something—maybe curiosity, maybe even admiration.

He can tell you're starting to loosen up around him, too. Even when he doesn’t respond to what you say in the way you'd hope, you don’t seem to take it to heart like you used to. There’s no hint of irritation, no sharp edge to your words. You don’t push, don’t demand more than what he can give, and there’s something about that that makes him feel... safer? Less like he has to keep his guard up at all times. Bits and pieces of his old personality—those little flashes of the person he used to be before everything became so fractured—are starting to creep out from under the heavy layers of his walls. They find their way to the surface in quiet moments, in the brief pauses between conversations where you almost catch him smiling at something you've said, or when a wry comment slips out without him even thinking. It’s as if the parts of him that used to retreat into the background, hiding in the shadows of his old self, are slowly being coaxed out.

He’s holding two tubes of lipstick, one in each hand, squinting like he’s trying to decipher some ancient code. Burnice just had to be unspecific when she said she wanted to try a new color, an "orange sunset” apparently. What does that even mean? The shade of a fiery sky? A pumpkin? Tangerine? He has no idea, and it doesn’t help that both of these lipsticks look exactly the same to him. The store's bright fluorescent lights glare down from above, making his head throb. He adjusts his glasses, still firmly planted on his nose despite their dimming effect on vibrant hues. Without them, he’d probably be seeing stars. But he can't exactly turn back now. Piper is out of commission, and the rest of the gang conveniently claims to be busy with other duties—though Lighter suspects they’re all just finding excuses to dodge responsibility. That much becomes clear when Lucy shoves a crumpled list into his hands, a smirk playing on her lips like she knows exactly how this is going to go. The paper’s worn and hastily scribbled, the ink smudged in places, and as his eyes scan the contents, a wave of déjà vu washes over him. Yep. He still has no idea what any of these things are.

"Orange Sunset, my ass," he mutters, comparing it to the other like some kind of makeup detective. One might be slightly redder, or maybe it’s just the lighting messing with him. Why does anyone need this many shades of orange anyway? From the corner of his eye, he catches a clerk staring at him, probably wondering why some scruffy guy in tinted glasses is agonizing over lipstick like his life depends on it. He ignores them, sighing as he tries to recall Burnice’s exact tone when she made the request. Did she sound sarcastic? Was this a joke? Because if it was, it’s on him now.

He lets out a deep sigh, the weight of his confusion finally settling in. Yup, he's throwing in the towel. This whole "getting the right shade" thing? It’s beyond him. He has no idea what the girls were thinking when they handed him that list. Honestly, he figures he should just wait for you to come back from the pharmacy across the street. Maybe then, you’ll know exactly what to get, and they won’t think he’s the worst at shopping ever.

Before he can wallow in his lack of makeup knowledge for much longer, he hears a snicker, followed by your voice, "You want to try some on? There are testers available, but I wouldn't recommend putting them on your lips. Cross-contamination and all that."

He turns just in time to see you walk into the store, a white folded bag in hand. You pause for a second, your hand pressed against your face like you’re hiding a smile. It's the same expression you made when he approached you with the invitation to come with him back to the city, eyes glued to the ground the entire time. Lighter places the two tubes of lipstick down, his unamused expression deepening as he shoots you a look.

"What’s with that look?" you tease, clearly amused. "I personally think you'd look great with a bit of color. We can even ask someone to do a color match for you and find your foundation shade."

“I think they’d rather kick me out,” Lighter mutters, his eyes flicking down at himself like he’s seeing his mismatched appearance for the first time. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in a defensive way, "I look out of place."

"On the contrary, I think you need to get your eyes cleaned out." Your voice is teasing but there’s an edge of affection in it, the kind that’s almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention. The kind of teasing that cuts just enough to be fun, but not enough to wound. Lighter shoots you a glare, but he knows it’s probably not landing the way it used to. It's a hollowed one, more of a reflex than anything intentional. He’s not sure if it’s because you’ve grown more used to his stares or if he’s just losing his touch altogether. Either way, he can tell by the way your grin stretches across your face that it doesn’t bother you as much as it once would’ve.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

"Look," your hand unconsciously reaches out to tug him down, and, almost without thinking, he follows. He bends down slightly, tilting his head so he’s eye level with you, the close proximity sending an unexpected jolt through him. He's suddenly hyper aware of your fingers curling against the leather of his sleeve, how your breath warms against his cheek, and just how close your face is to his even when you're looking at everyone around him.

“You’re practically out of one of those dramas where the rugged boyfriend goes out to get his girlfriend’s 'personal needs,'” You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper in his ear. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you tease him, almost too easy to notice. You lower your tone, dropping your words like a soft secret into his ear, “I’m sure every girl here is living vicariously through this."

You pause, eyes scanning him up and down with that smirk still tugging at the corner of your lips. It lingers for a moment, like you're reading him, sizing him up, before your words hit him, “I’d say you’d also fill the single dad role, but you don’t look old enough for that typecasting.”

Lighter blinks, a confused frown flashing across his face. He has no idea what you’re talking about, but the way your eyes twinkle suggests it's something... positive? At least, he thinks it is. It's hard to tell when your teasing tone is wrapped up in that playful spark.

Before he can even try to sort it out, you give him a light pat on the back, the action unexpected and almost fond, “Seriously, we’ll find your lost sense of humor soon."

While the days in the Outer Ring are hot and sweltering, the nights bring a biting chill, driving its residents indoors, where only Nitro Fuel and dim lights keep the cold at bay. The boss had invited him to join her and the rest of the girls for an after-party celebrating their new champion, but he’d waved them off, telling them to go on ahead and promising to join later. That promise hangs in the air now as he walks alone down an abandoned street in Blazewood, the quiet pressing in around him. The scarf around his neck feels heavier than it should. He’s never worn one before, and the fabric’s coarse brush against his skin almost itches. Yet, despite the unfamiliar texture, it’s warm. His fingers trace the small ornament stitched into the cloth, a detail meant just for him. It’s new, like so many other things, and he’s still trying to process it all. Everything around him has shifted so suddenly. Billy’s departure—soaring to new heights yet still tethered to the ground somehow. His own unexpected promotion to the forefront. The chaos in between. It’s overwhelming, surreal even, like being thrown into a story he doesn’t quite know the script for. And this scarf, with its peculiar weight, feels like a silent reminder of it all. He glances down at the ornament again, feeling the smooth metal beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s strange, having a physical marker of his place here.

When he first joined, he thought of the gang as just another boxing show, another carousel of passing faces he’d forget as soon as the next fight rolled around. A means to an end, nothing more. Look at him now. He almost wants to pinch his younger self’s cheek—just like a certain doctor does, though she insists it’s to “keep him humble.”. Nowadays, his title as the undefeated champion is only rivaled by how many times he can dodge Lucy's fists whenever he unconsciously picks her up. It’s become a routine—her standing on her tiptoes, stretching for something just out of reach, and him swooping in before she can so much as grumble. She's quick with her jabs, but he’s quicker. The footwork he once honed in the ring is now reserved for avoiding the creaky spots on the painted wooden floorboards—Piper’s after-breakfast nap is sacred, and waking her up is a crime punishable by death or, at the very least, her pointed glare. His “losses” pile up bottle by bottle, courtesy of Burnice’s sticky fingers and her talent for swiping extra Nitro Fuel. She always claims victory in their drinking contests, though he’s the one stuck carrying her home afterward. And sure, maybe he hums her favorite song while walking her back, but if anyone asks, he’ll deny it outright. Then there’s the boss, still as loud and demanding as ever, though now he shoulders the oddly specific responsibility of keeping her stash of romance novels a secret. It's a heavy weight, in a way, but he’d take a hundred bruises in the ring before he’d let anyone find out about her guilty pleasure. It’s funny how things turn out. What started as a pit stop, just another stepping stone in his aimless journey, has become something he wouldn’t trade for anything. Each quirky routine, each odd connection, has woven itself into a life he never expected to want. Yet, some things still remain the same.

His posture relaxes as he soaks in the occasional breeze, letting it cool his skin before he comes to a stop. It’s the usual fanfare—snickers and the grating sound of metal pipes dragging through the sand, a clear attempt at intimidation. He sighs, cracking his neck and adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of disinterest. Pulling his scarf up to cover his nose, he glances over his shoulder toward the group that’s been loitering on the outskirts of Blazewood for the past week. They don’t look particularly tough, their mismatched outfits and lack of coordination betraying their inexperience. Probably a newly formed gang, he guesses, especially since there’s no sense of camaraderie between the members. They’re all bravado and no bond—lone wolves forced to share the same pack. He straightens up, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he sizes them up. There’s no need to get too worked up over this. He has a party to attend.

A simple scare should have been enough to send them running for the hills, leaving the town in peace. At least, that’s how it should have gone. It should have started with a few taunts, the kind that barely even register on his radar. It should have escalated with the rival gang growing annoyed and one of them jumping the gun, rushing at Lighter with more ego than skill. It should have ended with him throwing two well-placed punches toward the leader, the crackle of fire igniting briefly in his gauntlets, enough to remind them who they were dealing with. And it should have concluded with them scattering like leaves in the wind, Lighter strolling back to the after-party with a few extra bottles of Nitro Fuel as a peace offering for showing up late—though he knows full well the girls wouldn’t have minded.

That’s how it should have gone.

But then one of them had to open their mouth.

The words hang in the air like a bad omen, laced with an ill-advised threat toward a certain doctor. And for the first time in a long while, Lighter feels something snap.

The familiar burn of anger flares in his chest, spreading like wildfire. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into fists without thought. The world around him blurs, his focus narrowing to the gang member who had the audacity to speak your name. He doesn’t hear the rest of their jeers; all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Lighter sees red.

"Lighter! Lighter, stop! Jeez, pull yourself together, you bullheaded prick!"

Your voice cuts through the haze, sharp and grounding, like a lifeline dragging him back from the abyss. There’s a lot of blood. Too much. It stains the ground, splattered on his knuckles, pooling beneath the poor bastard who dared to run his mouth. The smell is what finally does it, sharp and metallic, twisting his stomach into knots. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. His breaths are short and shallow, his vision swimming.

And then there’s you.

You’re always there—always managing to catch him at his worst. Always steady when he’s falling apart.

"Hey, hey, easy there," you say, your voice softening as you approach him. You raise your hands in a calming gesture, palms open, careful not to startle him further, "Look at me. I won't touch you but look at me. Right here, okay? Watch."

You inhale deeply, motioning with your hand as if to guide him.

“Breathe in…”

He follows, though his breath is shaky and uneven.

“Good, now breathe out,” you continue, exhaling slowly and mimicking the motion with your hand, “Good, good. You're doing well. One more time.”

You repeat the steps, your tone patient and measured, until Lighter’s chest stops heaving and the ringing in his ears fades. The blood-soaked street feels a little less suffocating, the weight on his chest a little less crushing. The sharp tang of blood begins to fade, replaced by the sterile cleanliness of your presence. His hands, still trembling, drop to his sides. The fight in him has ebbed away, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t say a word.

His first day and he's already gone and screwed it all up.

“Jeez, you really did a number on him. We’ll need to patch him up,” you mutter, crouching down to get a better look at the poor sap sprawled on the ground. Blood’s still dripping, his fellow gang members already fled with their tails tucked between their legs, but he's still breathing. You glance over your shoulder at Lighter, who’s standing there frozen, his fists clenched and his face an unreadable mask, “Come on, I don’t have the arm strength for this."

Lighter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, like he’s trying to make himself disappear. He's never reacted like this in a long while.

You sigh, standing up and stepping closer. Slowly, you reach out, and after a moment, he lowers his head, his posture deflating. His muscles tense as your hand makes contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Your fingers find his cheek, and with no hesitation, you pinch it. Hard. He flinches, more out of reflex than pain, and you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward.

“There,” you say, your tone lighter now, patting the same cheek you just pinched. Your thumb smooths over the faint red imprint left behind, and for a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease. It’s not much, but it’s enough to break through the fog in his head. His shoulders drop a little further, his fists unclenching. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, the weight of your touch grounding him just enough to find his footing again.

"What's got you so scared?"

A lot of things, if he’s honest. Despite the cool and rough persona he wears as Lighter, the undefeated champion of the Sons of Calydon, he’s scared of more than he’d ever admit. He can’t stomach the sight of blood—it churns his insides and makes his skin crawl. He’s painfully awkward in social situations, fumbling through conversations like a rookie boxer tripping over his own feet. He still messes up Caesar’s name sometimes, even though he’s been around long enough to know better. But none of that compares to the fear that grips him now. He’s petrified of losing the people he cares about—again. That fear sinks its claws into him and doesn’t let go, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. It’s why he builds walls, high and impenetrable, around all the words he never got to say. They sit there, locked away, heavy and suffocating, so he doesn’t have to face them or the pain they carry. What if those walls break? What if he lets you see what’s inside? Would you stay? Or would you run, leaving him stranded in the mess he doesn’t know how to fix? Worse, what if admitting he needs help means losing the little control he has left? It’s easier—safer—to keep everything hidden. But as the silence stretches on, he wonders how much longer he can keep it all locked away.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in the same tone of voice, "You shouldn't have to."

Lighter realizes, a little too late, that he’s been neglecting the plaster and glue holding his fortress together. For a long while, he’s tuned out the sounds of crumbling debris and the sharp groan of widening cracks. He’s gotten so used to it, the noise faded into the background, like an annoying hum he could ignore. But when he finally looks up, his so-called fortress isn’t much of a fortress at all. It’s rubble now—scattered cobblestones barely clinging together, a patchwork of failure. And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urge to grab a hammer and pickaxe, mix the concrete, and start stacking the stones again. It all seems like too much effort for something that’s bound to collapse, no matter how carefully he tries to build it. What’s the point of piling up walls that are only going to be torn down again? For once, the more obvious choice feels… freeing. Maybe he doesn’t need to patch up every broken piece or keep retreating behind what’s left. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to leave it behind entirely. Time to walk up and out of the wreckage, away from the shoreline where he’s been stranded for too long.

He knows it’s inevitable. For the undefeated champion, he sure has been folding a lot. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s so screwed. Somewhere along the trek up the mountain, he tripped over a branch and fell onto the untraveled path—and somehow, somehow, he’s done the one thing he swore he’d never do again. He’s in love. Opening up to the Sons of Calydon, letting them see into the tiny fissures of his heart—that was one thing. But this? This is overkill. The worst part is that his body has decided, after years of running on autopilot, that this is his standard default. The switch to turn it off has rusted over, and now he can’t budge it even a little.

He’s grateful for his glasses; otherwise, everyone would know how his eyes always seem to linger on you, even when you’re all the way across town. How he quickly sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, whenever you enter a room. How he moves his red scarf to cover his mouth when his lips start to curve too high, almost like a chipmunk’s grin. How he breaks into an awkward sweat when he offers you help, terrified that you might reject him—god forbid—because if you do, he’ll spend the whole night replaying it in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. And how Piper, knowing exactly how to get under his skin, will casually say your name just to watch him freeze, making his heart race all over again.

Before, when he decided to lie to himself and shove his emotions down deep, it was easy to embody that indifferent attitude. Now? Now things are different. When you tug at the ends of his sleeves, when he instinctively bends down to hear you whisper some teasing remark about his opponent, he can't help but let out a soft huff of amusement, his lips curving into a small smile he can't quite hide. When he's lounging on the couches during their many parties, arm sprawled out across the backrest, and you join him, leaning against his side, he used to barely register it, continuing to watch the festivities like it was no big deal. But these days, it’s all he can focus on. The way your proximity affects him, the subtle shift in his attention when you're near. And then there are the check-ups. Don’t even get him started on those. He’s been half-dressed around you more times than he’s been fully clothed, and now, suddenly, his body decides it wants to get embarrassed? It’s as if his mind finally caught up to what’s been going on, and he’s not sure if he’s more frustrated or flustered.

What’s even worse is that he can tell you’re different now, too. He’s been in your orbit for so long, circling around the same familiar path, mostly because you’re always there, pulling him back when he drifts too far. You refuse to let him wander off, not entirely—like you’re always keeping an eye on him, tethered to him somehow. But now, it feels like the strings are fraying. While he's finally starting to push forward, to test the limits of whatever's been silently building between you, you’re pulling away. And it sucks. It sucks in a way that gnaws at him, this dull ache in his chest that he can’t shake off. He wants to reach out, to bridge the gap, but it’s like he’s fumbling in the dark, and you're slipping through his fingers, even as you're right there.

As much as Lighter wants to give you 100% of his attention, he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. It's only a matter of time before the girls state an intervention and it doesn’t take long for them to corner him. No escape routes left, no way to dodge the inevitable. They close in, their grins wide and knowing as they make sure he has nowhere to go but to surrender. He tries to play it cool, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what feels like hours of relentless teasing and subtle pressure, the words tumble out of him. Their champion—Lighter, the undefeated and untouchable—had been crushing hard on their doctor. Sure, it took two hours of wrangling and dusty clothes, but in the end, they had their win. If you could even call it that.

"Wait, wait, officer, wait!" Lucy shouts, her voice filled with exaggerated disbelief. She even stamps her foot for emphasis, and her helmet slips askew from her dramatic movements, adding a comical touch to the scene, "You mean you're in the 'we might be more than friends in the feelings department, but still not in the confirmation phase' period? That's the most iffy period!"

"I guess so..." Lighter mumbles, still stuck on the floor beneath the combined weight of Burnice and Caesar. He’s desperately trying to worm his way out of their hold, but it’s no use. The girls share a look that he’ll never quite understand—because apparently, women have this telepathic connection that they all seem to possess. They turn back to him, wide-eyed, as if they’ve just uncovered some huge revelation.

Ah. Those were the wrong words to say.

"Whaat?! What is this new development?! Why didn’t you tell us?!" Lucy’s voice rises an octave, as her eyes gleam with excitement. She practically jumps up and down, trying to process the new information like a live-wire.

"When? Where? Who?!" Burnice fires off her questions faster than Lighter can even blink, leaning in so close that her face is dangerously close to his. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with the thrill of gossip.

Then, Caesar clamps her hands on his shoulders, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something much more serious. The intense gaze she locks onto him is a complete mismatch for her typical bubbly personality, making Lighter feel an unsettling tension.

"Are you being blackmailed?" she asks, her voice flat.

It was the wrong decision to let the girls know that he was crushing hard on the new hire. It started innocently enough, but soon enough, they forced him into their room for what they called a "girls' night," and it quickly escalated into a marathon of magazines with increasingly specific titles. He had barely survived the first few issues, which ranged from "How to Tell If Someone Likes You" to "What to Do When You're an Emotionally and Socially Repressed Individual Who Hasn't Felt the Touch of a Woman and You Don't Want to Come Off as a Creep and Get HR Involved." What the hell kind of magazine even has a title that long? Did the author do that by accident? Was that intentional?

All in all, what he's learned is that he needs to be more talkative, but not too much—just enough so he doesn’t seem like he only cares about himself. But also, he’s supposed to ask questions about you and show interest in your hobbies, but not too many questions because that could come off as probing. And then there’s the smiling part: he needs to smile more, but not too much teeth or it'll seem intimidating, but just wide enough so it looks natural.

He thinks he's going to ask Lucy if she can use his head as a baseball.

"That was... a lot sadder than I thought it would be," you say as the credits roll, the melancholic piano score lingering in the air like an unresolved question. The weight of the story hangs between you, tangible and heavy. It was a tale of two ill-fated lovers who never managed to align their lives, perpetually missing the timing needed for their relationship to truly blossom. And just when it seemed there might be hope, everything unraveled into a hollow, bittersweet ending—one slowly succumbing to corruption, and the other staying by their side despite knowing how it would all end, sacrificing their own happiness just to hold onto the fleeting moments they had left together.

The credits roll, but Lighter doesn’t really notice them. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The darkened screen in front of him might as well be a blank canvas—his mind’s elsewhere, swirling around the movie’s ending, still echoing in his chest.

It’s funny, really. The story hit close enough to home that it should’ve left him with that familiar ache, that gnawing feeling in his gut like it always did in the past. Two lovers caught in a cycle of bad timing, one slipping away while the other stays behind, trapped in a choice they can’t undo. Yeah, it should’ve made him feel something, some kind of sorrow or regret—but it didn’t. He just feels… fine. Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. He knows he should feel more, but he’s been through too much of that pain before, and he’s not that guy anymore. Not the guy who drowns in what-ifs and could-have-beens. He’s learned how to move on. He’s learned how to survive the worst things life throws at him. A shift beside him brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over at you, your form curled up against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow. You’re quiet, almost unreadable, but there’s something about you that makes him feel like he’s not alone in the room. Like somehow, without doing anything, you’ve managed to pull him from the edge of his thoughts and into this shared silence.

For a moment, he wonders if he should feel more disturbed by the movie, or maybe feel bad about how unaffected he is. It’s odd, like something’s wrong because he’s not torn up about it, because he's not emotionally wrecked. He glances back at the screen and sighs, but it’s a different kind of sigh. It’s not regret. It’s relief.

Maybe the truth is, he’s finally found some peace with himself. Sure, he’s still haunted by some old ghosts, but they don’t have the same grip on him. He’s learned to live with the scars, to accept that he can’t control everything. He thinks that’s what the movie tried to say in the end—about choice, about letting go, about moving forward even when it’s hard. He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough for him to realize that you’re not just here, you're with him. That’s enough for him. That’s all he needs. He’s grown. He’s fine. His fingers twitch, still resting against his knees, but for the first time in a long time, he’s not holding on to anything.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice low and a little rough, "It hits harder than you expect, doesn’t it?"

"I don't know... I think the ending was kind of lame," you say, your voice cutting through the lingering weight of the movie’s somber tone. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to find the right words to explain. "If I were stuck in the Hollow, I think I’d want to run out and keep living on in their memory, you know? Like, make it mean something. If I knew I was the reason my lover passed... I’d be kind of pissed."

Lighter, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed, raises a brow at your comment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual, as though he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. When he speaks, his voice carries a faint hint of amusement. "So, dramatic sacrifices aren’t your thing, huh?"

"It’s not that," you reply, shrugging as you glance at him, "I just think... if someone gave up everything for me, it’d feel wrong to waste it. Like, what’s the point of their sacrifice if I just give up too? I’d owe it to them to live a life that’s worth it, to make something out of it."

You glance away for a moment, the weight of your own words settling in. It’s a thought that’s been with you for a while, ever since you first realized how fleeting everything really is. People sacrifice so much, sometimes without even realizing it, and you’re not sure how you would handle knowing someone gave up everything for you. Could you live with that? Or would the guilt eat you alive? There’s a deep part of you that’s always felt that need to honor those sacrifices, even if it meant carrying the weight of their legacy on your own shoulders. You meet his gaze again, but this time your expression is softer, less defensive. It’s not that you’re opposed to the idea of sacrifice—far from it. You just want to make sure it isn’t in vain. And sometimes, it feels like the best way to show gratitude is to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.

"I think you're a tiny bit biased," Lighter teases, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity,

"What about you?" you counter, leaning forward just enough to rest your arms on your knees. Your gaze lingers on him, expectant and challenging, "If you were in that position, what would you do?"

Lighter’s breath catches for a split second, and he shifts his posture, suddenly aware of the weight of your question. It’s a simple enough question, but the way you ask it—intense, unwavering—throws him off balance. His mind starts to race, torn between deflecting and actually answering. He leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, trying to buy himself a little more time to come up with something smooth, but his usual quips feel hollow now. He takes a deep breath and looks away, out toward the window where the dirt and sand stretch on for miles. For a moment, he’s quiet, too quiet. The easy confidence he usually projects feels distant, and the silence stretches longer than he’d like.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what he’d do—he does. But the idea of voicing it out loud, especially now, with you watching him like that, makes him hesitate. He knows it’s supposed to be a simple hypothetical, but everything feels like it’s loaded with more meaning than it should.

"I’d like to give it a try," he says at last, his voice lower now, "The notion of dying for love."

You blink, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. For a split second, the usual teasing edge in his tone fades, replaced by something deeper and more vulnerable.

"Huh, really?" you ask, your brows lifting in genuine surprise, trying to piece together the shift in the atmosphere between you.

"Yeah," he responds, his posture shifting as he crosses one leg over the other, the usual air of nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. He leans back just a little, the teasing grin returning to his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a flicker of something, a hint of something he’s trying to keep buried beneath the surface, "Why so surprised, firecracker?"

You can’t help but smile at the nickname, but the weight of what he said lingers in the air, pulling your focus. You take a breath before speaking, your tone soft but firm, almost as if you’ve been carrying the thought for a while. Your voice holds a quiet certainty, a belief that resonates with something deep inside you, "I don't know... I feel like you'd do everything you could to save the person you care about, or at least keep living in their memory."

His gaze falters for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes as your words settle in. It’s as though the impact of your statement lands heavier than he expected, like it cuts through the layers of his usual defenses and hits a raw nerve. It stings, more than he cares to admit. There’s a strange ache in his chest, a tightness that only grows as he processes your words. He’s not sure why it’s affecting him like this, but it’s almost painful how close you always are to the truth. How easily you manage to sift through all the rubble, the chaos, the noise inside his head, and find the small, hidden pieces of gold buried deep within. It terrifies him a little, how you seem to understand him without him even having to try. How you can see past the walls he’s so carefully built. He just hopes you don’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched, or how his chest feels like it’s about to cave in.

"Besides," you add, your voice softening as you meet his gaze. "I don’t want you to die. I’m sure your lover would think the same."

"I’ll try my best," he says with a half-hearted chuckle, though his voice betrays something deeper, something unspoken. "But, uh, no guarantees."

"Then, for both our sakes, I hope you never fall in love."

Ah…you might be a bit too late on that.

-+-+-

"I've fallen in love with you."

The words crash into the silence, sending a jolt through you that leaves your heart thumping erratically in your chest. You spin around, your eyes wide with surprise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, time seems to stretch out. It takes him a beat longer than it should for him to realize what he’s just said, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. The vulnerability in his words suddenly hits him full force, the tension between the two of you thickening in the space that’s opened up.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, an unexpected ease in their release, and now they hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. His heart stops for a moment, watching you, eyes wide like you've been struck by lightning. Everything seems to slow down, every detail in the room—how the light falls on your face, how your breath catches—feels magnified, as if the entire world hinges on this one, fragile moment.

And then it hits him. He actually said it. His stomach lurches, the realization settling deep like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mean for it to come out so clearly, so openly, and now the consequences of his words hang over him like a storm cloud.

The silence that follows is deafening, and every second that ticks by only seems to stretch the space between you both, making it feel like the world is holding its breath. He scrambles mentally for something—anything—to undo it, to take the words back, but it's too late. They're out there, raw and exposed. His pulse pounds in his ears, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. Did he say too much? Too little? Was it the wrong thing to say?

He watches you, frozen in place, his chest tight with uncertainty. This is it. The moment is already unfolding, and he can’t change it now. It’s out there, hanging like a thread between you both, waiting to unravel. He waits for you to speak, but the longer the silence drags on, the more he wonders if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and his eyes can't seem to pull away from you. Every inch of him wants to speak, to say something, anything that might undo the tension creeping up his spine. But nothing comes. His mind is blank, his throat dry, and he can feel the weight of your stare, both curious and uncertain. He half expects you to run, to say something that would make everything snap back into place, to laugh it off or tell him he’s out of his mind.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, still, your gaze not wavering. There's a moment where the world feels impossibly heavy and yet so, so fragile. His heart beats faster in his chest, a frantic rhythm he can’t control. His palms feel clammy. The longer you remain quiet, the more he feels like he’s hanging off a cliff, just waiting for the ground beneath him to disappear.

But then, finally—finally—you take a breath, and the tension breaks, if only slightly.

"I…" Your voice is soft, hesitant, as if you're still weighing the words that should follow his confession. It’s a quiet exhale, but it feels like it’s shaking loose everything that’s been keeping you both in place. He watches you carefully, hanging onto every word, his heartbeat slow and deliberate now, the heavy silence between you hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament about to shatter. What is she going to say?

"Are you dying?" you say and the world both tilts and rewinds, before sparks appear and it falls off the record player. He sincerely doesn't know how to respond to that. So he does the next best thing, honesty.

"Not that I'm aware of, I feel like you'd know that best doc."

"Ah sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I...I didn’t think you’d…" you trail off, eyes flickering to the floor briefly before meeting his again, something unreadable flashing in your gaze, "I didn’t think you’d say that."

His chest tightens. It's not a rejection, but it's not exactly a declaration of reciprocation either. The uncertainty in your voice makes him want to take a step closer, to close the distance between you two, but he's terrified. Terrified that if he moves, he’ll push you further away instead of bringing you closer.

"I didn’t either, I didn't plan for this," he admits, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it, "But yeah. I really like you."

"Oh..." you interrupt gently, your voice a mix of hesitation and something softer, more understanding, "... how long?"

Lighter freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flicker toward the floor as he grapples with the weight of it, the answer to something he'd never really considered before now. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he kept this locked up, buried under the surface?

"How long...?" He repeats your question, his brow furrowing as if he’s just now realizing the depth of the situation. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before speaking again, the words coming out slower this time, as if he's trying to find the right ones, "I don’t really know... a while. Longer than I’d like to admit, I guess."

He glances up at you, his gaze a little hesitant, but there’s something in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that’s starting to seep through, or maybe it’s just the raw honesty in his voice. Either way, he can’t help but wonder how much longer you’ll stand there, waiting, as if expecting him to unravel in front of you. Your eyes search his face for any sign that you’ve said the right thing, that you’ve cracked open a door he might have kept shut for so long. But you just stand there, waiting for him to continue, your expression soft, almost... hopeful?

"You didn’t think I’d feel that way, huh?" Lighter asks, his voice betraying a hint of surprise, as if he’s been caught off guard by his own admission. He lets out a slight, self-conscious chuckle, trying to smooth over the tension that still lingers in the air. It’s a bit forced, a little too casual, like he's trying to disguise the weight of the words he just shared. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the cool skin there, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that the silence between you has shifted. "Guess I’ve been a little good at hiding it." He shrugs, though it’s more of an awkward gesture than anything else.

You study him for a moment, watching as he fidgets, his eyes darting away for a moment before he looks back at you, like he’s unsure of whether to keep speaking or leave it at that. It’s almost endearing how out of place he seems, trying to hide behind the nonchalance he’s so good at, but it’s not enough to mask the vulnerability creeping in at the edges.

"But... now that it's out there..." he trails off, as though the weight of his own admission is still sinking in. His voice falters just the slightest bit, and for a second, it’s like the walls between you both crack just enough for something real to slip through.

"Yeah, now that it's out there..." you murmur, your voice quiet, almost contemplative, as you let the moment settle. It’s like something you both knew but hadn’t fully allowed to surface until now. The air feels different, almost lighter, as if the unspoken tension that had lingered between you for so long has finally found a release. Neither of you moves, both caught in that delicate pull of the moment. There’s a strange sense of stillness, as if the world outside of this room has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, shared understanding. You don’t need to say anything more, not yet. But something has changed, something deeper than words. And neither of you knows exactly where to go from here, but it doesn’t feel as scary as it did before. It feels... natural, in a way. Like it’s been building without either of you realizing it.

For once, you both just sit there, letting the silence stretch out, but it’s different now. It’s not uncomfortable, not loaded with awkwardness. It’s the kind of silence that follows when something unspoken has been finally brought to light, and neither of you feels the need to rush to fill it.

Lighter clears his throat, his awkwardness creeping back in. "So, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at you. "I was wondering... since, y'know, we’ve, uh... gotten that out of the way..." He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, but they don't seem to come easy.

He exhales slowly, the air caught in his chest like he’s about to dive into cold water. "Would you maybe... want to go out sometime?" He stammers, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second before darting away again. "Like, on a... date? Not that I'm... asking you to or anything... it’s just... y'know, if you... want to."

You blink, surprised by the words but not exactly sure how to respond at first. It’s a question that catches you off guard in the best possible way, and you can feel the butterflies stirring in your stomach.

"Yeah," you say, your voice slightly higher than usual, betraying the nerves building up inside you. "I... I’d like that. A date, yeah."

Lighter’s eyes widen for a moment, as though he’s trying to process your response. Then, his face flushes, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him all at once. He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you, as if he’s trying to escape from the awkwardness of the moment.

"Alright, then. I’ll, uh... figure out the details." He shuffles awkwardly, hands in his pockets, clearly trying to regain some composure. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, stiffly walking toward the door.

You, too, turn away at the same time, and the two of you end up facing the door, like a pair of statues frozen in your own awkwardness. Lighter grips the door handle, pausing for a second before pulling it open. His feet move on autopilot as he steps out, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he’s hit with a wave of relief that comes crashing over him. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, hands pressed to his face as he lets out a groan, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

"Oh god," he mutters under his breath, his cheeks burning. He’s never been this embarrassed in his life, but at the same time, the pressure that's been building in his chest all this time lifts just a little. The nervous excitement of asking you out still lingers, and he laughs softly at himself. "What did I even say?"

On the other side of the door, you stand frozen, heart still thumping wildly in your chest. You let out a breath, shaky but relieved, and press your palm to your face. You feel like your entire body is buzzing with both excitement and embarrassment. That was... ridiculous. But at the same time, there’s this goofy grin spreading across your face, and you can’t stop it if you tried.

You lean back against the door, smiling to yourself. "Oh god," you murmur to yourself, eyes sparkling with a mix of nerves and happiness. "What just happened?"

And on both sides of the door, there's nothing but a goofy, content smile and the lingering sensation that something has shifted between you two.

---

Not necessarily a tag list, but I remember you were all asking for a part 2. Here is your part 2 lovelies.

@thelocal-idot @yaoduriaa @justlilpeaches21 @fawn-kitten @seraphina02

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Overdue Bills

— He knows your fake relationship with him was made purely for beneficial reasons. After everything was said and done, you both went your separate ways. So why does he keep coming back to you?

— Alhaitham, Ayato, and Kazuha

-> Part 1: Please go out with me for tax benefits! -> Not connected but can also be read: I refuse to fall in love out of spite [ TBA ] [Masterlist]

Does this feel rushed because it is. I assumed everyone wanted a continuation but I plan on writing another fic using the original prompt but for different characters. The titles have nothing to do with the fics but I really wanted to title this, we've been trying to reach you about your car's extended warranty.

Alhaitham

There's only so much Kaveh can handle before he hits a breaking point and this might be it. A few months ago he overheard the librarian ask a stranger how their boyfriend Alhaitham was doing, to which he nearly broke his neck in how fast he turned. From the long pause and the plain answer of, "he's fine", which Alhaitham most definitely isn't given how much work the sages are dumping onto their scribe, Kaveh came to the conclusion that you're another creepy admirer or an attention-seeking leech. While Kaveh wouldn't call Alhaitham something as close as a friend, the man at least deserved to know there was another deranged person spreading lies. He assumed Alhaitham would confront you, knock some sense into you, and that would be the end of it. But because Alhaitham operates on a level that's incomprehensible to Kaveh, instead you've both entered into a fake dating relationship that he honestly believes is a horrible idea. But Alhaitham is his roommate, not his friend, and he doesn't have the time or care to facilitate a non-existent love life. But lo and behold the next time he sees you, there's a silver-haired man is hovering nearby looking at you with the closest thing to love his stoic face can make. Things are only weirder when Kaveh brings the sight up to you, saying that you're both taking this fake dating in stride and he's honestly impressed at how Alhaitham really put his all into this performance. Only for you to look at him as if he's grown two heads. You and Alhaitham stopped dating weeks ago.

Alhaitham isn't stupid. There's only so much rationalization he can turn to and so many excuses he can make but at the end of the day, he has to admit that he never works better than he does sitting beside you. At first, he reasoned that it was because people didn't bother him as much and you knew how to be quiet. Perhaps that's why you've skyrocketed in his requirements of friendship despite the fact that you both weren't really friends. But then he couldn't sit alone without getting restless. There’s an empty space beside him that constantly makes itself aware in his subconscious. One that screams at him that he wants you to be there, not just because you can scare people away.

It's a slow realization from there starting with him comparing you and Kaveh. For as much as he and his senior argue back and forth almost every time they meet, Alhaitham considers Kaveh an excellent mirror to him that can push his thoughts to go further. But you're different. That realization turns into contemplation when you actually listen and take his advice. Every scholar is egotistical to some degree, there's a lot of pride to take into your research, and having your weeks of hard work be written off by a blunt statement gets people angry. Alhaitham would be the first to know, he's been on the receiving end of that anger multiple times. Yet when he points out a section in your thesis to be incorrect, you simply tilt your head thinking before agreeing he was right. Crumbling your paper, ready to start all over again without any fuss. Still water versus the wave that Kaveh is. While some would call that boring, he finds it charming.

The nail in the coffin is when he catches himself labeling the chair next to him as yours. He can't justify that one and he's suddenly confronted that he severely underestimated how much he's grown to like you. He originally agreed to the idea to keep his comfortable routine without any interruptions and your introduction would fix his issue of suitors but you've played your part so perfectly that he fell for it. He was tempted to stop talking to you altogether, cutting the deal off entirely and never speaking to you again. But you're not a saint and just as he realized his feelings, your thesis was done and you left abruptly before he had any time to prepare. A glaring empty spot mocking him. Only to come back with your stacks of books and a nervous smile that Alhaitham refuses to acknowledge makes his heart beat just the slightest bit quicker.

He knows you can hear the whispers that you and Alhaitham have gotten back together. Yet you haven't said anything and he politely chooses to not say anything either. The rumors certainly haven't stopped you from acting differently and he doesn't know if that's a good thing. He knows your language is touch but now he wants to be the one near you this time. That way the first person you’ll speak to is him. By now he’s fully aware of his feelings and how far they’ve developed for him to actually start feeling possessive. So the next time you lean against him to show him a particular paragraph of a book, he wraps a hand around your waist, disguising it as him shifting you to the side so he can get a better angle to read. Under his hand, he can feel how tense you become at the casual touch, how your eyes jump from him to the floor, before relaxing and continuing on.

In hindsight, he knows by all rational reasoning he should just confess to you and get it over and done with. But there's something exciting in the way you look at him with calculating eyes that he stares back at unflinching. He thinks of it as payback for you strolling into his carefully planned life and making a mess. He’s simply allowing himself to indulge in it. Now every time you greet him with a wave, he offers a smile. When you want to drag him somewhere by the cape, he slips his hand into yours stating you'll stretch the fabric too much. And when you need to whisper something in his ear? He'll practically be in your lap with how close he leans in even if there's no one else in the room. He knows eventually you'll catch on to what he's trying to do, what he's trying to say. You've been practicing for months sitting beside him. It's finally when he invites you to the pavilion that he can see the realization on your face that Alhaitham clearly doesn't consider you just a friend. The look of bewilderment goes back and forth with suspicion before finally settling into an amused huff with the smallest of smiles.

It's late enough into the day that he knows the only people lingering in the Akademiya are either passed-out students or scholars too wrapped up in their work. All consideration he's taken to make sure you're both uninterrupted for this moment. And what a moment it is. The pavilion itself is beautiful with its blue and green stained glass windows that reflect the evening sun. The yellow flowers swaying gently in the breeze add just enough color to not be irritating. Kaveh might need to retract his statement that Alhaitham doesn't know a thing about romance because it's painfully obvious what's about to happen.

"Any more and people might get the wrong idea you know," you say as you lean against the white wall. The look of confusion is gone from your eyes, replaced with mirth. It does not make him shudder.

"About what? The library is cramped with people and the pavilion is quiet," he says like it's an off-handed comment before turning around, leaning his weight against his elbows on the railing as he turns to the side to look at the view this specific pavilion provides. "Although I can understand where you might have drawn that conclusion. I can assure you nothing like that will happen. You're not my type."

He can physically feel you bristle even though he isn't looking at you before your footsteps come closer and closer until your form is right in front of him. He still refuses to look at you but he can tell the moment you see his poorly hidden smile. He hears you let out an amused huff before you bring your hands up and settle them against the railing as well. Only you've decided to cage him in between your arms and it makes him turn to you, raising a brow. He's already lost the moment he turned but the cheeky grin you have is worth it. You look really cute when you're smug.

"If I had any interest, it would have died a long time ago. You're the worst fake boyfriend I've ever had so I can't imagine how insufferable you'll be as a real one," you shake your head exasperated but there's a small entertained look that tugs at his heart. That you know what he knows and he knows what you know. A similar feeling of understanding that he's gotten so used to. One that lets him act in such an irrational way.

"You've had others?" he asks as his arm comes off the railing to settle around your waist. You don't push him away, easily following along.

"For such a pretty face you have such an awful personality," you sigh disappointed yet the arms that cage him move to settle around his neck, twirling the silver hair at the base of his neck as you lean closer until there isn't space between the two of you.

"Oh? So you think I'm pretty?" He tilts his chin slightly down, his lips brushing against yours.

"You must have selective hearing." With your faces so close, he can see the excitement in your eyes. He's sure that he is the same. So he ignores the pleased look on your face and leans in.

Ayato

Ultimately, he's just a passerby. He decided on a whim to go along with some absurd act because he thought the sheer dread and embarrassment on your face was amusing and he wanted to see more. By all accounts, your temporary date wasn't too bad. It felt a bit refreshing being with someone that looked like they rather throw themselves in the nearby sea than stand next to the refined Yashiro Commissioner. But otherwise, that's the end of your relationship. With a few words here and there, he managed to spin the absurd story into his favor and reign in the disaster your little stunt might have caused. He's grateful that you so easily play along with him. Not a single complaint about how he lies through his teeth that someone was bothering you so he extended his help so this individual would leave you alone. It makes both of you, mostly him, look good. How people rush to make sure you're okay while your expression flickers between guilt and embarrassment is far more entertaining than anything he originally planned during this outing. But at the end of the day, you have nothing to do with each other and he owes you nothing. Your presence is ultimately inconsequential in the stream that is his life. That is until one day your relationship changes to stupidity and heartfelt sincerity.

It starts off as a joke. Ayato tends to latch onto small things that give him a momentary break from his busy and stressed lifestyle and duties. Plus there's something lighthearted about this situation that he doesn't want to let go of just yet. Unfortunately for you, Ayato's newfound joy is sneaking up on you and sending you into an early grave. The first time it was an accident, you just happened to be easily jumpy, but the second time though? The resounding screech of terror never fails to make a smile appear on his face and you're convinced that he's a sadist. He doesn't even have to try that hard, his steps are silent even against the crooked stone path that he can waltz up right behind you. But his absolute favourite part is bending down and whispering what exactly his fiancee is so interested in. It always leads to embarrassing talks of you politely asking him to not refer to you with that title anymore that he swiftly blocks by mentioning that, wasn't it you who called him your fiancee first? You should take responsibility.

He thinks your reactions are cute even if you're a bit vulgar in language, although to him that just adds to the warped sense of charm he finds in you. Thoma nearly chokes on his own spit when Ayato perks up at something behind him, suddenly dropping the calm facade of the Yashiro Commissioner and something more genuine before calling out to a "fiancee". Thoma whips around to see a stranger speaking with Yoimiya before their eyes lift and lock with Ayato's and their expression immediately sour. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone show such a disgusted expression and he can't help but wonder what his lord has done this time. Before Thoma can say anything the stranger picks up a firework ball and hurls it at his Lord who easily sidesteps the attack, the resounding death threats only making the blue-haired man laugh.

It's fun. You're fun to be around. The entire situation is silly and ridiculous and it feels nice. Ayato had to grow up too fast, become an adult too fast, and shoulder the burden meant for later years. Something as small as a nickname, an inside joke, something he can bring up to spite someone just for the fun of it is nice. Perhaps that's why he refuses to let go and finds himself returning to you.

It's all a joke. There's no way Ayato can actually take your hand in marriage. Not with your differences in status. You think that's the only reason people entertain the idea, why he even entertains the idea. To get a reaction out of you that he can relentlessly tease and it's all so stupid. That is until he receives a different reaction that leaves him lost and confused.

You stumble upon him in the aftermath of another one of his assassination attempts. He was perfectly fine, not even a speck of dust on his white coat yet you were nearly in hysteria. Panicked hiccups as you sob uncontrollably into his chest, your tears doing far more damage to dirtying his clothes than an attempt on his life. He tries his best to console you but you can't seem to stop the tears and as much as he values staying dignified, he's almost at his limit. Hand already poised to yank you off until he falters in both mind and body when you suddenly turn your head up and he sees the expression that you hid away in the lapels of his coat. The feeling of the annoyance of having to wash his coat flew out of his mind at the sight of your teary eyes and downturned lips. A small, very small, part of his heart beats just a bit faster. An even smaller part that was buried under the title of Yashiro Commissioner perks its head over someone who was crying for him. Even though you've both talked multiple times, you and he aren't close enough to be considered friends, at least in his eyes. Yet you're currently looking at him as if you're the one that's been attacked because of the simple fact that he could have been hurt. It's...strange.

He doesn't say anything as you usher him into your home to fix up whatever injuries you happened to have conjured in your mind. He's never stepped foot into your residence and he's honestly glad he hasn't because your home is...disheartening, to say the least. He thinks the estate has more life than what was supposedly something you called home. It's not that your place is poor, you're not sleeping on a slab of rock, but it's empty. Like you don't have anything at all. The only thing you seem to carry is your small pile of books. Worn but well taken care of. So he doesn't say anything as you fuss over him, doesn't say anything about the horrendous first aid kit you bring, and bids you farewell at the door of your home. You smile at him widely and tell him to take care of himself. But when he turns to leave, he risks one last peek at you, just in time to see you close your door. You aren't smiling anymore. He stops walking.

It starts to escalate from there. The following months of sudden change are so abrupt that he has no choice but to follow along. He wants to see every expression you have. If that isn't enough, he'll find new ones for you to make.

Ayato's first impression of you is charming but in a pitiful sort of way. You have to be an airhead, you must be considering your shared first meeting. How you didn't realize your mistake and went along with everything is beyond Ayato. You and Itto are almost on the same level of denseness but while Itto does everything with blind confidence that the situation has changed because of him, you are the opposite. Wandering into your own mess as you ignore all the warning signs until it's too late. But you're also honest and upfront, two traits that Ayato has come to value immensely. He finds you endearing, so much that it's starting to overfill his teacup. So with a silent smile, he asks a question.

"Why don't you become my fiancee?"

The noodle slips between your chopsticks, a loud unflattering splat against the table echoing through the silence as you stare at him slack-jawed. He begins to worry that he's accidentally sent you into a stroke because one of your eyes starts twitching.

"Huh? Are you being for real?" you ask deadpanned. He can't help but chuckle under his fingers before resting his chin on the palm of his hand. It feels nice to be able to rest his elbows against the table without someone reprimanding him for his lack of manners. He finds your dry reaction far cuter than the blushes and swoons from the ladies that the elders forced him to take out.

"Be my fiancee." he pauses before continuing as an afterthought. "For real this time."

You pick up your fallen noodle, chew, swallow, and then point your chopsticks at him. Not convinced in the slightest. "Even if you haven't picked out a fiancee you shouldn't joke about that."

"Really?" he fakes surprise, "Then how come you're on a date with me right now?"

You choke. He pushes his teacup towards you, who takes it and gulps down half of its contents in one go. The glass clinks loudly on the table when you put it down yet it doesn't distract him from the sheer disbelief on your face as your ears grow red. He thinks out of all of the expressions you've given him, he likes this one the most.

"This isn't-It's not," you attempt to say, spluttering the entire time that remnants of the tea you just drank wet your lips.

"Yes, it is. Why? Is it bad? Do you know enjoy being taken out to dinner? I can easily arrange for something else instead," He reached over with a napkin to wipe your face. It only serves to make you more embarrassed that he's treating you like a child as you push his hand away lest you combust on the spot. There's no immediate answer. He can't tell whether you're actually considering his offer, or if you're refraining from throwing your chopsticks at him.

"No thanks. If I've learned anything it's that you'll only torment me until I die. I'm starting to think I like you even less," you grumble, shoving more noodles into your mouth.

Ayato is a strange man so he doesn't wait for the water to spill, just tips the cup over and starts again. This time he waits for you to swallow before saying anything, he doesn't want you to choke again.

"That's unfortunate. I adore you, you know."

Kazuha

While his feelings and words were true, he resigns himself to the fact that your relationship was a one-and-done situation. Impulsiveness isn't one of his qualities but as he reflects on his time with you, he gets a bit flustered at how hard he fell. He had just met you and yet within the span of a couple weeks, you managed to fill out the empty parts of his heart. He tries to rationalize that it was just the timing. He had been on the run for so long, his thoughts always chained around Inazuma, and upholding his promise to his friend. But then you happened to crash into his life, quite literally, and everything slowed to a stop at that moment. Originally it was just to protect you from a clingy admirer but then you started asking about him. What his hobbies were, what kind of dreams he had, and whether or not he would like to learn how to fly. Every day and night sitting beside you on the crow's nest, the gentle sway of the waters rocking the boat, and the backdrop of noise down on the deck was the most serene Kazuha has ever felt since he left Inazuma. But all things must come to an end eventually and even though Kazuha knows that this might be the end, you look so hopefully at him that he can't help but try to push the end to tomorrow. He just needs to garner the strength to move.

Beidou asks if he's sure about his decision to leave the Crux and wander on his own. It's not nice to make you wait even though she knows you and when you say you'll wait, you're going to damn wait no matter how long it takes. But he reassures her that he's still not ready. As much as he wants to run over the water back to Liyue, he doesn't want to bring along conflicted and aimless feelings. But he will hurry, he's been running for so long, he can run a little further for something and someone for himself. It's a bit selfish but Beidou gives him an exasperated soft smile that lets him know it's not a bad thing. Although with each passing day Beidou's ship ports, it gets harder and harder for her to break the news that Kazuha is still not back. Beidou does her best to reassure you that Kazuha isn't stringing you along, she would have drowned him in the ocean if he was that low of a guy, but she can tell that with each visit your expression grows more and more distant. Watching how you're the first one to rush down the wooden bridges with a hopeful expression that one-day Kazuha might be there only to leave with a sad smile. It makes her want to track her problem child down and bring him back to you. Not that she has any idea where he wandered too.

He ends up in the forests of Sumeru. His keen sense of smell aids him as he treks through the wilderness until he meets a strange forest watcher and a girl in green. Their a bit of an odd pair but so is Kazuha and they become fast friends. Apparently, his calm demeanor is a breath of fresh air and it's enough that they don't pry into his history. Although there are moments when he can feel their eyes on him. Perhaps living in the forest has led them both to be aware of subtle changes far better than Kazuha can smell. It starts when they trek towards the small lakes and waterbeds to gather niloptala lotus for Tighnari that he sees it. An anemone flower. Soft white petals with a dark blue center sway in the breeze as he stands watching it move. It's Collei who approaches him and explains white anemone flowers, also known as windflowers, symbolize sincerity due to their delicate appearance. According to mythology, the anemone flower was created when Aphrodite's mortal lover, Adonis, was killed and from the spot where her tears fell to the ground, an anemone emerged. She says that he might enjoy that last bit of information to use as inspiration for his many haiku poems because he's looking at the flower as if he's fallen in love. Although she warns him that when fresh, all parts are poisonous.

When Inazuma finally calmed down and Thoma informed him that he was no longer a wanted man, it was the second time Kazuha could take a deep breath and relax. He was free from running and could focus on the future. He won't lie and say that his thoughts didn't stray back to you every night. He's been gone for months and he wonders if you still remember what he looks like. But now he has to ask himself the hard question if he's ready to see you. Unfortunately, he doesn't get to make that choice.

He sees you at Port Ormos by chance, speaking to a silver-haired man before you cut yourself off mid-sentence as your eyes lock onto his. Even with everything Kazuha has been through, he feels scared. He knew he would eventually return to you but now that you're here, is he not ready? Or is he scared? He knew that asking for you to wait was selfish, that one day he may return with your hand in someone else's. Maybe that's why you're all the way in Sumeru rather than the high mountains of Liyue. All these emotions reflect back to you and he can see it, your fists are trembling even as you gaze back at him with conviction and determination. The sun shines right behind you, creating a gold halo over your tousled hair. But it makes the shadows of your strained expression darker, your eyes gloss over your jaw tense, and everything about your posture screams please don't disappoint me Kazuha. Then it's gone. Your attention back to the silver hair man, pretending as if nothing happened. You'll wait until he's ready but you won't acknowledge him when he's not. And Kazuha. Kazuha runs away.

"There you are."

Kazuha looks up to see Tighnari sitting at the table facing the entrance that Kazuha has stumbled through. It's late into the night and because his heart has more room to bear, he feels guilty that Tighnari stayed up to make sure he returned. Before he can apologize Tighnari raises a hand to stop him, sighing before he gestures Kazuha to sit down. Fiddling with his pouch he takes something and slides it across to Kazuha. An Inazuma charm. The same one you gave him when he left.

"You dropped it when you were running through Port Ormos like you had stolen something. I had to convince Cyno that you weren't a thief but you're going to have to apologize to Collei for scaring her like that," he huffs as he settles back into his seat, watching at how Kazuha raises a wary hand to pick up the charm like it'll break under the slightest pressure. It makes Tighnari soften around the edges, the worried lines of his face smoothing out as he rests a hand on the samurai's shoulder. "Are you okay Kazuha?"

It only serves to bring a pained smile to the man's face, shaking his head. No. No, he's not alright. He hasn't felt "alright" in months. He's lived his life thinking that as long as his blade was by his side, he could continue moving. But now it feels like he's slowly dying. Poisoned from the core. He thought he would be able to approach this like he had always been. That he thought he understood what he was doing and trusted the wind to guide him. But now he's confronted with his accountability and he doesn't know what to do but run. Back into the silence of the forest until he can't run any further. Collapsing onto the cold ground as he heaves for another breath. Every moment up until now replays in his head, becoming more vivid no matter how long it's been until he can smell your fragrance. It was a similar feeling to when he lost his friend, this lingering pain. It's why he decided he needed to leave first. He always assumed he remembered because of guilt. Guilt that he asked you to wait, guilt that he wasn't the one that was ready, and guilt that even after all this time he hasn't entered the border of Liyue. Yet no matter how long he goes, this feeling of guilt only remains for you until he doesn't know if that's the correct emotion. If what remains in his heart truly isn't guilt, what is this emotion that keeps him looking back at his memories of you? He doesn't know. It's his first time feeling this way.

"You're in love Kazuha. That's it."

---

There's a sudden ruckus on the ship deck that has Beidou draw her head up, her letter to Ningguang momentarily paused as she listens carefully to what her crew is so noisy about. Their voices are muffled through the thick wooden walls of her office but it doesn't sound like they're in any danger. Either way as the Captain she should check out what everyone is so excited about. She shoulders her fur-lined shawl back on and slams the doors open.

"What's got you all so- Kazuha?!" Beidou nearly chokes midsentence to see her sentence when he spots that familiar white and red hair. Even though it's only been a few months, he looks so much older than she remembers. When he said he wanted to do some soul searching, she didn't think it would make him look so...mature. It's not that his outward appearance is any different, he's still got that adorable baby face, but the air around him is tranquil rather than still.

"Captain, it's good to see you again," Kazuha smiles and gives a small wave. His hand is free of bandages letting her see the electro burns that scar his skin. She politely doesn't let her eyes linger on them for long, that's all in the past anyways. So she grins ear to ear and yanks the poor man into a headlock and a giant slap on the back. Her official way her welcome a trusty companion back.

"About time lover boy, let's get you home."

---

Not me throwing canon personalities and good characterization out the window to push my smitten agenda.

[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@genshins1mpact @creatorofstars @xoneaboveallx @timmyitsmeeee @raingoesboomboom @duhsies @thegayrubberducky @isa-solasun @afoxesgreed @yuuki4646 @angel-luv-04 @inlovewithwaffles @maddymints09 @moonssandstars

@tigerpriestess @endurablerose @ayakohana

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Just the weight I needed.

— You ask to sit on his back while he does push-ups.

— Phainon, Mydei + Jing Yuan

[Masterlist]

After that monster of a Lighter fic, I just wanted to write something nice and silly. I'm serious, the next fic I write might actually be 20k words. The title is from BSD btw, love and kisses to whoever gets it.

Phainon

Realistically, if you brought the idea up to Phainon, it could go one of two ways. One possibility is that he’d be fully on board—no hesitation, no questions asked, as if he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. He’d immediately drop to the ground in one fluid motion, presenting his back like a beautifully adorned, living throne, every muscle flexing with anticipation. His arms would be poised, elbows bent just enough to secure the perfect balance, ready to support you as he began his impromptu strength training. His determined blue eyes would gleam with unshakable resolve, like a knight pledging his undying loyalty to his sovereign. To him, carrying you wouldn’t just be an exercise—it would be a calling, an honor, a challenge to conquer.

The other possibility? A completely different reaction. Phainon, with a rare, grave expression—one that only emerged in times of true distress—would place his hands firmly on your shoulders, his grip unwavering, grounding you in place. His normally vibrant demeanor would dim, his brows drawing together in deep concern as he searched your face for any sign of distress. And then, with a devastated choke, his voice thick with unfiltered worry, he’d ask, “Are you being blackmailed?”

It's not like your request is so out there that Phainon needs to find you a scapegoat for why you're asking. This isn't even the first time he's bent far stricter rules with actual consequences slightly to fulfill your requests! The man has an impressive track record of brushing the laws of common decency and practicality under the rug when it comes to helping you out. Take that one time in the baths for instance—when you were trying to get some peace and quiet, hiding under a sea of bubbles to avoid your duties. Phainon, ever the loyal accomplice, had simply closed his eyes, zipped his mouth shut with a soft snap of his fingers, and let you lie in blissful, responsibility-free silence. No questions asked. No protest. Just remarking about how difficult it was to find you before walking away.

Or the most recent example, when you decided to spy on the newest esteemed guests. It was a delicate situation, and you knew there was no way you’d be able to sneak a peek without drawing attention. So, of course, you enlisted Phainon’s help. He positioned himself like a human shield, blocking any unwanted gazes as you peered from behind him, hidden by his imposing figure. All the while, you stayed as quiet as possible, watching the guests converse with Aglaea while Phainon pretended to be entirely uninterested, despite his complete awareness of what you were up to. The point is, this request? It’s nothing compared to the stunts he’s pulled for you in the past. It wouldn't even include anyone outside you two!

Suggestion: Inflection baby! Sound just as enthusiastic as him! (It's not like he would ever say no)

Delighted squeals and giggles echo off the marbled walls as your view of the giant sphere in the sky—situated at the center of Okhema—bobs up and down, like a real ball you used to play with as a kid. In fact, everything about this moment feels like you've been transported back in time, swept up in a childish sort of joy that you haven't felt in years. Even though it's undeniably a silly sight—you, perched sideways on Phainon's back, your toes just barely hovering above the ground—you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t at least a tiny bit fun. It took a bit of hassle to convince Phainon that no, you weren’t being blackmailed, bribed, or coerced into this request. There were no hidden motives, no dark secrets behind it—just a plain, simple, and entirely ridiculous desire to see if he could do it.

"Don't forget that you're supposed to keep count," Phainon chastises lightly, though the effect is entirely ruined by the bright, boyish grin tugging at his lips. His tone is more playful than scolding, his usual boundless energy making it impossible to take him seriously. It's weird seeing him from this angle, half of his face turned over his shoulder as your neck cranes down for once. Seriously, what were they feeding this man?

"Oops, sorry!" you manage between muffled laughter, barely able to catch your breath, "I guess I lost track... maybe we should start over?"

"If that's what Your Highness wants, then it shall be done," Phainon says as easily as breathing, bending his elbows to push up again.

Mydei

Haha. No. Just no.

First of all, you wouldn’t even be a significant weight for Mydei—he could take you on as resistance training in the same way a bodybuilder might consider lifting a single book. If anything, he’d have to stack at least five more of you just to make it remotely challenging. Secondly, why on Amphoreus would you think he’d let you sit on his back? Best-case scenario, he’d stare at you with a long, exhausted sigh before asking if you’d recently taken a tumble down the stairs and cracked your head open. It’s not like he’s even being that mean when he says it anyway. Well, for Mydei standards at least. The fact that he hasn't bashed your head into the floor is, quite frankly, a miracle. The fact he hasn't bashed your head into the concrete itself is a wild understatement that you've lowered any respect he has for you over the days you've been acquainted with him.

Your first meeting was when you had misjudged how many steps there were and slipped forward. The inviting concrete was ready with open arms to split your head open, but Mydei, ever the observant type, had caught you just in time. There you were, suspended in mid-air, not even sure how you ended up there. Your limbs flailed like a ragdoll as he pulled on the back of your shirt with one arm, effortlessly lifting you with little more than the ease of a casual stretch. You'd been too stunned to even form words at the time—only managing a stammered thank-you as he set you back down as if saving you from an embarrassing death by stairs was just another casual Tuesday for him. In retrospect, it was a miracle you hadn’t cracked your skull open on the concrete. And of course, he’d said something entirely deadpan in response, like, "Pay attention next time," before turning back to his blue-haired companion. And he wonders why you're so obsessed with wanting to sit on his back.

Mydei has a short fuse and a quick temper, and as much as you'd really like to put your hand on his chest just to see his reaction, you also enjoy breathing a little too much to risk it. Not to mention, you can’t exactly take him in a fight. If you could, staking a bet that if you won, he’d have to fulfill your request would be a piece of cake. But alas, he's built like a wall, and your ability to land a punch would probably be a joke in comparison. So instead, you're left with the very real, very sensible option of begging and wearing him down with your charm—or at least hoping he’ll eventually tire of saying no. The risk? Well, it's still there, but that’s what makes it fun, right?

Suggestion: Beggars can't be choosers and living is pretty cool. Better to ask Phainon instead.

You've barely uttered the first syllable of your question before you're unceremoniously scooped up by the back of your clothing, lifted from the ground like a disgruntled cub being dragged away by its mother. Except, in this case, it's more like being hoisted over someone's firm shoulder, your limbs dangling helplessly as you're treated like a sack of potatoes. The bewilderment on your face is a new look as Phainon's figure grows smaller and smaller in the distance, the sound of your protests muffled by the unexpected shift. Amid your confusion, you catch sight of the blue bastard waving gleefully, a cheery smile plastered across his face as if he’s just won some kind of victory.

"Um, not that I'm complaining, but... where exactly are you taking me?" you ask, your voice tentative as you try to adjust yourself on his shoulder. On one hand, you're living the dream, able to feel those muscles effortlessly hoisting you up like you're nothing more than a feather. But on the other, his shoulder is starting to dig uncomfortably into your stomach, and it's quickly turning into a rather awkward ride. You shift slightly, trying to find a less painful position, but all you accomplish is further squishing yourself against his back.

"Training room." is all Mydei says. There's no snark, no extra words, just that one brief statement that leaves you quite literally and metaphorically hanging.

"Ah. Training room, huh?" you say back lamely, even though you're internally screaming in elation, your arms up in the air as you bow toward whatever Aeon is looking out for you.

You can totally tell by the way Mydei drops you in the middle of the pathway that he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Jing Yuan

Contrary to popular belief, you aren't blind. Even if the General is a bit too old to still be in his "bachelor" years—do those even truly exist for long-life species?—Jing Yuan is... well, let’s just say he’s easy on the eyes. Super easy. A five-star resort easy on the eyes. Is this what they call a silver foxian? He was the one who off-handedly mentioned it when your traitorous eyes had decided to linger a tad bit too long on the shape of his back during a meeting. Of course, you had to act all professional about it, clearing your throat and giving him a strict reprimand about how inappropriate it was to bring such things up in a work environment. You almost nailed the tone too, until you rounded the corner and crumbled into a puddle of embarrassment. What the hell just happened? How did he do that to you with just one little comment? That was so... unfair. It didn’t help that the image of sitting on his back while he did push-ups kept playing in your mind—every chiseled angle, every movement, the way he had to flex those back muscles with each rep. Seriously, how were you supposed to function with that lingering in your thoughts?

It takes several days for neither of you to address the elephant in the room. The tension lingers in the air, thick and unspoken, but it doesn't quite impede your duties. You carry on with your work, he continues to be as "lax" as ever—his presence still an odd mix of effortless command and lazy confidence. But there's something there, a shift, subtle yet undeniable. Every time you glance at him, there's the tiniest degree of something different in his smile, a sharpness to it that grows more cat-like with each passing moment. His expression seems to hold a quiet, menacing amusement as he sits across from you, still and patient, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that feels almost predatory. He reminds you of his pet lion in those moments, the way she watches her prey with those intense, knowing eyes. Her demeanor is calm, almost gentle, until the moment she pounces, and you can’t help but imagine the way the small, frail necks of her dinner break so easily between the crushing strength of her jaws. Yet, her owner, Jing Yuan, still calls her the sweetest, most docile creature, even with blood still staining her paws. A crazy man.

Patience is a virtue, they say. And eventually, with enough time, water will wear down the hardest stone. You’ve tried to avoid it, to ignore the inevitable, but today feels different. The morning is quiet, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun—a golden hour where the world feels still as if it’s holding its breath for what’s to come. It’s just you and Jing Yuan, silently preparing for the events ahead, the hum of the day yet to begin. There are meetings lined up, one in particular that has been pushed back so many times due to Jing Yuan’s absences that it's now on the verge of becoming a disaster. The final meeting needs to happen tonight, or his white mane might end up skewered on the end of a spear. The weight of it lingers in the air, but for now, it’s just the two of you, and the calm chirping of his precious finches acts as the only soundtrack to the morning’s preparations. As you glance at him—his calm, unflappable demeanor, his steady hands—something shifts inside you. It’s not immediate, but it’s undeniable. You finally allow yourself to acknowledge what’s been sitting in the back of your mind, simmering beneath the surface: you’re no better than your General.

Suggestion: Life is too short for things like dignity and shame, go for the throat!

"General, I apologize for my lapse in judgment, but I seriously cannot do this, or I might suffer a stroke."

Your words come out in a strangled rush, your face contorting into a myriad of expressions—none of them quite fitting for the situation. You're staring down at Jing Yuan, sprawled out on his stomach, looking entirely unbothered as he waits for you to—well, do exactly what he’d asked. Sit on his back. You have to remind yourself that it was technically his suggestion, his agreement when you’d tentatively raised the question, and yet here you are, mentally spiraling into a moral crisis. Every fiber of your being screams that this is just... wrong. This can't possibly be something that should happen in a professional setting, in a place of authority, with a man who is the very definition of your superior.

But no, there’s Jing Yuan, lying there with that serene look in his eyes, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips as if this were just another ordinary task in his day. You swallow thickly, still battling with your internal conflict, even though the situation is slowly spinning out of your control. How did this become a thing?

"Ah, well. I will not force you to do something you're so against," Jing Yuan says with a light chuckle, standing up smoothly as if your entire dilemma was merely a fleeting thought. He pats his pants as if brushing away any invisible dust, his movements deliberate and calm. Then, with a casual grace, he crosses his arms behind his back, his posture exuding the confidence and composure only someone of his status could command. "But it is a warrior's shame to go back on their words, don't you agree?"

You blink rapidly, momentarily taken aback by his smoothness, but the weight of his words presses on you. You can almost feel the invisible pressure of your promise tightening around you. You stammer a bit, trying to regain some semblance of control, but you can only manage a meek response.

"Ah— I... yes, General."

Before you can fully process the situation, his large, warm hand lands heavily on your shoulder. It's not the usual friendly gesture, though. No, this time it feels more like a reminder—one that makes you shrink into yourself involuntarily. His hand is firm and for the briefest moment, you feel like you're pinned in place by the sheer force of his presence. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but now, in the face of his unwavering authority, you can’t help but feel small.

"So, I can count on you to fill in my stead for today's meeting then?" Jing Yuan's voice is light, but there's an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. A satisfied lion getting away with murder, "Excellent, I knew I could count on you!"

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

LOL, I'm so sorry. I swear, I will write that part 2 someday. I just have no idea where to start or what even to write. But I will do it! Hopefully! Maybe! I think I will! But thank you for your kind words and the characterization of Lighter. I was so ready to see him act as those lone wolf tough guys when he was first announced. So glad ZZZ went the opposite direction or my interest would have plummeted.

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

I'm gonna wife you up!

— You propose (sort-of?) to your boyfriend (wife?)

— Kaji Ren, Suo Hayato, Togame Jo + Yamato Endo

[Masterlist]

This was meant to be more serious, but then I tripped and fell into a vat of sugar syrup. I'd hate to be in the same room. The dichotomy of my fics is wild.

Kaji Ren

Realistically, if you dissected the situation under a microscope, it wasn’t your fault. When you and Kaji first started dating, his habit of keeping his headphones on had driven you insane. The heavy metal blaring past the ear cushions was louder than your voice, no matter how important the thing you were trying to say. It almost ended things between you until you learned why those headphones mattered to him. They weren’t just for music; they were his shield, a barrier between him and a world that often overwhelmed him. In return, plus a thorough scolding from Hiragi, he's stopped playing his music at full volume. Only loud enough to block the outside noise but not your voice. It was a compromise, one that spoke more about his effort to meet you halfway than words ever could. But sometimes... sometimes, he gets lost in his distractions. His thumb drifts to his phone, inching the volume dial higher and higher until it drowns everything out. The world, your voice, you. You know he doesn’t do it on purpose. He’s not ignoring you, not intentionally. But still, you feel the tiniest bit petty about it. After all, you’re right there, talking to him. What’s so captivating about music or scrolling through nonsense that it takes precedence over you?

"Did you know that people used whale carcasses to fuel lanterns? So there wasn't a lack of light in the dark alleyways of London. The light was made from whale grease. They literally made lights to light up the world from whale corpses. Isn't that disgusting?"

So, in your petty spite, you've decided to spitball the weirdest and most disgusting things until he pays attention to you. Unsurprisingly, Kaji doesn’t even flinch. His head remains tilted, chin propped on his hand as his gaze drifts lazily out the window. His other hand scrolls aimlessly, the music in his headphones a distant hum. You narrow your eyes at him, leaning against the desk with exaggerated boredom. For a moment, you consider escalating to some gruesome medieval torture facts. That ought to do the trick. But instead, you settle for staring at him, waiting for him to slip up, to show even the tiniest hint that he’s paying attention.

“I’m talking to you, asswipe,” you grit out through clenched teeth. “Pay attention to me before I grab your phone and toss it out the window.”

Still nothing.

His head nods faintly to the beat of whatever is playing in his headphones. The absence of a reaction feels deliberate like he's testing your patience on purpose. You narrow your eyes, leaning forward to sneak a closer look at his phone. But your short stature betrays you, leaving you with only the dark reflection of your face staring back from the glossy screen. The thought of not knowing what’s capturing his attention drives you mad, your curiosity clawing at you like an itch you can’t scratch. Huffing in defeat, you slump back into your chair with a dramatic flourish, arms crossing tightly over your chest. Your gaze fixes on the ceiling tiles above, your lips forming a pout as your mind races. If he won’t listen to you, maybe you should start plotting how to make him.

"You know when I first met you, I thought your bowl haircut was su-per lame," you hum blandly into the air, your tone light but teasing. It's not like he'll hear you anyway. Kaji, ever the picture of detachment, is still immersed in his music, occasionally nodding his head to the beat as though agreeing with it more than he ever does with you, "Oh, and your fashion sense? Shitty. Hoodies every day? Really? Don’t you get hot in summer? Geez, you’re like a walking furnace. What are you hiding under there, a whole other climate zone?"

He doesn’t react, of course. Not to the jabs, not to the edge of fondness creeping into your voice. You let out another heavy, exaggerated sigh and lean forward, crossing your arms on Kaji's desk. Your head comes to rest on them, and you tilt slightly to peer up at him through your lashes, "But...they are pretty cozy. Fall is coming soon, you'll let me borrow one, yeah? Hehe, say nothing if it's okay."

Nothing. Bingo.

"Do you know that your voice is really deep? It's actually very distracting. You like my voice too, right? So much that you can only stand to listen to it a few times a day, or you'll combust into a thousand hearts. I get it—I would too. Say nothing if you agree," You nod into your arms, a small but smug smile tugging at your lips, even though you know you’re talking to a brick wall, or rather a wall-wearing headphone. Turning over onto your other side, your cheek still smushed against your forearm, you find yourself facing the blackboard. It’s covered in the messy chicken scratches the teacher calls math notes.

"The only thing I like about you," you say, voice quieter now. Your gaze drifts to his reflection in the window, "is that you're a good listener. Well, not really—since, you know, you're wearing those stupid headphones—but you do remember the important things. The things that matter, even if I’ve only said them once. So, do me a favor and be a good listener right now, okay?"

Your eyes drift across the chalkboard, lingering on today’s date written in light blue chalk. You bite back a smile, your voice turning into a whisper, more to yourself than to Kaji. "In two... no, maybe three years, I’m going to propose to you."

You pause for a moment, letting the weight of the words settle in, your eyes still fixed on the chalkboard as if it might offer some answer. Then, with a slight smirk, you continue, “And if you ignore me, I’ll make you wear the dress at our wedding. I’ll even call you my wife.”

Your gaze flicks back to Kaji, but he’s still lost in his music, oblivious to your declaration. “That’s fine, right? Say nothing if you promise.”

The silence that follows feels strangely comfortable as if your words have filled the space between you in ways his headphones never could. Your gaze lingers on him for a beat longer before drifting back to the blackboard. You remain still, staring at the chalk marks and messy equations, lost in thought.

Minutes tick by, and the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Students begin filing into classrooms, the hallway filling with the bustling noise of chatter and hurried footsteps. You let out a quiet sigh, already saddened that your brief time with Kaji has come to an end. With a faint wave, you step out of his classroom, glancing back one last time. Kaji remains as he is, headphones firmly in place, his world closed off.

In the sudden stillness of the room, Kaji's fingers drift up to slide his headphones down. His eyes lift to the blackboard, locking onto the date scrawled in light blue chalk. His expression morphs into something distant, a thousand-yard stare settling over him. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he rises from his desk and approaches the blackboard, the faint sound of his chair scraping against the floor breaking the quiet. His hands tremble as they hover over the numbers, hesitating, before finally tracing them with the tip of a finger. His heart pounds in his chest, his thoughts swirling in chaotic spirals. A faint smile begins to tug at the corners of his lips, fragile and uncertain, but genuine. Yet before it can fully take shape, the sharp ringing of the late lunch bell jolts him. Kaji flinches, the sound snapping him out of his reverie. His budding smile falters, slipping away like a fleeting dream. He takes one last glance at the blackboard, his hand curling into a fist at his side, before turning away. His steps are slow and heavy as he trudges back to his desk. Lowering himself into the chair, he buries his head in his arms, shoulders tense. Moments later, he flicks his headphones back on, pulling them snugly over his ears as if to block out the world—and perhaps himself. His ears burn red beneath the headphones, betraying the thoughts still racing through his mind.

Suo Hayato

"How are you so pretty? Did you make a contract with that ancient spirit that lives in your eye? It's not fair," you whine, shaking Suo's head from side to side with exaggerated dramatics. The tassels attached to his earrings sway in rhythm with your movements as your fingers lightly pinch his cheeks. Suo can only chuckle, his soft laughter filling the space as he lets you do as you please, your fingers molding his face like soft clay. Your words are familiar but unusually persistent today. This isn’t the first time you’ve complimented him, far from it, but there’s a different energy in your voice now, an almost childlike fascination that has Suo amused. Usually, you’ll beam at him, toss out a casual "You're so pretty," and then return to your usual antics. But this time? This time, you’re relentless, rattling off your admiration like you’ve secretly prepared a monologue. Suo wonders briefly if you’ve been spending too much time with Nieri, perhaps picking up some of their overly theatrical tendencies. As you continue your tirade about his "unworldly" beauty, Suo raises his hands to your wrists, gently holding them to stop your playful assault on his cheeks. His touch is warm, his grip soft yet firm, and his gaze meets yours with quiet affection.

"Alright, alright," he says with a small smile, the corners of his lips quirking upward. "If you keep this up, my cheeks are going to be permanently pink."

But even as he tries to deflect, Suo finds it hard to hide the warmth that spreads in his chest. Your unfiltered admiration catches him off guard every time, no matter how often you shower him with it. He thinks, perhaps, this is why he lets you tease him so freely. Your sincerity is disarming in the best way. He shakes his head, still holding your wrists, "You're too fixated on my appearance today. What's going on with you...?"

You pout at his response, his grip on your wrists preventing any further assault on his cheeks. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, you lean into his hand, your head tilting slightly as you gaze up at him with wide, innocent eyes. It’s your best attempt at looking pitiful, the kind of look that usually gets him to cave.

"Suo’s just so pretty," you whine again, dragging out the words as if the weight of his beauty is a personal burden. Your lips curve into a slight pout as you attempt to weaponize your puppy-dog stare. "It’s not fair. And you even dare to act like you don’t know how beautiful you are! It’s a crime against humanity."

His laughter spills out, soft and melodic, as he shakes his head at your antics. "A crime against humanity? That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

"No!" you insist, sitting up straighter and pulling slightly against his hold, though his grip remains firm but kind. "It’s absolutely criminal, Suo. If you’re not careful, someone might file a lawsuit against you for being too pretty."

Suo chuckles again, your attempt at acting pitiful not lost on him as he shakes his head. He's well aware of how much you enjoy complimenting him and being extra about things. But you're really laying it on extra thick today, he thinks. It's amusing, though, and he's not about to tell you to stop. He loves how shameless you are, how you'll gush to him about anything and everything with no hesitation. It’s one of the things that makes you so unique in his eyes. Your words, unfiltered and sincere, always manage to get under his skin in the best way. He can't help but feel a little flutter of endearment at your words, his heartwarming every time you show him affection so freely. He keeps holding your wrists as he looks down at you, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"You really think I'm that pretty, huh?" Suo asks again, just to see how you're going to respond. He knows the answer, but he wants to see just how far you'll go to show your affection. There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, a playful challenge he knows you'll meet head-on. He gently lets go of one of your wrists, bringing his hand up to stroke your chin. He gazes at you expectantly, enjoying the way you're looking at him, completely at ease in his presence. There's a silly squiggle of a smile on your lips, a happy hum leaving them as you lean into his touch, and tiny crow's feet under your eyes from the smile that never seems to leave when you're near him. You nod vigorously, bouncing on your toes as you start to sway from side to side, your energy infectious.

"Yup! The prettiest wife in all of Makochi."

Ah. Suo's smile freezes for a second at the term that you use, his expression faltering for the first time. He stares at you, his mind processing the word that just slipped out of your mouth. It's obvious you didn't mean to say that. He can tell from how you immediately fall back loudly on your heels. At how you go absolutely rigid in his hand and how hot your face is growing. That squiggle of happiness morphs into one of embarrassment as your eyes are wide with abject horror.

You look like you're about to cry.

For a few moments, the both of you remain still, Suo's hand gently holding your jaw. Suo's surprise at your words mirrored in the widening of his eyes. Then a smile, so large it almost splits his face in two, spreads across his face, stretching from ear to ear. He can't believe you just called him a wife. He can't help but let out an abrupt laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something softer as he looks down at you, a grin still spread over his face. A mischievous gleam enters his eyes, his gaze focused solely on every subtle change in your expression.

"Did you just call me your wife?" Suo says, his voice a little strangled as he tries to hold back a guffaw. He can't believe you actually said that. He can't help but find it unbelievably cute that you just slipped up and blurted out something so endearing at such a random time. His hand is still holding your jaw, keeping you trapped in this moment with him. A mortified squeak gets stuck in your throat, and you try, desperately to form a defense. But at the same time, his reaction only makes the flush on your cheeks grow hotter. Your face is burning up from his question, and you can hardly look him straight on as your mouth opens and closes, unable to find the words to answer him. Suo can only chuckle lowly at your flustered attempt at a response. He can tell you're embarrassed and flustered by your own words, and it's completely adorable. You can feel your stomach twisting itself into knots, your heart beating loudly against your chest. You can only nod slowly, unable to find any will to verbally speak.

"Don't be mean Hayato..." you whine, and he thinks if he pushes any further, you will actually cry. He can see the water welling up in your eyes. As much as he wanted to embarrass you further, he drew the line at making you cry. Suo quickly relents and releases your face, bringing his hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just teasing, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he pacifies, he can still see your bottom lip stuck out in a childish pout, your face flushed with scarlet pink. He stands up from his seat so he's finally at a comfortable level with you, he reaches out to pull you by the lapels of your sweater closer to him. Soft kisses are pressed until those tiny crow feet that only appear when you smile come back to life. What kind of wife would he be if he made his spouse upset?

Togame Jo

Look. You get it. Togame is hot. Super hot. He's tall, big, and has the prettiest emerald eyes you've ever seen in your life. Did you spend the majority of your time on Earth just staring into those eyes? Maybe. But that's beside the point. The point is, that you know how attractive your boyfriend is, and that’s always going to attract unwanted attention. He can't exactly change how he looks, and you would never want that for something this petty, but you can be mad about it, right?! It's frustrating, honestly. You try to focus on your own things, but the way people always seem to gravitate toward him, especially when you're around, is hard to ignore. It's not like they're trying to hide it. You catch the lingering glances, the whispers that stop the moment you step into the room. And while you know Togame would never do anything to entertain their attention, it still doesn't make the jealousy feel any less real. You hate how much it bothers you, especially when you know he’s yours. But still, the way other people look at him, the way they smile at him... it’s like they want him for themselves, and it makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let anyone else near him. Maybe it’s irrational, but when he’s so damn perfect, what else can you do but get a little possessive?

"Hey..." Togame attempts to soothe your huffing and puffing as you glare at your villain origin story. You have no idea who she is, how she even got here, but you're ready to murder her when this night is over. She's been making eyes at Togame the entire night, despite his arm being around your waist. Togame, being the lovable socially awkward dork that he is, doesn’t even notice it. He just thinks she might need something from him but is too scared to ask. He gets it—he's rather intimidating from a stranger's perspective. But you can see the difference. You can see the slightly higher pitch in her voice, the way it sounds softer and almost flirtatious. You can see how she doesn't even bother to look in your direction as if you didn’t exist. It’s like she’s convinced you’re some sort of invisible background character in her game of trying to capture Togame’s attention. Your grip tightens on his arm, the possessiveness bubbling up in you, but you try to keep your cool.

You feel your chest tighten with an odd mixture of anger and embarrassment. You know you should let it go, that you're being irrational, but you can't seem to control the simmering jealousy. The worst part is, you feel so bad for feeling like this. You know it's not Togame's fault, and you really, really don’t want to push your frustration onto him. You feel so childish letting this random girl make you so mad when you could be spending time with your boyfriend and his friends in ignorant bliss. You know Togame would never cheat on you; you even have permission to beat him bloody from Choji if he ever does. You need to keep reminding yourself that he won’t. You’re not mad at Togame—no, he’s perfect, and you’re lucky to have him—but there's something about this girl, the way she’s so casually blatant about her attention, that makes your blood boil. You take another deep breath, mentally reminding yourself that you’re better than this, that you trust him completely. You really do. Yet, as her laugh rings in your ears, it feels like all the self-control you’ve been clinging to is starting to slip away. She’s just so annoying, and you don’t know how Togame doesn't notice.

"Baby…"

Your face is slowly turned around to meet those vibrant emerald eyes you constantly fawn over. Togame is giving you a lopsided grin, the tiniest notch in his brow to show he's concerned about your silent demeanor, his index and thumb squishing your cheeks lightly. "You okay?"

His voice is gentle, soft, like he's trying to coax you out of whatever has been bothering you. God. You love this man. You can feel your heart stamping on the ground in frustration from cuteness aggression. He's just so sweet! It’s hard to explain why you feel this way, even harder to admit it to him. Still, his comforting presence is enough to ease your racing thoughts, even if just for a moment. Togame watches you carefully, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, a silent question in his gaze. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your irrational jealousy and frustrations. Yet here you are, looking up at him with a mixture of affection and a sinking feeling in your stomach.

"No, absolutely not," you grumble, lips pursed as you frown at him. "I've never been worse."

He lightly chuckles. You take your earlier compliment back; this man is not sweet. If he were, he wouldn't be laughing at your internal struggle of contemplating if life in prison is worth first-degree manslaughter. It isn’t, because then you'd never see Togame again. Unless you don’t get caught. The thought lingers for a moment before you shake your head. Ridiculous. You can’t seriously be considering something so insane. Still, it doesn’t stop you from glaring at him for making light of your torment. He’s completely oblivious to the war raging inside your mind. Meanwhile, his laughter continues, making your heart thump erratically in your chest despite your frustration. You can’t even be mad at him for long. How could you, when his smile is enough to melt every ounce of irritation away?

"Why is that? You tired? We can go home if ya want," Togame squishes your cheeks again before letting go and settling his arm over your shoulder. Because you're spiteful to the core, you look over your shoulder to see if that girl is watching. She is. You hold back the urge to smirk at her with all your teeth. You’re maturing, you’ll tell yourself. You return your attention back to Togame, who, in your moment of glaring at the girl, has already ordered you a water. He pushes the cup toward you, nodding towards it.

"Drink what you can and we can go," he says easily. As if it’s no big deal. You have to bite your lip, yet a muffled whine escapes between the seams. You stare at the cup in your hands, the condensation gathering on the outside, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the warmth in your chest. He’s so willing to prioritize you, even when you know he was looking forward to this night. It’s small, but it means everything. You take a sip, the cool water refreshing you, and feel a wave of gratitude wash over you. There’s something about his thoughtfulness, the way he effortlessly puts you first, that makes you feel like the luckiest person alive. You glance up at him, your heart fluttering just a little. You’re going to marry this man. Right now, actually.

"What's your ring size? I need to know immediately," you grumble, kicking his foot lightly. Togame only laughs heartily at your heartfelt proposal. He leans over, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as you fume into your cup of water. His arm around your shoulder curls, pushing you against his side, as his hand caresses your cheek, gently pulling it up so your lips quirk into a lopsided smile. He leans in, almost until his nose touches yours, and those emerald eyes are all you can see. His gaze softens, that familiar warmth filling his eyes. The teasing glint is gone now, replaced with a sincerity that makes your heart skip. You’re still a bit frustrated, but when he looks at you like that, all your irritation melts away. Togame’s presence feels grounding, his affection so steady and constant. You exhale through your nose, trying to suppress the smile that threatens to break free, but it’s impossible. With a soft chuckle, you let the tension fall from your shoulders.

"Yeah? You sure you wanna do that?" he says smoothly, but you can see the slight pink on his cheeks and ears. His eyes bounce around the room, and you're sure if you held his hand, it would be clammy. You set your glass of water down to free your hands, cupping his cheeks gently. Leaning in, you press a quick peck to his lips, which makes him let out a quiet hum, a soft smile tugging at his features.

"Yeah, gonna wife you up. That way when people see a big shiny rock on your finger, they leave you alone," you hiss, your foot kicking your chair leg in your frustration. Togame laughs again, loud and so, so pretty. His laughter fills the space between you like a soft melody, and despite the chaos around you, you feel a little lighter. In hindsight, maybe you could have made this a bit more romantic. Sitting in one of Shishitoren's bars, surrounded by people wasted or halfway into developing liver cancer, fueled by your petty and spiteful feelings toward a girl whose name you don't even know—you essentially proposed to your boyfriend. You wonder if that qualifies as the most unconventional proposal ever, but it doesn’t really matter.

"Come on, let's go," Togame stands up abruptly, escaping your hold as he pushes his chair back. His arm is still around your shoulder, so you're forced to follow him, stumbling unsteadily as you cling to his orange and white jacket.

"Wha- Wait. Where are we going? Your friends are still—" You're cut off by a kiss, this time long and deep. The world around you blurs, and just like that, you've completely forgotten what you were supposed to do. Friends? Who? You both probably came alone. The taste of him lingers on your lips as you break away, your mind momentarily scrambled. His hands rest gently on your waist, guiding you toward the door. It feels as if the entire bar has melted away, leaving just the two of you in your own bubble of silence. You can't help but smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.

"They'll be fine, I'll just see them tomorrow anyway. Come on, we have more important things to do," he laughs lightly, but you can clearly see those pink cheeks turning darker. Screw the five necessities of human life, you’re going to spend everything on this ring.

You slide next to him, pressing your sides together. "Okay. Let's go before the store closes."

Togame chuckles again, shy and so cute, like he can't quite believe you're about to go to a store to pick out rings like you're in Vegas. You take his hand and pull him through the crowd, towards the door. On the way, you pass by the same girl. She's frowning at you, scoffing and looking away. You can't wait to wave your man’s hand, shiny ring glinting in the light.

As you walk out into the cool night air, there's a rush of excitement in your chest, and Togame’s hand feels just a little bit warmer in yours. He glances over at you, his lips pulling into a soft smile, the pink still creeping up his neck.

"You really sure about this?" he asks quietly, though his eyes sparkle with something else—anticipation, maybe.

You nod firmly, squeezing his hand. "Absolutely."

Tonight, it's just the two of you, and it feels like the world outside doesn't even exist.

Endo Yamato

Today is quiet. Almost peaceful, like those mornings when you wake up before your alarm can ring. You can just lay there and bask in the warmth of your blankets. Listen to the sounds coming through the window. The distant hum of life outside, the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. Everything feels in perfect balance. The world isn’t rushing. It’s as if time itself is slowing down to let you fully exist in this moment. For once, there's no pressure to be anywhere, do anything, or think about what comes next. It’s just you, the quiet, and the world unfolding gently around you. Even take a moment to remember how to breathe. One deep breath in, feeling your lungs expand, then exhale. Serenity.

"I should divorce you and take half your assets."

The HB pencil that's been gnawed on pauses under Endo's teeth. The wood creaks as he eases his jaw on the poor object, the sunken imprints of his molars bending it out of shape, as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You're sprawled on your stomach across his couch, fingers idly tapping away at something bright on your phone screen, looking as if nothing is amiss. For a second, Endo thinks he might have been hallucinating, but he hasn’t reached that level of crazy yet. No, he knows perfectly well that he didn’t imagine that. Especially not that specific sentence. Slowly, he lowers his pencil, letting it clatter against the desk along with his other supplies. The chair creaks as he swivels around to face you. You don’t even glance up from your phone as he watches, an eyebrow twitching in confusion. It’s almost like you said it casually like you were commenting on the weather or talking about dinner plans. But he knows you well enough to recognize the underlying challenge in your words.

"We're not married," he says instead, his voice level. It almost sounds as if he’s been expecting this, because realistically, what is he supposed to say to that? You take your attention off your phone, looking at him with a frown. There's irritation clouding your eyes, and your lips are downturned into an annoyed grimace like he's the bad guy. It's all kind of cute to him. He watches as your gaze narrows at him, waiting for a response, and a sigh escapes your lips, more dramatic than necessary. You cross your arms, looking like you've just been told that the sky is green and not blue. Your frustration is palpable, and it makes him smile—just a little. He tries to hide it, but it's clear you've seen it.

"So," you gesture with your hand in the air as if you're talking to a child, "Marry me so I can divorce you and take half your assets."

For a moment, he's frozen, processing the words you just said. His brain stumbles over the absurdity of it all, the sudden shift in your tone from casual to strict. Then, when his mind eventually catches up, he can't help the laughter that bubbles up his chest. It's not just a small chuckle or snort—no, the sound that comes out is loud enough to echo in the silence of the room. It starts as a hearty laugh, the kind that shakes his shoulders, and you can't help but watch him with a mix of confusion. The sound of his laughter fills the space between you, his eyes bright as he shakes his head, clearly delighted by the turn of events. He leans back, his hand pressing against his forehead as he lets out another round of laughter, wiping away a tear.

You're shitting me," Endo replies, the amusement in his voice clear as day. He stands up from his chair and walks over to the couch you're lying on. He stands beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, still laughing quietly to himself. You only crane your neck up higher, still wearing that miffed yet pouty expression on your face. Endo can’t help but admire the mix of frustration and cuteness. He wants to reach out and pinch your cheeks, but he knows you'll actually try to bite his fingers, which only makes him more entertained. Feisty little stray he's got on his hands. Endo takes a moment to savor the sight of you. Your scrunched-up face, the way your arms are crossed as you try to stay mad at him. Something is endearing about how easily he can make you annoyed, and it never fails to amuse him. After a few seconds of standing there and enjoying your reaction, he decides to act on the urge to mess with you. With a grin still tugging at the corners of his lips, he walks around to the other side of the couch and plops down behind you. Before you can fully process what he's doing, he grabs your hips and pulls you backward into his lap, settling you against him.

"Endo!" you complain, trying to wiggle away, but he laughs again, deep and full of amusement. He buries his face into your shoulder, still shaking from the laughter that won’t stop, his chest vibrating against your back. The warmth of him spreads against your skin, and even as you remain frustrated, there’s a quiet smile that starts tugging at your own lips.

"You're so damn cute," he mumbles, his nose brushing against the side of your shoulder as he nuzzles into your shirt. Judging by the size, it’s probably one of his shirts you've stolen from his closet. You don’t need a ring to start taking all his stuff anyway. His arms wrap around your stomach, holding you in place. Then, in that teasing tone of his, he adds, "You know prenups exist, right? For gold-digging scums like you. A clingy, annoying little gold digger."

You bring your elbow back, nailing him in the stomach with a swift jab, but it hardly phases him. After all, he's seen you put enough force into a punch to break someone's nose. He winces slightly, but the grin never leaves his face. You try to stay annoyed, but the comfort of being in his arms, his warmth against your back, begins to soothe you. Even as you relax in his hold, slumping back until your head rests against his sternum, there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He tightens his arms around you, pulling you even further back into him, as his face drifts down toward the crook of your neck. The movement is so natural, so comforting, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. For all his teasing, there’s something soft in the way he holds you that makes everything else fade away.

"Don't call me that," you huff, attention returning to your phone screen. You were playing a game this entire time, and his teasing was just enough to distract you from your focus. He’s unsure of which, or both, words you're referring to, but at this point, you've already exited the conversation entirely. Instead, he chuckles quietly again into your shoulder as he pulls you back so you're fully sitting on his lap. His warmth envelops you, and his arms settle around your waist, keeping you close. He buries his face back into your neck, but his hands remain on your hips, gently drawing lazy circles on the exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up.

"What? Cute? Gold-digger?" he teases, his voice light and playful, "You'd make a better trophy wife than a model, pretty."

He lets his mind wander to those possibilities, as uncomfortable as they are. He knows he's got a pretty screwed-up relationship with love and admiration. From the few romantic relationships he's had in life, he's only ever been met with betrayal and disappointment. Not even to the discredit of his partners; he's always been a bad judge of character. But now, with you, something feels different. He can at least admit to his own feelings, even if they're complicated. And he's slowly beginning to grow addicted to the way you make him feel. The way your eyes twitch in irritation when he teases you, the soft, light fluttering sound you make when you giggle as he stomps on someone's face, and even the way you try to hide that lovely smile behind your hands when he returns bruised and battered. All of it, everything about you, has him practically swooning over you. Endo can't help but think that this relationship is toxic in the most addictive way, but oddly, that doesn’t scare him. He likes it. It feels real, it feels raw, and maybe for the first time, he's willing to embrace it—dark sides and all. The question lingers in his mind, though: Do you feel the same way? Will you tolerate him long enough, until death do his part?

"Idiot, stop acting like you're not my wife already," you scoff, and that, that makes Endo pause. His brain has completely skidded to a halt because what the hell? That’s just unfair. That’s just super unfair.

You continue scrolling on your phone, but the way you lean your head to the side, giving him better access to your neck, doesn’t go unnoticed. That small gesture sends a shudder down his spine. He can feel the pulse in his throat as his heart rate picks up, and before he knows it, he’s nuzzling his nose beneath your ear, taking in the warmth of your skin. His lips find the sensitive spot just under your jaw, nipping lightly, knowing full well that it’ll make you squirm. His hands, without permission, sneak under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing over the soft surface of your waist and stomach. But your hand stamps down his advances, swatting at his fingers like a cat. He grins, relenting with a laugh, but he doesn't mind. There’s a kind of contentment in being near you like this, the two of you wrapped up in the present moment, the intimacy in your shared space enough to drown out any noise. The warmth of your body radiates against him, and he can feel it seeping into his skin. The soft rhythm of your fingerpads tapping away at your phone screen, absorbed in your game, is almost hypnotic. For a moment, everything else fades away, the noise of the world outside, the stress of the day, leaving just you and him, together in a small bubble of calm. One deep breath in, feeling the air fill his lungs, then exhale. Serenity.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever.

" You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

Low Battery Warning - Touch Starved HCs

— If he goes too long without you by his side, he starts to get irritable and too frustrating for anyone to deal with. For the sake of everyone, please remember to recharge your battery before leaving for extended periods of time.

— Tartaglia, Kaveh, Ayato, Alhaitham, and Dottore

[Masterlist]

I JUST WANT TO WRITE WHIPPED MEN OKAY? What do you mean I have to write a part 2 for two different fics??? I'm honestly surprised I managed to finish this. Also, ALHAITHAM NATION REJOICE, YOUR BOY IS HERE AND I CAN FINALLY MAKE A BANNER. I wasn't going to write him (I'm a kaveh stan) but now that he's here...

Tartaglia

While Tartaglia is the most favored to work with compared to the other Harbingers, that's only by a very slim margin. The closest you'll get to death is when the man gets bored and randomly picks someone to fight, but they usually make it out alive. Maybe a couple weeks in the medical bay and a few broken bones but they aren't dead for the most part. He's also the youngest and therefore the most easy-going even if he's a bit childish. He's a soldier first so he knows the pain of listening to someone verbally beat you down and not having the power to do anything back. But he's still a person at the end of the day and after so many people messing up and delaying his work, he's starting to get irritated. First, it was someone spilling tea onto important documents that he just finished signing, then the Fatui agents stationed near Jueyun Karst being defeated by some no-named treasure hoarders, and then finally being held hostage in his own office because the Liyue Qixing wouldn't leave him alone. God, he slumps over his desk, he just wants to go home and see you!

By the time he finally stumbles through the door, you're already passed out on the couch. He can't blame you, it's very late into the night and he would probably be more upset if you forced yourself to stay awake just to welcome him home. But he can still pout that he was taken away from you for so long, he didn't even get to see you all day. That's borderline torture. But he supposes he can forgive you since you look so cute bundled up in his red shirt. If he happens to take a picture or two that's for his knowledge and eyes only. So he easily scoops you up into his arms, taking a couple seconds to just stand there as he basks in the comfortable weight before he takes you to bed. Just for tonight. This will be the last time work takes him away from home for so long.

It lasts for two weeks. Usually, Childe could hold himself together, he's been away for far longer, but the fact that you're right there and he can't hold you is driving him insane. By the 14th day, Childe is ready to snap his pen in half and hurl it at the next person that comes through that cursed door. He doesn't though because it's usually Ekaterina, the only one that has the balls to talk to him right now, and she deserves far more than she's paid to deal with. But he's touch-deprived and tired. Even Zhongli with his infinite amount of patience advises him to sort himself out before inviting him out to lunch next time. He tried to deal with it on his own, this isn't the first time he's felt claustrophobic, but after the fifth Hilichurl camp he doesn't feel any better which only makes his mood sour further. He might even beat Scaramouche in how short-tempered he is right now. There's heavy air wherever he goes and whatever carefree persona he usually has on is thrown out the window.

It's Zhongli who clues you into how bad Childe's demeanor has gotten, the rascal looks horrible both physically and mentally. Despite the consultant and Childe being on friendly terms, you don't really know the man that well. But he doesn't seem like the type of person to lie so you thank him for the information and make your way to the Northland Bank. To be honest, you've been feeling the effects of not seeing Childe as often as you usually do. You know his work can get so hectic that it keeps him cooped up in his office but it's been a while since you've even seen that fluff of ginger hair. He usually doesn't want you near his work considering how it might put you in danger, but if he isn't taking care of himself then what kind of partner would you be if you didn't help?

Even outside the building, you can feel the effects of what Zhongli talked about. All the agents look like they're on their last legs, there's a gloomy atmosphere surrounding the building even though the sun shines brightly across Liyue harbor, and you can vaguely hear an annoyed Harbinger scolding someone. As soon as you set foot into the building Ekaterina nearly tackles you off your feet. Desperately thanking you for coming and looking at you as if you're the Tsaritsa herself.

As soon as Ekaterina says your name, Childe whips his head around at such a speed that you're afraid his head might fling off as his eyes lock onto yours. You know Childe wouldn't hurt you, never you, but he's looking at you like he's about to devour you and you're suddenly very glad you've never been on the receiving end of his anger. He shoves the papers in his hands into the agent's chest he was probably reprimanding and marches over to where you are.

"C-Childe?" "S-Sir?"

Ekaterina mirrors the wary call of his name until he's finally in front of you and without a word, throws his arms around you. You stumble a bit under his weight but you quickly circle your arms around his back and hold on tight so you don't trip over your own feet. You can only imagine what it looks like for Ekaterina to see her stiff boss suddenly deflate in your arms. A pleased groan escapes from him as he basically lifts you off your feet just so he can hug you closer to him. You almost feel like a child's teddy bear with your legs dangling in the air trapped in a crushing hug. You know that your relationship with Childe isn't a secret but you both don't show any displays of affection, you don't even really interact in public in general, so this is pretty open for the two of you. Well, for you at least. You don't even think Childe is registering anything around him except that you're here.

"Are you okay милый?" you whisper into his ear, nuzzling into the side of his head that's nestled into your shoulder. Your snezhnaya is a little rough around the edges but from how he seems to purr you think he enjoys it nonetheless. "Although I'm happy to see you too, don't you think we should move so we aren't blocking the main entrance?"

He sleepily blinks awake and slowly starts to acknowledge that you're both very much standing at the bank's entrance with everyone shamelessly staring. He frankly looks like he doesn't care, people have working legs, they can walk around you both. But he also doesn't want anyone to find another reason to take him away when he's very comfortable.

"If you need me, don't," is the clipped order that rings out through the bank. You know he's heavily censoring what he actually wants to say but from how everyone cowers away, they can probably tell what would happen if they disobey him. They all give him a nod and a salute before he's picking you up, cradles you into your arms, and swiftly walks upstairs. With a kick of his boot, the door slams shut and he sinks into his chair, you seated pretty on his lap.

"Please never leave me, I think I might die," he groans, re-wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You can only sigh fondly as you gently run your fingers through his hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp and he melts into goo. As if you would want to leave.

Kaveh

You know Kaveh is a bit...eccentric to say the least. He always says what's on his mind and most of the time his thoughts are things he should keep to himself. Even you're not totally immune to his blunt honesty despite the fact he tries to watch how he phrases things when directed to you. He doesn't want to accidentally hurt your feelings, regardless if you know he means no harm. It's rather cute that for someone who doesn't care about what others think of him, he's a bit insecure around you. He likes you, really likes you, and he often finds himself plotting out what he's going to say hours before your lunch date with him. But as soon as you greet him with that charming smile and a brief hug, he turns into putty and whatever flowery language he conjured in his mind is swept away. The confident architect that graduated with honors is reduced to a red-faced mess of stumbling words. It doesn't help that you find it adorable enough to press a chaste kiss to his red cheek and he swears that he's going to pass out from a heat stroke.

He's both extremely glad and terribly conflicted that your love language seems to be touch. He loves it when you brush your fingers through his hair but it always lulls him into sleep so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you hug him tightly but then he never wants to leave so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you cup his cheeks and pull him into a kiss but then he goes in for seconds, then thirds, and so on that he doesn't get any work done. If he went into alchemy rather than architecture he would dedicate his life work to studying why you have the touch of an Archon that compels him so. But he didn't and now that he's drowning in debt, he really needs to concentrate and finish his work before the deadline.

So now he has the painful task of trying to find an extremely polite way of asking you to leave him alone without you taking offense and breaking up with him. He would be devastated if he couldn't see your loving gaze on him again. But the situation is dire because as soon as he sees you, all he wants to do is curl up in bed with you in his arms. Preferably forever but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. But every time he tries to bring it up it only takes one look from you for him to stutter and wave off his words. He tries to pep talk himself and every single time he claims that this will be the day that he, very politely, pushes you off, it ends with him melting into goo and waking up the next day with all his untouched work judging him from the table.

It gets to the point that he begins to air his grievances to Alhaitham of all people. To be fair, he doesn't expect the scribe to listen to a word he says and if he did, it would only be because Kaveh needed to pay his share of the rent. But he's pleasantly surprised when you pop up with a guilty smile and that Alhaitham explained his circumstances to you. He tries to clear up the situation, he has no idea what Alhaitham said specifically but it must have been put in the worst way possible, but you take his hands and he shuts up immediately. You give him a light giggle that melts his heart and you tell him to call for you once he's completed his work.

It was the worst decision he's ever made. Second to moving in with Alhaitham. Maybe his judgment of you being an angel was a lie and you were secretly the devil from how often his thoughts were plagued by you. He could draw a circle and think of your eyes. He knows that he's smitten in your presence but he didn't expect that to double when he's suddenly alone. His only motivation is that as soon as he's finished, he'll be able to see you again. But his mind and his work bleed together and he ends up drawing your face instead of buildings and pipes.

He ends up locking himself in his studio and slowly deforming into slime with how awful he's taking care of himself. Alhaitham has to pry him from the table only for Kaveh to flop in his arms that the scribe gives up and hauls the corpse over his shoulder and makes his way to your home. Kaveh still needs to pay his share of the rent so he's not allowed to die before then.

When you opened the door you weren't expecting Alhaitham at your doorstep with Kaveh over his shoulder. He doesn't seem to want to be in this situation either because it looks like he's two seconds away from throwing your boyfriend across the room. But he manages to reign everything in front of you and quickly explains Kaveh's situation, dumping said man into your arms, and telling you to fix it. You shoot him an apologetic smile that he waves off, it's not like it's your fault, before turning around and making his way back to his own home.

"Kaveh?" you whisper gently against his ear to not startle him. It only takes him a second to register your voice before he's perking up and beaming at you. He easily shifts positions so you're in his arms instead. Twirling you around and using the momentum to tuck an arm under your knees and smoothly picking you up, somehow supporting your entire weight in one arm while the other closes the door. Sometimes you forget that Kaveh is really strong despite his lean stature. He is a claymore user after all.

"Darling! What are you doing here?" Kaveh questions while he makes himself at home. If only your living space was big enough for him to store all his work otherwise he would have moved in with you by now.

"Alhaitham mentioned that your recent commission was taking up all your time and you weren't taking care of yourself. Are you alright?" you ask, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself while Kaveh takes his shoes and coat off. In these types of moments, no matter what you do or say he'll refuse to let you out of his arms. If he has to live with one arm then he'll gladly do so just so long as his other hand is wrapped around you.

"Never better," he replies with a smile. He's obviously lying given the dark circles under his pretty red eyes but the soft look he sends you is enough to tell you that right now, he's never been more comfortable. It makes you a bit flustered to have such an intense gaze on you but Kaveh is always forward with his affections and this isn't any different. With you in his arms, there's nowhere for you to run to when he tilts your chin down and brushes his lips against yours.

"Be still for me..." he whispers, the vibrations of his voice tingling against your skin as both of your eyes slowly close. Only for the moment to shatter by loud knocks on your door. You both jerk apart and turn to the disturbance with varying expressions. You're a flustered mess while Kaveh scowls as if the door offended his entire life's work. He finally sets you down on your feet and gives you a quick peck on the cheek. Before marching to the door, flinging it open, and telling the man on the other side to shoo before slamming the door in his face. Unless the world is ending, don't knock.

Ayato

To say Ayato works hard is an understatement. There are several nights when he's glued to his desk rather than resting in bed. Such are the woes of him being forever dedicated to his duties as the Yashiro Commissioner. On days when there are big events and everything needs to be perfect, he's nearly inconsolable that Thoma weighs how much he can get away with if he knocks Ayato out with a frying pan. His pondering doesn't go far because even though Ayato looks like a corpse from the lack of sleep, he'd probably knock Thoma off his feet before the housekeeper could even raise his arms. Ayaka has better luck but she's only able to drag him away for a few minutes before he points in a random direction to divert her attention before disappearing as soon as she turns back. It's just something everyone is aware of and they try their best to support Lord Kamisato. But if it starts to look really bad, like Ayato might drop dead at any second, then you're called in. The last defense and their ace up the sleeve. Not to brag or anything but you have a spotless record and you intend to keep it that way.

It only takes one word from you to have the dignified and cunning Ayato turn into a scared rabbit. His name. None of the wary calls of Lord Kamisato, a dismissal of his titles, and certainly not your affectionate terms of endearment. It always brings the temperature of the room to zero and Ayaka has to double-check that her cyro vision didn't accidentally activate. Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, you're not soft on him and you set your foot down when it comes to his extremes. One of the many reasons he fell in love with you but it's coming back to bite him now. He hates seeing you unhappy, doing anything possible to wipe that frown off your face, but when it's him that's making you so displeased he can't help but look like a scolded puppy.

It doesn't take much for you to know that Ayato has overworked himself to the breaking point again. You understand his duties mean that he's going to be riddled with work but you're his partner first and foremost. You're there to care about Ayato, not the Yashiro Commissioner. And Ayato looks like he's falling apart at the seams. Heavy eye bags, pale complexion, and his body swaying back and forth before he catches himself from falling over. It pains your heart to see him like this and yet still push himself to keep going. So you take one, two, and three steps towards him to delicately take his hand in yours, rubbing soothing circles into his palm before intertwining your fingers together.

Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, he doesn't disappear as soon as you take your eyes off him. Just stands there and stares dopily at you while you issue orders to take over his work. God, you look so attractive when you're in control. It's been a while since he's seen anything but paper and ink but did you always look this beautiful? He's so glad he's going to marry you. Maybe he can force the elders to move the ceremony date up. Everyone in the room politely ignores the fact that Ayato is saying these thoughts out loud and how red your face has gotten.

He doesn't object when you pull him out of the room with you, blindly following you wherever you happen to lead him by the hand. As long as your hand is in his, he'll follow you to the ends of the earth if you'll allow it. It's a bit comical how the dignified Yashiro Commissioner recedes into himself and crumbles away into a love-sick man just by a simple touch. At much as it makes you feel a bit shy, it's nice to know that Ayato won't try and weasel his way out of your grasp and return to his work.

If anything he clings to you like an onikabuto on a tree. You have to waddle your way to the baths with an oversized blue-haired man refusing to let go and draping himself over your back. You know he's making this as hard as possible on purpose, just do you can dote and pamper him a bit longer before he succumbs to slumber and has to return to work. It dampens his mood thinking of the future but it's quickly ushered away by the warm water poured over his head. It's fitting that his vision is hydro because he fits himself into the space you provide as you begin to scrub his hair clean.

There's something meditative about having his hair washed by your hands that no one else can replicate. It's a luxury that he only receives when he works hard enough that his arms hang uselessly at his sides and his body slumps into itself. Soft and malleable, completely willing to bend and mold in whatever shape you wish. But your hands scrub through his hair gently, rubbing all the stress out of his body and never complaining. Right now there's nothing else that matters more than being here with you and you with him.

"I'm going to rinse your hair out. Close your eyes now," you softly say and he follows your instructions. The rush of warm water is soothing to his ears although it sparks something in his memory that momentarily takes him out of this romantic moment. He reaches blindly behind him to take your hand, rubbing circles into your palm to halt your actions.

"It's just occurred to me but aren't you supposed to be on a trip to Watatsumi island?" he opens his eyes to peer up at you, his long eyelashes tipped with water droplets reminding you of just how pretty Ayato is. It's almost a good enough distraction for you to forget why exactly you're here rather than speaking with Kokomi right now. Almost.

"I was but someone had to go and work himself to death again. You need to take better care of yourself Ayato. I don't want to see Thoma running across all of Inazuma just to drag me back because you can't seem to sit still for a few seconds," your frown deepens with each sentence. Your free hand that's not in his grasp is knocking against his forehead, albeit not hard enough to cause any actual pain. He only chuckles before pulling you into the water with him until you're sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His head lay comfortably against your thighs.

"Apologies." He's not sorry at all. "When you're not beside me I have to throw myself into my work or else I may go insane."

"Oh so now all of this is my fault," you huff exasperated but he can hear the undertones of how happy that sentence makes you. "Come on, you'll catch a cold if we stay here any longer."

"Mmm, indulge me," he mumbles into your skin, his eyes closing once again with a content smile on his face. He doesn't need to see to know that you have an equally fond expression.

"Oh, so now my lord wishes to relax?"

"Only because you're here."

Alhaitham

You know that your relationship with Alhaitham is unusual to onlookers. You're both polar opposites and yet somehow stumbled into a rather healthy and committed relationship. To others, Alhaitham is a talented and intelligent man. The perfect bachelor if it wasn't for his "extraordinary sense of individualism" that he doesn't pay attention to people around him. He's notorious for being hard to get along with that not even his handsome face is enough for people to sit around for too long. Meanwhile, there's you. A wandering traveler who takes work whenever anyone needs an extra pair of hands. You're a bit well-known for accepting any job that pays well regardless of how dangerous or weird it might be. But unlike Alhaitham, you're more than happy to make conversation and you're often seen conversing with scholars from every one of the Six Darshans.

To everyone's knowledge, it's you that's the clingy one. You always have a hand around his arm or throw yourself at him shamelessly. Everyone assumes that Alhaitham tolerates it because he never pushes you off but he doesn't reciprocate affection to the degree that you do. If only those nosy scholars could see him now. Your newest job has you traveling to the Chasm to help collect and study the newly opened area. While the Chasm is close to Sumeru, a series of mysterious accidents led the entire mine to be closed. With the Liyue Qizing gradually reopening the area there's a lot of ground to cover. Alhaitham doesn't care much for the details except that this means you'll be away from him for a few years rather than a few weeks. As soon as you told him the expected date you'll return his face instantly soured. It was so cute that you couldn't help but press kisses to the corners of his mouth until they lifted. But one thing led to another and you're now trapped underneath his strong figure for the past couple of hours with no signs of him letting go. Every day you're gone equates to one minute he gets to keep you here.

No matter how much Alhaitham wishes to make you stay, even going so far as to bribe you, you eventually gather your things, press one last kiss to his lips, and leave him in his too-quiet house. He doesn't want to admit it but as soon as he closes the door he already feels lonely. But he'll learn to cope and continue with his life. He's been through more challenging obstacles and made it through. It's only two years, 3 months, 14 minutes, and 58 seconds. Alhaitham sighs and leans against the door. He's not going to make it.

Everyone else is content to whisper behind their hands about how the scribe seems to be more hostile. While Alhaitham doesn't have the most friendly personality, he's still somewhat polite until someone gives him a reason to exit the conversation. But now Alhaitham can barely get two sentences in before insulting someone. He doesn't even mean to do it on purpose, it just slips out. A girl who happens to share your eye color is met with a backhanded compliment that she should eat more fish. A man whose skin color is just a shade lighter than yours is met with an irritated scowl before he could even say anything. It's only now that people start to miss your presence because anything is better than a walking warning sign.

It only takes a few weeks for him to crack. He's not usually this starved of attention but the knowledge that he won't see you for another two years has him itching at his wrists. While on the outside there doesn't seem to be any changes, he's perfectly calm and collected, but his facade breaks when he starts making rash decisions. When he heard that his senior Kaveh needed a place to stay due to his financial situation, he offered to live with him much to everyone and his own surprise. Even Kaveh suspiciously asks why Alhaitham is being so generous. He doesn't dignify it with a proper answer, only that he better get his situation fixed within the next two years or the scribe is kicking him out.

As the second year rolls past, it's Kaveh who brings up Alhaitham's sudden mood change. He seems...excited. Kaveh chalks it up to Alhaitham being happy that Kaveh is finally moving out but that'd be kind of low even for someone like Alhaitham. As someone who cares about the arts and romance, there's a certain care in how Alhaitham cleans the house. Every systematic movement is laced with a longing gaze. His wrists are rubbed raw that Kaveh has to physically step in or he might rub so hard he reaches the bone. But above all the dangerous aura around Alhaitham is replaced with something Kaveh can only describe as restless patience.

"Honey, I'm home!" your happy voice is accompanied by the loud slam of the door crashing against the wall. Kaveh is startled by a random stranger entering their house but mostly at the term of endearment. Alhaitham only lowers his book at your voice before going back to reading. A bit rude in Kaveh's opinion but he can see the small smile that Alhaitham tries to hide behind the pages of his book. It's not like you aren't a bit devious yourself. So you retaliate by plucking the book out of his hands, taking a quick glance at his page number before placing it on the desk.

"Welcome back. I assume your job went well?" Alhaitham sighs as you kick his legs apart, plop yourself down into his lap, and rest your head against his chest. If you weren't so enthralled by the masterpiece that was Alhaitham's physique, you would have laughed at how the blond-haired man seemed to stare owlishly at the scene. His eyes almost fall out of their heads when Alhaitham doesn't push you off, doesn't throw you over his shoulder, or even make the slightest hint of being irritated or embarrassed. He just places his hands around your waist, rests his chin on your head, and sends an icy glare to which the blond-haired man scoffs before excusing himself. It's not anything different from what he usually does to onlookers although this is you and you can tell just how weary he is. How deeply he relaxes in your hold as the tension melts from his shoulders. How his eyes search over your body for any injuries that you might have gotten. It does look like you got a bit roughed up during your stay at the Chasm. Your hair is cut shorter than he remembers, you've put on some muscle, and there are a few nicks and cuts running along parts of your skin that are visible. But none of that matters because you're here. You're finally here.

"Aww, Haitham did you miss me?" you tease only to quickly eat your words when he manuever's you sideways so he can pin your back against the couch. You're hit with a sense of deja vu back to two years ago when you were about to leave for this trip.

"The next time you take a commission that lasts longer than two weeks, I'm coming with you or you're not going at all," he grumbles as he tucks himself into the crook of your neck with no signs of leaving. You laugh now but he's dead serious.

Dottore

You aren't sure when it started but at some point, you've been labeled as "Dottore's Favourite". He always seems to be the slightest bit nicer if you happen to be there, his voice a smidge less aggressive, and a lot more touchy. He's a Doctor first so he doesn't want to be contaminated by whatever bacteria people have gathered. But with you, he always seems to have a hand on you. Either harshly pinching your cheeks like a child with a crazed grin whenever you mumble something he deems stupid or pulling your arm of out its socket as he yanks you through the hallways of his lab. You act almost as his shadow, permanently glued to his feet and forced to follow wherever he goes.

You wouldn't consider yourself exceptional at your job but you did know how to listen. Perhaps it was your blatant disregard for your lack of safety since your head was always in the clouds that let you do your job with a steady hand. You don't blame your college's, it's hard to work under so much stress. If you had to do quantum physics and whatever the hell smart people do with someone who could, and would, kill you on the spot if you couldn't tell him what 3567 x 438 was on the spot, you think you could have exploded and crumbled on the spot. But you were just the ditzy receptionist who twirled a pencil on her nose more than on a paper. The only thing you were required to do was make sure Dottore was never bothered and let him know if anyone important needed his attention.

You've seen the Regrator the most compared to the rest of the Harbingers. You don't know what a banker needs from a doctor but you're not about to ask. It's not your business and you aren't paid enough to care about what your boss does. Besides, for such a handsome face his presence creeps you out which is saying something considering there's a maniacal doctor that treats human lives like numbers on a stats page. But since you are his "receptionist" you have to make conversation with him. Most of your interaction extends to him asking if the Doctor is in and you politely saying that he's out. You both pointedly ignore the loud crashes and angry yelling from one of his segments behind the closed steel door.

Once again, you don't consider yourself exceptional at your job. You're just a lousy receptionist at a place that doesn't require it and who spends all their time spinning in the office chair than doing actual work. You're just as replaceable as any grunt in this hell hole. So when Tartaglia waltzes through the doors, blinking at you with his dead fish eyes, before nodding to himself and hauling you out of your chair you can only hope that Dottore manages to remember that he has a meeting with Pantalone at noon.

You're hardly gone for an hour. Tartaglia was just bored, bored enough to come to Dottore of all people, that he happened to spot you who looked equally as bored. He just roughed you up a little before he deemed you completely useless and a horrible fighter before sending you back on your way. Seriously, if he wanted a fight he should have just picked one of the skirmishers instead of a damn receptionist. Although you may have to reconsider your position because as soon as you walk back into the lab, a girl is throwing herself at you and demanding where you've been.

You don't get the chance to answer before she's hurriedly running down twisting hallways, down the stairs, and punching in codes so complicated it looked like she was trying to make music out of them. Whatever questions you have are ignored in favor of getting you somewhere as fast as possible. It begins to make sense when you're finally shoved into a room, the girl who dragged you all this way throwing herself onto her knees and begging for forgiveness for letting you wander off.

The lab is an absolute disaster. This isn't the organized chaos you're acquainted with but the aftermath of a manic episode you're familiar with. Glass shards dripping with fluorescent liquid, research notes torn apart that flutter around the room as faux snow, and one mad doctor in the middle.

"Where have you been?"

For someone who destroyed years worth of progress, he sounds oddly calm and collected. His deep voice is firm while he fiddles with a test tube of blue liquid, watching it slosh around before placing it onto a broken table. He barely pays any mind to the girl currently on her hands and knees, forehead pressed to the ground while she glares at you to say something.

"Out," is your reply. A casual shrug of your shoulders even though the Dottore's back is to you. He's not wearing his usual white coat. That's too bad, you think it looks kinda cool. Really goes with his bird aesthetic.

"Out...out you say. Out. Out. Out," he mumbles softly, each time he say's the word "out", he taps the test tube harder onto the table. The lull in conversation only makes the pressure of the room drop lower before the tension snaps and he hurls the test tube at the girl still on her knees. It's only thanks to your reflexes that you manage to grab the collar of her uniform and throw her back just as the test tube collides with the floor, the liquid melting away the concrete where her head was. You can only give her a nudge and a look towards the door for her to scramble to her feet and flee as far away as she can. The slam of the door behind her acting as the nail in the coffin as Dottore's body seems to slump in on itself.

"Where have you been?" he asks again, running a hand through his messy hair. He sounds and looks far more tired, his fingers twitching to reach out and hold you but his pride stopping him. So you push yourself and step forward into his space, reaching your hands out to cup his face and rubbing soothing circles into his porcelain skin. He doesn't lean into your touch but he doesn't push you away either.

"Getting tossed around by Tartaglia. He came by saying he was bored and I just so happened to be there," you say absentmindedly, twirling the long lock of blue hair that hangs off the sides of his mask. He responds by snatching your wrist, squeezing hard enough until your bones creak. "Were you worried? Did you think I ran away?"

He doesn't dignify your question with a response. Simply shrugging your hands off his face before he reaches up to pinch your cheeks, a familiar cackle vibrating from his chest.

"As if you would have anywhere to go."

———

[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@genshins1mpact @creatorofstars @xoneaboveallx @timmyitsmeeee @raingoesboomboom @duhsies @thegayrubberducky @openingssequence @onowie

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

LORD GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE

— "I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

In the cold cell, another stranger visits Sunday.

— Sunday

[Masterlist]

Not me dredging up the remains of my HSR creativity juices to squeeze out a Sunday fic as an offering. This fic is literally one big meme disguised under 20 trench coats. Happy 2.7 everyone and good luck in your rolling!

Sunday does not slouch. His posture is as unyielding as his will, spine rigid as he awaits the inevitable. There is defiance in the tension of his muscles, an unspoken challenge to the forces that brought him here. He will not bow. They’ll have to drag him, force him, twist his broken neck to fit it through the guillotine’s hole. He imagines the hands that will do it trembling with effort as his ambition burns hotter than any fire they could wield against him.

But the cell is cold. Far colder than Sunday has ever experienced in his life on Penacony. The chill bites deeper than the winds of dead planets and even the defeat that landed him here. The stone walls seep an icy dampness, as though the prison itself is alive, drawing warmth and hope from its captives. How could it be that while reigning over this dreamful planet, bound to it only by misplaced duty, he has never felt so cold? His thoughts drift unbidden to Penacony's open skies, once a reminder of freedom now as unreachable as a distant star. A lingering dread whispers that it doesn’t matter. This chill feels personal, like a punishment carved into the very marrow of his existence. Even the chains binding him are crude, iron and purple venom biting into the skin that has never known injury, pushing past the small protection of his clothing. Every subtle shift sends fresh waves of pain radiating from his wrists, a sharp contrast to the numbness settling into his legs from the unmoving hours spent in the same position. The metal feels like it’s becoming a part of him, fusing with his flesh in a union of cruel irony. The air is no better. It's stale and stagnant, as though even time refuses to move forward in this forsaken space. Each breath feels thick and heavy with the scent of rust, decay, and despair. Sunday briefly wonders if the air has always felt like this around him. Has he been too preoccupied to notice?

His only hope, a fragile, fleeting sparkle, is that Robin will escape their hate. The idea of her, untethered and free, burns like a flicker of warmth in the ice-caked confines of his heart. If she survives, it will be enough.

“You only get five minutes. Be careful,” the guard’s gruff voice echoes from beyond the door, dripping with unease. The tension in the words is sharp enough to cut, underscoring a danger even they don’t fully understand, “We still don’t know if he still retains THEIR power in his voice. If he pulls you under, we can’t guarantee your safe passage out.”

Another guest? Again? Sunday’s lips curl into a faint wry and bitter line. It’s almost laughable. He’s already endured Lady Bonajade, the IPC’s well-polished substitute with her cloying charm that masked sharp fangs. Her diplomacy dripped with venom, thinly veiled promises woven into her words like poison-laced silk. He can still recall her presence heavy with expensive perfume and arrogance. If it’s that gambler next, with their cavalier smirk and penchant for empty bargains, perhaps Sunday will do them all a favor and ask for an expedited execution. Better to end this circus on his terms than dance further to their tune.

Who could they have sent this time to join him in this suffocating void?

The heavy door groans open, the sound grating against his ears. A slice of harsh light invades the cell, stabbing his eyes with unrelenting brightness. He squints reflexively, but it’s no use; the light feels like a blade carving through his defenses. Surrendering, he shuts his eyes tightly, the glow painting the back of his eyelids a fiery red as it burns into him. Then, as abruptly as it came, the light is swallowed when the door slams shut. Darkness reclaims the space, and he’s left adrift once more. Though this time he isn't alone. The shadows press closer, heavier, as though they’ve taken on a sentient weight. It’s not the barely above-satisfactory solitude he’s come to accept but a suffocating presence that lingers just outside his range. Sunday opens his eyes slowly, the dim light of the cell revealing the shape of... a doctor? The figure before him is unassuming, dressed in a pristine white medical coat that seems to glow faintly in the oppressive gloom. The sight doesn’t trigger any immediate alarm in Sunday’s mind, but that only deepens his unease. They stir no recognition, not from Penacony’s ever-shifting guest lists, nor from the IPC’s infamous rogues gallery. Whoever this person is, they carry no air of importance.

But no one sent to this place is ever what they seem. This stranger is either far more dangerous than they appear, their unassuming facade concealing power that could rival or even dwarf Miss Jade’s manipulations, or they are an ordinary person—an idea Sunday dismisses outright. No ordinary doctor would be granted access to this place, to him. In Penacony, there is no place for neutrality. There is no shortage of monsters who hide behind well-tailored costumes. Sunday would know; once, he wore such a mask himself. He doesn’t call out. He refuses to give them that satisfaction. They are not a guest but an uninvited visitor. So, he remains silent, his breath steady and measured, his posture unyielding. The figure shifts slightly first, their coat whispering against the still air. Their posture is calm, expression unreadable in the darkness, and yet Sunday doesn't feel threatened. No sense of being grounded into the dust under someone's thumb.

The wings at the sides of his head twitch, a brief flutter betraying his agitation.

For now, the stranger remains a mystery. Their gaze drifts lazily over him, studying every detail. Their eyes linger on the chains digging into his flesh and the halo above his head, its once-radiant light now reduced to a faint, erratic pulse of THEIR power. The stranger moves with maddening indifference, as though the ticking clock means nothing to them. Despite their limited time, they saunter, unhurried, as though they could stretch five minutes into five hours. Sunday meets their stare, unblinking, refusing to grant them the satisfaction of a reaction. To his irritation, the stranger smiles a slow, pleased curl of the lips that feels entirely too knowing, as if they’re privy to a secret he hasn’t yet uncovered.

"I'm quite sad that you lost,” they say at last, their voice soft, almost conversational as if they were discussing the weather rather than his downfall, “I think I would’ve enjoyed living indefinitely on a rest day.”

Their quiet laugh follows. A muted, understated sound that drifts through the stale air like smoke, curling and lingering in the space between them. Sunday doesn’t respond. The stranger’s tone, smooth as silk and disturbingly casual, grates against him. They sound exactly like Ms. Jade.

They want to use him yet have no courtesy to say please.

He replies flatly, his voice cold, “If you’re here to appeal to my ego, you should turn around now.”

The doctor chuckles softly again, a sound that feels too intimate for the sterile air of the cell, as if it belongs to a private moment and not this standoff. Without hesitation, they begin to circle him, their steps measured and deliberate, their gaze fixed on the faintly glowing halo above his head. Sunday feels the weight of their scrutiny, the way their eyes trace the gentle flicker of light as though searching for hidden truths. Yet, to his surprise—and mild unease—the halo remains steady, its weak pulses undisturbed by the stranger’s presence, as if indifferent to them entirely. He doesn’t move, his stillness a deliberate choice. His silence is his armor, and he wears it with practiced precision. But the doctor seems utterly unbothered, their serene demeanor bordering on infuriating. The chains biting into Sunday’s flesh, the damp chill that clings to the air, the oppressive darkness of the cell, none of it seems to bother them. As if they've been in this same position before. Instead, they hum softly, a tuneless, meandering sound, as if they were lost in thought rather than examining a chained prisoner. Their head tilts slightly as they move as if searching for something intangible, something that only they can sense. Each step carries a deliberate weight, each moment of their low, aimless hum digging under his skin like an itch he cannot reach. When they finally come to a stop, their eyes meet his once more. There’s a glint in them now, something quiet and unreadable. Sympathy? Understanding? Or perhaps, something more insidious, like pity disguised as interest.

“So,” they murmur, their voice almost gentle as the pure white coat they wear, “Have you accepted your burden of guilt?”

Sunday’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, the only sign of the tension building beneath his outward calm. There is no accusation in the doctor’s tone, just a quiet curiosity, its softness more insidious than any harsh reproach. It’s not meant to provoke, he realizes, but to probe. The question feels like an outstretched hand, seeking not an answer but an opening, a crack in the armor of his resolve. He scoffs, the sound sharp and derisive, cutting through the stillness. It’s not loud, but it carries weight, a dismissal. The faint light of the halo above his head flickers, its weak glow casting fleeting shadows across his face, deepening the sharp contours of his jaw and the unyielding steel in his gaze.

The doctor, however, doesn’t flinch. Their composure is maddening, as steady and immovable as stone. They tilt their head slightly, studying him as though his reaction is a puzzle, a piece of data to be cataloged and analyzed. The only betrayal of their reaction is a subtle twitch at the corner of their lips, a movement so small it could be missed, but Sunday sees it. He knows it for what it is: the beginnings of a smile. Not a full grin, not even an expression of amusement, but a faint, restrained elation that feels far too calculated. It’s the look of someone who has just confirmed something they already suspected. A twinge of annoyance kindles in Sunday, though he douses it immediately. He won’t crack, won’t falter under their probing gaze. If they expect him to stumble, they’ll be disappointed.

“Guilty? You’re mistaken.” Sunday’s voice burns through the stale air, steady and resolute. He straightens slightly, his chains clinking softly with the movement. The sound is faint, but it reverberates in the oppressive silence of the cell. “There is nothing to feel guilty about. I did what I thought was right.”

The words land like stones, heavy and unyielding, filled with a conviction he's cultivated and forged. Yet, despite his defiance, Sunday can’t shake the sense that something about the doctor has shifted. They almost seem proud, as if they're happy about Sunday's unremorseful response. Their silence stretches, unbroken, as though they are savoring his answer. The doctor’s eyes never leave his, unblinking, as if peeling back layers to see the truths buried beneath his words.

Finally, they tilt their head slightly, their voice soft but probing. “And yet, here you are. The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sunday. And you? You’ve committed enough sins to pave it twice over—more than enough to last a hundred lifetimes. Perhaps even a thousand. You’re certainly going to have a hard time atoning for them. Tell me, does being ‘right’ bring you peace?”

The words are sharp and deliberate, meant to sting, yet they lack the malice that would make them truly dangerous. There’s no fury in their expression, no glee in their cruel words. There’s no gleam of a scalpel in their hand, no syringe hidden in the folds of their coat. This isn’t the cold, clinical sadism of someone ready to dissect his body or tamper his blood. No, this doctor is not here with the tools of physical torment. The doctor’s presence looms over him, palpable, like a weight settling into the stale air of the cell. He feels it—the pressure of an unspoken expectation, like a string pulled taut between them. He can sense it in the way they watch him, the way they wait. There’s only one answer they are fishing for, the one that will justify whatever lies ahead, whatever they plan to do to him next. The cold yet whimsy nature of their approach mirrors something he knows all too well, he just experienced it an hour prior. Miss Jade had played the same game, her words sharp but veiled, wrapped in the trappings of diplomacy. She had presented accusations like a ledger of business transactions, always with that smile of hers, so polished, so perfect, a lure. And when Sunday had refused to take the bait, she had simply smiled and said she could wait.

He’s not afraid of their games. They can play all they want, but they’ll get nothing from him. His silence is his shield, just as it was with Miss Jade. The doctor can wait too. He knows better than to speak too quickly.

But Sunday is so, so tired. Tired of these people and their endless games. Tired of their riddles, their insidious questions designed to unravel him piece by piece. Tired of their quiet cruelties, masked with words that sound too polite to be anything other than weapons. They think they can break him like this—one question at a time.

It all feels like waiting for the guillotine to fall.

“The one who will decide if I am guilty of my sins is not you, nor any other mortal,” Sunday says, his voice steady. The weight of his words fills the small cell, challenging the doctor's expectant gaze. “I have lived my life according to my beliefs, and I stand by every decision I have made. If THEY deem me unworthy, then so be it. I will accept THEIR judgment with humility.”

Sunday keeps his posture firm, unbowed, his muscles tense, as if preparing for a blow that might never come. He steels himself, accepting that what comes next is inevitable, like the guillotine poised above him. His hands clench into fists, but they remain steady, unshaken by whatever may come. He has nothing more to offer. If his words do not satisfy them, they can leave. He will not grovel, will not entertain their games any longer. He closes his eyes for a moment, retreating inward. His thoughts are calm and resolute, as though his body and mind are two separate entities, perfectly still. The waiting has become familiar now, a grim ritual he has endured countless times before. In the end, they will act, or they won’t. It no longer matters.

The doctor does not respond immediately. They remain still, a silent specter. The only sound is the faint rustle of their coat as they shift slightly.

And then, the doctor’s hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

The touch is not harsh or commanding, but it is deliberate. A quiet, calculated assertion of presence. Despite the sudden gesture, Sunday does not flinch. Still, the cold weight of their hand lingers, sending a subtle unease coursing through him. It is not physical pain, but something deeper—a sensation of being measured in a way that makes him feel exposed despite the darkness.

It is not the guillotine. But it feels no less final.

"I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

The hand on Sunday’s shoulder squeezes briefly, firm enough to remind him of its weight, before withdrawing. The absence feels oddly pronounced, a phantom pressure that lingers even as the doctor moves. Standing before him now, framed by the faint, pale light from his flickering halo, their smile is gentle. Yet it does nothing to soften the unease that coils in Sunday’s gut. The doctor’s gaze, steady and piercing, seems to strip him bare, as though it peers through flesh and bone and into the very fabric of his soul. Sunday feels exposed, and vulnerable, as if the very walls of the cell have dissolved, leaving him standing alone in front of a vast, uncharted abyss. Yet he meets that abyss head-on, as he always has. He has lived in the dark long enough for its weight to feel familiar. Fear had been a companion of his youth, a shadow he had learned to outrun. Now, it is a distant memory.

The doctor’s tone sharpens, each word precise and deliberate, as they step closer. Their eyes never leave Sunday’s—dark, enigmatic, like deep pools where the bottom remains hidden no matter how far one leans to peer in.

“You’re an ordinary person, Sunday. A man, just like the rest of us,” they continue, their voice low but cutting, each syllable landing with unnerving clarity. “And everything around you, everything you once believed in, is falling apart. You can see that, can’t you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication, settling on Sunday’s shoulders like a weight he cannot shrug off. Their gaze drills into him, unrelenting, and for a fleeting moment, the hum of his halo grows louder, almost as if reacting to the tension. Yet Sunday does not waver. He meets their stare, unblinking, though his jaw tightens as the words burrow deep, hitting a nerve he’s tried desperately to protect.

“Your ideals, your mission, all of it is gone. Nothing but shattered dreams, scattered like dust in the wind.”

The doctor’s smile stretches wider, but it holds no comfort, no reassurance—only a wet chill that seeps into the cracks of the words they weave. The pools in their eyes seem to deepen further, the ripples folding in on themselves, twisting into a current that spirals downward into unseen depths.

“And now you’re faced with a choice. A tough one. One that will define what little you have left. Will you continue to try and burn as bright as a little star, shining alone in the dark, fragile, flickering, doomed to fade away when the inevitable cold comes?”

The pause that follows is deliberate, the stillness amplifying the weight of their words. The water is starting to overflow, spilling past the rim, lapping at the wood and kindling that's kept Sunday alive from the harsh winter.

“Or will you choose to become something greater? A planet. Cold, distant, unmoving—but vast. A foundation. A force. Unstoppable."

The doctor steps back slightly, letting the weight of the decision settle. The water slowly retreats yet still surrounds him on all sides. The stillness stretches again, the words sinking into the space between them. The doctor tilts their head, studying Sunday’s expression as if searching for the faintest crack in his defiance. Their final words fall like stones into the darkness. “The star may dazzle, but it is the planet that builds. Which will you be?”

The silence that follows is thick, and suffocating, as Sunday’s mind races. The words hang in the air, their weight crushing, each one a reminder of the choice he must make. The doctor watches him with that same unnervingly calm expression as if they know exactly what Sunday is going through. They’ve seen it before, the internal struggle, the battle between the remnants of pride and the pull of cold reality. Sunday’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. He wants to resist, to reject the notion that he has to choose between these two bleak paths. He wants to believe in the ideals he once held, to believe in something greater than survival. But the truth gnaws at him. The world has already rejected him. His dreams are shattered.

But have they really?

“The world has fallen apart. People like you, like me... we don’t have the luxury of holding onto idealistic dreams anymore. The reality is harsh and unforgiving. You can either fight to keep burning out, or you can accept that the world has moved on and adapt. Become something that doesn’t need to rely on hope. Become something that will outlast it all,” they pause, their eyes narrowing slightly as if waiting for Sunday to come to his conclusion. “So, Sunday... will you hold onto your dying star, or will you choose the cold, inevitable truth of being something greater?”

Sunday sits motionless, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on him like a mountain. The cell is silent, save for the faint hum of his halo and the rustling of the doctor's coat as they wait. His mind spins in a desperate frenzy, struggling to piece together some semblance of resistance, some last thread of hope. But the doctor’s words have struck too deep. He feels them in his bones, in the places where his ideals once lived. A small, bitter laugh escapes him, but it’s hollow, devoid of any real amusement.

“A planet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Cold, unfeeling, and distant... But it endures. Doesn't it?”

“It shapes the world around it, whether it wants to or not. It doesn’t fade into nothingness. It stands firm, no matter the storm," the doctor easily agrees. Sunday can feel the pull of the doctor’s words, like a gravity he can’t escape. The halo above his head hums softly, as if reacting to the intensity of the moment, vibrating with the tension building inside him. He looks up at the doctor then, eyes narrowing, his gaze hardening. The chains on his wrists shift slightly as he stands straighter, every fiber of his being screaming with the desire to reject what’s being offered. He wants to defy it, to shout that he won’t become that thing, that lifeless entity, that thing the doctor’s trying to turn him into. But he knows, deep down, that the fight is slipping from his hands. He's so tired. The idealism he clings to, the belief that there’s something worth saving, something worth fighting for, feels more fragile with each passing second.

What would Robin think?

The doctor’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, soft but insistent. “I know it’s a difficult one. But the world won’t wait forever. You have to choose: a flicker that will vanish in the next gust of wind or a force that will remain, unchanged, no matter the storm.”

Sunday’s fists tighten again, his knuckles white. “I never asked for this,” he mutters, more to himself than to the doctor.

“No one asks for it,” the doctor responds smoothly, “but the truth remains. The world has no room for weakness, for those who cling to ideals that no longer have meaning. What matters now is what you choose to become. You can keep trying to burn as a star, but that won’t stop the darkness. Or you can let go and rise, like a planet, indifferent to the storms around you. You'll be alive to try again."

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his halo pressing against his skull, the faint hum like a heartbeat in his ears. He can feel it. This tug, this pull, deep inside him. The pull to embrace this cold, inevitable truth, to give up the battle and accept what the doctor is offering. There’s something comforting about it. Something that promises survival. The question still hangs in the air, like a blade poised above him. He’s running out of time. His heart beats louder now, thudding in his chest as he realizes—he may not have a choice at all.

Slowly, he exhales, his breath shaky, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks. “And if I choose the planet... what then?”

The doctor’s smile widens, a gleam of something darker lurking behind it. “Then you will embrace the power that comes with it. You will shape the world as you see fit. You will no longer be bound by the past. The future will be yours to command. No more waiting, no more being preyed upon. You will become the force that others bend to. And you will never have to feel the sting of hope again.”

The words are tempting, soothing, like cool water to a burn he never knew was there. Sunday’s pulse quickens. His breath comes more shallow now, as the weight of the decision presses down on him. For a moment, he simply stands there, lost in the quiet hum of his halo, feeling the coldness creep up his spine. He’s so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of waiting, tired of being crushed by the weight of his choices. He can feel himself sinking deeper into that black water.

“You are Sunday. The man who almost became an Aeon, only for it all to fall apart. The dream of a world free from the harshness of reality cannot comfort you down here. Not anymore. Right now, you are alone.”

No. That's not true. It's not-

Their words scrape against him. The mention of the Aeon—of his failed rise—stirs something deep within him. The memory of what he almost was, the power he almost held, flashes in his mind like a fading echo. For a moment, he feels the ache of that loss, the hollow sting of what could have been. But just as quickly, he shoves it down. That doesn't matter anymore. Three footsteps echo through the cell, slow and deliberate, the sound amplified by those previous words. Before Sunday can react, he feels the faintest pressure, arms wrapping around his neck in a cold, hollow imitation of a hug. The touch is freezing, sinking through his skin and into his very bones. It makes his muscles tense, his breath catching for just a moment. It is not the warmth of an embrace but something far more alien, far more wrong. The doctor’s voice comes next, soft and intimate, a whisper so close it brushes against his ear.

“But it’s okay,” they murmur, their tone almost tender. “We can be alone together.”

The words, as quiet and soothing as they are, carry a weight that sinks into Sunday’s chest. There’s something deeply unsettling about the doctor’s closeness, their coldness wrapped around him, suffocating him with an intimacy that has no place here. The promise of shared isolation is chilling in its own right, an offer too twisted to accept. Sunday’s muscles tighten instinctively, the discomfort gnawing at his composure. The prickling sensation that crawls up his spine cannot be ignored. This is not a comfort. This is a reminder of his solitude, his isolation, twisted into something almost mocking. His heart beats just a little faster, and he fights the urge to shudder. The doctor’s words echo in his mind, lingering in the empty space like an unsettling shadow. He knows now, that this is not a game. This is something far more dangerous.

"The dream of the Order has dissipated," the doctor says, their voice calm, almost mournful. They run their hand through his hair, almost like a mother attempting to soothe their child. "Yet there are still those who will not relinquish their original intent. To the traveler whose wings were clipped…" Their head tilts slightly, the words deliberate and heavy. "Whereto shall your footsteps lead?"

The air in the room feels heavier now, charged with the energy of the decision that’s been made. A faint vibration courses through the halo above Sunday’s head, a subtle tremor of something. Its light pulses unevenly, responding to the storm of his emotions. Sunday’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as the words settle over him. The air thickens, and for a moment, the world outside the cell feels distant, as if the very walls are closing in. His mind races, skimming the edges of memories he’s long buried, of battles fought and lost, of promises broken by those who swore loyalty. His fingers twitch slightly, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. The doctor’s question lingers, floating in the air like a thread ready to be tugged, pulling him toward some deeper hole. The halo above him flares briefly, its light flickering erratically as if responding to the emotion rising in his chest. Sunday’s eyes narrow, just enough to show his growing irritation.

He’s had enough—enough of the chains, the suffocating cell, the endless waiting for a sentence that looms but never falls.

“Then… I choose,” Sunday says, his voice low but wavering. The doctor’s smile deepens, and they step back, giving him space to breathe, to make the final step. Yet close enough to loom over him, their invisible shadow smothering him. "I choose..."

And most of all, he’s had enough of these strangers—these meddling interlopers who waltz into his prison with their veiled words, cryptic challenges, and their insufferable, thinly disguised disdain. His patience is gone, frayed to the breaking point. When he speaks, his voice remains deceptively calm and steady, but the smoldering flicker of anger in his gaze has become unmistakable—a faint ember flaring into a wildfire. “Neither. I am not some helpless bird without purpose. I have always chosen my own path, and I will continue to do so—even in penance."

The hum of his halo surges, vibrating louder in the cell, an electric pulse that reverberates against the walls and into the rocks and sand. The sound is raw, and primal, matching the rage that courses through him. His fist swings, a blind, furious arc toward where the doctor stood a moment ago, but the space is empty. Of course, it is. The doctor has already moved, slipping away as though they had expected this—no, wanted this. Their entire presence feels like a calculated provocation, an engineered storm. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his muscles coiled and aching from the violence of his strike. His eyes burn as they sweep the cell, searching for the shadow that dares to mock him with their calm detachment. The pounding of his heart is deafening in his ears, a counterpoint to the relentless thrum of the halo above his head. Anger courses through him, sharp and unrelenting, demanding action, demanding release. The weight of his declaration hangs in the air, heavy despite being simple words he’s repeated in his mind countless times. Yet, they feel different now—sharper, more potent—carried on the air for another to hear. He doesn’t feel strange letting them out, even though doing so feels oddly like exposing something raw and unguarded. Sunday doesn’t know what comes next, but he knows this: the small flicker of his old self is fading, and something else—something more unyielding—is beginning to rise. In contrast, the doctor hums again, their voice eerily in sync with the faint vibrations of Sunday’s halo. The resonance feels deliberate like an unspoken language only they understand. The sound threads through the space between them, burrowing under his skin. Their gentle smile lingers, unshaken, as though they had been expecting his answer—or perhaps even orchestrating it. The way their gaze rests on him feels less like scrutiny and more like careful calculation, their expression distant yet unnervingly focused, as though assembling a puzzle only they can see. Sunday’s fingers flex against the chains that bind him, the faint creak of metal grounding him as time stretches unnaturally. He wonders, not for the first time if the allotted five minutes have passed. It feels like far longer, the oppressive air in the cell distorting the flow of moments into something alien and unrecognizable. Finally, the doctor’s smile shifts into that soft, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there smile. It’s not a smile of triumph, nor one of satisfaction, but something more elusive. Almost… admiring.

“No...no, you are not some caged bird,” the doctor murmurs, bringing their hand up to feel the vibrations of their voice through their lips, the words rolling out with finality. As if they're talking to themselves rather than him. Then, suddenly, the air lightens. The weight that had hung between them vanishes as if it had never existed at all. The water recedes, growing calm and quiet, as though it was never trying to drown him in the first place. The doctor's smile becomes unexpectedly kind, even a little silly. It's disorienting—this sudden change from the sharp, probing presence to something almost affectionate. They step a little closer, their expression now open, becoming someone simply offering comfort rather than delivering an execution.

"I'm glad," they say, voice lighter, warmer now. Even the light in their eyes has returned, "When I heard Ms. Jade had come to speak with you, I was worried you would accept her offer. I’d hate to see you make the same mistake as the others. After all, you’ve been alone long enough, haven’t you?”

The change is subtle but undeniable—the sharp edge in their demeanor has dulled, replaced by an almost maternal kindness, as if they're genuinely concerned, even protective. Sunday feels the shift, though he can’t fully understand it. The calm in their presence is unsettling, and yet, for a moment, it feels less like manipulation and more like... care. A care that feels strange coming from someone who only moments before seemed intent on breaking him. Sunday's muscles remain tight, still coiled from the tension that had just been released. His mind races, trying to decipher the sudden shift in the doctor's demeanor. The warmth in their voice, the ease in their smile—it feels foreign, out of place. He’s been surrounded by manipulation and false kindness long enough to know better than to trust a sudden change. But the doctor’s presence is no longer suffocating. There is no sharpness in the air, no tension laced into their every word. It's almost... normal. And that’s what unnerves him the most. He takes a slow breath, pushing the unease back down, and forcing his body to relax, though his mind remains wary.

“Alone?” He repeats the word, tasting it on his tongue as if it might reveal something deeper. The doctor’s gaze doesn’t waver, holding his attention with that same unsettling steadiness.

“Yes,” they nod, “Alone. You’ve been isolated long enough to start thinking your only options are escape or destruction.”

They step back, creating just a little more space between them, “But that’s not all that’s left, Sunday. You don’t have to keep fighting against the tide, drowning in the same thoughts over and over. There’s another way. You don’t have to be the only one holding yourself up.”

They turn slowly, their coat trailing behind them, their presence still palpable even as they begin to walk away. Sunday’s gaze follows them, his chest tight with a mixture of uncertainty and something else he can’t quite name. The hum of his halo pulses faintly in his ears, but the oppressive stillness of the cell settles back in, thick and heavy. The doctor pauses at the door, their hand resting on the cold metal, and turns their head just enough to meet Sunday’s eyes once more.

“I’ll leave you with this. What you do with it is up to you. I know you won’t make it easy, Sunday, but I hope you will come to visit sometime. Perhaps even later today if you're feeling generous?" the doctor laughs lightly at their joke yet it carries a weight that lingers. The doctor slides a sleek paperslip colored in a luminous palette of metallic gold and red out of their pocket. The top section of the paperslip is adorned with geometric and circular designs, with small circular holes on the bottom line. A subtle rainbow light emanates from its edges and central emblem.

It's a train ticket. It flutters in the wind, landing gently on top of his hand.

And with that parting gift, they step through the door, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty space. The door clicks shut with a finality that feels too real, too absolute. Sunday remains still, the silence pressing down on him like the weight of an unspoken truth. The offer- no - the perhaps lingers in the room, intangible but undeniable, swirling in the corners of his mind. The weight of his decision, of what comes next, rests heavily on his shoulders. His fingers curl around the ticket, shining brightly in the middle of his palm. The choice, the path he will take, is entirely his. The possibility of something other than solitude, other than endless struggle, hangs in the air like a question he has yet to answer. But for now, there is only silence and the slow, steady pulse of his halo, waiting for him to make his next move.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

No cause I love how some people sees Lighter as a cool pathetic man (I'm some people).

I really need someone to write a Lighter x Oblivious Reader cause my ass can't write for good and my english is not good enough to be able to pull a whole fic without making it sound goofy.

Just imagine how Lighter would just really try hard to impress and show himself off to the reader with his face red as his scarf and reader would be like "omg, nice :D". Just imagine how flustered, EVEN IF IT'S SUCH A SIMPLE COMPLIMENT, would look Lighter....he's such a pathetic man, and I love how goofy he can be sometimes.

[mrpenguinpants-alter-ego]

LORD GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE

— "I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

In the cold cell, another stranger visits Sunday.

— Sunday

[Masterlist]

Not me dredging up the remains of my HSR creativity juices to squeeze out a Sunday fic as an offering. This fic is literally one big meme disguised under 20 trench coats. Happy 2.7 everyone and good luck in your rolling!

Sunday does not slouch. His posture is as unyielding as his will, spine rigid as he awaits the inevitable. There is defiance in the tension of his muscles, an unspoken challenge to the forces that brought him here. He will not bow. They’ll have to drag him, force him, twist his broken neck to fit it through the guillotine’s hole. He imagines the hands that will do it trembling with effort as his ambition burns hotter than any fire they could wield against him.

But the cell is cold. Far colder than Sunday has ever experienced in his life on Penacony. The chill bites deeper than the winds of dead planets and even the defeat that landed him here. The stone walls seep an icy dampness, as though the prison itself is alive, drawing warmth and hope from its captives. How could it be that while reigning over this dreamful planet, bound to it only by misplaced duty, he has never felt so cold? His thoughts drift unbidden to Penacony's open skies, once a reminder of freedom now as unreachable as a distant star. A lingering dread whispers that it doesn’t matter. This chill feels personal, like a punishment carved into the very marrow of his existence. Even the chains binding him are crude, iron and purple venom biting into the skin that has never known injury, pushing past the small protection of his clothing. Every subtle shift sends fresh waves of pain radiating from his wrists, a sharp contrast to the numbness settling into his legs from the unmoving hours spent in the same position. The metal feels like it’s becoming a part of him, fusing with his flesh in a union of cruel irony. The air is no better. It's stale and stagnant, as though even time refuses to move forward in this forsaken space. Each breath feels thick and heavy with the scent of rust, decay, and despair. Sunday briefly wonders if the air has always felt like this around him. Has he been too preoccupied to notice?

His only hope, a fragile, fleeting sparkle, is that Robin will escape their hate. The idea of her, untethered and free, burns like a flicker of warmth in the ice-caked confines of his heart. If she survives, it will be enough.

“You only get five minutes. Be careful,” the guard’s gruff voice echoes from beyond the door, dripping with unease. The tension in the words is sharp enough to cut, underscoring a danger even they don’t fully understand, “We still don’t know if he still retains THEIR power in his voice. If he pulls you under, we can’t guarantee your safe passage out.”

Another guest? Again? Sunday’s lips curl into a faint wry and bitter line. It’s almost laughable. He’s already endured Lady Bonajade, the IPC’s well-polished substitute with her cloying charm that masked sharp fangs. Her diplomacy dripped with venom, thinly veiled promises woven into her words like poison-laced silk. He can still recall her presence heavy with expensive perfume and arrogance. If it’s that gambler next, with their cavalier smirk and penchant for empty bargains, perhaps Sunday will do them all a favor and ask for an expedited execution. Better to end this circus on his terms than dance further to their tune.

Who could they have sent this time to join him in this suffocating void?

The heavy door groans open, the sound grating against his ears. A slice of harsh light invades the cell, stabbing his eyes with unrelenting brightness. He squints reflexively, but it’s no use; the light feels like a blade carving through his defenses. Surrendering, he shuts his eyes tightly, the glow painting the back of his eyelids a fiery red as it burns into him. Then, as abruptly as it came, the light is swallowed when the door slams shut. Darkness reclaims the space, and he’s left adrift once more. Though this time he isn't alone. The shadows press closer, heavier, as though they’ve taken on a sentient weight. It’s not the barely above-satisfactory solitude he’s come to accept but a suffocating presence that lingers just outside his range. Sunday opens his eyes slowly, the dim light of the cell revealing the shape of... a doctor? The figure before him is unassuming, dressed in a pristine white medical coat that seems to glow faintly in the oppressive gloom. The sight doesn’t trigger any immediate alarm in Sunday’s mind, but that only deepens his unease. They stir no recognition, not from Penacony’s ever-shifting guest lists, nor from the IPC’s infamous rogues gallery. Whoever this person is, they carry no air of importance.

But no one sent to this place is ever what they seem. This stranger is either far more dangerous than they appear, their unassuming facade concealing power that could rival or even dwarf Miss Jade’s manipulations, or they are an ordinary person—an idea Sunday dismisses outright. No ordinary doctor would be granted access to this place, to him. In Penacony, there is no place for neutrality. There is no shortage of monsters who hide behind well-tailored costumes. Sunday would know; once, he wore such a mask himself. He doesn’t call out. He refuses to give them that satisfaction. They are not a guest but an uninvited visitor. So, he remains silent, his breath steady and measured, his posture unyielding. The figure shifts slightly first, their coat whispering against the still air. Their posture is calm, expression unreadable in the darkness, and yet Sunday doesn't feel threatened. No sense of being grounded into the dust under someone's thumb.

The wings at the sides of his head twitch, a brief flutter betraying his agitation.

For now, the stranger remains a mystery. Their gaze drifts lazily over him, studying every detail. Their eyes linger on the chains digging into his flesh and the halo above his head, its once-radiant light now reduced to a faint, erratic pulse of THEIR power. The stranger moves with maddening indifference, as though the ticking clock means nothing to them. Despite their limited time, they saunter, unhurried, as though they could stretch five minutes into five hours. Sunday meets their stare, unblinking, refusing to grant them the satisfaction of a reaction. To his irritation, the stranger smiles a slow, pleased curl of the lips that feels entirely too knowing, as if they’re privy to a secret he hasn’t yet uncovered.

"I'm quite sad that you lost,” they say at last, their voice soft, almost conversational as if they were discussing the weather rather than his downfall, “I think I would’ve enjoyed living indefinitely on a rest day.”

Their quiet laugh follows. A muted, understated sound that drifts through the stale air like smoke, curling and lingering in the space between them. Sunday doesn’t respond. The stranger’s tone, smooth as silk and disturbingly casual, grates against him. They sound exactly like Ms. Jade.

They want to use him yet have no courtesy to say please.

He replies flatly, his voice cold, “If you’re here to appeal to my ego, you should turn around now.”

The doctor chuckles softly again, a sound that feels too intimate for the sterile air of the cell, as if it belongs to a private moment and not this standoff. Without hesitation, they begin to circle him, their steps measured and deliberate, their gaze fixed on the faintly glowing halo above his head. Sunday feels the weight of their scrutiny, the way their eyes trace the gentle flicker of light as though searching for hidden truths. Yet, to his surprise—and mild unease—the halo remains steady, its weak pulses undisturbed by the stranger’s presence, as if indifferent to them entirely. He doesn’t move, his stillness a deliberate choice. His silence is his armor, and he wears it with practiced precision. But the doctor seems utterly unbothered, their serene demeanor bordering on infuriating. The chains biting into Sunday’s flesh, the damp chill that clings to the air, the oppressive darkness of the cell, none of it seems to bother them. As if they've been in this same position before. Instead, they hum softly, a tuneless, meandering sound, as if they were lost in thought rather than examining a chained prisoner. Their head tilts slightly as they move as if searching for something intangible, something that only they can sense. Each step carries a deliberate weight, each moment of their low, aimless hum digging under his skin like an itch he cannot reach. When they finally come to a stop, their eyes meet his once more. There’s a glint in them now, something quiet and unreadable. Sympathy? Understanding? Or perhaps, something more insidious, like pity disguised as interest.

“So,” they murmur, their voice almost gentle as the pure white coat they wear, “Have you accepted your burden of guilt?”

Sunday’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, the only sign of the tension building beneath his outward calm. There is no accusation in the doctor’s tone, just a quiet curiosity, its softness more insidious than any harsh reproach. It’s not meant to provoke, he realizes, but to probe. The question feels like an outstretched hand, seeking not an answer but an opening, a crack in the armor of his resolve. He scoffs, the sound sharp and derisive, cutting through the stillness. It’s not loud, but it carries weight, a dismissal. The faint light of the halo above his head flickers, its weak glow casting fleeting shadows across his face, deepening the sharp contours of his jaw and the unyielding steel in his gaze.

The doctor, however, doesn’t flinch. Their composure is maddening, as steady and immovable as stone. They tilt their head slightly, studying him as though his reaction is a puzzle, a piece of data to be cataloged and analyzed. The only betrayal of their reaction is a subtle twitch at the corner of their lips, a movement so small it could be missed, but Sunday sees it. He knows it for what it is: the beginnings of a smile. Not a full grin, not even an expression of amusement, but a faint, restrained elation that feels far too calculated. It’s the look of someone who has just confirmed something they already suspected. A twinge of annoyance kindles in Sunday, though he douses it immediately. He won’t crack, won’t falter under their probing gaze. If they expect him to stumble, they’ll be disappointed.

“Guilty? You’re mistaken.” Sunday’s voice burns through the stale air, steady and resolute. He straightens slightly, his chains clinking softly with the movement. The sound is faint, but it reverberates in the oppressive silence of the cell. “There is nothing to feel guilty about. I did what I thought was right.”

The words land like stones, heavy and unyielding, filled with a conviction he's cultivated and forged. Yet, despite his defiance, Sunday can’t shake the sense that something about the doctor has shifted. They almost seem proud, as if they're happy about Sunday's unremorseful response. Their silence stretches, unbroken, as though they are savoring his answer. The doctor’s eyes never leave his, unblinking, as if peeling back layers to see the truths buried beneath his words.

Finally, they tilt their head slightly, their voice soft but probing. “And yet, here you are. The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sunday. And you? You’ve committed enough sins to pave it twice over—more than enough to last a hundred lifetimes. Perhaps even a thousand. You’re certainly going to have a hard time atoning for them. Tell me, does being ‘right’ bring you peace?”

The words are sharp and deliberate, meant to sting, yet they lack the malice that would make them truly dangerous. There’s no fury in their expression, no glee in their cruel words. There’s no gleam of a scalpel in their hand, no syringe hidden in the folds of their coat. This isn’t the cold, clinical sadism of someone ready to dissect his body or tamper his blood. No, this doctor is not here with the tools of physical torment. The doctor’s presence looms over him, palpable, like a weight settling into the stale air of the cell. He feels it—the pressure of an unspoken expectation, like a string pulled taut between them. He can sense it in the way they watch him, the way they wait. There’s only one answer they are fishing for, the one that will justify whatever lies ahead, whatever they plan to do to him next. The cold yet whimsy nature of their approach mirrors something he knows all too well, he just experienced it an hour prior. Miss Jade had played the same game, her words sharp but veiled, wrapped in the trappings of diplomacy. She had presented accusations like a ledger of business transactions, always with that smile of hers, so polished, so perfect, a lure. And when Sunday had refused to take the bait, she had simply smiled and said she could wait.

He’s not afraid of their games. They can play all they want, but they’ll get nothing from him. His silence is his shield, just as it was with Miss Jade. The doctor can wait too. He knows better than to speak too quickly.

But Sunday is so, so tired. Tired of these people and their endless games. Tired of their riddles, their insidious questions designed to unravel him piece by piece. Tired of their quiet cruelties, masked with words that sound too polite to be anything other than weapons. They think they can break him like this—one question at a time.

It all feels like waiting for the guillotine to fall.

“The one who will decide if I am guilty of my sins is not you, nor any other mortal,” Sunday says, his voice steady. The weight of his words fills the small cell, challenging the doctor's expectant gaze. “I have lived my life according to my beliefs, and I stand by every decision I have made. If THEY deem me unworthy, then so be it. I will accept THEIR judgment with humility.”

Sunday keeps his posture firm, unbowed, his muscles tense, as if preparing for a blow that might never come. He steels himself, accepting that what comes next is inevitable, like the guillotine poised above him. His hands clench into fists, but they remain steady, unshaken by whatever may come. He has nothing more to offer. If his words do not satisfy them, they can leave. He will not grovel, will not entertain their games any longer. He closes his eyes for a moment, retreating inward. His thoughts are calm and resolute, as though his body and mind are two separate entities, perfectly still. The waiting has become familiar now, a grim ritual he has endured countless times before. In the end, they will act, or they won’t. It no longer matters.

The doctor does not respond immediately. They remain still, a silent specter. The only sound is the faint rustle of their coat as they shift slightly.

And then, the doctor’s hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

The touch is not harsh or commanding, but it is deliberate. A quiet, calculated assertion of presence. Despite the sudden gesture, Sunday does not flinch. Still, the cold weight of their hand lingers, sending a subtle unease coursing through him. It is not physical pain, but something deeper—a sensation of being measured in a way that makes him feel exposed despite the darkness.

It is not the guillotine. But it feels no less final.

"I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

The hand on Sunday’s shoulder squeezes briefly, firm enough to remind him of its weight, before withdrawing. The absence feels oddly pronounced, a phantom pressure that lingers even as the doctor moves. Standing before him now, framed by the faint, pale light from his flickering halo, their smile is gentle. Yet it does nothing to soften the unease that coils in Sunday’s gut. The doctor’s gaze, steady and piercing, seems to strip him bare, as though it peers through flesh and bone and into the very fabric of his soul. Sunday feels exposed, and vulnerable, as if the very walls of the cell have dissolved, leaving him standing alone in front of a vast, uncharted abyss. Yet he meets that abyss head-on, as he always has. He has lived in the dark long enough for its weight to feel familiar. Fear had been a companion of his youth, a shadow he had learned to outrun. Now, it is a distant memory.

The doctor’s tone sharpens, each word precise and deliberate, as they step closer. Their eyes never leave Sunday’s—dark, enigmatic, like deep pools where the bottom remains hidden no matter how far one leans to peer in.

“You’re an ordinary person, Sunday. A man, just like the rest of us,” they continue, their voice low but cutting, each syllable landing with unnerving clarity. “And everything around you, everything you once believed in, is falling apart. You can see that, can’t you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication, settling on Sunday’s shoulders like a weight he cannot shrug off. Their gaze drills into him, unrelenting, and for a fleeting moment, the hum of his halo grows louder, almost as if reacting to the tension. Yet Sunday does not waver. He meets their stare, unblinking, though his jaw tightens as the words burrow deep, hitting a nerve he’s tried desperately to protect.

“Your ideals, your mission, all of it is gone. Nothing but shattered dreams, scattered like dust in the wind.”

The doctor’s smile stretches wider, but it holds no comfort, no reassurance—only a wet chill that seeps into the cracks of the words they weave. The pools in their eyes seem to deepen further, the ripples folding in on themselves, twisting into a current that spirals downward into unseen depths.

“And now you’re faced with a choice. A tough one. One that will define what little you have left. Will you continue to try and burn as bright as a little star, shining alone in the dark, fragile, flickering, doomed to fade away when the inevitable cold comes?”

The pause that follows is deliberate, the stillness amplifying the weight of their words. The water is starting to overflow, spilling past the rim, lapping at the wood and kindling that's kept Sunday alive from the harsh winter.

“Or will you choose to become something greater? A planet. Cold, distant, unmoving—but vast. A foundation. A force. Unstoppable."

The doctor steps back slightly, letting the weight of the decision settle. The water slowly retreats yet still surrounds him on all sides. The stillness stretches again, the words sinking into the space between them. The doctor tilts their head, studying Sunday’s expression as if searching for the faintest crack in his defiance. Their final words fall like stones into the darkness. “The star may dazzle, but it is the planet that builds. Which will you be?”

The silence that follows is thick, and suffocating, as Sunday’s mind races. The words hang in the air, their weight crushing, each one a reminder of the choice he must make. The doctor watches him with that same unnervingly calm expression as if they know exactly what Sunday is going through. They’ve seen it before, the internal struggle, the battle between the remnants of pride and the pull of cold reality. Sunday’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. He wants to resist, to reject the notion that he has to choose between these two bleak paths. He wants to believe in the ideals he once held, to believe in something greater than survival. But the truth gnaws at him. The world has already rejected him. His dreams are shattered.

But have they really?

“The world has fallen apart. People like you, like me... we don’t have the luxury of holding onto idealistic dreams anymore. The reality is harsh and unforgiving. You can either fight to keep burning out, or you can accept that the world has moved on and adapt. Become something that doesn’t need to rely on hope. Become something that will outlast it all,” they pause, their eyes narrowing slightly as if waiting for Sunday to come to his conclusion. “So, Sunday... will you hold onto your dying star, or will you choose the cold, inevitable truth of being something greater?”

Sunday sits motionless, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on him like a mountain. The cell is silent, save for the faint hum of his halo and the rustling of the doctor's coat as they wait. His mind spins in a desperate frenzy, struggling to piece together some semblance of resistance, some last thread of hope. But the doctor’s words have struck too deep. He feels them in his bones, in the places where his ideals once lived. A small, bitter laugh escapes him, but it’s hollow, devoid of any real amusement.

“A planet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Cold, unfeeling, and distant... But it endures. Doesn't it?”

“It shapes the world around it, whether it wants to or not. It doesn’t fade into nothingness. It stands firm, no matter the storm," the doctor easily agrees. Sunday can feel the pull of the doctor’s words, like a gravity he can’t escape. The halo above his head hums softly, as if reacting to the intensity of the moment, vibrating with the tension building inside him. He looks up at the doctor then, eyes narrowing, his gaze hardening. The chains on his wrists shift slightly as he stands straighter, every fiber of his being screaming with the desire to reject what’s being offered. He wants to defy it, to shout that he won’t become that thing, that lifeless entity, that thing the doctor’s trying to turn him into. But he knows, deep down, that the fight is slipping from his hands. He's so tired. The idealism he clings to, the belief that there’s something worth saving, something worth fighting for, feels more fragile with each passing second.

What would Robin think?

The doctor’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, soft but insistent. “I know it’s a difficult one. But the world won’t wait forever. You have to choose: a flicker that will vanish in the next gust of wind or a force that will remain, unchanged, no matter the storm.”

Sunday’s fists tighten again, his knuckles white. “I never asked for this,” he mutters, more to himself than to the doctor.

“No one asks for it,” the doctor responds smoothly, “but the truth remains. The world has no room for weakness, for those who cling to ideals that no longer have meaning. What matters now is what you choose to become. You can keep trying to burn as a star, but that won’t stop the darkness. Or you can let go and rise, like a planet, indifferent to the storms around you. You'll be alive to try again."

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his halo pressing against his skull, the faint hum like a heartbeat in his ears. He can feel it. This tug, this pull, deep inside him. The pull to embrace this cold, inevitable truth, to give up the battle and accept what the doctor is offering. There’s something comforting about it. Something that promises survival. The question still hangs in the air, like a blade poised above him. He’s running out of time. His heart beats louder now, thudding in his chest as he realizes—he may not have a choice at all.

Slowly, he exhales, his breath shaky, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks. “And if I choose the planet... what then?”

The doctor’s smile widens, a gleam of something darker lurking behind it. “Then you will embrace the power that comes with it. You will shape the world as you see fit. You will no longer be bound by the past. The future will be yours to command. No more waiting, no more being preyed upon. You will become the force that others bend to. And you will never have to feel the sting of hope again.”

The words are tempting, soothing, like cool water to a burn he never knew was there. Sunday’s pulse quickens. His breath comes more shallow now, as the weight of the decision presses down on him. For a moment, he simply stands there, lost in the quiet hum of his halo, feeling the coldness creep up his spine. He’s so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of waiting, tired of being crushed by the weight of his choices. He can feel himself sinking deeper into that black water.

“You are Sunday. The man who almost became an Aeon, only for it all to fall apart. The dream of a world free from the harshness of reality cannot comfort you down here. Not anymore. Right now, you are alone.”

No. That's not true. It's not-

Their words scrape against him. The mention of the Aeon—of his failed rise—stirs something deep within him. The memory of what he almost was, the power he almost held, flashes in his mind like a fading echo. For a moment, he feels the ache of that loss, the hollow sting of what could have been. But just as quickly, he shoves it down. That doesn't matter anymore. Three footsteps echo through the cell, slow and deliberate, the sound amplified by those previous words. Before Sunday can react, he feels the faintest pressure, arms wrapping around his neck in a cold, hollow imitation of a hug. The touch is freezing, sinking through his skin and into his very bones. It makes his muscles tense, his breath catching for just a moment. It is not the warmth of an embrace but something far more alien, far more wrong. The doctor’s voice comes next, soft and intimate, a whisper so close it brushes against his ear.

“But it’s okay,” they murmur, their tone almost tender. “We can be alone together.”

The words, as quiet and soothing as they are, carry a weight that sinks into Sunday’s chest. There’s something deeply unsettling about the doctor’s closeness, their coldness wrapped around him, suffocating him with an intimacy that has no place here. The promise of shared isolation is chilling in its own right, an offer too twisted to accept. Sunday’s muscles tighten instinctively, the discomfort gnawing at his composure. The prickling sensation that crawls up his spine cannot be ignored. This is not a comfort. This is a reminder of his solitude, his isolation, twisted into something almost mocking. His heart beats just a little faster, and he fights the urge to shudder. The doctor’s words echo in his mind, lingering in the empty space like an unsettling shadow. He knows now, that this is not a game. This is something far more dangerous.

"The dream of the Order has dissipated," the doctor says, their voice calm, almost mournful. They run their hand through his hair, almost like a mother attempting to soothe their child. "Yet there are still those who will not relinquish their original intent. To the traveler whose wings were clipped…" Their head tilts slightly, the words deliberate and heavy. "Whereto shall your footsteps lead?"

The air in the room feels heavier now, charged with the energy of the decision that’s been made. A faint vibration courses through the halo above Sunday’s head, a subtle tremor of something. Its light pulses unevenly, responding to the storm of his emotions. Sunday’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as the words settle over him. The air thickens, and for a moment, the world outside the cell feels distant, as if the very walls are closing in. His mind races, skimming the edges of memories he’s long buried, of battles fought and lost, of promises broken by those who swore loyalty. His fingers twitch slightly, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. The doctor’s question lingers, floating in the air like a thread ready to be tugged, pulling him toward some deeper hole. The halo above him flares briefly, its light flickering erratically as if responding to the emotion rising in his chest. Sunday’s eyes narrow, just enough to show his growing irritation.

He’s had enough—enough of the chains, the suffocating cell, the endless waiting for a sentence that looms but never falls.

“Then… I choose,” Sunday says, his voice low but wavering. The doctor’s smile deepens, and they step back, giving him space to breathe, to make the final step. Yet close enough to loom over him, their invisible shadow smothering him. "I choose..."

And most of all, he’s had enough of these strangers—these meddling interlopers who waltz into his prison with their veiled words, cryptic challenges, and their insufferable, thinly disguised disdain. His patience is gone, frayed to the breaking point. When he speaks, his voice remains deceptively calm and steady, but the smoldering flicker of anger in his gaze has become unmistakable—a faint ember flaring into a wildfire. “Neither. I am not some helpless bird without purpose. I have always chosen my own path, and I will continue to do so—even in penance."

The hum of his halo surges, vibrating louder in the cell, an electric pulse that reverberates against the walls and into the rocks and sand. The sound is raw, and primal, matching the rage that courses through him. His fist swings, a blind, furious arc toward where the doctor stood a moment ago, but the space is empty. Of course, it is. The doctor has already moved, slipping away as though they had expected this—no, wanted this. Their entire presence feels like a calculated provocation, an engineered storm. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his muscles coiled and aching from the violence of his strike. His eyes burn as they sweep the cell, searching for the shadow that dares to mock him with their calm detachment. The pounding of his heart is deafening in his ears, a counterpoint to the relentless thrum of the halo above his head. Anger courses through him, sharp and unrelenting, demanding action, demanding release. The weight of his declaration hangs in the air, heavy despite being simple words he’s repeated in his mind countless times. Yet, they feel different now—sharper, more potent—carried on the air for another to hear. He doesn’t feel strange letting them out, even though doing so feels oddly like exposing something raw and unguarded. Sunday doesn’t know what comes next, but he knows this: the small flicker of his old self is fading, and something else—something more unyielding—is beginning to rise. In contrast, the doctor hums again, their voice eerily in sync with the faint vibrations of Sunday’s halo. The resonance feels deliberate like an unspoken language only they understand. The sound threads through the space between them, burrowing under his skin. Their gentle smile lingers, unshaken, as though they had been expecting his answer—or perhaps even orchestrating it. The way their gaze rests on him feels less like scrutiny and more like careful calculation, their expression distant yet unnervingly focused, as though assembling a puzzle only they can see. Sunday’s fingers flex against the chains that bind him, the faint creak of metal grounding him as time stretches unnaturally. He wonders, not for the first time if the allotted five minutes have passed. It feels like far longer, the oppressive air in the cell distorting the flow of moments into something alien and unrecognizable. Finally, the doctor’s smile shifts into that soft, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there smile. It’s not a smile of triumph, nor one of satisfaction, but something more elusive. Almost… admiring.

“No...no, you are not some caged bird,” the doctor murmurs, bringing their hand up to feel the vibrations of their voice through their lips, the words rolling out with finality. As if they're talking to themselves rather than him. Then, suddenly, the air lightens. The weight that had hung between them vanishes as if it had never existed at all. The water recedes, growing calm and quiet, as though it was never trying to drown him in the first place. The doctor's smile becomes unexpectedly kind, even a little silly. It's disorienting—this sudden change from the sharp, probing presence to something almost affectionate. They step a little closer, their expression now open, becoming someone simply offering comfort rather than delivering an execution.

"I'm glad," they say, voice lighter, warmer now. Even the light in their eyes has returned, "When I heard Ms. Jade had come to speak with you, I was worried you would accept her offer. I’d hate to see you make the same mistake as the others. After all, you’ve been alone long enough, haven’t you?”

The change is subtle but undeniable—the sharp edge in their demeanor has dulled, replaced by an almost maternal kindness, as if they're genuinely concerned, even protective. Sunday feels the shift, though he can’t fully understand it. The calm in their presence is unsettling, and yet, for a moment, it feels less like manipulation and more like... care. A care that feels strange coming from someone who only moments before seemed intent on breaking him. Sunday's muscles remain tight, still coiled from the tension that had just been released. His mind races, trying to decipher the sudden shift in the doctor's demeanor. The warmth in their voice, the ease in their smile—it feels foreign, out of place. He’s been surrounded by manipulation and false kindness long enough to know better than to trust a sudden change. But the doctor’s presence is no longer suffocating. There is no sharpness in the air, no tension laced into their every word. It's almost... normal. And that’s what unnerves him the most. He takes a slow breath, pushing the unease back down, and forcing his body to relax, though his mind remains wary.

“Alone?” He repeats the word, tasting it on his tongue as if it might reveal something deeper. The doctor’s gaze doesn’t waver, holding his attention with that same unsettling steadiness.

“Yes,” they nod, “Alone. You’ve been isolated long enough to start thinking your only options are escape or destruction.”

They step back, creating just a little more space between them, “But that’s not all that’s left, Sunday. You don’t have to keep fighting against the tide, drowning in the same thoughts over and over. There’s another way. You don’t have to be the only one holding yourself up.”

They turn slowly, their coat trailing behind them, their presence still palpable even as they begin to walk away. Sunday’s gaze follows them, his chest tight with a mixture of uncertainty and something else he can’t quite name. The hum of his halo pulses faintly in his ears, but the oppressive stillness of the cell settles back in, thick and heavy. The doctor pauses at the door, their hand resting on the cold metal, and turns their head just enough to meet Sunday’s eyes once more.

“I’ll leave you with this. What you do with it is up to you. I know you won’t make it easy, Sunday, but I hope you will come to visit sometime. Perhaps even later today if you're feeling generous?" the doctor laughs lightly at their joke yet it carries a weight that lingers. The doctor slides a sleek paperslip colored in a luminous palette of metallic gold and red out of their pocket. The top section of the paperslip is adorned with geometric and circular designs, with small circular holes on the bottom line. A subtle rainbow light emanates from its edges and central emblem.

It's a train ticket. It flutters in the wind, landing gently on top of his hand.

And with that parting gift, they step through the door, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty space. The door clicks shut with a finality that feels too real, too absolute. Sunday remains still, the silence pressing down on him like the weight of an unspoken truth. The offer- no - the perhaps lingers in the room, intangible but undeniable, swirling in the corners of his mind. The weight of his decision, of what comes next, rests heavily on his shoulders. His fingers curl around the ticket, shining brightly in the middle of his palm. The choice, the path he will take, is entirely his. The possibility of something other than solitude, other than endless struggle, hangs in the air like a question he has yet to answer. But for now, there is only silence and the slow, steady pulse of his halo, waiting for him to make his next move.