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mandalhoerian · 4 months ago

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SYZYGY PART I: PERIASTRON / PERIHELION ❥ caleb x reader x xavier | 24K | AO3

SUMMARY:

The summer of your life had a name — Caleb. He was August itself, a world of honey-drenched, cloudless afternoons and laughter of gold-saturated old days echoing through the years, clear as sunlight on water. Gravity, pulling you two together. You orbiting around each other, closer, brighter, almost, almost. Until, just like the dandelion puff of childhood dreams or the sudden drop of a swing going too high — he was gone. Then came Xavier. The quiet glow of the moon, silver constellations scattered against the abyss, not demanding your orbit. He was light without heat, steady and luminous, guiding you through the night Caleb had left behind, illuminating all the spaces where once there had been warmth and wonder instead of emptiness. But what happens when the sun rises again to chase away the moon and stars that endured without it? Can the sky hold them both? Can you? Or must one always eclipse the other?

WARNINGS: pseudocest im embarrassed do NOT look at me, this features an underage caleb getting a hard-on because of an underage reader for the first time. it's not sexualized or detailed, and there is no scene of masturbation. i tried to handle it with care and describe it as vaguely as possible and work around it, grieving/mourning, blood and injury, angst, fluff, the everpresent bittersweet undertones, backshots from xavier at the end. this is (going to be) a threesome fic, not a love triangle in which you choose one, so, proceed with caution.

A/N: yeah, uh. remember this post? i'm writing it now. before i knew it though it grew so much, so i had to separate it into two parts. this one is what i call "parallel lines", in which xavier's presence is heavily present in your life with caleb before they meet through you, and vice versa. this concept is like the gift that keeps giving, and i hope you like it as well. what do you want to happen in the next chapter? please don't be shy to interact and tell me what you think, and help me out by reblogging for the second part to come out faster! thank you so much! <33

For as long as Caleb had known himself, he had been jovially tethered to you, less a brother and more an ever-present guardian, a self-appointed fairy godmother who built his purpose around keeping watch over your life.

When school was in session, his days began before the sun even thought about rising — dragging himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to help Gran with breakfast, shaking off sleep with the clatter of dishes and the smell of butter hitting a hot pan. The kitchen was always dimly lit, humming with the indistinct sounds of the world waking up. He'd scrub down counters while eggs sizzled, sweep the floors before the coffee had finished brewing, steal bites of toast in between flipping pancakes.

And then — your lunch. If you wanted peanut butter, he spread it thick. If you swore off carrots for the week, he’d swap them out with a sly substitution, sneaking in a treat when Gran wasn’t looking.

Breakfast was always a battlefield. You, groggy and barely functional, glaring at the sight of anything green on your plate; and him, sighing, coaxing, bribing, bending over backwards to get you to take a single bite of food that didn’t sparkle with sugar.

And then, of course, the walk to school.

You always complained, swearing you didn’t need him to take you, that you could find your way just fine. And yet, without fail, you were right there beside him every morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes, shuffling along in whatever oversized hoodie you’d thrown on that day, your shoelaces untied, the imprint of your pillow still faint against your cheek.

The moment you arrived at the school gates, the dynamic shifted. Caleb wasn’t your gege anymore — he was Caleb Xia, the local celebrity.

Kids greeted him with the awe reserved for a hometown hero, flocking together in the distance to get a glimpse at him, either scattering when he noticed them or waving at him if they were brave enough. Teachers nodded at him in approval, a dependable, responsible older brother. And you? You rolled your eyes, huffing, gave his sleeve a tug that wordlessly said you’re embarrassing me, can you leave already? as he lingered in conversation, half-smirking at your impatience.

The highlights of his school day weren’t the classes or the fleeting moments of downtime between them — it was lunch breaks spent calling you, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he unwrapped whatever quick meal he’d grabbed from the cafeteria. "Did you eat yet?" was always his first question, followed immediately by, "Did you like it?" as if your opinion on the food he packed for you was the most crucial piece of intel of his day. He could practically hear you rolling your eyes through the speaker, muttering around a mouthful of rice or torn bread crust. It didn’t matter — he needed to hear it, to know.

After that, his mind switched gears. Physical training, drills fine-tuned for DAA hopefuls, routines meant to push his endurance to the next level. His uniform stuck to his back, sweat beading along his brow, but he relished the burn, the ache in his muscles a steady reminder of why he was doing this. When training ended, he sprawled out on the bleachers, water bottle pressed against his overheated neck, scrolling through footage of aerospace battleships on his phone. Each sleek design, each launch, every maneuver—it reminded him why he worked so hard. Why he wanted this so badly.

But none of that mattered when late afternoon rolled around.

His friends ribbed him for it, tossing casual jabs his way as they packed up their things. "Ditching us again for babysitting duty?" someone teased. Caleb only smiled from ear to ear and didn't pay any mind to it, pretending the subtle condescension thrown your way didn’t needle under his skin. They didn’t get it. They never did.

Because for him, the best part of the day wasn’t the grind, wasn’t the push toward his future. It was the moment the last bell rang at your school, and he was already there, stationed by the gate, feet bouncing slightly on the pavement, waiting to see you emerge from the crowd.

Nothing compared to that anticipation. The way his breath would hitch for half a second as he spotted you — bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, uniform slightly wrinkled, the sleeves of your cardigan pushed up because you always ran too hot. The moment your eyes met his, and that immediate, effortless way you gravitated toward him, your first words were never hi, always a strange little remark, offbeat and inconsequential.

Like it was a given. Like, of course, he’d be here. Of course, you’d find him first.

And as he fell into step beside you, listening to whatever was on your mind that day, the earlier teasing, the bone-deep fatigue, the sting of training—all of it slipped into the background, tamed into silence.

Some days, your hand in his felt wrong—too loose, on the verge of slipping free if he wasn’t careful, or too tight, clutching at the unsaid hanging between you both. Those were the days when your usual chatter dwindled, when your feet dragged instead of skipping along the sidewalk, when your eyes darted past him instead of meeting his.

Caleb never asked outright — he knew what to do, adjusting, seamlessly redirecting your path before you could even notice, with slight nudge at your shoulder, an easy pivot at the next turn, suddenly you weren’t heading straight home anymore.

The little grocery store on the corner, the one with the faded awning and the chime at the door, became your unspoken secret place. The scent of paper and ink mingled with a faint sweetness the moment you stepped inside — an inviting coziness that dwelled between the shelves lined with pastel notebooks, glittering pens, and delicate origami sets among a handful of aisles, lined with neatly stacked boxes of biscuits, rows of colorful trinkets in plastic bins, glass jars of fruit jellies that caught the light just right.

But it wasn’t the stationery that did it.

It was the back garden, where clusters of hydrangeas bloomed in careful bursts of lavender and blue, their petals shifting with the breeze. It was the way the sun liquidized through the narrow windows, turning the space golden in the late afternoon, a place stitched into memory as a guarantee: no matter how heavy your day had been, you would leave here lighter.

It was the colorful bins of imported candies, the tiny glass jars filled with trinkets shaped into animals and miniature constellations, the usual sequence of browsing through things neither of you needed but always wanted. And most of all, it was you, little by little, softening again, your fingers grazing the spines of journals, your lips quirking upward when he held up a ridiculous cat-shaped eraser wearing sunglasses.

Someone else might’ve called it a routine. Caleb knew better.

It wasn’t a habit. Habits were formed. Not a conscious decision, either. That meant he was aware of what he was doing. No, it was instinct, coded into his DNA, a part of him he never questioned. Taking care of you didn’t feel like a duty he had to go out of his way to perform — it felt like identity.

Caleb dropping to one knee, his uniform pants already scuffed and dirt-streaked from basketball practice, to wordlessly tie your undone shoelaces, his fingers moving with muscle memory before you could even notice they were loose. The sting of fresh scrapes and bruises on his skin ignored in favor of making sure you wouldn’t trip.

Caleb at the kitchen table, the sharp scent of freshly peeled apples mixing with the smell of open textbooks, carving them into little bunny shapes while you scrawled through your homework, utterly absorbed. You never asked him to, but when he placed them next to your notebook, you’d pick them up one by one without looking, popping each into your mouth with the ease of a habit long formed.

Caleb picking out the tomatoes from your sandwiches, his hands moving with an unthinking efficiency, discarding them onto his own plate before sliding your food back to you. Gran had insisted he leave them in, but he never listened. You never ate them, anyway.

Caleb slinging both your backpacks over his shoulder at the end of a long day, even when you huffed about being a big girl now. Even when you swatted at him in protest. He carried them anyway, hitching the straps with a shrug, the weight pressing against his shoulder never once showing in his stride.

Caleb pressing the cool mouth of his water bottle against your arm, nudging it toward you because some noiseless alarm in his brain had gone off, warning him that you hadn’t had a sip of water all day. No words exchanged. If you didn't count the expectant arch of his brow and the silent order in his gaze.

Caleb swiping a thumb across your cheek, brushing away the stray crumbs from whatever snack you had been stuffing into your mouth mid-conversation. His touch was brief, casual, a passing thought given shape — but it lingered for a second before he pulled away, already shifting his focus elsewhere.

It was nothing, all of it. Small, everyday things. Thoughtless, maybe, in his mind. But to everyone else—adults with indulgent smiles, boys his age groaning in exaggerated disbelief — it carried a burden he didn’t seem to know the meaning of. "God, Caleb, you’re setting the bar too high. You know most guys would trade their little sisters for a corn chip, right?"

Caleb’s instinct to look after you didn’t end at the school gates. Even with the separation of campuses forcing distance between you, his presence lingered in ways you never noticed — woven into the small, seemingly inconsequential moments of your day.

It wasn’t about dictation. You hated being told what to do, slipping through the grip of authority as water escapes cupped hands. So instead, Caleb nudged. Steered.

A casual mention of someone’s cool Lumiere pencil case turned into you borrowing their markers, which turned into sitting beside them in art class. A passing remark about a classmate’s awesome Lumiere trading card collection suddenly had you talking to them at recess. The kids who shared their snacks without hesitation, who pulled out chairs without asking, who held their ground when pettiness soured the lunch table — those were the ones Caleb passively nudged you toward.

It never felt unnatural. That was the key. He didn’t force anything, never shoved you in any particular direction. He made it easy.

A suggestion to invite someone over, tossed out so casually it barely was a suggestion at all. A last-minute reminder that some kid — one he had already vetted in the background of his mind — enjoyed the same ridiculous show as you, a convenient spark to get a conversation going.

And if certain kids seemed off, if their teasing had an edge to it, if they tested boundaries in a way that felt a little too familiar to Caleb’s instincts, he never said a word. He didn’t have to. He didn’t fan the flame. He watched them flicker out, one by one, while loyalty of a different kind grew from their ashes.

You never noticed the discreet maneuvering and how he even knew the information about those classmates despite being an upperclassman. You never realized how your world had been subtly, deliberately arranged in a way that kept you surrounded by good people. People Caleb knew would look out for you when he wasn't there.

And that was the point.

No one had questioned it thus far. Neither had he. There was nothing to be questioned.

Until today.

It was hot. The kind of thick, sweltering summer heat that was observable with that wavy, distorting illusion effect. The wooden porch steps beneath him radiated with it, baked through by the afternoon sun, carrying the scent of dry wood and dust. Cicadas droned in the distance, their unrelenting hum pressing in from every direction, blending with the tinny sound of the (probably-not-appropriate) streamer’s voice coming from his phone.

You were sprawled beside him, popsiclle stick half-forgotten in your fingers, red syrup trailing down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets. Caleb’s eyes flicked to it absently, knowing you wouldn’t notice until it reached your elbow. Your bare feet were pressed against his leg, stealing his shade with the smug contentment of a barnacle that had found the perfect spot to cling. He groaned, giving your ankle a lazy shove, but it was more for show than any real effort to get you to move.

Every so often, you’d lean against him, cheek brushing his shoulder, the heat from your skin seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. The scent of artificial cherry clung to your breath, mixing with the toasty cotton and the faintest trace of his own shampoo. It was too hot for this. Too hot for you to be all over him, only to wiggle restlessly a second later, squirming back into place and ignoring the stifling effect you were having on him.

He could’ve moved. Should’ve, probably. But he stayed put. Let out a huff, feigning annoyance, all while a stupid grin tugged at his mouth and he waited for you to lean back into him again.

And then the screen door creaked open, and the heavy scent of heat-crisped fabric softener drifted out as Gran stepped onto the porch, hands settling firmly on her hips, and said it.

"You're getting too big to be stuck to Caleb all the time, dear. You're not a baby anymore."

It wasn’t meant to be sharp, wasn’t meant to sting, but the comment buried itself in Caleb’s chest — sudden and weighty, plunging straight to some unreachable depth, cold settling through him in its wake.

Not a baby anymore.

Obvious. So obvious it should’ve bounced right off him. He was nearly a grown-up, already edging taller than some of the older boys, his limbs stretching out of last year’s clothes. His tank top, once loose, clung to him now, damp with sweat at the collar. His shorts were scuffed at the knees from a summer spent biking too fast, landing too hard. He was supposed to be out on the blacktop, running plays with the high schoolers, scraping his elbows on asphalt, staying out past the first flicker of streetlights without a second thought, anything but orbiting a tagalong presence that turned him into a punchline the moment older boys caught sight of it. And you…

What were you supposed to be doing? Not hanging off of him, apparently. Not pressing your perspiring skin against his in the heat of the day, not reaching for his hand out of instinct, not tilting your head toward him when you laughed, as if his reactions still mattered most.

The stick of his finished popsicle rested on his tongue, sticky-sweet, a lingering taste of artificial apple that felt almost mocking now. His fingers flexed, restless, drumming once against his knee before stilling.

His eyes flicked toward you — kicking your legs lazily against the porch steps.

"Then what is he?" You wrinkled your nose, squinting up at Gran as if the answer should have been obvious. "Just big?"

Gran chuckled, shifting her weight as she leaned against the doorframe, a subdued amusement ushering her voice. "Big enough to start weaning you off a little."

And just that quickly, the pressure behind Caleb’s ribs dragged lower, anchored by unseen hands, coiling everything inside him until it felt strained and scraped hollow.

Weaning you off.

The thought kept tugging at a place he couldn’t name, an ache flowering with sharp clarity, the slow rupture fragility held too long. The thought of you — apart from him, orbiting somewhere beyond his reach — felt foreign, wrong. Not turning to him first? Not following his lead? Where would you even go? And worse — who would you go to?

"That’s dumb," you declared, licking the last of the syrup from your fingers with a casual finality that almost soothed the raw edges of his nerves. "Why would he do that?"

You sounded so sure. So utterly certain, a truth spoken from the bones of the universe. Caleb clung to that certainty, let the bird take perch in his palms, tried to hold faith in it as you did. But then Gran hummed, low, knowing, her tone threaded through with the weariness of someone who’d witnessed this unfold more than once, her eyes fixed on the horizon of a sun bound to set.

She turned to Caleb, fixing him with a look that sat too heavy on his shoulders. "Caleb won’t want you tagging along forever."

His heart, steady a moment ago, suddenly pounded too hard against his ribs. The space between his shoulders burned. He parted his lips to argue, but no words came, his throat tight, thoughts tangled.

"No," you huffed, scrunching your face, clear unhappiness bleeding into your voice. "He’s my gege."

Yes. Exactly.

Then why did Gran sound like that? Why did she act as though this were some carved-in-stone truth, some outcome she’d already filed away — that he’d grow tired of you trailing behind, that he’d ever want to loosen his hold? He didn’t mind it — of course he didn’t.

A flash of heat rolled down his spine, unsettling and sudden, a strange pressure creeping under his skin. His body tensed against it, a shudder running straight through his core before he could stop it.

No. He liked when you followed him. He wanted you there, always half a step behind, always reaching for his sleeve, always seeking him first. That wasn’t weird, was it?

Gran knew exactly what she was doing. The amused curve of her lips, the way she adjusted her stance, arms folded loosely, her gaze genial but knowing—it was the look of someone who had already seen the ending of a story before anyone else even knew it had begun. But she was kind enough not to say it aloud.

"All right," she conceded, her voice easy, lilting, teasing but patient. "If you really think you're okay with being tied to him for life—"

"I am," you declared, not even letting her finish. Not missing a single beat.

It hit Caleb in a flash — everything catching fire all at once from a single spark. His pulse faltered, then surged, white-hot and golden blooming in his chest. A triumphant yes, a relief that tore through him so sharply it left his head reeling, his body thrumming with a force too wild to name, all from the way you said it, so absolute and undisputable.

But Gran wasn’t done.

"But what if he isn't?" she pressed. "What about when he finds his special someone?"

The concept was an anathema lodged into the gears of his mind. Special someone.

A vague, faceless figure materialized in the space next to him, spectral and wrong. Another girl, maybe. Someone else at his side, standing too close, reaching for his sleeve the way you did now, calling his name with too much familiarity. Someone who would take up space that should be yours — laughing with him over dumb inside jokes, stealing food from his plate, tugging on his hand in crowded spaces without thinking.

Taking care of her. Looking out for her. Ruffling her hair when she did well on a test, cooking for her, walking her home, bringing her gifts without needing a reason—

His stomach twisted, insides a dishcloth wrung tight, and suddenly, the popsicle stick in his grip felt foreign. Slowly, he became aware of the way his fingers had clamped around it, tight enough that splinters had bitten into his palm. Too tight.

The porch creaked as you shifted closer, knees bumping against his, your oversized t-shirt — his, actually, stolen ages ago — hanging off one shoulder, damp with summer sweat. You tilted your head, strands of sticky hair clinging to your forehead, blinking up at him with that wide, guileless stare. Your eyes, bright and searching, caught the light, reflecting flecks of gold.

"Caleb…"

There was concern there, nestled between the syllables of his name. An innocent plea, a tug at a place deep inside him he wasn’t ready to face.

His skin prickled.

"Gran’s being silly, pip-squeak," shot out too fast, too forced, but he grinned through it anyway, stretching his face into an easygoing mirror of comfort. With every fiber of his being, he shoved everything back down — buried it under the feverishness of the day, under the scent of melting sugar in the air, under the sound of your breathing, steady and trusting beside him. His fingers flexed, then relaxed to let him flick the splintered popsicle stick onto the porch steps. "There’s no way I’m ditching you! Come on, are we finishing the episode or what? We’ve got a lot to catch up on."

He slung an arm around you, dragged you close against his side, so offhand in the motion, yet every inch of him rooted in the touch, steadied by it without letting it show. You were sun-drenched and cuddly, the scent of your shampoo still clinging to the damp strands of your hair. You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting against him the way you always had.

And yet.

An unobtrusive force stirred inside him, threading through the bars around his lungs and tightening with merciless intent.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

The sky shifted, brilliant blue bleeding into orange, then purple, the day becoming more breathable as the heat slowly receded. Gran’s voice filtered out from the kitchen window, going on about dinner, but Caleb wasn’t listening. He wasn’t here anymore. His thoughts drifted somewhere further, somewhere he didn’t want to go — somewhere you couldn’t follow.

His thumb rubbed absently at the crook of your elbow, tracing slow circles over the smoothest part of your skin, a mindless habit meant to soothe — himself, that is.

The thought clung to him, a persistent dog at his heels, refusing to be shaken loose. It trailed him through the evening, barking at him nonstop as he moved through the small rituals of routine.

It was there when he set the table, watching you from the corner of his eye as you padded barefoot across the linoleum, the oversized sleeves of your pajama top slipping past your wrists. It was there when you tugged at his sleeve, your voice springy, grabbing his attention as he pulled the dish from the oven. Feed me, your eyes seemed to say, mouth already open, waiting. And of course, he gave in — pressing the edge of a still-hot bite against your lips after he blew on it, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched as you chewed.

It was there when you nuzzled up beside him later, your body slack with sleep, limbs tangled in the throw blanket you’d stolen from his lap. Your breath tickled his arm, brushing against a presence hiding in Caleb's shadow that had no name yet. The scent of your shampoo — faint now, laced with the salt of dried sweat from a long summer day — lingered between you. He told himself he wasn’t listening to the cadenced exhales, wasn’t matching his breathing to yours.

And then, it appeared as he tucked you into bed. As it always did.

You blinked up at him sleepily, covers pulled high, cheek squished against your pillow. Your room smelled of you, steeped in a nostalgia he couldn’t put into words but had always known. His fingers brushed the edge of your blanket as he lingered by your side.

It was normal.

It was always normal.

And yet, the thought, the one he had spent the entire day trying to drown out, was an ever-present uninvited guest whispering in his ear.

He couldn’t imagine not wanting you by his side for the rest of his life.

Years later, Caleb would pinpoint this summer, the summer of his fourteenth year, as the point of no return. The death of whatever childhood innocence had once dressed itself as sibling love.

An apple blossom plucked before its time, its petals discarded in favor of a fruit too heavy, too low-hanging, too wrong to belong among the delicate branches of the family tree.

Xavier never saw you cry at the funeral.

You had stood still, wrapped in black, hands flat at your sides, nails pressing half-moon indentations into your palms. The scent of freshly turned earth and incense was more present than any meaningful conversation, the whispers of condolences processed with you nodding along when spoken to, shaking hands, murmuring words that were rehearsed and expected. Your face was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the two caskets, one of which was empty, beyond the faces of mourners, beyond here.

He didn’t see you cry when you returned to what was left of home, either. Not when you stood at the threshold of devastation, the scent of charred wood and melted plastic still thick, mingling with the metallic tang of exposed steel. Not when you traced the edge of a broken picture frame with trembling fingers, or when the wind rattled through the skeletal remains of walls that had once held your precious family safe. If grief had a home in you then, it stayed silent, lurking at your back — a ghost suspended in the quiet, waiting to be seen.

No, the first time you let him see you cry was months later.

It didn’t announce itself with thunder and lightning. One moment, the world was steady. The next, the floodgates had opened.

His kitchen was mellow, steeped in the golden hues of a sun too lazy to set just yet, its light stretching long across the counter where you sat. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other swinging idly, the heel of your sock skimming against the cabinet with uniform taps. The room smelled of burnt sauce — nose-stinging, acrid, clinging to the air, a mistake neither of you dared mention, and the pan sat abandoned on the stove, its contents an unappetizing mess of charred edges and failed ambition, but for once, you hadn’t laughed at him yet. That was the first sign.

Xavier leaned against the counter across from you, arms folded, waiting for the inevitable teasing. But it never came.

Instead — your breath caught.

A small thing. Easy to miss. An inhale halted halfway, snagged on a knot buried deep not quite ready to unfold yet.

His eyes flickered toward you as your thumb hovered over your phone screen, frozen in place. The glow of it bathed your face in cold white light, so at odds with the luminescence spilling in through the window. You weren’t looking at him. Weren’t looking at anything, really — dissociating at the screen, your face blank.

And then, without sound, without warning, you folded into yourself. A band snapping into place after being too streched too thin for too long.

He knew this kind of breaking. Intimately.

It never arrived in a flash, never split a person open in one violent instant. Instead, it crept inward, burrowed deep into the marrow, slowly reshaping the bones from within. He had felt it before, held it before — in another life, in another ending. When your body had gone too still against his. When your breath had slipped against his neck without fear or struggle. A shaky exhale. A barely-there smile. A release so docile and serene, it had broken him more than any scream ever could.

He knew how grief hollowed a person out.

How it made ghosts out of the living, how it made you ache for someone even when they were right there, breathing the same air, sitting an arm’s reach away.

And still — watching you now — it hurt.

You swiped at your face, impatient, determined to wipe away the tears before they could fully form. But your hands betrayed you, trembling in spite of your resolve.

Xavier turned off the burner, the flame vanishing with a muted click.

Gently, he pried the device from your grip. You let him. Didn't resist, no glance upward. With the smallest movement, turning into him, you pressed your forehead into his shoulder, and he wanted nothing more than to fold you into the fabric of his shirt and make your pain disappear into the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The screen dimmed in his palm, but the voice still filtered through the speaker, sunny and youthful, threaded with a teasing affection that made Xavier’s throat tighten.

"I’ll be back soon. Be good, okay? Or you’ll be doin’ the cooking this time and I won’t lift a finger to help you."

A promise. A joke. A lie, but not an intentional one.

Then — a sound.

Small. Fractured. Hardly more than an exhale, yet enough to leave the raw sting of a wound torn fresh.

Xavier didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted, lowering his chin against the crown of your head, his arms gathering you up in a hold that wasn’t tight, but anchoring, and stayed that way until the light from the window cooled into that dusky shade of evening. Until the edges of both your shadows melted into one.

The same summer that had been the genesis of Caleb’s anxieties about growing apart, you wouldn’t shut up about the summer camp he was sure Gran had sent you to put space between the two of you. Much to his chagrin, you had returned beaming, spirits fiery, enveloped in the incense of lake water and pine sap, and carrying an entire new world in your hands.

He didn’t mind — honestly, he’d always enjoyed listening to you. Every story poured through your whole body: hands carving shapes in the air, feet kicking up at nothing, your voice rising and dropping, transforming canoe races and bonfire songs into tales far grander than they had any right to be.

But this time, the stories weren’t about him.

They weren’t about things you had done together.

Instead, they were about them.

Lian. Cass. Milo. Names that meant nothing to him but tumbled so effortlessly from your lips, light and familiar, were paper planes flung at him, each one carrying a piece of you away. Lian said this, Cass did that, Milo was so funny when—

Your laughter filled the space between you, unguarded and bright, the kind that made your whole body move with it — shoulders shaking, hands bracing against your knees as if you needed to physically steady yourself from the force of the memory. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, your oversized academy hoodie bunching at your elbows, the hem riding up to reveal a sliver of bare skin above your pajama shorts.

Caleb watched, his own smile flickering to life, rehearsed—a performance shaped by all the unspoken rules of moments such as this. He leaned back against the armrest, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table, socked feet grazing against yours without thought. Yeah? What’d he say? The words left his mouth before he could register them, autopilot kicking in where his thoughts strayed.

You inhaled sharply, hands flailing slightly as you tried to contain your excitement. "Okay, so we were in the mess hall, and Cass dared Milo to chug this absolutely vile shake we made by spinning this random online wheel, right? Like, I’m talking — smelled like feet and regret. Anyway, Milo, being the overachiever that he is, actually considers it, and then — Lian, oh my god — looks at him and goes, ‘I hope your digestive system is strong enough for this betrayal because in spirit, you aren’t.’"

You barely got the last words out before dissolving into another fit of laughter, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut in delight, hands clapping together — a little cymbal monkey, bright and electric. The sound pacified him, more soothing than memory, homelier than any childhood dream.

Caleb nodded, fingers forming a loose fist on his knee. "Yeah. That’s — uh, that’s funny."

It wasn’t.

The words rang hollow in his mouth, a bite into a fruit that looked ripe but tasted wrong.

This Lian guy — what was his deal? A little too self-aware, wasn’t he? Try-hard humor, the kind that made people laugh at things instead of with them. The type of jokes even Zayne would roll his eyes at.

“You have to hear about this too! One night during campfire stories, Lian started messing with the group by making up these ridiculous prophecies. You had to be there, but trust me, it was so good. He told Milo that he was doomed to trip over a tree root before the week was out and Milo actually did trip! It was insane. So obviously, we decided that Lian was our new oracle and now he gives everyone fake fortunes, like ‘beware the wrath of the cafeteria lady,’ or ‘your socks will mysteriously disappear in the night.’ And honestly? They’ve all come true. It’s freaky. So, everyone thought with his powers, we should overthrow the entire camp and take over as co-rulers, and honestly, I think we could do it."

At one point, Caleb had turned around, elbow braced against the couch arm, temple resting on his knuckles in a half-thoughtful pose, and giving you that look, the one that said he was listening, that you had his full attention — but if you peered in closer, you’d see the way the glimmer behind his pupils had been snuffed out.

"Oh yeah?" His voice came out smooth, too smooth, an autopilot response. "Where’d this revolution come from, exactly?”

"Okay, okay!" You beamed, sitting up straighter, knees bouncing with the effort of holding in your excitement. "So it all started when we got caught sneaking extra marshmallows from the mess hall. Lian was like, ‘This is tyranny, and we must rise up!’ So obviously, we started plotting this whole elaborate scheme to recruit our bunkmates and take control of the schedule board. If we changed the wake-up calls and sneaked into the admin office, we could make it so we got an extra hour of free time every day—”

Your hands waved wildly as you talked, nearly smacking him in the face at one point. Caleb barely blinked, smile thinning out a bit as you continued, oblivious.

"—and then Lian said that if we were in charge, we’d have unlimited access to the snack stash and, Caleb—imagine—unlimited s’mores!"

You looked at him then, eyes wide and expectant, your lips still parted from your last sentence, a pause charged with hope, waiting for him to catch the spark you carried, to match your excitement, to leap in and call it brilliant.

Instead, Caleb nodded slowly, lips pressing together in that familiar, measured way, the one that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "Sounds… revolutionary."

"Right?!" You beamed. "Lian even made a fake list of camp rules with ridiculous demands, like mandatory nap time and designated hammock hours. And you know what? I think he'd make a great leader.”

"Well, I mean, I thought you were supposed to be co-rulers?"

"Oh, we are," you said quickly, leaning back against the couch with a dreamy sigh. "But sometimes I feel like Lian just naturally takes charge, you know? He always has these ideas, and everyone just listens to him. It’s kinda amazing."

“Yeah. Amazing.”

"And Cass invited me to a sleepover this weekend," you announced, letting the words fall — an unassuming meteor disguised as a pebble, trying to slip soundlessly into still water. "Her parents are hosting, please, please, please! Can I go?"

Caleb barely had time to process before his stomach knotted, a visceral, immediate reaction.

No.

The word was right there, balanced on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out before he could even think. Just no. He wanted to force his authority on you and demand no questions be asked. It was an ugly thing, that instinct.

His nails dug into the front and back covers of the book in his lap, the spine pressing into his palm, though he hadn't turned a page in over ten minutes.

He didn’t know this Cass. Had never met her, had never had a say in whether or not she was someone you should be spending time with. Hadn’t chosen her for you.

You were watching him, chin propped on your hands, your knees tucked to your chest where you sat at the other end of the couch. Expectant. Certain he would agree, asking only out of habit.

Dark clouds gathered behind his eyes.

He wanted to be selfish. Wanted to refuse, unsettled by how quickly everything around him was tectonic plates breaking and lurching away from one another. Wanted to tell you to stay home, to keep things exactly the way they had always been. That sleepovers weren’t necessary, that you didn’t need to be anywhere else.

But he wasn’t your parent.

He wasn’t your guardian.

But he was your gege. Wasn’t he?

His breath came a little too tight, but he forced himself to smile anyway, reaching out to ruffle your hair the way he always did. The way he should. The way that meant nothing had changed.

"Yeah," he said, swallowing down the frog in his throat. "Have fun."

Your whole face lit up, legs kicking excitedly against the cushions. "I will!"

He forced out a chuckle, the sound barely reaching his ears. "Don't forget to give Gran her parents' contact numbers, okay? I'll drop you off."

That night, long after you had gone to bed, Caleb found himself standing outside your room, barefoot on the floor, staring at the thin ribbon of light seeping out from beneath your door, pale and flickering as your shadow moved beyond it, listening to the rustle of fabric, the muffled shuffling as you rearranged the contents of your overnight bag, followed by the careful scrape of a zipper.

He had done this before. Stood in this exact spot, staring at the door separating him from you, listening to the mild sounds of you existing on the other side. When you were younger, it had been different — he used to do it just to check, To make sure you were still breathing. A habit formed in childhood, lingering into habit, into routine.

But this time?

The space between him and the door stretched wide, a canyon yawning open where solid ground once lay. He wasn’t checking in. He was stuck watching what they had begin to slip through his fingers, scattering before he could catch and mend it back.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He could knock. He could find an excuse — ask if you needed an extra charger even though it was you who usually came asking for one, joke about how you were probably overpacking for one night, tease you about stuffing half your closet into your bag.

He could say something.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, letting the seconds stretch long and thin between you.

And then, with a worn exhale, he turned away, and turned in for the night.

Caleb lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it. The shadows cast by the faint glow of his bedside clock stretched long and distorted as the numbers ticked forward, marking the slow crawl of time. Sleep never came. He didn’t expect it to.

He wasn't simply daydreaming or overthinking — his mind was being pulled in by an unearthing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. A memory, worn at the edges but still sharp where it mattered.

The stories you used to tell.

Before camp. Before Gran. Before normalcy wrapped itself around your lives, an ill-fitting skin stretched too tight, chafing at every movement. Before you both learned how to live outside the sterile, white-washed walls where childhood had been a sentence, not a season.

Back then, in the cold fluorescence of a place that stank of antiseptic and the inescapable tang of copper, you had been the light.

The dreamer.

The one who could take four walls and write a new reality on them.

"I don’t belong here, my home is up here in the stars," you had whispered to him once, folded and huddled up on the too-thin mattress beside him, your voice hushed to keep secrets from the listening walls. "But it’s okay. He’s coming any day now."

"Who?" he had asked, because he knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

"My knight."

You had said it with absolute certainty, with a conviction so fierce that it almost made Caleb believe it too. "He promised he’d come back for me. But I won’t leave you here. He can take us far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere we don’t have to be afraid anymore."

Somewhere beyond the reach of men in white coats.

Back then, your world had been built on make-believe. On whispered prophecies and stories woven in the dark, each one an attempt to carve hope from the letters making up despair. And Caleb —

Caleb had never put stock in fairy tales, never believed in heroes riding in on white horses, or in distant kingdoms built on wishes and fate. But he had believed in you.

He had believed in the way your voice could dull the sharp edges of the world they lived in that was designed to poke and prod into them, the way you could take what was cold and sterile and fill it with hope, make it bearable. He had listened — really listened — memorized every inflection of your whispered stories in the dark, every frantic hope you clung to with tiny, desperate hands. He let you weave the illusion, let you pull him into that world where escape was possible, where you weren’t stuck waiting for whatever came next, helpless.

Then Gran took you in.

The men in white coats disappeared — gone, dead, buried beneath layers of the Chronorift Catastrophe and things nobody in this household ever talked about again. Life rearranged itself into a curated normal, into the bland routine of home-cooked meals and school bells and summer nights spent sprawled on the porch. And the stories?

They vanished.

The experiments had left fractures in your memory, gaps where entire years had been pried apart and left disassembled. Somewhere along the way, the knight from the stars had slipped through those cracks. Swallowed by time, forgotten, unspoken, lost to the void.

But Caleb never forgot.

The words still lived in the back of his mind, tucked away in the places he never let himself visit. He could still hear your voice, younger, frailer, whispering of a promise made long before you ever met him. He promised he’d come back for me.

For years, that story — your story — had been his greatest nightmare. The experiments and the ghosts in white coats, he could grit his teeth and bear. But the idea that the princely knight you had once spoken of so fervently would come after all?

Caleb had spent endless nights staring at the ceiling, waiting, listening, dreading. He had imagined it too vividly — some older, stronger man arriving in the dead of night, welcoming himself back into your world, with a voice manlier than his to turn your head and hands steady enough to pull you away from him. He had pictured the way you might look at someone the way you looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless, smitten — but this time so enamored that you wouldn’t even glance back.

But in the end, a celestial rescuer didn't arrive.

The nightmares of dramatic abductions he woke up drenched from that involved a grand, sweeping moment where someone took you from his grasp?

They were nothing compared to this.

Time. Life. The idle, inevitable turning point of you growing, changing, stepping further and further outside the world the two of you had built. Not running, not even intentionally leaving him behind — though, moving forward in a way that felt naturally inevitable, while he remained standing in place, watching your back drift further away.

He swallowed hard and turned onto his side, the sheets cool against his skin, but the heat in his chest refused to dissolve.

The knight from the stars was never real.

But the fear of losing you had always been.

Xavier’s apartment smelled like burnt toast.

Which was impressive, considering toast wasn’t even part of the meal.

Xavier’s second attempt at breakfast was going about as well as the first, which was to say: disastrous. The air purifier was whirring uselessly, struggling to clear out the acrid smoke infused into the walls, your clothes, your hair. The sink had already claimed several casualties — half-peeled vegetables, a cracked egg that never made it to the pan, and a bowl of rice that had turned a color rice should never be.

The only thing that had survived unscathed was the jar of honey.

And even that, apparently, was proving to be a challenge.

You sat at the counter, chin propped up on your hand, watching as Xavier wrestled with the lid and not even lifting a finger to help to see how long he could hold on until he wanted to recruit your help with that rare pleading face of his.

His long fingers, pale and deft, snaked around the glass, his knuckles pressing white with effort. The lamplight pooled over the sharp angles of his wrists, catching on the fine bones of his hands, the faint veins trailing up the smooth expanse of his forearms. His skin, impossibly fair, seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. He was all silken precision, all effortless control — except for the slight crinkle kissed between his brows, the faint crease of concentration on his otherwise perfectly composed face.

He twisted the lid one way, then the other, then braced it against his hip with the bearing of someone prepared for battle. The muscles in his forearm tensed beneath the pale stretch of skin, lean and corded, a whisper of restrained strength. His silver lashes lowered, his lips pressed into a flat, determined line.

It was an absurdly regal effort.

And then—

POP.

The lid exploded off like a gunshot.

Honey burst from the jar in a gilded arc, catching the light as it splattered across the counter, his hands, and, most notably, his face.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

A dollop of honey traced a viscous, lazy path down his cheek, catching at the delicate edge of his jaw, slipping past the curve of his mouth. His finely-shaped lips parted slightly in what could have been a sigh, or maybe exasperation. The strands of silver hair that framed his face were damp with syrup, sticking to the flawless cut of his cheekbones, glinting like strands of moonlight caught in amber.

And still, his expression remained blank. Like he didn’t quite register what had happened yet.

You were the first to break.

It started as a tremor at the back of your throat. A choked, strangled sound that barely registered as your own.

Xavier turned to you, silver lake blue eyes impassive.

“Is something funny?” he asked with a pout he was trying to hold back.

It wasn’t.

Except—

It was.

The laugh broke free before you could stop it, shaking loose from your chest, raw and unfamiliar. Your shoulders shook. Your head tipped back. It wasn’t a chuckle in the form of a small exhale through your nose that had become your usual lately — it was real laughter, the kind that knocked the breath from your lungs, the kind that you hadn’t felt in so long it almost startled you.

Xavier did not react.

Did not wipe the honey from his cheek.

Did not reach for a towel.

He simply stood there, deep pink dusting his ears, regarding you with an expression that was entirely too resentful. As if you were the strange one. As if he hadn’t just declared war on a honey jar and lost spectacularly.

You doubled over, forehead pressing to the counter as your fists banged soundlessly against the cool surface, struggling to breathe, to ground yourself. And yet, the laughter only came harder.

And then—

Then it hit you.

There were tears in your eyes.

Your breath stuttered, laughter splintering into hush, smaller now, unguarded, tremulous at the edges. The sound wavered, teetering between joy and grief at laughing in the kitchen with someone else at another time, until it fell on its knees somewhere in between.

Xavier didn’t say anything.

He reached for a napkin and, with surgical precision, wiped the substance from his face, and only managed to smear it around more.

You hiccupped, breath still uneven, as he casually put the jar down on the counter, closing a palm on top of it.

“Well, we’ve got honey at least,” he said, leaning in and turning his soiled cheek closer to you. “Do you want it?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you raised a finger and brushed along his cheekbone, collecting honey in a sticky trail as he kept his quiet-twinkled stare on you. As you pulled back your hand, he turned and licked his tongue over it, taking a taste as he contemplated the flavor thoughtfully.

"Good quality," he noted approvingly, his tone matter-of-fact.

His skin was soft. Soft enough that despite the sugar clinging to him, the endearment and tenderness beneath made you lean forward and kiss him where you touched. Lightly. Bare lips pressed against his cheek, feathery and fleeting before pulling away. You tasted honey and sunshine when you licked your lips — golden brightness pooling on your tongue, a sugary daze seeping into your veins.

You looked up in time to catch his double blink of surprise, eyebrows rising delicately to his hairline as his cheeks flushed deeper rose under all the sticky mess. A moment passed between you in silence — a private eternity.

Avoiding you when he was the one who made the move, Xavier immediately went on to clean — like nothing had happened, like he hadn't spilled the heart you had under lock and key all over the cavity of your ribcage. And you sat there, fingers trembling as you wiped your eyes, pretending you weren’t still smiling.

Falling in love had never felt like this before.

It had never crept in through the cracks, never been this tranquil, this steady.

But now, as you watched him move through the kitchen in search of edible food to put in front of you to eat, all awkward grace and clandestine embarrassment, you realized—

Maybe it had been happening all along.

The first time you saw Lumiere, you were too young to understand much of anything beyond the debilitating terror.

The world had cracked apart from the seams, horrors flooding the streets, a wound ripped open, impossible to mend. Sirens screamed through the chaos, their wailing voices swallowed by the greater, more inhuman sounds of the city tearing itself apart. The sky was wrong, a gaping, swirling hole yawning at its center, unnatural and seething, pulsing with a restless, uncanny life.

Buildings folded and twisted in on themselves, steel beams bending, dying fingers straining for help out of reach. The ground trembled beneath your feet, a violent, groaning thing, the earth itself recoiling from the carnage. Wanderers moved through the ruins, bending and warping the space around them, and the air turned dense, distorted, collapsing impossibly inward.

People ran. A panicked, mindless stampede of scattering birds in the wake of a predator as smoke rolled thick through the streets, pressing its fingers against your lungs, squeezing. The streets had become graveyards. Cars sat abandoned, doors flung open in frozen panic, some crushed beneath fallen debris, others twisted into shapes that no longer resembled vehicles at all, and glass littered the asphalt, catching the firelight in fractured glints only to trip some people up as they were trying to escape.

Within hours, the city had come undone, an ending ripping apart ground and sky alike, undeniable in its finality.

And in the middle of it all—

A spectral shimmer against the bruised expanse of the sky, carving through the ruins in a streak of molten silver, a shooting star torn from the heavens and hurled toward the ground. He moved with the force of a video game character come to life, graceful, otherworldly, his blade carving arcs of light through beasts too vast, too nightmarish to fall to mere guns made by men.

You remembered the moment gloved hands — gentle, strong — had pulled you from the wreckage, lifting you out of the chaos as if you weighed nothing at all. The world around you was still crumbling, still breaking apart in ways too enormous for your small mind to comprehend, but in that instant, none of it reached you. His arms scooped you up protectively, familiar in a way, shielding you from the twisted bodies of cars, from the distant screams, from the flickering, impossible reality of the Wanderers.

Your tiny hands had latched onto his sleeve, frantic for any shape or form of safety, and even now, you could remember the way it felt beneath your fingertips — impossibly luxurious, a sensation that didn’t belong in this world at all. His white coat, unblemished despite the wreckage, didn’t seem to absorb the destruction the way everything else had, it should have been ruined, torn by shrapnel, dirtied by smoke and fire, but it wasn’t. It was perfect. As if nothing — not the crumbling city and certainly not the monsters — could touch him.

He had only looked down at you once, but that was all it took.

Those eyes — deep blue, so calm it felt unreal, still as a lake undisturbed — had met yours, devoid of pity. His hair, the lightest shade of white gold, caught the glow of the firelight, making it near impossible to tell where the light ended and he began. It was almost holy, a glow that stripped away the edges of personhood, leaving behind a figure summoned from the hushed wonder of a fairy tale. A savior carved from light and distance.

And then, without a word, he had pulled you closer and lifted off the ground.

The city fell away beneath you, the fires and spiraling smoke blurring into streaks as the wind roared past your ears, the world that had mere moments ago tried to swallow you whole becoming nothing but a smear of color beneath your feet. Up here, cradled in the cocoon of safety, you were untouchable. Weightless as light itself.

You had never stood this high above it all. Never seen the world stretched out in such vastness. Never felt your chest fill quite the same way.

For a moment, in the middle of catastrophe, it was a dream.

And just as suddenly, it was over.

He descended with effortless precision, the wind dying around you as your feet met the ground, his arms the last thing you let go of. Gran’s trembling hands were there in the next breath, pulling you into a desperate embrace outside the shelter, voice cracking with relief.

You turned to look for him.

But he was already gone.

As if he had never been there at all.

And that was all it took. You were obsessed.

As you got older, fascination twisted into obsession. The internet sleuth in you wasn’t held back by being fourteen, hunting for everything, books, articles, classified reports that had leaked onto obscure message boards, desperate for any scrap of information on Lumiere. Your search history became a shrine to him, spiraling down a rabbit hole of half-truths and speculation that even explaining porn to Gran would be easier.

You scoured forums where people spoke about him in fanatic reverence in endless threads filled with theories and fragmented testimonies. Some claimed to have seen him in the flesh, accounts breathless and disjointed, warped by awe and that phenomenon where one couldn’t exactly convey what they had gone through in perfect storytelling. Others swore he was nothing but a myth conjured by higher-ups to give birth to hope in the chaos of Linkon’s Catastrophe, possibly a constructed hero for the screens, the latter of which you knew better to entertain at all.

You watched every second of available footage, even the grainy, unstable clips filmed on trembling phones, taken from rooftops, from shattered streets, from whatever vantage point people could find before fleeing for their lives. You rewound, paused, analyzed, frames gone over with meticulous care one by one for anything you could find to get closer to his identity.

How he moved, fluid and precise, inhuman even with evol-user standards, the world around him bent in subtle ways as if the reality itself wasn't sure how to hold him, light distorting at the edges of his body.

You traced backtracked his path through the city, cross-referencing footage with satellite images, tracking where he had been, where he had vanished, where the destruction had ended in his wake, taking scraps of information jotted in the margins of notebooks, highlighted documents saved on your drive, timelines reconstructed in frantic detail.

You tried to reconstruct your own memories, too, for anything related to his face, but they slid past your grip, sand slipping loose no matter how tightly you held on — there for a moment, vivid and raw, before scattering into obscurity. Time and trauma had eroded the edges, distorting the details, leaving you with fragments instead of a whole.

You remembered the feeling more than anything.

The glow of his energy swimming around him, a halo of sentient light, illuminating the space between you. It held no bite of fire and no chill of electricity, brushing your skin, a cat bumping its forehead into your hand, then threaded through your bones, a current that knew your shape.

You knew, deep in your bones, that you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. And that fact shaped you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Caleb thought it was hilarious.

“You could’ve picked literally anything else,” he teased, arms crossed as he watched you rearrange your Lumiere fanart posters for what had to be the third time that week, but there was an undeniable awe in the way his eyes swept over the sheer dedication on display. You would roll on the floor and kick your limbs if it meant not doing your assigned chores, but the organization skills invested in Lumiere was nothing short of neat.

You barely glanced at him, too focused on making sure the edges of the posters were perfectly aligned. “And you still would be making fun of me.”

He snorted. “Listen, I support you, but you’ve turned this into a lifestyle.”

His gaze flicked around your room, taking in the full extent of your devotion. The shelves were packed — action figures still pristine in their boxes, rare collector’s items standing proudly on display, books and magazines arranged as meticulously as artifacts in a museum. A limited-edition Lumiere print, framed in glass, hung on the wall, belonging more to a gallery than a bedroom.

He reached over and flicked the head of a small Lumiere figurine on your desk, watching as it wobbled slightly before settling. Then he gestured toward the obscenely priced framed poster you had nearly cried over when it arrived in the mail.

“How much of your allowance have you blown on this guy?”

You turned to him, entirely unrepentant, eyes gleaming with conviction. “Every cent has been worth it.”

Caleb let out a long, dramatic sigh before collapsing onto your bed, bouncing slightly against the mattress as he folded his hands behind his head. His eyes flicked between you and the sheer shrine of Lumiere memorabilia covering your walls, his under-eye puffs creasing somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation.

"You know," he mused, stretching out in a long, languid motion, "if you ever put this much dedication into something productive, you'd probably rule the world by now."

So much dad-talk with this guy.

"You’re just mad I’m putting my energy into Lumiere and not boosting your ego twenty-four-seven," you shot back, rolling your eyes as you took a step back to assess your latest Tetris-like rearrangement of posters. No visible surface of the wall underneath. Perfect.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully, still watching you with the kind of lazy, calculated interest that always meant trouble. Then, after a beat of silence, his lips twisted into a slow, knowing grin.

"Actually," he drawled, tilting his head slightly, "I bet you have some secret Lumiere fanfic account somewhere, don’t you?"

Your heart nearly stopped. "What—"

“Oh, you totally do.” Caleb was grinning now, wide and victorious, a cat circling cornered prey, dragging out the moment for his own satisfaction.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him with everything you had. He dodged effortlessly, laughing as it thudded uselessly against the floor.

“Shut up, Caleb!”

“I’m right, though. I knew it.” He sat up, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought, the way he talked dipping into that slow, calculating tone that made your stomach drop. “Now the question is — what exactly do you write? Reader-insert? OCs? Ooh, or is it those tragic longing glances across the battlefield type deals?”

You peeked through your fingers, glaring from behind your hands. “How do you even know all of this?! You’re — You’re not supposed to know things like this! You’re a guy!”

“Wow. Gender stereotyping? In this day and age? For your information, I listen when people talk. Unlike someone.”

“I never talked about writing!” you shriek cracked in sheer betrayal.

“Please. You definitely have a secret account. Probably one of those edgy usernames, like ‘EclipsedSoul94’ or something.” He snapped his fingers. “Or wait — maybe something romantic. Like… ‘Lightbearer’s Muse.’”

Your entire body locked up.

Caleb’s eyes went wide, and in the split second of silence that followed, you knew you were doomed.

“No. Way.” His voice practically beamed with glee as he shot forward, bracing himself on his hands and knees, body coiled in a posture that needed no explanation — ready to absolutely pounce on the weakness he'd found. “Did I actually get close?!"

You scrambled back, heart hammering. "Shut up!"

He was laughing now, leaning into every bit of your suffering. "Wow, this is even better than I imagined. Really though, what do you write? Self-insert where you get rescued by him again? Maybe a little strangers-to-lovers? C’mon pip-squeak, you can share it with me… Oh, wait — do you make him suffer? Tragic backstory rewrite? I’m thinking angst. Big, dramatic, heart-wrenching—”

"Get out of my room!"

This time, you launched the pillow with actual intent to maim. He caught it effortlessly, barely even flinching, his grin unaffected.

“Oh, I’m going to find it,” he declared, tossing the pillow back onto your bed as he stood. “It’s only a matter of time.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then turned them toward you. “Just remember — you can’t hide from me forever.”

And with that, he was gone.

The second the door clicked shut, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face into the nearest pillow and screamed.

You were so screwed.

Despite the relentless teasing, the smug grins, the knowing looks whenever you so much as mentioned Lumiere’s name, Caleb never actually tried to talk you out of your obsession. Never scoffed and told you to get over it, never dismissed the endless streams of theories and analysis spilling from your mouth. If anything, he made it worse.

Because instead of shutting you down, he fed into it.

Where everyone else might have tuned you out, offering half-hearted nods and vague hums of acknowledgment, Caleb locked in. Matched your energy in a way that no one else ever would.

Somewhere along the way, he had started picking things up. Anyone who spent enough time around you would eventually know Lumiere’s name, his signature abilities, his role in the Catastrophe. But Caleb went further. He started stockpiling trivia, hoarding that ammunition, waiting for the right moment to use it against you.

And he did. Mercilessly.

"You know, technically, Lumiere’s first recorded appearance after the Catastrophe is actually three years later, he’s not entirely gone," he had dropped casually over breakfast one morning, flipping through his phone and pretending he wasn’t watching your reaction out of the corner of his eye. "A witness in South End reported seeing a guy with light-based powers interfering in a protocore smuggling ring. No solid proof, but some people think—"

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Or the time you were mid-rant about power scaling inconsistencies in an old debate, only for Caleb to lazily stretch his arms and yawn, "Yeah, but Lumiere’s light refraction abilities could inherently be tied to gravitational fields, so if you think about it, it actually makes sense that his speed varies depending on—"

You had thrown a book at him.

He acted so effortlessly the information seemed intrinsic in his mind, but you knew. He had researched this. Had studied. Absorbed every ridiculous tidbit for the sole purpose of catching you off guard, slipping it into conversation so seamlessly it almost passed for expert knowledge.

And whenever you found out about a rare Lumiere event — an exhibit, a convention panel, a last-minute pop-up experience — Caleb always somehow made time for it. No matter how busy he seemed, no matter how often he claimed there were more pressing obligations, he never let you go alone.

He was the one dragging you out the door before you could overthink it, nudging you along when your nerves made you hesitate, handing over your ticket alongside a long-suffering sigh that turned the gesture into a silent, affectionate duty. And yet, despite all his grumbling, he never actually looked reluctant.

He took you to Lumiere-themed pop-up cafés, sitting across from you in a booth that was entirely too colorful for his tastes, making some sarcastic remark about how even the food was branded. And yet, when the latte art arrived, he took the picture before you could even reach for your phone, angling it perfectly right to catch the aesthetic lighting.

He cringed at the massive life-sized Lumiere cardboard cutouts at events but still held your bag whenever you ran up to one, your grin wide and shameless as you posed beside it. And then, when you weren’t paying attention, he took actual good pictures, ones where you didn’t look stiff or awkward, capturing the moment exactly as it was — your excitement, your enthusiasm, the way your entire face lit up.

He even tagged along to convention panels, sitting patiently through heated debates over Lumiere’s greatest heroic moments, invested enough to seem genuinely involved. You expected him to zone out, maybe nap through the more obscure discussions, but he never did, if anything, he leaned into the arguments with the investment of a man lingering before a soap opera he told his partner he wasn’t interested in, standing up with hands on hips.

And when you shot him a look, silently accusing him of enjoying this way more than he let on, he shrugged.

"Hey, I’ve been forced into this fandom. Might as well commit."

You wanted to argue, call him out on the fact that he was the one feeding into your obsession, not the other way around. But the moment you turned and opened your mouth, he was already flipping through the event schedule.

"Alright," he would lock in. "Where’s the merch booth?"

Caleb had made your love for Lumiere feel valid, important — even if he never let you live it down.

One year, on your birthday, Caleb somehow managed to track down the holy grail of Lumiere merchandise—an original, limited-edition plushie from an exclusive release, the kind of thing that had vanished off the market almost as soon as it had dropped. You had spent so much searching for it, scouring secondhand listings, watching auctions climb into absurd price ranges before vanishing altogether and appearing right back in someone else's hands to be auctioned once more, hands in your hair agonizing over the relic of the fandom hardcore collectors would have sold their souls for.

And Caleb, of all people, had found it.

You still remembered the moment you unwrapped it — the weight of the box in your lap, the crinkle of carefully folded tissue paper giving way beneath your fingertips, the instant recognition as soon as you caught a glimpse of familiar fabric. Your breath had hitched, hands going still, heart a dice jostled loose as it skittered sharply in the hollow of your throat through the realization.

This wasn’t some replica. Not a well-kept version of the later reprints, either. This was the original.

You lifted it gently, almost reverently, fingers ghosting over embroidered details, tracing the edges of the slightly worn tag still attached to its side. It appeared untouched, preserved as a fragment of history—but you knew better. You understood its age, understood the improbability of finding a piece this old, this rare, preserved so perfectly.

You had screamed and made him jump, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug, your hands shaking as you clutched it close to your chest, running your fingers over the embroidered insignia and the carefully-stitched details. "No. No way. NO WAY! Where—how—? Caleb!"

He ruffled your hair in that annoyingly familiar way, his touch light but lingering a second longer than usual. “It wasn’t even that hard to get.”

You pulled back, still clutching the plushie to your chest, blinking at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it wasn’t hard? Caleb, this thing has been sold out for years. People would kill for it. I would’ve killed for it.”

He shrugged, all nonchalance, feigning indifference to having gifted you nigh-impossibility. “Luckily, you don’t need to, because I know people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do not know Lumiere merch scalpers.”

“I might.”

You gawked at him. “Wait. Wait. Did you actually—”

Caleb waved you off, leaning back in his chair, already deciding the conversation was over. The birthday cake remnants still sat on the table nearby, plates half-empty. “Just be grateful, gremlin.”

You stared at him, still overwhelmed, your heart all over the place from equal parts excitement and the dawning realization that he had to have gone above and beyond to get this. And he wasn’t even rubbing it in your face this time, either. Just looking smugly content.

The stove lights flickered against his face, highlighting the grin playing at his lips, but beneath all the teasing, there was the unbearable smother of honeyed fondness that made your breath catch for a heartbeat.

You hugged the plushie tighter, still clutching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Caleb.”

He cracked an eye open, raising a brow. “Hmm?”

You didn’t even know what to say. Thank you didn’t seem enough. But you also knew he’d never let you dwell on it too long. He'd always been this — giving, caring, yours, in a way that was so deeply ingrained in your life you sometimes forgot to acknowledge it.

Choked up, you nudged his leg beneath the table with your foot. Caleb, ever the instigator, nudged back, his grin widening as your little game escalated into a full-blown under-the-table foot war. The plates and empty glasses clinked slightly as your shins bumped, his movements slow and infuriatingly confident, while you tried to gain the upper hand.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered instead, trying to mask the sudden hot wave creeping up your neck.

Caleb, predictably, took the bait, his grin widening as he leaned back, stretching his legs out to trap yours in place. “You love me,” he shot back, effortlessly smug, not expecting anything more from you.

And maybe that was what made it so easy to say what you did next, words slipping out before you could think twice. “I’d probably be miserable without you.”

His foot froze against yours.

You didn’t notice, too focused on reclaiming your space in the ongoing foot war, pushing against his shin again with renewed determination. But across the table, Caleb had gone completely still, his smile faltering imperceptively before he recovered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, shaking his head, but his ears were red, his voice lower than before.

Another time, he had stayed up with you all night, camping out in a virtual queue to secure tickets to a Lumiere-themed convention. You had woken up that morning to a confirmation email and Caleb sprawled on your couch, half-asleep with his phone still in his hand.

You had launched yourself at him, tackling him in joy, and even though he had groaned about being used as a human pillow, he had never once pushed you away.

Looking back, you wondered if you had ever truly understood that these memories weren’t just tied to Lumiere. They were wrapped by the safety and happiness of Caleb always making space for your hyperfixations, in the laughter over quirks only he would ever care to indulge.

The things you treasured most had never belonged to Lumiere. They had always belonged to Caleb.

The old town, infested with Wanderers and long abandoned by warmth, was colder than expected — it wasn't the kind of cold that froze people in place. It moved with the wind, restless and alive, biting and electric, static before a lightning strike, unseen teeth grazing exposed skin.

You had felt it before Xavier did.

Even before the wind cut sharper, before the first true gust sent loose debris skittering across the road, you had known, drawn in on yourself instinctively, chin tucked, shoulders hunched, fighting the chill that threaded through your coat as if the layers meant nothing, arms locked tight around your body, gloved fingers bunching up your sleeves, as if bracing for what awaited beyond the horizon.

And then, you had stopped talking somewhere along the walk back, words trailing off until there was nothing but the sound of your footsteps, picking up pace, pressing forward.

Xavier hadn't noticed — not at first.

Not in the way he should have.

He had assumed you were cold—that you, much the same as him, simply didn’t want to be caught outside when the storm hit. Had brushed it off as normal — the logical reaction to impending bad weather.

The place they had taken for the night barely deserved to be called a shelter. It was a husk of a room, abandoned to time, walls bruised by damp stains crawling upward in slow, creeping ivy-shaped tendrils, smelling of old concrete and rusted metal. The single window rattled in protest against the wind, its warped frame allowing the night to slip through in cold, sharp breaths, laced with the damp tang of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

The heater struggled against the chill, wheezing out uneven bursts that never reached past the center of the room. Its hum was a frail thing, swallowed by the rising howl of wind that zipped through the alleyways outside, hissing and whistling through unseen cracks in the foundation.

They had a plan — keep watch in shifts, take turns standing guard. But plans meant nothing when he felt safe enough and wooziness had already sunk its fangs deep, wrapping around his limbs, pulling him down, heavy and relentless, deeper beneath a silent current.

Sleep took him fast the way it usually did.

At some undefined hour of the night, he surfaced from sleep — not to cold, but to warmth.

His mind waded through the haze of exhaustion, sluggish and unwilling, thoughts tangled in the remnants of whatever half-formed dreams had been unraveling in his head. Instinct kept his body still, his muscles coiled, tight, waiting. The room was silent except for the distant hush of wind through the cracks, the faint coughing of the heater struggling against the damp chill.

And then, awareness seeped in.

Something soft. Comfy. Pressed against him.

It wasn’t from the heater.

It was you.

The realization was a breath held too long, burning his lungs. You had crumpled into him in sleep, your body drawn close as if seeking comfort, heat, him.

Even without seeing your face, he felt it in the way you clung to his shirt in a death-grip. Your knuckles pressed into his ribs, your breath ghosting across his skin in shallow, uneven pulls, whisper-vague, as if shaped from the same dream that carried his secrets.

And you were trembling.

It wasn't violent enough to wake you up, but his senses were sensitive enough that he picked it up anyway, wilted at the thought of whatever had driven you to this.

Outside, the storm had come in full.

Lightning split the sky in flashing white veins, illuminating the window for a fractured instant before plunging them back into darkness, wind howled through the streets, carrying the sharp, sudden crack of thunder. You flinched in your sleep, whining intermittently.

And suddenly, Xavier understood.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, an instinctual response written into muscle memory taking the reins. He shifted with a frictionless glide in a motion akin to settling deeper into water without disturbing the surface.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, adjusting to the subtle pull of your body against his. He could feel the way you fit against him, the way you doubled inward, seeking heat, seeking him. The fabric of his shirt tightened under your grip, your fingers still balling the material as if you weren’t ready to let go, even in sleep.

He could have woken you. Should have.

A gentle shake of your shoulder, a reassuring murmur — It’s just a storm. It will pass.

But inexplicably, he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed.

Let you burrow closer, let your breath even out against his collarbone, let the beckon of sleep attempt to reclaim you, no matter how restless it was. The scent of you — faint traces of perfume and the lingering damp chill from the outside — mixed with the slow burn of body heat between you, wrapping the moment in what neither of you would acknowledge in the morning.

He told himself he was only waiting. Just for a little while. Just until you settled.

What came next was barely a sound that he almost mistook it for the wind rattling through the walls.

“Caleb.”

Xavier froze.

A slow, twisting sickness thrashed in his stomach, bitter and ugly, which he had no right to feel.

Outside, the city howled. Wind rushed through the skeletal remains of forgotten buildings, rain lashing against the rattling windowpane in fits of fury, thunder cracking, deep and rolling.

But inside?

Inside, there was only this.

The press of your body against his. The shape of you molded against his side as if you meant to hold onto him. As if you were reaching for him beyond the instincts to keep snug and the thick haze of exhaustion — but truly, blindly, instinctively.

And yet—

It wasn’t his name you whispered.

Xavier’s jaw locked, his breath shallow. He could have let you go. Could have moved away, broken the moment, shaken you gently awake and told you to take the bed. Could have reminded you, in some unofficial, necessary way, that he was not the one you were calling for.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He let you stay there, let himself absorb the reality of you. Let himself pretend, for a moment, that this meant nothing. That it was only an exhaustion-born slip of the tongue, a dream clawing through the grave that wouldn't survive the morning light.

The storm prowled in late, a hulking beast dragging its belly across the sky, smothering the moon beneath a thick, churning mass, its swollen clouds restless beasts rolling in. Lightning flickered in their depths, a pulse beneath thick, churning skin, illuminating the world in fractured glimpses — a flash of the windowpane, rain-streaked and rattling, a brief glint of an airplane model on the nightstand, the sharp angles of shadows clawing across the ceiling. Then darkness again. The first distant growls of thunder were rolling in low, stretching their echoes across the night.

Caleb barely noticed.

The flickering blue light of the TV played over his face, his body sprawled across the bed in an easy sprawl, one arm slung over his eyes. The hum of voices from the screen blended into the static haze of his thoughts, their weightless chatter filling the space without asking anything of him. A small comfort.

A bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, flooding the room with a bone-white flash.

CRACK!

A thunderclap split the air, slamming into the apartment with a force that rattled the windowpanes, making the lights flicker, and Caleb flinched, breath caught mid-inhale.

You were afraid of storms.

It had been years since you’d last crawled into his bed on a night this stormy, but fear didn’t vanish — it just took new forms, wore new masks.

Just as life did.

Once, fear had been the thunder outside your window. Now, it was subtler, more intangible, abstract. Time itself pulling you both in opposite directions was a tide too strong to fight.

His world had grown far beyond the childhood walls that once felt endless. The cracked pavement of your old street had given way to stadium lights, the sharp echo of a basketball on concrete replaced with the chaotic squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. Grueling practices stole his evenings, high-stakes games consumed his weekends, and the weight of expectation that had begun bearing down on his shoulders was a physical thing. Coaches, teammates, strangers — each of them had carved their own demands into him, shaping him into someone more than the boy you used to know.

And yet, all of it — every late-night practice, every exhausting sprint, every sacrifice — had been a decision made in the seclusion of his own mind.

For your sake.

Because while his world had stretched wide and far, you had remained at the center of it. Home was still in your shadow.

Had it been too much to expect for it to be the same for you?

You were no longer the kid who used to chase after him, feet barely keeping up, breathless and laughing, wide-eyed and weightless and trusting in the way only children could be.

Your hands had once been so small, always grasping, always finding his wrist, his sleeve, the hem of his shirt — any part of him that anchored you. In crowded hallways, you used to be glued to his side as if the press of bodies and the rush of voices would swallow you whole if he wasn’t there to hold you tight.

It was in the way you spoke now. Gone were the sidelong glances in his direction and pausing to gauge his reaction before deciding whether to commit to a thought. Confidence that wasn’t borrowed from him but built on your own ground.

It was in the spaces you carved out, the ones where his presence had become optional instead of assumed. The text chains he wasn’t part of, filled with names and inside jokes he didn’t recognize. The weekend plans you no longer ran by him first, the group outings where he wasn’t automatically included. People who had their own memories with you — memories he wasn’t in. Once, your world had overlapped so completely with his that he never questioned whether he had a place in it. Now, it was expanding, growing branches he hadn’t been there to water.

The signs were everywhere, in details so small they almost felt petty to notice — almost. The way you’d tilt your phone away when typing, in the existence of private social media accounts he didn’t have access to. The way you ordered for yourself at restaurants without giving him that familiar look, the unspoken “you know what I like” that used to pass between you. The way your late-night talks had dwindled, from every time something went wrong to only when it was serious.

Once, you would have knocked on his door in a heartbeat — over a bad test grade, a ruined outfit, a stubbed toe, whatever, anything and everything, whatever excuse let you be near. Now, days passed before he even realized anything had happened at all, and by the time he asked, you had already handled it and moved on.

And he told himself it was good. Healthy. A natural part of growing up.

But needing him less was one thing.

Needing him not at all — that was something else entirely.

And then there were the looks — the ones he hadn’t noticed at first, maybe even refused to.

The first time he really saw it, open paranthesis — couldn't ignore anymore — close paranthesis, was on the court at seventeen, the burn of the game still fresh in his muscles, sweat rolling down his spine in slow, sticky beads. His heart was hammering from the last play, his breath still unsteady, but none of that mattered the second his gaze flicked toward the sidelines.

You were there, exactly where you always were, standing beyond the edge of the gym floor, your voice still ringing from whatever cheer you’d thrown his way. But he was there too — some near-graduate with too much ego and too little sense, stretching lazily near the bench with a pretense that he wasn’t watching you, when he very much was.

Caleb saw it in the slow drag of his gaze, the way it traced over you like a hand, the up-and-down appraisal that made his stomach fold in on itself hot and tight.

This fossil wasn’t some kid on the playground getting red-faced and tongue-tied, some middle school idiot stammering through a crush while Caleb loomed over him, effortlessly making himself an immovable wall between you and them.

Back then, it had been easy. He never had to try. A single glance, a well-placed hand on your shoulder, a casual, dismissive she’s busy or oh, she’s not dating yet or she’s got a curfew or we’ve got family plans tonight was all it took to send whatever unfortunate boy packing. Those little guys were no real threat — not to him, not to you. They were children. Awkward, unsure, easily intimidated. Easily gotten rid of.

But this?

This was a whole different game.

Fourteen. His baby pip-squeak was fourteen. And that guy was nearly eighteen. A senior. Already filling out college applications. Already halfway out the door with a look that said I know exactly what I want, and I think I can take it.

Caleb felt the arrival of the crunch time before he fully processed it. The way his body tensed. The slowburn that started in his chest caught its way up the back of his neck and set his entire head on fire. His pulse had just begun to calm, but now it was climbing again for a different reason.

Of course, he didn’t throw a punch and let the instinct detonate into a mistake he couldn’t take back.

Instead, he did what he always did — smiled.

That same easy, sunlit grin that made people relax. That made them believe he was nothing but summer, laughter and good-natured charm. He slung an arm over his teammate’s shoulder, casual as ever, fingers pressing a little too firmly into the guy’s back — friendly, but firm. A little too much weight in the gesture. A little too much control.

A predator playing with its food.

“Oh, man,” he laughed, loud enough to carry, his voice bright and effortless, even as ice sank its teeth into it “You think you can handle her? I live with her. Believe me, you do not want that smoke. She still holds a grudge over a game of Kitty Cards from, like, five years ago.”

His teammate chuckled, but it wavered with the subtle knowledge thrown his way about Caleb’s relation to you. A half-second too slow, a fraction too stiff. Caleb felt it — the subtle crack in his posture, the moment of hesitation.

Good.

Caleb clapped him on the back, kept his grip the right amount of strong, let the force of it push the guy a step forward, off balance. His grin never slipped, easy and golden, smooth as ever.

“Nah,” he added, shaking his head with a laugh. “You don’t want to stoop to her level and be a child with her. Trust me.”

And that was it.

That was the cut. You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.

It wasn’t the thunder that rolled overhead yanked him away from the memories but the knock. Barely more than a dull tap compared to the pelting rain.

A flicker of intent, and his evol pulsed through the air, slipping unseen into the metal of the lock. It gave without resistance, the faintest click swallowed by the storm’.

The door eased open, and there you were.

You stood at the threshold, wrapped in the dim glow spilling from the hallway, shadows pooling at your feet. Your sweater, probably stolen from his closet if he had to guess, enveloped you entirely in a hug threaded into fabric, hands swallowed by sleeves too long, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was the storm making the room feel colder or the sight of you standing there, small and uncertain, almost carried in by the wind. Your hair clung to your cheeks, still damp from the shower, no matter how many times he’d told you to dry it properly. The Lumiere plushie — faded from years of love, seams slightly frayed — was clutched tight to your chest, its little embroidered eyes peeking out between your fingers.

For a second, you didn’t move and hovered there, framed by the doorway, uncertain. The flickering light from the hallway cast uneven shapes across your face, catching on the tension in your brow, the way your lips pressed together gave away you were still debating this. Still deciding whether to step forward or turn back.

The storm cracked overhead, a sudden burst of white against the night.

You flinched.

That was all it took.

Before he could say anything, you moved.

A blur of of fear and haste as you darted forward, slipping beneath the blankets in a single, fluid motion, collided with his. You were a mole that wanted to burrow deep to escape the storm itself.

The scent of shower clung to you, damp and cooled, mixing with the lingering sweetness of whatever tea you must have abandoned in the kitchen. Your skin, still chilled from the hallway, met the steady heat of his side, and the contrast sent a shiver through you — a tremor he felt before he heard you talk.

“I hate this.”

The words came muffled, half-buried in the plush fabric of Lumière, your cheek pressed into the space between his shoulder and chest. Your fingers tightened around the stuffed toy, nails pressing into worn seams, but your body had already melted against his.

“It’s too loud.”

He exhaled, measured and steady, adjusting the blankets in a practiced motion. Tucking you in. Smoothing the covers over your shoulder, pulling them snug around you both, layering a shield against the chaos outside.

But his hands lingered.

Half a second too long. Fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, feeling the shape of your wrist beneath.

Then he let go.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, in the dim hush of the room, you had already begun to relax — breath evening out, shoulders losing their tension. Your weight, solid and real, grounding him in ways you probably didn’t realize.

He swallowed, tilting his head slightly, watching the way your lashes fluttered.

“Didn’t you say you’d be fine since Lumiere would protect you?” he teased with the kind of question meant to earn an indignant huff, a half-hearted rebuttal.

You sighed instead, pressing closer, slotting yourself neatly into the space between his chest and his arm, fitting there naturally, perfectly. Maybe that was exactly where you belonged.

“Lumiere can protect me in here, as well.”

Caleb let out a short, breathy snort, shaking his head, but didn’t push the moment further. The teasing remark on the tip of his tongue faded before it could form, swallowed by the distraction of your breathing against him. Instead, he let his focus drift back to the television, the glow of the screen flickering in shades of blue and white, the sound barely more than a murmur beneath the rain. His eyes tracked the movement, but nothing quite registered. Colors, maybe. Light. A meaningless blur against the weight of you snugly close beside him.

He could feel your heartbeat, a tad bit too fast and off-kilter, beneath the layers of fabric between you. The rise and fall of your breath matched his own, an unconscious sync that had existed for as long as he could remember. The plush weight of Lumière was still crushed between you, your fingers lax around its worn edges. The storm continued, but none of the chaos reached you here. You were safe. You had always been safe with him.

That was the way it had always been.

Since you were small, since the first time a storm had driven you to his room, since the night you’d climbed into his bed without a word and dived beneath his blankets. Caleb had gotten used to it — used to the way you always found your way back to him when you were afraid, as if his presence alone was enough to ward off the things that scared you.

But something was different this time.

It wasn’t the first time he'd become the branch to your koala. Wasn’t the first time his bed had become your refuge against thunder and lightning. But it was the first time he was aware of it—so painfully, keenly aware.

Of the way your body aligned with his.

Of the way your temparature seeped through his clothes, into his skin.

Of the way his own breath felt suddenly too shallow, on the verge of shaking.

The first time in forever that he wasn’t just letting you exist beside him, wasn’t just offering comfort out of habit.

It blindsided him. A missed step off a curb he hadn’t noticed was there. His pulse stuttered — missed a couple beats, even — before picking up again, faster this time, uneven and unsteady. His breath caught, a fraction too shallow, barely making it past his throat.

Heat bloomed low in his stomach, spiraling, spreading, wrong. A hot and electric rush rising in its intensity, unwelcome in its timing. The front of his shorts grew uncomfortably tight, and panic — raw, visceral, boiling — shot through him before his brain could even fully register why.

His arm, draped around your shoulders in what had always been an easy, thoughtless gesture, suddenly felt rigid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the knit of your top, a tremor he hoped you wouldn’t notice. You were pressed so close, body comfortable and trusting, the scent of your shampoo overtaking all his senses, and would surely linger in his pillow for a while after you left. The steady rise-and-fall of your breathing ghosted against his collarbone, peaceful, unaware, safe.

Safe with him.

(You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.)

His stomach twisted, shame lashing through him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking tight, willing it away. Not now. Not here, not like this.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, it sank deeper, worse.

An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch. A wire pulled too tight. A recalibration inside him in a way he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

One of your arms had somehow found its way under his shirt in the process of shifting closer, palms resting on his ribs, barely brushing. The touch was a simple point of contact, yet it may as well have been a live wire pressed against him.

The stuffed Lumiere had been shoved between you at some point, an afterthought, its worn fabric smushed and doing absolutely nothing to create any real distance. Your bare leg had tangled with his under the blanket, knee slotted against his in a way that should have been familiar, routine, but wasn’t — not anymore.

You had melted against him the moment safety sank in, your body losing tension, a breath exhaled into his side. He felt every shift — the twitch of your fingers, once, twice, before stillness sat back down; your breathing turning deep, slow, and even. The small unconscious nuzzle as you nestled even closer, an instinctive surrender, rooted deeply in trust.

It was the kind of thing he would have laughed at, should have laughed at — how absurdly fast you had knocked out, how easily you had given yourself up to sleep as if the storm outside had never existed.

But he couldn’t laugh.

Because while you were perfectly at ease, he was staring at the ceiling, pulse jackhammering, dick rigid with a concept too messy and incomprehensible and unacceptable — and had him going completely, utterly insane.

This can't be happening.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you this way.

Shouldn’t be feeling this.

Every rational part of him screamed a warning sign and pounded it into his skull. This was you — the same person who he had been sheltering even from his own eyes, the same person who had never thought twice before crawling into his space, his bed, his arms, whenever you needed comfort. And right now — right now — you were trusting him to be nothing but safe.

But safe was the last thing he felt.

His skin was too tight, heat licking up his spine, an uncomfortable, cloying pressure settling in the pit of his stomach that refused to ease no matter how many slow breaths he forced past his lips. The sheets were broiling him, the press of your body against his too much.

Then came the thought — the one he didn’t mean to have, the one he tried to shove down the moment it clawed its way into his brain.

It would be so easy to press your hand down firmer.

He crushed it before it could fully form, but the damage was already done.

Not because of what he was feeling, but because of what he wasn’t feeling. There wasn't the immediate, sharp-edged denial cutting through the fog about being your older brother — having to be your older brother figure. Disgust wasn't there when he reached for it. What he found instead was the slow, creeping horror of homecoming that a shift had happened long before this moment, that it had been shifting for years, and that he had been pretending not to notice.

The worst part wasn’t that it was happening.

The worst part was that he had spent so long convincing himself it never could.

That he had been so certain he had outgrown it. That he had locked it away, buried it, desensitized himself into something safe, into something good, into the person you needed and wanted him to be.

And yet—

And yet.

Here he was with a simmer coming to a boil, every nerve in his body betraying him, his own self-control slipping like it was covered in oil.

Like he had never locked those feelings away at all.

Like they had only been waiting.

Touch had always been natural between you, woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his life that he never stopped to think about it. It had been there since childhood, an unconscious language of familiarity, of belonging. You’d always looped your arm through his without a second thought, fingers hooking around his sleeve as you walked beside him, grounding yourself in his presence. Slipped your hands into his jacket pockets when the wind bit too sharply at your fingertips. Draped yourself over his back with a huff when you were too lazy to move, trusting him to hold your weight.

He could still feel the way you used to pull at the hem of his shirt when you wanted his attention, a silent, wordless request that he never needed to question. The way your forehead would press against his shoulder when exhaustion hit, your body sinking against his. The absentminded way you toyed with the ends of his hair when he was distracted, your fingers twisting through the strands in loops. He had been used to it. To the gentle, fleeting pressure of your foot nudging his under the dinner table. To the way you never seemed to notice how close you sat, legs pressing together without hesitation. To the weight of your head against his chest when the world felt too loud and you needed silence wrapped in the steadiness of him.

It had always been that way. It had always been fine.

But lately — lately, things weren't quite right.

You were the same. Still wrapping your arms around him after games, still slipping beneath his arm when you needed comfort. Still pressing into his side without hesitation, never second-guessing the space you took up in his life.

But he felt it differently now.

It crept up on him in moments that should have been nothing — the slow drag of your fingertips on the flushed skin of his ribs, the faint pressure of your breath against his skin when you leaned in close. An inarticulate, unbearable awareness.

You weren’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t your gege anymore.

Too much. Too much. Too much that he could collapse into a black hole right here, right now.

Caleb needed to put some distance between him and you before he did something stupid.

But when he stirred slightly, you only sighed in your sleep, nuzzling further into him. The plushie that was basically a barrier between you slipped, letting him feel the press of the plush of your chest against him, your leg sliding firmly between his. He froze, every muscle in his body locking up, sweat beading along his hairline and face absolutely on fire.

No.

He pried your hand from underneath his shirt, the drag lingering on a loop inside his head even after he let go. His hands trembled, barely able to nudge the stupid plushie out of the way, and indirectly taking it out on the thing.

Slowly, he lifted himself from the mattress, moving inch by inch, muscles taut with the effort of keeping his movements smooth, controlled. Every cell in his body felt raw, hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric, every shuffle of weight. The mattress dipped as he pulled away, but you didn’t stir beyond a faint murmur, too deeply gone into blissed dreamland to notice his absence.

His pulse hammered in his throat as he hovered there, hesitating — watching the way you unconsciously moved into the space he left behind for warmth, unconsciously reaching for something that was no longer there.

He let out a slow, shaky breath before carefully sliding his pillow into your arms instead. It was a well-looked after old thing, worn at the edges, still faintly carrying his scent. The moment it passed the test as his replacement, you hummed — a barely-there sound, sleepy and content — as you pulled it close, nuzzling into the fluff, tucking your face into it the way you had done to him only moments ago.

You didn’t wake. Because as far as you were concerned, nothing had changed.

But Caleb sat there for a moment longer, watching you, fingers coiling into noncommittal fists uselessly at his sides, his breathing uneven in his own chest. The covers rose and fell with each peaceful breath you took, oblivious to the way his world had tilted on its axis.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, and reached to pull the blanket higher over your shoulder. Smoothed it down, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Then, without another sound, he slipped out of the room and spent the next hour standing beneath the icy spray of the shower.

The protofield and the Wanderer had vanished. Help was en route.

Xavier’s leg wound that he’d gotten while protecting you, while not fatal, was severe enough that crimson seeped through his dark pants and pulled between your quivering fingers as you applied pressure.

And the insufferable bastard huffed through his nose, as if this were just another routine mission, another insignificant injury in a never-ending string of perilous nights with barely a flinch crossing his features, the sight of his own blood seemingly less concerning to him than it was to you.

“It’s not as bad it looks,” he repeated, for the tenth time.

The words only worked to ignite an infuriated coil inside, molten and barbed.

Your hands tightened, pushing down harder than you needed to. He barely reacted. Kept watching you, lovable and doe-eyed, his body slack in a comfortable way against the broken wall behind him. The dimness of the failing streetlamps trying to reach into the alley you two were in cast his silver hair in eerie light, making him look even more ghostly than usual.

“Stop saying that,” you said, shakier than a house of cards in a storm, accusing.

His breathing was deep. Slower than it should be. Your brain was running too fast, trying to calculate blood loss, survival rates, anything to make sense of what was in front of you. But all you could see was him, pale under the glow, blurred because of the saltwater pooling in your eyes. Fading smoke. If you blinked, he might vanish completely with the teardrops.

You started digging through your pack, yanking out the field kit with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. You needed to stop the bleeding. You needed to make sure he stayed. Stayed with you.

Not again.

The med kit slipped through your fingers, scattering across the pavement. Your ears rung with the loud noise the metal case made, subconscious plunging you back in that day.

Not again.

You re-experienced the force of the explosion that had thrown you to the ground, had ripped the breath from your body. The world burned. Heat was a vulture picking at your skin, suffocating, searing your lungs.

Fire, ash, the splintered ruins of what had once been home. And you, crawling through the rubble, hands searching blindly for whatever was left. Your fingers had closed around metal — small, cool despite the heat — the necklace you'd gifted Caleb, half-buried in dust and debris. What remained of him, worn but still legible, pressed into your palm. It was all that was left.

Not again.

Nausea gripped your stomach as your blood-stained hands hovered in the air, fingers twitching with clumsiness of desperation. But this time was different. You weren't grasping for ghosts, sifting through the ashes of an irreparable past. Could still do something. had to do something.

Reaching for the scattered supplies, your wrist was suddenly caught in Xavier's gentle grip, stapling you to the present moment.

“You’re panicking,” he commented.

Yanking your hand away, you retorted sharply, "Of course I'm panicking. You're bleeding out, Xavier."

He studied you intently, head tilted in that familiar, contemplative manner, searching for the traces of what that had pulled this state out of you. Then, with a hint of misplaced levity, he remarked, "This is nothing. A quick nap will fix me."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Your throat tightened. The world swayed for half a second, the ill-timed attempt at reassurance in his words reduced to a cup of water tossed onto a wildfire.

You thought of all the times before, of wounds that hadn’t healed, of a love confession whispered too late. Too late, after the funeral, when you stood before the empty grave, the one filled with dirt and a marker with his name. There had been no body to bury, you got no hand to touch one last time and were granted no real goodbye in the end. You were all that was left, alone, the cold night bleeding your life force, the whisper of your own voice breaking as you knelt, fingers digging into the soil, telling him the words you should have said when he was still there to hear them.

"Please, stop being like that, I can't—" Your voice cracked as you ducked your head, hiding your face from him, palm pressing against your mouth to stifle the words threatening to spill out. I can't do this again.

Xavier let out a fast breath, his posture stiffening in the kind of regret that made people avert their eyes. The joke had fallen flat, misplaced at this time, and he knew it. Another inhale, slower this time, he flexed his fingers against his thigh, then stilled, hovering on the edge of movement, caught between reaching for you and holding himself back.

His gloved hand moved, brushing lightly against your cheek.

He was warm. He was still warm.

Your breath caught. The fear squeezed you dry.

You had waited too long with Caleb, naively believing he'd always be there for you just as he promised, naively believing he was invincible just as he was in your childhood self's adoring eyes.

And now, here, with Xavier bleeding in front of you, you refused to wait again.

You didn’t think. You just kissed him.

It was sudden, too quick, too desperate. He stiffened under your touch, startled — but he didn’t pull away, didn’t break the contact, let you take and take and take because you were drowning and he was the only thing keeping you above the surface.

Your fingers twisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, an attempt to hold him together, to anchor him here forever. Your hands were still slick with his blood, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything except the way his breath hitched, the way he stayed perfectly still for a fraction of a second before his hands moved.

One to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other against your waist, grounding. He kissed you back cautiously at first, hesitant, uncertain, then increasingly decisive, carefully learning the edges of you, mapping each unsteady breath, every fractured soundfrom your lips.

When your kiss began to tremble, he seamlessly took control, molding his mouth to yours as if this dance were one he had practiced countless times before.

Gentle and soothing, he chased the taste of salt on your lips, breathing the shuddering sound you made down like it was sustenance. He tasted of earth and ozone, clean notes reminiscent of starlight, open skies, and safe, peaceful nights; crisp air after a storm, sharp enough to leave you dizzy, anchoring you in place, in his arms, and beneath his touch. This moment felt safely contained, a shelter where you could fall apart and still be held together.

Everything ached. It hurt too much, it wasn't enough. You wanted him closer. Always closer. Until all you could breathe, until all you could taste was the shape of his name on the roof of your mouth.

You pulled away, gasping against his parted lips, head spinning.

Before you could apologize — for losing control, for being selfish, for needing someone so desperately you didn't stop to consider whether or not that was what they wanted too, or the shape they were in — he tugged you into the curve of his shoulder, resting his cheek against the top of your head. Fingertips grazed along your arm, braille-tracing your scar tissue. His heart thrummed against your ear, strong, steady. Loud.

"It'll be okay," he said. "I'll be okay. I promise."

The words were hushed. Reassuring. Absolute.

Somehow, you believed him.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the panic drained away. Your muscles uncoiled, nerves steadying. The ringing in your ears faded. Slowly, slowly, everything sharpened back into focus.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

"You better be," you said, shaky as a leaf in winter, brittle, thin, the syllables weak against the night. "You can't make me fall for you only to just die like this."

These words had never left your heart before. Swelled there for years, growing too big, but never leaving, never finding their way out into the cold. They had belonged to Caleb once. Caleb, who smiled wide as a sky at sunset and ran faster than a starship and wore kindness for armor. But now the words meant something new. Now you didn't have to keep them locked up inside of you, guarded and afraid of what would happen if you let them loose. The shape of them still fit. Differently, maybe, but they weren't lost, weren't strangled or broken. It was letting a bird free from its cage after years of watching its wings grow frail in confinement.

The wind sighed through the trees. A stray cat hissed. Little glowing spots began floating around in dust particles.

Xavier pulled back abruptly. Stared at you, unblinking, the ink blue of his eyes shining. Evenly. Silent. Still holding you.

For a moment, nothing happened. For a moment, everything stopped. Time slowed around you, caught between one breath and the next. And then—

Light.

Xavier began to glow. A silvery-white miniature star, so brilliant that he illuminated the entire alley. The color bled outward, pouring down his shoulders in rivulets, streaming over his arms, dripping off his fingertips. He seemed to fold in on himself, bowing his head in embarrassment — but all you could do was watch, transfixed, mesmerized.

A nameless sentiment flared within your chest, unfamiliar. You swear you could feel Xavier through your heart, humming right beneath yours, some part of him pressed close against your pulse point. He wasn't bright enough to blind you, bathing your surroundings in starlit brilliance, seeping into the cracks in the crumbling pavement, the shadows cast by overgrown hedges, the empty shell of a playground down the street.

"Xavier..."

"Sorry," he mumbled, covering his face with the back of his hand to hide somehow, shield himself from his own radiance. His ears were red. "This is... not what I meant to do."

You reached out toward him without thinking, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his glove. He froze. Noticing yourself, you hesitated, realizing exactly what you were about to do — touch a star, an impossible thing, a dream — but then his hand twitched, settling firmly into yours in a way that you were almost convinced it was always meant to belong there. His fingers lacing through yours were so secure and confident one would think he'd done this a thousand times. His grip loosened. Tightened. Loosened. Reassuring both you and himself that this was real. This was happening. Neither of you would drift apart and dissolve as morning fog under the light of the sun. You wouldn't blink, and he wouldn't be gone.

Compassion held your hand through it. Comfort. Steadfast support. Starlight in the darkness, chasing away the shadows.

"I love you, Xavier," you told him, echoing the words again, wanting him to hear, wanting him to understand. You placed the shape of them into his upturned palms you pulled down to his lap to see his face clearer, and his grip tightened. "I'm in love with you."

The light emanating from him intensified — a shimmering aura shining around him, radiant, haloed. It pulsed once, twice, before bursting outward in an explosive surge of brightness, scattering sparks in every direction. White orbs of light poured from nowhere, dancing through the empty space between your bodies, suspended in mid-fall. A few fluttered down to land against the backs of your hands covering his.

"Would you be mad if I said that... I must be on the brink of death to imagine hearing these words?" Xavier's confession tumbled from his lips hesitantly. In the starlight, his face looked youthful, vulnerable, younger than you had ever seen before. "Even if this is my brain playing tricks on me before it fails, I'm happy."

Emergency lights flashed against the houses lining the street, likely drawn by Xavier’s radiance burning brightly enough to be a midnight sun, red and blue strobes slicing sharply into your vision. Xavier heard it too, pulling you tighter against him, burying his face against your shoulder, one hand leaving yours only to cradle your head. His embrace didn't diminish the glow, instead, Xavier enclosed you in the shelter of his body — in a protective cocoon, shielding you as though you were the one wounded, vulnerable, needing comfort more desperately than he did.

The ambulance doors opened with a hydraulic whirring sound. Footsteps approached quickly. At least two pairs, judging by the sound. Voiceless words spilled into the alley from the paramedics' radios. The static intermittently cracked between the garbled syllables, distorting some of them into incomprehensibility.

All at once the starlight winked out, plunging the street back into the dark.

"Tell me again once we are home." The words brushed past your ear, carrying an intimacy that made you swallow against the dryness of your throat, made you bury your face more deeply against his shoulder. Home. "Please. So I know I haven't dreamed this up."

Linkon had that early autumn crispness that rose from real soil Skyhaven didn’t have — cool to sharpen the senses, not to bite. The first traces of fallen leaves clung to the pavement, the scent of rain in the cracks of the sidewalks. Caleb adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped off the tram, stretching his shoulders as he took in the city around him. It was familiar, the building-rich skyline cutting pointy shapes against the evening sky, the low hum of traffic filling the streets, but...

He had been away too long.

Skyhaven had pulled him into its orbit the moment he arrived, swallowing whole whatever life had come before. Days blurred together in cycles of training, flight simulations, and coursework that left little room for anything beyond forward motion. Every morning began the same: drills before sunrise, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning as he pushed himself further, faster. Afternoons were a relentless stream of lectures, technical briefings, theory stacked upon theory until the numbers and flight paths blurred in his mind. Even the nights were accounted for — hours spent in the simulator pods, perfecting maneuvers until the glowing interface was burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Skyhaven game him no room to be spontaneous. No empty spaces to fill with last-minute plans or lazy afternoons. His world had been compressed into systems — routine, structure, efficiency. He knew exactly when to eat, when to train, when to sleep. Knew the weight of his rations down to the last calorie, the time it took to shave a fraction of a second off a flight sequence, the precise moment his body would demand rest before pushing past it anyway.

It was such a whiplash to be home, all things considered.

His room at Gran’s place wasn’t really his anymore. It had the same walls, the same furniture, but it was more a museum exhibit than a lived-in space — a carefully preserved snapshot of someone he used to be.

The bookshelves were still lined with old textbooks, pages stiff from time, filled with equations and flight theories he once pored over. The model airplanes he built by hand sat untouched on his desk, their delicate structures gathering dust, frozen mid-flight. Posters, faded from years of sunlight creeping through the blinds, hung at odd angles where the adhesive had begun to peel. It was all still there, exactly as he had left it.

And yet, it no longer felt truly his.

It was more of a storage closet for the past, a collection of objects tied to a version of himself that no longer fit, as if waiting for a version of him that no longer existed to return. But it had a way of creeping in when he least expected it.

Your favorite song playing in the campus coffee shop, cutting through the rigid structure of his day — a gentle intrusion, a knock of your presence on the closed door of his routine, the waft of familiarity drifting through the halls, pulling him back to late nights in Gran’s kitchen; you sitting cross-legged on the counter as he tried to study, chattering about whatever new fixation had taken over your brain that week.

Now, the closest thing he had to those endless summers with you were the five-minute breaks between classes, when he’d glance at his phone and see your name lighting up the screen. A meme, a quick update, a half-formed thought sent without context — small things, fleeting things, but still enough to remind him that you were there.

Sometimes, it was a single reaction picture in response to a text he'd sent hours ago. Other times, it was a wall of text, a full-fledged rant about whatever it was that had clearly gotten under your skin — another debate with some idiot online, a disastrous group project that made you question about how those people had gotten into college at all, an overanalysis of the show you’d decided to watch together. And every so often, an uncharacteristic shyness broke through. A late-night message, typed out but never sent until morning that meant, “I miss you,” in your language.

You ever think about how weird it is that we don’t live in the same city anymore? Like, I can’t just show up at your room and annoy you :(

He always answered, even if it took him hours to find the time.

Because no matter how much distance stretched between you now, the messages kept him tethered to you as a string to a kite.

He pulled out his phone, glancing at the last message and location you had sent him: Meet me at the plaza. We’re hunting.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips.

The “Find Lumiere” campaign had taken the city by storm. A massive scavenger hunt dedicated to the legend himself, the hero who had saved mankind during the Chronorift Catastrophe ten years ago. Clues were scattered across major landmarks, leading participants on a chase to uncover fragments of his legacy, with tickets to the first screening of the new movie they were making about Lumiere promised to the winners.

Of course you were obsessed with it.

Caleb had never said it out loud, but for the longest time, he had been jealous of Lumiere. Or, rather, what Lumiere meant to you.

It was irrational, of course. Lumiere wasn’t real — not in the way that mattered. And yet, Caleb had spent years competing with the idea of him, feeling that strange, sour feeling whenever he saw you fawning over an image of a man who had saved you in more ways than one when Caleb wasn't there to do so.

Because, at every age, he wanted to be the one you looked at with the same adoration. He wanted to be the one you admired, the one who made your eyes sparkle the way they did whenever you spoke about Lumiere. He had been your person for so long, the one you relied on, the one you trusted — but even as kids, there had always been that distance, that unreachable part of you that belonged to a random dude you wrote RPF about.

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way to the plaza.

You were already at your rendezvous point, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet as you checked your phone, your expression focused. Your jacket was too thin for the weather, but you never cared about such things when you were excited. Caleb took a moment to take in the way you had changed — taller, more sure of yourself, your hair styled differently than he remembered.

“Didn’t even let me settle in before dragging me around the city?” he teased, stepping up beside you.

Your head snapped up, and the moment your eyes met his, a wide grin split across your face. “Obviously. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, Caleb. You should be honored I’m making you my partner for it.”

He scoffed but couldn’t help the flush that he coughed away. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the plan?”

You immediately launched into an explanation, showing him the map on your phone, outlining all the locations where the next clue could be. Caleb listened, but mostly, he got lost in watching you, letting the drum of your excitement take him along the ride.

Maybe you had grown apart. Maybe life had taken you in different directions. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t feel that way. The clock might as well have stopped years ago.

He would never get tired of watching your face light up when you were truly invested. The way it always seemed to catch people off guard, how utterly genuine and open you were whenever you felt strongly about a subject matter. It was honest; it was you.

So it wasn't entirely out of character for him to notice how lovely you looked today that he could lean down and capture your lips with his own. The imagination alone got his mouth dry, throat working hard to swallow as he averted his eyes.

The first clue was hidden near the old Chronorift Memorial, a massive glass sculpture in the heart of the city that stood as a tribute to the devastation. Caleb watched as you practically bounced in place, your breath fogging in the chilly air as you scanned the area for anything that looked out of place.

“Oh! Over there!” You grabbed his arm before he could react, tugging him toward the base of the monument.

Caleb let himself be dragged along, ignoring the way his skin heated at the contact. The crowd gathered around the sculpture was thick, blocking whatever sign you were pointing at. All Caleb could see was you, the shine staining your eyes, your sparkling excitement.

God, he'd missed this. Missed you.

Without thinking, his fingers curled around your wrist, brushing the skin beneath. Your pulse fluttered under his fingertips, beating fast with energy and excitement, and he let himself savor the feeling. He missed seeing you this happy.

"Look!" you cried, reaching up on your tiptoes for balance. "I think I spotted something there."

Caleb followed your line of sight up toward the top of the monument — and sure enough, just below the highest peak of glass sat a tiny object, glinting in the sun.

"Think I can climb up?" you asked aloud, frowning at the structure as you examined the potential footholds. The memorial's glass surface was polished smooth, with no apparent way of scaling the towering mass, though that didn't stop you from trying.

Caleb reached out a hand though to pluck it easily out of the sky, and the object flew towards him. He waved it back and forth over your head. "How 'bout you just ask for it like normal people?"

Your mouth dropped into a dramatic frown. "Rude. If this was a proper game, you would've given me the illusion of a fighting chance before stealing my loot from under my nose."

"I'll make it up to you," he laughed, spinning the prize between his fingers. “You know, I think I’m a little offended. I saved your life, like, a million times growin' up, and you never obsessed over me like this.”

You snorted, rolling your shoulders back in a casual shrug. "Never crossed my mind. Besides, Lumiere wasn’t an asshat."

It was Caleb's turn to scoff. You motioned with your palm held upright. Were you a customer waving down service or what?

"Please. Sire. Kind sire." He shook his head at your antics but gave you the small golden thing anyway. Your face lit up as you took it carefully between your fingers. "Thank you, kind sire. May good fortune bless you upon our next meeting."

It was actually a puzzle, which he guessed would contain a clue leading to the next location.

After solving the puzzle, you gleefully tapped at the digital interface attached to your wrist, navigating the device expertly until the next coordinates appeared onscreen. "Found it. Not far from here actually... should only take us a few minutes to walk there."

And so you continued your treasure hunt together.

Time drifted soft as clouds across the sky, lazy and aimless, broken by quick bursts of purpose. A stroll turned to weaving through foot traffic, hustling in fits and starts as you hunted down your destination and discovered the next hint in line. The setting changed — crowds grew thicker, colors bolder, lights brighter — and yet the pace stayed the same: slow, steady, unhurried. Caleb thought you would have wanted to hurry, but instead, you lingered. Stopping to buy two cups of warming tea along the way. To exchange an old bill for shiny coins. To listen to the music pouring from the doors of a small cafe as passersby filtered in and out.

It was nice.

Really nice, actually.

For a while, Caleb forgot everything beyond the edges of the bubble surrounding you, letting the sounds fade into nothing but white noise.

At one point, when you reached the endpoint, a question suddenly rose to his tongue, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

"Why me?" he asked without meaning to. "I'm not exactly an obvious choice to play tag with."

You lifted an eyebrow at him, glancing over at your map again. "You kidding? Who else would I invite?"

Caleb shrugged, the cold breeze grazing his shoulders, making him fold them in a little bit closer.

"A friend?" He shot you a playful grin that came easier than he thought possible, earning himself a shove. "I don't think we've done this in ages. What makes today special?"

His stomach did a somersault when you hooked your arm around his elbow, holding onto his sleeve tightly.

"What about spending time with Caleb is so horrible to you? We haven't seen each other much these days. I'd love some quality time before you leave again." You nudged his side gently. Sincerity disguised as banter. He caught your tone of affection rather well, so well he couldn't help but feel giddy from your proximity. How small your hand was wrapped around his elbow.

Even with the light atmosphere, how much he had been craving such small intimacy with you was a lightning strike to his head.

And right there, right then, the urge to tell you how he felt nearly burned through him, flames climbing fast and wild, closing in on the boundaries he’d drawn to stay beside you, searing the edges of what he was supposed to be. His body surely would crumble inward and ashes would go everywhere if he kept pretending to be your brother figure for a minute longer. Yet, as much as he was dying to let it all out — because that is how bad he had it for you — there was also the more likely scenario of you finding him repulsive.

Just the idea of a life without you by his side made him sick and dizzy.

No, not today. Not anytime soon. He'd rather be by your side until the end of his days and wear the mask of gege than be hated by you.

So he swallowed down those three words, locking them securely in a chest bound by iron chains, hidden deep in the recesses of his heart. Ignoring the lingering ache that followed, he forced himself to brush off the truth and treat it as nothing more than the joke he desperately wished it could be.

"You could write me letters if you miss me that much, pip-squeak," he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You leaned against him easily, swaying with the motion as you bumped into his side. "Pssh."

Then your hand slid up his forearm to stop at the crook of his elbow as you rested your chin on his shoulder. From here, you looked up at him through lashes streaked in amber sunlight, a happy, contented smile touching the corner of your lips.

Caleb's heart expanded — hot and painful and aching. Walking down the sidewalk through the throng of people going about their day as the wind ruffled through your hair, the heat of your palm seeping through the sleeve of his jacket, he felt a sudden, sharp pressure behind his eyes.

If he closed his mind to everything else, if he ignored the way you smelled like home, if he could make himself pretend that the place your body occupied next to his was sister-shaped, just maybe — maybe — he could convince himself that this was enough. It had to be enough. Because even if Caleb wasn't quite certain when his feelings toward you began, or when they evolved beyond the bounds of familial ties — even if he knew you would never see him that way and loved him when he was your gege, that you would never know this small sliver of reality — he still had you. Right now, in this moment, the person most precious in the world to him stood next to him with your head resting on his shoulder. Smiling, trusting, safe.

And that was more important than any label he could slap on it.

Xavier hadn’t meant to stay the night.

He wasn’t even sure when he had fallen asleep.

One minute, they had been sitting on your couch, drinking tea from mismatched mugs, the only sound between you the low hum of the TV and the lazy crackling of rain against the window. It had been late — too late — and you'd been snuggled up beside him, half-draped in a blanket, the fabric of your sweater slipping past your fingertips as you scrolled idly through your phone.

Xavier had been reading, an old paperback you had lying around for his enjoyment, the spine creased from years of use. He never asked where you got them — books with pages instead of screens — but he liked the way they smelled, the inconspicuous permanence of ink pressed to paper.

The next thing he knew, the morning light was slipping in through the curtains, cool and blue, and you were gone.

He blinked, exhaling slowly as he sat up. The couch creaked under his weight.

He wasn’t alarmed — he never was — but his first instinct was to check for you anyway, a grave, habitual concern that never quite left him. His ears picked up the faint noise of water running. The shower.

He leaned back against the couch, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, then glanced at the time.

6:42 AM.

Too early. But he should go.

He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders, then went to grab his jacket from where he had tossed it over the chair. He reached for it — then paused.

The bookshelf beside the chair caught his attention.

Not because he had never seen it before — he had been in your place countless times by now, had run his fingers over the neat stacks of old holotapes and datapads, the figurines and the framed pictures —but because one of a drawer, beneath the shelf, slightly open. A few inches, maybe less.

It hadn’t been that way last night. He was sure of it.

Xavier never pried. He had spent too many years keeping his own secrets to go looking for anyone else’s. But he was drawn to that place inexplicably, to the way the papers inside were barely visible, to the way they had been tucked away yet left ajar, and it made his fingers pause against the zipper of his jacket.

Paper.

Actual handwritten pages instead of anything digital.

Xavier frowned slightly, spine going ramrod straight. His fingers twitched once against his sides, tingling at the tips.

He should walk away.

Instead, he reached down and pulled the drawer open.

The pages inside were stacked haphazardly, some folded, others crinkled at the edges, showing they had been handled too many times, written, held, then discarded — kept, but never sent. The ink had bled into the fibers of the pages in places where the pressure had been too much.

He pulled out the topmost one, smoothing it with his fingers. Your handwriting. He knew it instantly. A little rushed, pressed into the paper as though you had been writing quickly, too quickly.

Then he saw the name.

Caleb.

His grip on the paper tightened.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to focus. He forced himself to read.

Caleb, I don’t know how to start this, or even why I’m writing it. Maybe because I don’t know how else to reach you. Maybe because if I put it down on paper, it might cleanse me like one of those full body detox things that I would no longer feel so bloated anymore with this poison I’m trying my hardest to hide from him. I still wake up expecting you to be one call away. I still reach for my phone thinking I can send you a voice message while I wait for my takeout to arrive, tell you something ridiculous that happened, or send you a picture of something stupid just because I know you’d call me to laugh about it. But you’re not here, and I’m talking to an empty space where you used to be. You were always the one I counted on. The one who knew me better than anyone. I could say a single word, and you would know exactly what I meant, what I was feeling, what I needed even when I didn't want to say it out loud. And now, months later, without you, I still feel like I’m missing a part of myself. Like something vital has been cut away, and I am expected to keep going like I don’t notice the absence. But I do. Every second, I do. I should have told you. I should have told you a long time ago.

Xavier’s shallow breaths were loud in his ears.

If I had, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, writing this, trying to hold onto something that has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe if I had been braver, if I hadn’t been so afraid of gran and ruining what we had, you would have known just how much you meant to me. To this day, I don’t know how to move on. Everyone thinks I have. That time is the best medicine there is, after all. But how can I, when so much of me is still tangled in you? When every step I take feels like I’m walking further and further away from you, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll look back and realize you’ve faded from my memory, that I won’t remember the sound of your voice, or the way you laughed, or the exact shade of your eyes in the sunlight. But it’s more than that now. It’s not just the fear of forgetting, it’s the guilt of moving on. Of letting someone else hold me, kiss me, love me in the ways I never got to lov I wonder if you would even care. If it would matter to you at all knowing there’s someone in my life now. Would you look at me the way you always did, like a little sister, someone to protect, to guide, and still feel responsible for even in your big age? Would it even cross your mind that I waited and it’s my biggest regret? But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I love him. I didn’t wait to tell him until after I was forced to lose him. Confessing before it was too late was the best decision I’ve ever made. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because when I’m with him, there are moments, just flickers, tiny fractures in time, where I forget. And then, all at once, it comes back. The missing piece. You. If you were here, if you could read this, I don’t even know what I’d want you to say. I just know that I’d give anything to hear you call me pip-squeak one more time. I need you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not leaving you behind. That I can love him and still carry you with me. But you’re not. And I have to live with that.

The ink trailed off there.

There was a crease in the page, the imprint of the pen too hard until you changed your mind.

Xavier stared at it.

The paper was fragile between his fingers, and he would have torn it apart if he kept holding it in his state.

Slowly, he put it back, and pressed the drawer shut.

He turned. His feet carried him soundlessly across the floor, toward the hallway, to where he could hear the steady drumming of water against the bathroom tiles, to where you stood facing the shower wall, head bent, your hair falling in thick wet clumps around your shoulders.

You heard his footsteps — of course you did — and lifted your head as he entered. Water cascaded down your back, collecting briefly at the base of your spine before disappearing. Your skin shone, faintly, the steam wisping off the glass, settling in a cloud around your body, clinging to the planes and curves of it. You seemed to glow in that tiny space, a radiant centerpiece amongst white tile. You gave him a tired smile as he approached — inviting, questioning.

"Sorry! Did I wake you?" you asked instead, your face flushed pink from the heat, strands of wet hair stuck against your damp neck and collarbones. Your tongue darted over your lips as you moved beneath the spray of water again, turning away from him to put away the shampoo bottle on the built-in soap tray.

Xavier's hand landed against the frosted glass door. The hinges groaned in protest when he swung it fully open. Your eyebrows rose high onto your forehead when he stepped inside without asking, closing the space between you in three strides, boxing you in against the marble wall. The shock of hot water bearing down on him didn't quite register through the dead focus he had on you.

Your lips parted, breath catching. In surprise? In interest? He wasn’t sure, and right now he didn't care. Something childish tugged at him. Something that didn't care he was fully clothed, the black turtleneck sticking uncomfortably to his skin, jeans tightening with water. All he could think about was how soft you looked despite everything. How good you smelled, flowery and clean, how your wet skin practically sparkled beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

How badly he wanted to etch himself into you, to have his name spill from your lips like fresh ink, blotting out the ghost of a dead man already written in your past.

Water droplets clung to your eyelashes. On impulse, he reached up to brush them away gently, and they fluttered against his knuckles.

"Xavier, what—"

"I had a nightmare," Xavier cut in smoothly, feeling more back in his body, sounding far calmer than he really was. "Will you comfort me?"

"Oh..." The word came out somewhere between surprise and concern, tinted with sympathy. Xavier had to be looking half out of his mind, or too pathetic, standing here as soaked as a drowned rat in front of you while you were naked. He was worrying you. The idea snapped him back to reality, searing through his thoughts, hot oil snapping against bare skin. He immediately wanted to turn tail and leave before you demanded he elaborate. He couldn’t. Couldn't admit this was his version of needing affection. You frowned, reaching out to rest your hand over the side of his neck to draw him closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Xavier replied without missing a beat, leaning down to bump his nose against yours. Gingerly, unsure if this would be welcomed, he rested his hands lightly on either side of your waist, the water sluicing down his back, comfortably boiling despite the situation. His throat bobbed once, twice, and he dipped his head down, unable to keep himself from admitting what he wanted most from you.

Your touch relaxed. It slid behind the back of his neck, fingers curling inward. He felt grounded again with your palms tracing a path down to his back, one palm pressed flat and firm between his shoulder blades while the other ghosted along his nape. It made goosebumps rise on his flesh, a pleasant sensation only you could provide. And when he bowed forward, your frame folded to accommodate, molding against his broader shoulders perfectly, bringing him into a sweet embrace. One that burned into his memory, thawing him to the bone in more ways than physical.

"Okay... Okay. Let's get you out of these wet clothes first," you cooed sympathetically and kissed him right below his ear. That tender, understanding gesture made Xavier's heart squeeze in his chest painfully. He thought about the letters hidden away in the drawer, if you had done this at all with Caleb, but he quickly banished it from his thoughts and focused on the solid feeling of your body slotting so easily into his and reminded himself you were always meant to be there. Where no one else was allowed. "Then tell me how I can help, okay? Whatever you need."

Fifteen minutes later, Xavier had your front pressed into the condensation-dripping wall of the shower after he'd stripped off all his clothes and joined you.

You were flattened against the chilly surface as your nails clawed helplessly against the slick tiles, eyes were glazed over, lips swollen. One arm looped securely around your midsection, cupping one breast possessively, while the other braced a forearm beside your head and against the wall, trapping you effectively between Xavier and the marble barrier, each thrust pushing you upward on your tiptoes as he grinded insistently against you from behind. His grunts tickling the shell of your ear amidst his deep, staccato breaths as he buried himself up to the hilt, bottoming out deep within your pulsating core, piercing the misty veil surrounding them in an intimate halo.

Everything felt too intense. Too intimate. It shouldn't have been so overwhelming — this wasn't even a new position or angle. But going through that letter of yours had the world was collapsing around him, and the only thing he could hold onto was your body, writhing beautifully between him and the smooth stonework. And maybe that was exactly what it was, he mused vaguely between driving into you from behind while relishing how hot and wet and tight you were around his cock — a sort of catharsis, releasing emotions he never voiced aloud, a purge of anxieties he normally swallowed down through hearing you chant his name incessantly, each moan spoonfuls of honey trickling down his throat and pooling dreamy in his belly.

You were practically keening underneath him now, rocking backwards as best you could to meet every roll of his hips with matching fervor. Your face angled toward him, seeking a kiss which he eagerly acquiesced, both of you moaning brokenly into one another's mouths at the perfect slide of his tongue against yours, tangling almost lazily in comparison to the frantic metronome beat building between you two. Xavier reveled in the sweetness of your taste, licking deeper past your lips with unashamed greediness while enjoying your muffled gasp and subsequent whimpers vibrating on his palate.

There wasn't anywhere else in the universe Xavier would rather be than inside this shower cubicle fucking you senseless until the only thing remaining on your tongue were prayers begging for release and praise echoing throughout the enclosed space, resonating clearly through his ears and straight into his pounding chest.

"Call out my name more," Xavier uttered hoarsely, punctuating each word with a hard slam of his hips that made you choke on your cries of ecstasy. You complied beautifully without question, moans spilling unrestrained from those perfect, kiss-swollen lips alongside declarations of love that had the tempo of his hips speeding up, becoming faster, harder, rougher. "Who's here with you right now?"

"Y—Xavier!"

At this rate, Xavier might end up blowing his load first before being able to feel you tighten around him one last time. The sound of his name in that husky, breathless tone made his balls tingle warningly, pleasure threatening to spill over at any moment. "Again," He growled darkly as his pelvis connected audibly with the supple flesh of your ass. "Who's making you feel good? Who is making you forget your own name right now, hm?"

Your reply came out in between pants. "You, Xavier! Oh god, Xavier! Only you!"

"Yes... Me," he crooned triumphantly, sinking his teeth firmly enough into the meat of your shoulder so you would remember the shape of his mark, leaving red marks that resembled brands branded into your flesh. "Only I can give you what you need, isn't that right? No one else. Nobody else will ever do... I'm the one here... Now..."

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caoimhewritesfics · 27 days ago

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Vacation

I was just on vacation and it got me thinking about how TF 141 + König act on vacation with you so here's some headcanons

CW: None

WC: 669

Ghost isn't really the kind of guy to go on vacation. He's a "stay at home and relax" man, enjoying the short amount of time he gets at home with you. "I'm always off on deployment, I don't understand why I would use my time at home to just ship myself off somewhere else," he always says. You're in disbelief when you finally manage to convince him to actually travel anywhere farther than the couch with you. He won't complain though, he'll feel too guilty if he does. So, he begrudgingly putters through the airport with you. Amusement parks are a big no for him. Too many people, long lines, overpriced food? Yeah he'll pass. But, if you take him somewhere quiet and peaceful, he'll love it. If he can sit around reading his books or window shopping in a small rural town, he'll be on top of the world.

König HATES planes. Being 6'10 makes the small spaces difficult. So, expect to be on a train or something much less cramped to get to your destination. He loves to hike and he's very intense about sunscreen use. Expect for him to be making sure you reapply it every two hours and no swimming until it's fully soaked in. Loves going to remote places with a small bed and breakfast. He'll be up early as usual, activities planned out in extreme detail. He has a detailed itinerary of every day. The breakfast is always set at exactly the same time, and he already has a map of the trails you’ll explore that day, marking spots along with estimated times of arrival. He likes to make the hikes an all day activity so he packs plenty of snacks for when you're out so you don't get hungry.

Price is an airport dad. He will make sure you're there several hours early. By the time you get to the check-in counter, he’s already double-checked your boarding passes, your IDs, and even your luggage tags, just in case. You’ve barely made it past security, and he’s already on the phone with the airline, double-confirming the gate and asking the attendant how early they’ll start boarding. He’s acting like he’s planning a military operation. He's basically power walking through the airport to your gate. While you’re busy teasing him, he’s already five steps ahead, securing the perfect spot to sit near the gate, ensuring you’re in an area that’s both close enough to the restrooms and far enough from the crowds. You can’t even get to your seat before he’s asking if you’ve got your passport, your phone, your charger, your headphones, he even offers you a neck pillow.

Gaz is really into the local scene. He spends weeks prior to your trip researching non-tourist spots that locals love. He says he wants an "authentic travel experience." He doesn't really go for the thrill seeking activities, he's much more of a city explorer. He's really into a chill vacation where he can just spend time with you exploring a new place. He's so organized that the whole trip goes smoothly. He has all the documents like passports, plane tickets, ID"s on hand at all times. Takes pictures of EVERYTHING. He loves to make them "artsy". Once you get home he's getting the pictures printed and putting them in a special photo album.

Soap is over the moon when it comes to vacation. He loves a good trip. He's down to go anywhere and do pretty much anything. If you want to go to a fancy resort and just sit by the pool he's more than happy, but if you want to go on a wilderness retreat he's all for it. Loves an amusement park. Even if it's crowded and the lines are long he's still having a great time. He would love trying all the different foods that are in the park. Much like Price, he is an airport dad all the way. He's the most prepared person in that airport (besides Price).

#call of duty #könig #könig x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #john price x reader #john price #captain john price #price cod #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #caoimhewrites

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venice-1987 · 2 months ago

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The Ghast Hunter

I met the Ghast hunter beside a village that had been built in the tundra. A tall mountain cut through the horizon, forcing the eye upwards and into the clouds, and at its base was his humble hut, and ancient ruined portal -now repaired- located a stone’s throw away. He invited me inside for a drink, and I got a glimpse of his home. A loft bed, and the necessities, and an open chest filled to the brim with Ghast tears, displayed like a trophy right as you entered the front door.

“I need an escort through the Nether,” I said. At the time, I had big dreams about reaching the End, but enough good sense to ask for help getting there. At the time, I would have called it cowardice, if I had the stones to confront the strange feeling in my chest. He agreed, as long as he got a share of the spoils if we came across any treasure.

“I don’t need much. Just enough to trade with the locals for food,” he said. “And every ghast tear is mine. That is non-negotiable”

I thought it strange, but chaulked it more up to egotistical possessiveness. He needed to grow his trophy chest int he center of his home, wanted credit for each ghast killed.

It was no trouble to me. There was more glory in killing the other beasts in the Nether, and more treasure would go into my pockets. I agreed, and he got up from his chair. I startled at the idea of leaving right at that moment, but in my over-eager youth, I followed.

We did not manage to find a fortress in the remainder of the day. Although time seems to work differently in the hell dimension, our fatigue did not and our weariness told us when it was wise to return to the overworld. But the Ghast hunter lived up to his name, slaughtering the tearful ghost-like creatures with ease and without discrimination.

“I feel sorry for them,” I mentioned on our journey back. We were on an ashy cliffside, bones scattered in the nooks of the cavern. “They look so sad.” I had never seen a ghast at that point, only read about them. Their shrieks pierced my eardrums, and their wailing cut deep into my own heart.

“There is not much left to feel sorry for. They’re creatures twisted by this hell,” the hunter said. “They know nothing but anger. There is no other way to save them than by putting them out of their misery.”

He said so bitterly, and I took his disgust to be directed at the creatures themselves. It would make sense. These creatures attacked without provocation, defending only fire and the sulfurous fumes burned out from the lava below. What else could they be, save for beings of evil.

But the hunter stopped by a pile of bones I had thought to be unspectacular, only useful as a landmark to find our way back. But the hunter knelt down by one rib, and chiseled away a rock at its base, and resumed towards our portal without any explanation. Perhaps he thought it another bit of treasure to plunder.

It wasn’t until we were safe in the overworld, the moon peaking out from behind the mountainside, that I saw the stone had a face. Perhaps I had a visible horror in my expression, or confusion, because the hunter pressed his lips into a thin line, and told me to follow him. Along the way, he cradled the stone as if it were an infant.

He led me to the base of the mountain, where a tunnel had been carved through the rocks. I had not noticed it before, as it laid directly behind the hunter’s home. We travelled through, and despite my own adventures at that point, the darkness still frightened me. No monsters accosted us, and we finally reached the other side, where a small, brightly lit room welcomed us. To either side, a fountain with more of those strange stones perched underneath the water on pedestals. The hunter placed the one in his hands on an empty space, unbothered by how his now wet hands would chill easier in the cold.

“This one’s about ready,” he said, pointing towards the stone to the right of the one he had just placed. Somehow, it looked softer, larger, like a sponge that had soaked in some water. More questions filled my mind. I had thought these things to be perhaps ritual statues, collected and placed under water as a strange form of worship. I had read about more unusual things in this world.

But the stone started to wiggle forward, as if being pushed by the water. The stream parted as it emerged, its face in a wide, content smile. And I realized, it was a ghast!

“I thought you hunted these. You said that they’re not worth saving,” I exclaimed.

“I didn’t say they weren’t worth saving. I said they could not be saved. And I wasn’t lying to you. The ones we fight in there, the ones whose anger is all they’ve known, they cannot be saved. But they deserve to be saved, in the only way they can be. In rest, they can find peace,” the hunter explained. The little ghast chirped, finding its way into the hunter’s outstretched arms. He smiled gently, the edges of his eyes crinkling with crow’s feet. “But these guys are new enough that they are still learning. If you catch them in the middle of their lesson in suffering, you could teach them comfort and love instead. Before its too late.” He spoke then to the ghast. “Lets get you to the others”

He stepped through the doors opposite where we entered, leading to the valley on the other side of the mountain. I stepped through as well, gasping at the view. A forest of cherry blossoms littered the lowest points of the Earth, and wildflowers grew between the trunks and pathways. A few bees bumbled between them, drunk on pollen and tired in the late night. And high up, near the peaks and clouds, were dozens of ghasts, all smiling, floating lazily amongst each other. Like the tiny ghast, they looked content and peaceful.

“Perhaps ghast hunter is a bit of a misnomer,” the hunter laughed. “I do hunt ghasts, but I provide them sanctuary too.”

“But, what about the tears?” I asked. “Don’t you collect them as trophies.”

“Oh, no. The ghastlings can be born from the tears,” the hunter said. “I also like to pay respects, for the ghasts that suffered, and are still suffering. They might not know that they were ever loved in life, but they are now.”

The hunter took a long breath, and continued. “I hope to reintroduce the ghast to their natural environment over time,” he said. “Dwindle the population in the Nether. Return everything to how it should be.”

“Its a noble goal,” I finally said. I understood, now.

“And near impossible,” he said. “But I need to try.”

#minecraft #minecraft lore #minecraft ghast #minecraft dried ghast #minecraft happy ghast #minecraft ghastling #dried ghast #baby ghast #happy ghast #ghastling #minecraft update #mojang #they make me emotional #I love them #I've already made a world called “Ghastling sanctuary”#minecraft fanfiction #minecraft fanfic

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writingescapades · 1 month ago

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In the Rain

Fields of Mistria: Balor, Rhys, March, Caldarus

A/N: It's been raining a lot here, so got inspired. Sorry if the characterization seems off. I'm playing the game slow and don't have all the lore and heart events. (I'm dying for an update where we get multiple save files. How will I romance them all????)

Balor

The rain always reduced the number of customers. It made for slippery paths as muddy water sloshed worn clothing. One always became soaked, not matter how well covered they attempted to be. Worst of all, the rain almost always made Balor ill. Suffice to say, Balor disliked the rain.

What the rain taught him was the comfort of shelter. The warmth of an enclosed spaced filled with music and laughter. The fullness of a hearty meal as rainwater serenaded him, and the soft thunder that lulled him to sleep. The rain was a temptation towards indulgence. It was different to experience a space to just exist in and not commoditize. Balor never knew how to feel about that. It enticed him but it also bit at him, as if the rain was attempting to domesticate him. Thankfully, the rain would always end.

It was on a rainy day that Balor, heading towards the inn, stumbled upon you. He instinctively invited you into the inn, especially once he registered your drenched state, but you only shook your head and turned your attention elsewhere. Once inside the inn, Balor surrender once more to the cozy environment. He sat on a bar stool waiting for the familiar warmth to wrap around him once more, holding him there till either the rain stopped, or he stumbled upstairs half asleep. But this time, Balor remained cold.

He kept remembering you. Your clothes and that flimsy hat would not last long under this downpour, yet you did not seem to mind. Instead, you face seemed focused. Balor tried to put his thoughts aside. Tried to chat with the locals, but 30 min later, he felt no different. It was only when Hemlock chided Balor to get on with what he really needed to do, that Balor finally escaped the inn.

He finally found you on the beach, fishing. Had he not been drenched, Balor would have laughed at the scene before him.

“What is so luring about fishing that I find the new farmer paying no heed to the rain?”

You turned and further confused Balor with a smirk. Did the rain not bother you?

“Some fishes only come out in the rain. Also, I seem to get a lot of treasure chests and sunken artifacts”.

Saying so, you pulled in your line to reveal an old treasure chest.

“Open it,” you urged.

It took some precarious locksmithing, but Balor finally opened the chest to reveal, a lump of wood. His expression must have been something for the cackle you let out.

“Sometimes they contain duds,” you consoled as you pulled in another chest.

This time, the box contained a bit of gold.

You urged him to keep the treasure, claiming it as his initiation into treasure hunting. Balor kept the gold, but his eyes locked out into the sea once more, excitement shining in his eyes. As he watched you cast out your line and waited for the next haul, Balor shivered. Maybe it was from the cold, and he probably would have a cold the next day. But the crisp air, the scent of the rain, the roaring of the sea all filled Balor with this familiar ache. He loved the inn and he’d grown on the people of Mistria. But comfort and desire were different, and Balor’s heart beat for this moment right here, where everything was just bit against him and the only thing that would save him rested on a silver line. A line you pulled and cast repeatedly until the moon was up and the rain finally stopped. Many treasure chests and artifacts were found, but for Balor the best treasure was discovered a new way to appreciate the rain.

Rhys

Rain and Carpenters were probably mortal enemies. Afterall, wet wood would worsen wealth for any carpenter. There was always a new customer, unaccustomed to wood composition who got upset when they discovered the damage the rain could do on wood. Like clockwork, the day after a rainfall always had Rhys running around fixing the damages and making repairs.

In anticipation of this, Rhys got into the habit of preparing on rainy days. It just saved time, though it took away from his other hobbies. His uncle always chided Rhys for working too hard, but he couldn’t persuade Rhys much, especially since Rhys’s hard work benefited the business. It was on such a day, where Rhys was walking out to the village square to pick up some supplies that he bumped into you.

You were lying on the ground, spread out like a starfish. Alarmed, Rhys immediately headed towards you to check if everything was well. Your closed eyes did not alleviate the situation, but the smile on your face made Rhys exhale a laugh and call out your name.

You didn’t open your eyes, but hummed along to his questions of concern. Rhys quickly understood that you were just being yourself. For quiet, calm, reliable Rhys, you were interesting. You did what you wanted with little care for the consequences or the opinions of others. It was, interesting and tempting, though Rhys was reluctant to admit it. He was about to go and leave you once more, when you turned towards him, shielding your face with your arm and spoke.

“Stay”.

It wasn’t an order, nor a job. Rhys should refuse. He should go to the market. He should work on new fences, bird feeders, fire circles for tomorrow. He should check the house and make sure everything is intact. He should not close his umbrella. He should not lie down like you, and he definitely should not smile as he got drenched. But Rhys did so.

It felt nice. That was a lie. It felt wonderful. The air really felt different in the rain. It smelled different. And the sensation of raindrops became soothing after a while, each drop a little greeting from nature. It was fun, and suddenly Rhys recalled all the projects he pushed to the side in order to work. All the nights he found himself awake, arms aching not from a hard day’s work, but from the lack of creative output. Rhy loved being a carpenter, and he was good at it. Yet, nothing compared to working on something that had no expectations, were Rhys could just be.

Rhys did not know how long you both lay there. No villager passed by. They were all probably at the inn anyway, passing time till the rain stopped. He probably would have joined them after a few urges, but now Rhys realized, that the warmth of the inn could not compare to the warmth of your hand. Infinitesimally less warm than the inn, Rhys still held on tight to your hand as his heart soared with an excitement he had stored away. He would not go home and work after the rain stopped. He would find those projects and, after a long time, he would have fun.

March

March always worked, rain or shine. A blacksmith’s work was always in demand. Even with his brother, the duo always put in long hours, but the pay off was well worth it. Though it was somewhat egotistical of him, March prided in knowing that he and his brother built this village. Thus, over the time, March became immune to the weather. It was just another day.

He was out making deliveries when he spotted you. You were walking, rather slowly, without an umbrella.

“Are you dumb?” March huffed out when he caught up with you, placing the umbrella above both of you. it wasn’t made for two, forcing March to put up with you drawing closer.

“Where’s your umbrella?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” you asked back.

March scoffed. Sense of adventure. Please. Just because you went into the mines to discover, didn’t mean March did the same. March went to the mines to collect resources. He did not pick up odd things. He did not talk to statues. He made practical tools and armour out the materials. That was all. There was no adventure to life. There was just the skill one developed when one worked hard.

But you would always ask him this question when he challenged your ways. March knew he should comment on your lifestyle. You never did so for him. But he couldn’t help it. There was something about you that irritated March, and seeing you be so, so, so unlike him yet so beloved fueled that irritation. Years as a Blacksmith trained March for expected results. He knew how to craft complex tools from a series of repeated motions and heat. When you came with your grandiose designs, March immediately rejected them, saying it was impossible. He shook his head when he saw you at the smithing table, failing over and over again. On the odd chance that something actually worked, March only sneered claiming it wouldn’t last long. He never learned if they did.

That’s all he did around everyone. Grumble, complain, ridicule. Even now he complained about having to hold his delivery and balance the umbrella over the two of you. Eventually you rolled your eyes, sighed, and took the umbrella. You both made it to his delivery address when March told you to keep the umbrella.

“If you get sick and die, I won’t have you haunting me because I didn’t give you the umbrella,” he muttered and all but shoved you off on your path.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance before a cold smile crept up your face, sending shivers down March. You walked a few steps with the umbrella, then suddenly flung it behind you and scampered off.

“Oy!” March yelled out to the sound of your laughter. You were moving fast, but he still caught your words in the rain.

“You would make the afterlife interesting for me to hang around?”

March picked up the umbrella and uselessly shook it before placing it above him once more. He made his way home but stopped at the blacksmith table. There was an item, one of your designs. Of no practical purpose and rudimentary. But it lasted. March quickly brought in the item and dried it. Staring at the object he traced the metal as his brain started to plan out ways to improve the object. To make it more attractive for customers, or to offer it as a decorative item detail. He could make hundreds of the improved model, but March would always keep this rudimentary one on his desk. It was a reminder; of that cold smile you always gave him before you set out prove him wrong. The one that sent shivers down March, not because it intimidated him, but because it awoke a slumbering excitement. A competition that had to last a lifetime, because March did not know how to make life an adventure without you.

Caldarus

Caldarus experienced rain for millenniums as a dragon and as a stone. It was different as a stone because though he knew when it rained, he couldn’t experience it as a living creature. It wasn’t until you moved into the acre of forest where his statue lay, that Caldarus was provided the opportunity to experience rain again.

You both developed a habit of sitting together in the rain. It was Caldarus who initiated the activity, concerned at seeing you work in the rain. If the rain was nature’s way to put a pause on life, then why were you working? When you sat beside him the first time, you fidgeted a lot, unused to doing nothing. You began to talk and ask him questions, and though Caldarus enjoyed your conversations, he intentionally slowed his responses to push you into experiencing the moment. It took time, but you changed. You slowed down. Took more breaks. Did nothing. Said nothing, and basked in the comfort only a familiar and age-old company can provide.

Then everything changed and Caldarus experienced rain differently for the third time. Experiencing rain in the human form was quite different. As a dragon, Caldarus paid no heed to the rain. It was more of a bath if anything else. As a stone, it was something he merely sensed through his magic. In both forms, rain allowed Caldarus to watch the world be cleaned. To experience a moment of silence as all sounds fell under the sound of rain. But as a human, the rain altered all his senses. He could hear it, smell it, feel it, even taste it. It was all wonderful and all too much. He now understood why many rushed to shelter, after all, who could endure this onslaught of the senses for longer durations?

In his human form, Caldarus expected rainy days with you to cease. He thought you would prefer time indoors as most humans did. But instead, Caldarus found your sitting on a stone bench, doing nothing.

“Dear one, why are you sitting on the bench? Would you not prefer the warmth of your home?”

You laughed and gave Caldarus a cheeky smile.

“Can’t stand the rain anymore Caldarus? What happened to experiencing nature’s pause?”

Caldarus ducked his head and looked away. The number of times he asked you to sit beside him in the rain, not once it crossed his mind that this act might make you sick. He opened his mouth to apologize for this negligence, when he saw your outstretched hand. Tentatively holding it, Caldarus found himself being pulled towards you. He landed on the stone bench while you sat on the ground beside him. The familiar positions you took when he was stone.

“I want to experience this moment with you, Caldarus”.

He would never tire of hearing you say his name, nor of spending time with you. It was a world you both created, a language you both understood, and a familiarity that long eluded Caldarus. He would forever cherish it.

“Of course, dear one”.

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lothcat-lothcat-lothwolf-run · 1 year ago

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something about Kallus (born on Coruscant, currently living in a glorified hallway) seeing lothal for the first time. there’s grass! And mountains! And a lot of big empty space! The sky is so big! How? Is this possible??

but he’s not allowed to go near it. The local wildlife (there’s wildlife!! And it’s cute!!) are considered too much of a hassle. He doesn’t even get to feel the landscape rush by him when he’s in a speeder. No, he’s always inside, a sort of cage of his own making.

when he’s on the ice moon, it’s one of the first times he really feels the pull, the call that nature holds out to him. It’s cold and freezing and miserable, but it’s still something real. And zeb almost seems to embody it, a wild that cannot, will not be contained. He wants to push it away almost as much as he wants to embrace it. Embrace him.

when he gets back, the artificial lights hurt more than before. The walls seem to echo every footstep with a metallic clang. Every moment someone makes feels robotic, even the air feels stiff and rigid. He lays the meteorite down on the plasteel shelf, and the contrast between the two feels as loud as war. It somehow reminds him of himself.

When he turns off the lights, he could almost imagine the grass under him, the midnight breeze and the smell of flowers. As if that rock of unknown properties is a star, as seen from on a planet, not a ship. The mountains in his mind hold him close, and he whispers a name for the lone star. “Garazeb”

Kallus often wonders what atollon is like. Seeing it, being there would be selfish of him. How could he continue to serve from afar if he is close by? When he does get glimpses, it makes him long for the things he never knew. When the wind blows into you, does the sand travel with it and scrape your skin? What does the ground feel like when the sun warms it? The animals there, do they cry out when they fall asleep as he so often does? It’s perhaps one of the cruelest tortures that Thrawn inflicts on him. How he wants to be down there, alongside everyone and everything he’s never gotten the chance to hold.

The first thing he noticed about Yavin 4 was how the vines seem to snake up the side of whatever desolate structure the rebels are using as a base. They infiltrate the lines between the stone tiles that make up much of the landing zone. He asks zeb if he could touch one, just for a moment and is surprised when the lasat laughs. The plants feel warm to the touch, as if they were secretly a type of lizard who basks in the sun. There’s a corse grain underneath it all, a pattern and a rhythm, different than the strictness of the Empire. It flows, similar to a wave. It extends and encompasses the base, but still pulls back to shore. It reflects them all.

on lothal, he once again sees the grass ripple in the wind as the ship he spent years chasing returned home. he steps out of the ghost and into the infinite field, transported back to the moment he saw this place for the first time. And he loves it no less.

#sw rebels #star wars rebels #kallus #agent kallus #alexsandr kallus #kallus x zeb #kalluzeb #rebel kallus #zeb rebels #zeb orrelios #zeb #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #star wars shitpost #shatterpoint lineage #sabine wren

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kaz-dekadent · 2 months ago

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star boy, oh mine 1

[PRAGUE 1993] [COMING SOON] [COMING SOON] | [masterlist]

viktor x gn!rockstar reader

tw // smoking, alcohol, subtextual mentions of sa, cussing

cw: they/them pronouns for reader, viktor-centric, czech viktor, vik has a last name, jayce, vi and jinx are here too, 90s au, reader is cocky, flirty and a bit of a rube, caitvi in the subtext, author is attempting to be funny, power dynamics (fan x idol), unplanned angst, i wrote songs for this [smut: sub top!vik, darcyphilia, hickeys, praise, anal, aftercare, reader is drunk]

summary: after a concert to celebrate getting a degree, viktor dvořák catches the attention of his idol and makes an irresponsible decision that will forever reposition the constellations in his heart.

note: it has some funny lines so don't read it just for smut. (i choked on water writing one of these lines.)

5.9k words

PRAGUE, 1993

„These standing rooms were a mistake,” Viktor grumbled, shifting from his weaker leg. He could feel the music in his bones, but everything, everything was stopping him from enjoying the concert.

He just got his doctorate in astronomy, was about to make a scientific breakthrough and right now you, his idol and the vocalist of the independent rock band – Y/N & The Sisters of Discordance – were performing on a scene just before him.

He should be on cloud nine. But in reality he was in pain and annoyed at people covering his view, having nowhere to sit, while his leg was giving him a bad time, and the smell of other people’s sweat tortured his nose. At least Jayce was shielding him from being crushed.

“Really?” Jayce looked down at him. “We can see everything!”

“You can, Jayce. Only thing I see is the back of this guy in front of me.” He complained. “And my leg hurts.”

“I can help it.”

Viktor felt Jayce’s hands lifting him up and suddenly he was the highest of all people in these standing rooms. As high as the moon itself, maybe. His friend carried him piggyback. And he could see everything. He laid his eyes on you, singing with your whole throat, as your fingers pulled the strings of your guitar.

At the back, Vi was hitting the drums, and Jinx was pulling the strings of her bass. But his enraptured vision made him see you and only you.

As you did a riff, Viktor’s heart stopped. You were mesmerizing, your voice, piercing through the speakers, was awakening the audience, making them cheer, put their hands up and sing along with their intoxicated voices. You blinded him like the sun. And he could feel everyone’s attention pointing onto the small, quiet scientist risen above everyone else’s heads.

Your eyes converged with his and he gripped his cane tighter. You smiled at him and he thought he was about to fall.

***

After you and your band left the stage, the fans started dispersing from the club. Their drunken shouts and screams so loud he just wanted to gag all these people. When there was finally some space, Viktor got back on the ground. But fuck… He was still able to feel the hot air filing him inside. Still able to feel your gazes merging like a lunar eclipse.

“Thank you, Jayce.” He breathed. “Y/N looked me in the eyes.”

“You think they will remember you?”

“Don’t be delusional. They won’t.” He put his cane forward, heading to the exit from the club.

“They will. You know, mom got me a backstage pass.” Jayce smiled.

Viktor didn’t know what to say. He just went with Jayce to the backstage, through the corridors painted with unevenly spread paint, with one colour for upper half and other for the lower. He peeked through the door. You were giving an interview to a journalist from a local newspaper, with a camera before your face.

The rock magazines would soon sprout out all these headlines: Y/N L/N, the unknown lyrical genius?, or Y/N & The Sisters of Discordance – new rising star or a total failure?

“Tell us, Y/N, how do you see the future of your band?” the journalist asked.

“Do I have to be honest? If yes, then without me.”

Viktor pulled onto Jayce’s flannel shirt. He felt his eyes opening, and saw his knuckles whitening, while gripping the material.

“Listen.” He told him.

You continued what you were saying.

“Or just with another songwriter. I’m losing inspiration. Guess I just have to find a muse.” You said with a chuckle.

Your eyes laid on Viktor. Again, now harder. As you were saying the word muse. His body lit up, about to implode or explode, turn him into a supernova.

“Okay, end the interviews.” You ordered. “Everyone, please go.”

“I haven’t finished mine yet!” Jinx shouted.

“Y/N, you can’t just…” Vi mumbled with concern in her voice. She gave the journalist a compassionate look. “Whatever…”

"Okay, you two can stay, but hurry up," you said.

What an audacity.

And everyone simply started leaving. Viktor headed to the exit, too. Even if he wanted to stay for a minute. This rocker’s voice contains something, he was certain. The chance of this silly idea coming true evaporated. He sighed.

“Not you, cane boy!”

He curled up.

You must be talking about him. Yes, this insolent rocker mesmerises people with their voice. He wanted to go. He wanted to stay. He wanted to leave. He wanted you to say a word to him. He wanted- He…

Fuck.

“Me?” He asked. No, he squeaked. His voice was annoyingly high, so high it drowned out his intelligence, the thing he mesmerised you by in his stupid dreams. He sounded so pathetic in front of his musical deity.

“Who else here has a cane?” You asked with a confident smile, leaning on the chair you were sitting on.

Viktor bit his lip. Journalists walked past him and Jayce, who then shoved him into the room. He held onto his cane till his knuckles became even whiter. He wanted to hit his friend with it so, so bad it was ridiculous. You stood up from your chair, smiling, and he felt his cheeks, and especially his nose and his ears turning red.

You reached your hand to him. Viktor was shaking. You were real. Persona, he saw only on posters, rock magazines, once on MTV at Jayce’s house when they were playing more niche bands in the middle of the night, and just a minute ago, on stage. Made of flesh and bone, breathing air, looking at him. He shook your hand back. And you were real. Real, with hands that warmed his cold skin and a smile that narcotised his star-filled brain.

“You must have a backstage pass.”

And he couldn’t respond. How do you say it in English? He couldn’t even in his native Czech. He just squeaked.

“He knows English!” Jayce shouted and Viktor wanted to slap him. “He’s just shy!”

“Jayce…”

“Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.” You smirked. “Tell, me, what’s your name?”

“It’s Viktor. Viktor Dvořák.”

“Viktor Dvořák… What a pretty name.”

“Doctor Viktor Dvořák!” Jayce walked into the room, then hugged him over his shoulder with his big bicep. “He recently got a doctorate!”

“Oh really? In what?”

“In astronomy.” He said quietly, hoping you won’t pay attention to his thick accent. “I am… looking at pulsars and…” He stopped, trying to find words in the foreign language.

“You know, you can tell me about your research in the hotel room.” You joked, looking at him. It seemed to him like your eyes contained unspoken indecency, that gave him shivers. Your vision suddenly purified. “Do you guys want an autograph?”

“Indeed.” Viktor mumbled. This risqué idea seemed weirdly alluring.

Now, he wanted to slap himself.

“Sure!” Jayce took off his flannel, exposing his back and broad shoulders to you. You took out an indelible marker and painted your autograph on the white material of his shirt.

“I talk… I was talking um… hotel rooms.” A quiet voice escaped Viktor’s lips.

You laughed and stroked his shoulder. He trembled at your touch, still unable to believe he was meeting his idol in person. He couldn’t stop monitoring himself: the way he held his free hand and his cane, the way he smiled, the way words went out of his mouth. And he couldn’t hide that accent.

“And I was joking.” You replied, then smirked. “Unless...”

Viktor knew he was all red. Knew that if he opens his mouth, nothing coherent will come out. Jayce yanked him to the corner of the room and gripped his shoulders.

“Vik! This is hella irresponsible!” He shouted, whispering. “You will…”

“I know what I’m doing, Jayce.”

“So?” You asked.

“I’m going.”

“Viktor, for God’s sake!”

That’s exactly what he wanted to yell at himself.

You grabbed the material of his shirt, like you wanted to take him somewhere. Please, be it this fucking hotel room.

Jayce pouted.

“Viktor! You are going to a hotel with them while I have nowhere to stay!” He exclaimed. “We were supposed to get back to Ostrava right after the concert!”

You looked at Jayce, then at the bassist.

“Hey, Vi! Will you find him a place to stay?” You asked her and she looked up from the guitar she was tuning. “Unless you two have to necessarily be in Ostrava tomorrow…” You said to them.

“Why me?” She asked.

“Please, you’re good at these things.”

“Well… okay. Come with me, big boy.”

“I’ll get you back at 10 o’clock from the Jan Hus monument, okay, Vik?”

“Just get me tomorrow.” He muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes after Jayce and Vi left, Viktor was sitting beside you in the dressing room, as you held him close by his hip. Jinx focused her attention on the vocalist and the nervous wreck of a boy they picked up from the backstage.

Viktor leaned closer, sitting so close to you, almost on your lap. And you were holding his skinny, uninvitingly small and stiff thigh. And you somehow held it like he was a supermodel. And he hated how he melted under your touch.

“Have you heard of planets outside the solar system?” He stuttered, sitting huddled beside you, as you manspreaded across the seat, sipping a coctail. You have already changed into a loose undershirt.

“No.” Jinx said, unbraiding her blue hair.

“I did… but not much.” You said, smiling at him.

“Do you want me to talk about them?” Viktor looked you in the eyes, and he felt how his were widening like the ones of anything other than the brilliant astronomer he wanted you to see him as.

“No.” Jinx answered with a voice that screamed she didn’t care about the sciences. Then, she hid behind the curtain to change, throwing out her top from behind it.

The top landed on Viktor. “It is clear you didn’t.” He said, folding the piece of clothing. “A mind too closed to know that it should not throw clothes.”

You laughed, covering your face. Somehow, you melted him so much he now was bantering with the drummer.

“Please, tell me about them, professor Dvořák.” You looked into his eyes, holding his chin, making him explode inside. The way you called him professor Dvořák... Not doctor, professor. And how soft and attentive was your gaze. Your warm hand patted his hip. “I can’t wait till we’re alone in the hotel room.”

***

“Finally, just the two of us.” You said. Jinx and Vi, who recently got back with you to the hotel room, went to a bar to celebrate. You have ordered pizza for you and Viktor.

Now, he was standing in the centre of the hotel room. He wanted to sit, since his leg was tormenting him. But the air didn’t let him sit down before you do. He hissed in pain.

“Do you want to sit down?” You looked at his cane. Viktor nodded. He was certain you were some kind of mind reader.

A minute later, pizza arrived.

“Vi will kill us for this.” You said, taking a piece of pizza out of the box that lied on the bed. Like you weren’t his idol, but his friend, like Jayce. Whatever he was doing now.

You both were sitting on the white sheets in the white room, with Viktor’s cane lying beside him on the mattress. You bit of a piece of cheese-covered batch, steaming into the air. Viktor poked the pizza with his finger. The thought of eating, of biting, chewing and swallowing in front of you was hitting him with embarrassment that tangled his guts in a knot.

“Hey, Vik, why aren’t you eating?” You tilted your head in a caring manner, then smiled. “Tell me, at least there will be more pizza for me.”

“It’s… nothing.”

“Are you starving yourself like some fashion model? You’re already super skinny, I mean…”

“It’s a chronic illness. You know that the first exoplanets were speculated to exist in ninetieth century?” Viktor changed the subject, then took a triangle of pizza, covering his face with his hand. How comfortable he was becoming with you.

You looked at him, again with this weird concern in your eyes. Whatever you were thinking, Viktor knew one thing. You got attached. So quickly, he was pitying you for only being able to spend one night alongside him.

He took another bite, with his face covered, trying not to chew too loud, praying not to stain his face with tomato sauce. And you looked at him like at the prettiest of flowers.

“You know, the guy that speculated it saw anomalies in 70 Ophiuchi double star and thought some planet might exist there,” Viktor continued.

“Oh yeah? How did the research go later?”

“In the 1890s they abandoned it, they thought a third body in between the stars would make it unstable.”

“That was a hundred years ago, isn’t it crazy?”

“A lot happened a hundred years ago,” Viktor said. He noticed how your pupils widen at the face he made.

“You’re so pretty, Viktor. Your accent is too, and your brain…” You smiled at him weirdly, like you were expecting something. He knew what and it made him redder than the sauce on the pizza. You took the box into your hand and put it on the floor. “Fuckable, I would say.” You tilted up his chin so he couldn’t cover his face.

You cleaned his cheek of tomato sauce with your fingers. So unsexy.

“You want an… intercourse with me?” He felt how his cheeks become hotter than the sun itself and more red than the planet of Mars.

“You know, I’m too lazy today.”

“I can top.”

You lied on the mattress, then took out a pack of cigs and a lighter. You lit up your cigarette.

“So, take your dick out, pretty boy.” You said, inhaling the nicotine.

Viktor hugged the pillow. “Shouldn’t we kiss first?” He gripped the sheet closer to his chest.

Without saying anything, you pulled him onto your lap by his hips, like he weighted nothing. Your breath hit his face, smelling of nicotine, etanol and pizza. You took out the cigarette out of your mouth and put it in between his lips, gently holding the lower lip with your two fingers, getting them wet from his spit. Did it already count as a kiss?

His thighs were split by your knee, and his crotch was touching your thigh. You took his black Nirvana shirt off him, making him expose his hairy armpits, bones protruding from his ridiculously small and hairy torso, and his back brace. Then you kissed, no, you bit his neck and Viktor let out a moan of his lips, as his fingers grabbed the cigarette.

He didn’t have a scarf or a turtleneck and probably neither had anyone in the band.

“Don’t drop the cig, star boy, you will burn the bed.” You said with lust in your eyes, then started kissing his collarbone.

Viktor squeaked.

Then he felt as you unbuckled his jeans. You quickly flipped him on his back like he was as light as a ragdoll, then put up his legs, sliding the pants down. You threw them onto the floor.

But you were still clothed. You were still fully clothed, while he was wearing just his boxers and leg and back brace, feeling like a prostitute.

“So pretty.” Your eyes examined him from head to toe. “Better than a supermodel.”

Viktor took out the cigarette. Now it smoked in his fingers. You lowered yourself to his flat, hairy stomach and kissed it, biting his skin and hairs on his happy trail it like he was a snack. Viktor whimpered, covering his face with a pillow. Your lips travelled onto his hips, then on his legs and his inner thighs. As you nibbled the skin in between the brace on his weaker leg, he whined with a high pitch, trying to muffle it by pressing his face into the pillow. Your fingers gripped his hips like hawk claws. You put his leg over your shoulder.

He whimpered.

“What’s wrong, little star?”

“Other leg…” he mewled.

“I’ll kiss it if you won’t hide your pretty face anymore.”

Your mouth kissed the neglected, healthy leg of his gently. Then, your lips sucked onto it and he knew the next day all of his body will be red from hickeys. Your lips felt like heaven on his skin. Soft, wet, warm, hiding sharp teeth. As much as he wanted to hide himself in sheets, he stopped himself in the name of your mouth. And as you watched him, he repeated to himself, that you probably find his awkward face adorable.

Then the sensation stopped and he whimpered for more, feeling as his genius brain gets turned into something between a mush and a nebula. He gripped the bedsheet tighter.

“Undress me now.”

He opened his eyes wide, hearing these words from your mouth. Viktor’s hands were shaking. You laid before him as you put your hands under your head like shameless lazybones, and your legs spread between him. He took the white material of your undershirt between his fingers. The same thing with the other hand. He slid up your undershirt.

Your naked torso, the nude skin of his idol he imagined so many times, was even more beautiful in alive sight. Shaped better than he ever thought. You pulled his eyes onto his hypnotized self.

“Give me the cig, Viktor.”

His body shivered, as your voice said his name. It fondled every centimeter of his exposed skin. He gave you the cigarette, and you parted your mouth. As he put it between your teeth, his finger brushed your lips. He was almost naked, you were shirtless, but this, this little touch made him hard with no way to go back.

You inhaled some smoke. Viktor unbuckled your belt, then you stopped him to take out a condom and lube out of your pocket. He continued, unzipping your pants and sliding them down. He folded it into nice cubes, partially as a quiet mental revenge on Jinx for throwing her top at him.

Next, he touched your underwear. Underwear of his idol that would be sold for so much money he would never need sponsorship for his research. It smelled intoxicating. He slid it down, and you winked at him, exhaling cigarette smoke. Now, he was unsure how he will look at the posters of you in his bedroom, as he had seen your parts.

“You are…” He mumbled.

“Beautiful? Sexy? Stunning?” You prompted, then put the cigarette in his mouth and gripped his waist, just under his back brace. “Fuckable?”

He nodded.

“All of these? Then fuck me, show me how you do it. Just let me…”

You opened the condom with the teeth that have been just a minute ago biting his thighs. You touched his length and as you slithered the silicone material down on his sensitive skin, he whimpered, squeezing his eyes and hiding his face in his hands. And then, you put a massive amount of lube. He clenched his teeth, not to sound like a pathetic little cat.

You clasped his hips and shoved him inside you. You grunted and wiped sweat out of your forehead. Viktor cried. You, engulfing his length, were so tight he was shivering. And you took just the half of him.

He moved, and the friction made him tremble. You stroked his hip, like you were praising him. His whole body was covered in sweat, and he was breathing so hard his lungs hurt.

It was pathetic, how sensitive he was. He was barely inside you, but you having kissed his thighs had drove him so close.

Another thrust, he could take it better. He didn’t squeak like a cat, he only whimpered quietly, as three-quarters of his length were inside you. A drop of his sweat dripped onto your chest.

You slid him out by his hips, then slid inside again with a quiet moan. Viktor could barely stay up, even with a brace holding him. He was about to shatter.

“Have you done it before, little star?” You asked, exhaling smoke.

Viktor’s voice didn’t want to cooperate. Instead of yes, his mouth only said a squeal. He hid in a pillow.

“I can give your sweet mouth something to do, if you don’t feel like speaking.” You exposed his face from under a sheet. His length twitched and you hummed with a grin on your face, like you knew perfectly what you were doing.

Viktor knew his face was the shade of the Martian atmosphere and he regretted he ever learned English because of this.

He felt as your legs wrap around his waist, sliding him deeper. His brain was getting mushier with every millimeter. He trembled, gritting his teeth, knowing he was about to melt into a liquid state of matter and drip down inside you. His muscles were becoming soft like a pillow. He leaned on his hands between your head, leaning on his healthy leg. Every thrust of his was weaker, as his muscles were turning into plush.

“You’re so cute.” You chuckled, your hand brushing his damp hair. You were smirking, looking up at him with so much love in your glance. “Just a bit more.”

“I can’t… I’m cumming.”

“You can, sweetie. Just one more thrust.”

He obeyed, moving his hips into you. You pet his hair with a gentle smile, like he wasn’t milliseconds from turning into ashes. He felt as his eyes fill with tears. You hushed at him, stroking his back with your cold hand. He shivered from the touch.

His vision got blurry from tears. His whole body was shaking, as he shot an embarrassing amount of juices into you. His back arched, and his whole length got engulfed by your hole. He collapsed onto your chest, crying and sweating, his muscles weakening. He was certain he was seeing space, exoplanets perhaps.

“Ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re really good at these things.” You hissed and wiped the sweat of your forehead. “That’s my boy.”

You took him off your chest, then took off his condom and put it in the trash. That whole while, he spent lying on the bed, shaking and crying loads of tears into the pillow. He became so sensitive.

You put on your undershirt and underwear, then lied on the bed. He felt as you slip his boxers back onto him. You pulled him onto your chest with so much ease. The warmth of your body was slowly putting him to sleep. Tears gently dripped down his heated face. His hair was wet and probably smelly from sweat, just like the rest of his body. And you were brushing it with your loving hand. He purred.

You put a warm duvet on the both of you. Then you wiped off his tears with it. He closed his eyes. Your heart was beating inside your chest like a lullaby for him. He was listening to it now, alongside the sound of your breath and the blood flowing in your veins, but just some hours ago, he was not even truly conscious that you were corporeal.

His hand tied with yours. He was in a city three hundred and fifty kilometres from his Ostrava, in a hotel room he never stepped a foot in before, with a person he just until today thought of as superhuman. But now, your thumb was stroking his hand, making him feel so safe.

You left a warm kiss on his forehead just before he fell asleep.

…

“Seriously, Y/N?” The bassist’s voice woke him up.

You whined in your sleep and Viktor felt how you embrace him tighter, putting your leg over his. Vi moved her eyes from sleepy you to him.

“Seriously, Dvořák? You’re sleeping here, on my side of the bed? At least you're small enough not to take up much space.”

“Just to let you know, I don’t kick in my sleep or snore,” he mumbled with a voice hoarse from sleep.

“Unlike my sister,” she laughed and eyed at Jinx, sleeping with her mouth open on the extra bed. “Your friend has now a place to stay. I haven’t spent too much money on him, fortunately.”

***

Viktor woke up in his bedroom.

Again, he was dreaming of meeting his favourite rockstar and agreeing to what only the most stupid fans would agree to. And he was everything but stupid. But that dream was so… realistic. He’s going to tell Jayce about this dream as soon as they meet in the university.

He wondered if his friend dreamt of something too. Jayce’s dreams were always weird, like when they both visited a cemetery named China and mausoleum of Václav Havel by a rollercoaster, then having to evacuate because a war broke out in Czechoslovakia. Or when they were watching Disney characters beating each other up on a rooftop, while he was fixing an electrical outlet.

Wait a minute, this wasn’t his bedroom. This was a hotel room he fell asleep in his dream, with white sheets and white walls, and the morning sun peeking through beige curtains. And it was not a dream. On the bed at the other side of the room, Jinx was snoring, hugging her shark plushie from Jaws. On his right side, Vi was sleeping with messed up hair and her arm falling off the mattress . Floor was filled with empty and half-empty beer cans, a pizza box and pizza crumbs. The only familiar thing in the room was his cane.

He felt your arms wrapped around his waist and your face nuzzled into the back of his neck. You were so warm. And you both smelled of sweat and pizza you ate last night.

You hugged him tighter and groaned as you woke up. He felt you nuzzling your face into his back. Then, your hands freed him, and you stretched. Viktor rolled over to see if you were real. And you were. So real and human with a morning face and unbrushed hair.

You moved yourself up, to be at the height of his eyes. Then, you got up onto your arms, with him stuck between your hands. You smirked, being on top of him. Real.

“Hello, star boy. Have you slept well?,” you asked with your voice so soft.

Viktor wiped his eyes with his fist, whining. His brain was still waking up.

„I’m going to the shower. Wanna go with me?”

“Ehh… I would need a shower bench and I’m sure there is none of that in this hotel.” His morning voice was hoarse and grainy.

“You’re right. I’ll be right back.” You bent your arms like you were doing a push up, then kissed him on the forehead. He watched as you grab your clothes and lock yourself in the bathroom. As the sound of water started to drip down, he fell back asleep.

…

“Jinx! Wake up,” Vi’s voice woke up him instead.

“No.”

“Wake up.”

“No.”

“Oh my god, Jinx…” She sighed. “Help me, Dvořák....”

Viktor was forced to open his eyes.

“I have a name.”

“Oh my god. Help me… Viktor, right?”

He nodded, then stretched himself, hearing his joints cracking. His braces were digging into his skin. He regretted not taking them off for the night. When he was already standing on the ground, barely holding himself on his cane by sleepy muscles, he threw on his yesterday’s shirt. It was smelly and he had nothing else to wear, but it was worth the night he spent with you.

He leaned his hand on the wall and poked Jinx on the nose with his cane. She rolled to the other side. He poked her on the back. She grabbed the cane and he fell onto the bed.

Viktor tsked, rolling his eyes. “You know that you’re lucky that I am too weak to throw this bed upside down with you in it?”

“How did Y/N fucking you go?” Jinx asked as soon as she saw him, ignoring his threats.

“Is it really the first question you chose to ask me in the morning?”

“They topped, did they?”

“A mind so closed it jumps to conclusions…”

“Shut up, star boy.”

Half an hour later, Jinx finally woke up and Vi made breakfast for the whole band. When it was already a quarter after 10 o’clock, Viktor began to worry and get impatient. Jayce was never late, if anything, he was always too early. You went with him downstairs to look for a telephone. You found it at the front desk.

Jayce quickly answered. No wonder, after all, he had a mobile phone, that he remembered costed a fortune at Tuzex. He leaned on the desk.

“What is that music, Jayce?” he said into the headset, hearing Czech techno that disrupted his friend’s voice.

“Sorry, Vik! They’re being loud and you know…”

“I get it, can you pick me up from Y/N?” He asked, feeling as your hand wraps around his. He tried to ignore it. “If you haven’t gone back to Ostrava without me.”

“No problem, Vik! I’m here in an hour!”

“An hour? Where the fuck were you sleeping? Just don’t tell me you somehow got to Austria like last year.”

“I don’t know, but I'm rushing to you! Wait by the Jan Hus monument, okay?”

Viktor hung up the phone. You squeezed his hand and looked him in the eyes.

“One hour. We have an hour.” You sighed and pulled him to yourself, hugging him from behind with your hands on his waist. “I’ll miss you when it passes.”

He knew you won’t. Stars like you don’t miss random groupies they took for a one night stand to their hotel rooms. But the softness with which your hands wrapped around him said something different. He knew you shouldn’t.

Viktor closed his eyes and leaned on you, trying to remember and savor every detail of these few seconds. He knew he shouldn’t.

***

You spent the hour made to clean the hotel room, like the bassist asked you to. In this hour, Viktor explained the Austria incident with all its gory and criminal details, and the rest of the history of the research of exoplanets. Then you told him the entire story of how your band got the name Y/N & The Sisters Of Discordance, also giving him the knowledge of the alternative names the band almost got, most of them invented by Jinx.

He tried not to pay too much attention, knowing how much he would miss you otherwise. But he knew you were trying to imprint him in your mind like a tatoo on your skin.

Your finger traced along his skin like you were an artist tracing along the sketch to imprint the image of him in your mind. The exact shape of his nose, lips and cheekbones, the exact tint of gold in his eyes.

He felt so sorry for you. Seeing as you slowly put on your combat boots and your leather jacket, as if you wanted the both of you to stay in this hotel for one more while. Forever, perhaps.

You were focused on the beauty of him. He was focused on the beauty of the old town, so nostalgia will feel less painful.

He went to some corner shop to buy something to drink, choosing a bottle of Kofola. Two streets later he saw the Jan Hus monument and someone, probably Jayce leaning on its wall. Finally, he won’t have to feel your presence.

It wasn’t because he had enough of you. It was because he knew the light of the memory of you will forever contrast with the mundanity the rest of his life.

Viktor shivered.

“Are you cold, star boy?” You asked him, caressing his shoulder.

This petname that just last night felt like a hug, now gave him the awareness that for the rest of his life he will choke on it. And every next kiss he will experience will be hollow.

“A bit.”

“Do you want my jacket?” You started taking it off. Yeah, you will give it to him and he will be forced to remember your smell that he will never get to feel again.

“Please, no.”

“Please, you will be sick.”

He will be sick anyways.

“We’re almost there. I swear I can see Jayce from here.”

You kissed Viktor on the neck in a farewell. Jayce was reading something, probably some comic book, as he leaned on the monument’s wall. The Týn Church’s spiky towers poked the cold air and the gray sky.

Your tear fell onto his shoulder, as your lips left his. He walked towards Jayce, trying to focus on the unevenness of the street. He waved at him, then seeing his friend run towards him.

„Dang it, Vik!” He shouted with a dramatic gesture. “When you were spending your dream night with a rockstar I had to sleep in a hostel for truck drivers! I don’t know if I was still in Czechoslovakia but it definitely wasn’t in Prague anymore! Did you at least… have nothing against them? You know, there are a lot of fans who got impregnated by their idols, and stuff...”

“You were definitely not in Czechoslovakia because it stopped existing three months ago, Jayce.” Viktor sipped on his Kofola. “And I’m sure I won’t get pregnant with Y/N. Even if, I will force them to pay alimony.”

“Will you? What did you even do with Y/N?”

“I explained exoplanets to them and then they…” he sighed, not wanting to let the memories grow their roots. “I’m greatly surprised I can still walk.”

Viktor saw an old lady eavesdropping him and Jayce, looking, like she just saw Satan.

„And how was your night in that hostel for truck drivers?”

Jayce’s red Skoda was parked by the Legion Bridge.

Viktor sat on the passenger seat, as Jayce stepped on the pedal, and they headed back to Ostrava. Jayce put a cassette into the player. The car filled with sounds of Y/N & The Sisters Of Discordance’s latest album. He was now unable not to reminisce the night with the owner of the voice filling the car.

Then, the song Girl With Diamonds In Her Blood started to play. Jayce started bopping his head to the fast melody of his favorite song on the album.

Your voice, that he heard both in it’s softest and the most indecent shape, the voice that called him professor Dvořák, your star boy and your little star. Both laughing as you found his entire existence adorable and saying stuff that turned him red. This voice was now singing the worst lyrics on the album in his opinion. At least, it was not you who wrote it, but Vi.

Finally, even if it was your voice, Jayce singing and torturing Viktor’s auditory nerves was more bearable than the memories of you he will never get to relive.

Jayce, as he was driving the car, was singing:

They said:

Girl with Violet in her name,

Why don’t you have any friends?

I said:

I had one friend in Britain

I know she’s either here or there

I wanted to drink some tea

And she wanted it with me

So she brought me to her home

That was palace of some sort

And what did i expect?

„Listen here, Jayce.” His friend ignored him, but he continued. "You’re lucky that you are the driver and my cane is in the backseat.”

But Viktor was forced to listen to his vocal performances, until he sang the last line, hitting the steering wheel:

It’s a year since I left and I coughed up all my blood.

“If you ever sing that song in my presence again, you will actually have coughed all your blood.”

When he saw the sign displaying the word Ostrava, his mind landed back on earth, leaving behind the comet of the last night.

#viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor x gn!reader #sub viktor x reader #viktor x gn reader #viktor x m!reader #viktor x male reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #viktor x f!reader #viktor x female reader #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #🪐star boy oh mine ๋࣭ ⭑

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someonexsomeone · 10 months ago

Text

Suneater

Title: Suneater

Author: SomeonexSomeone

Word Count: 8.4k (...oh)

Pairing: James Potter x Slytherin Pureblood np!reader

Summary: Sirius has another best friend, and James just can't figure out what to do about it.

Warnings: angst, mentions of suicide, mentions of traditional values and arranged marriages

Authors Note: so uh...i did not expect this to be this long, and also not at all what I thought this would be. originally inspired by Leanna Firestone's song Suneater, this was supposed to be a happier fic, but i couldn't stop thinking about the line "But I am just the one who swallowed the moon // The only light that I have's just a reflection of you" so the original fic was a black cat x golden retriever and then somehow...this? please let me know what you think!

if you or anyone you know needs help, please call 988 (USA) or contact your local hotline. You are loved, you are needed.

Companion piece: Stardrinker

James was completely stumped. As a distinctly Light family, the Potters didn’t have much reason to attend Dark Pureblood gatherings, let alone interact with them beyond the odd time here and there, but he knows of your family, in the same way he knew of the Black’s - speculation, word of mouth, gossip. Neither he nor his family have any personal memories of you, and it seemed like no one else he knew was friends with you. You were a complete mystery to everyone…but his best friend.

When they first started Hogwarts, Sirius made it clear his stance on Slytherin families - keep as far away from them as possible, prank from a distance, target the ones he knew had evil in their hearts. James was more than pleased to go along with this. After all, a whole pool of targets just for the taking, and he didn’t have to feel guilty at all? It seemed so easy.

Sirius was ruthless with his attacks, cackling with glee as he sent stinging hexes in their direction or watching with mirth as they got caught in a trap. But when James launched a dungbomb in your direction, singeing your hair into an uneven mess, Sirius dropped everything to rush over, apology already tumbling out of his mouth despite the fury on your face. He even escorted you to the Matron, and looked incredibly guilty as the two of you walked back into the Great Hall sporting a new hairdo and fear on your faces. You returned to not speaking to each other, just as you always had, but Sirius seemed to glance over at the Slytherin table a little more frequently. Since then, none of the Marauders dared to prank near you, but with the rest of the house being easy pickings, James didn’t spare you another thought.

Then, summer before Fifth year happened. It was going to be their year, full of new pranks, new status, and, even better, a new plan to help Moony with his…time of the month. Sirius, as usual, spent the beginning of summer at the Pottery, spending hours at a time trying to find their animagus form, and, eventually, trying to change species. His parents were good at giving them space to play to their heart's content, and it warmed James’s heart to see them dote on Sirius just as much as they did as him. Especially as June faded into July, and Sirius’ dread to return home increased with every passing day.

Halfway through their break, at the height of the Dark Wanker Gatherings, the very color name Sirius gave the period of summer when the Dark Pureblood’s season of parties came to a head (as the heir to the Noble House of Black, Sirius was expected to attend the biggest ones, meaning James hardly got to see him until the start of the school year), Sirius all but disappeared. The house was far too quiet without him, and his letters were sparse of details, worrying James despite the countless summers they had gone through this previously. Despite Peter and Remus’s best attempts, James just wasn’t the same without his best friend around. Their friendly games of Quidditch lacked the usual competitiveness, their conversations quickly devolved into pooling the little information Sirius gave each of them, and there were only so many Sugar Quills one could eat before their stomach turned in on itself in worry. It was why James was always the first to arrive at the Platform at the start of the year, determined to figure out what happened to his best friend, even though Sirius always managed to change the subject without giving any answers.

So, color him surprised when, instead of rushing onto the train and locating his friends like usual, Sirius lingered after saying goodbye to his parents, the very people he never wanted to be near. When you and your family stepped through, Sirius’s eyes lit up. He made a beeline to you as soon as you finished your goodbye’s, pulling you to a secluded corner, only barely visible from where James was practically hanging out of the compartment window to see. The two of you whispered to one another before you hugged, then parted ways.

And ever since then, Sirius was always looking out for you. Instead of the tense silence you usually kept, James watched as your face lit up (no smile, that was far too obvious, but your eyes seemed to sparkle whenever they landed on him), stepping away from your usual posse of stuck up Purebloods to speak to Sirius. They seemed just as flabbergasted, until it started to happen so frequently they did nothing but offer a silent sneer, knowing better than to wait for you to finish your conversation. But James remained, always standing just close enough to catch snippets, but never the whole story. Instead of sulking in his room or yelling at whoever dared to disturb him on bad days, Sirius disappeared completely, only to be spotted with you within the hour, a more relaxed look on his face. He never missed a full moon, at least he kept that promise to his friends, but you were always one of the first visitors they had in the morning, leaving a get well soon treat for Sirius to eat as soon as he woke up.

All this to say, it wasn’t as if you and Sirius were attached at the hip, but it was hard not to notice the seemingly new affection you had for one another, and the change of priority, leaving James to seek you out in order to find his friend on more than one occasion.

Neither Remus nor Peter knew anything about what caused this shift in your friendship, but all it took was a little comment from Peter (“Maybe…maybe they’re together together.” followed by a scandalized look from Remus), to send them into a spiral.

“Sirius? Keeping a secret from us? Especially one as big as a…No! No way!” James refuted, pout evident on his face.

Because there was absolutely no way Sirius was going to keep something like this to himself. James was the first to know about Sirius’ first kiss, his first make out, his first shag! He was there when Sirius confessed to his first girlfriend, then his first boyfriend, then his first…partner? James forgot the name but either way! He was there! And now…what? Sirius was too ashamed to admit he was dating a Slytherin? Surely he knew there was no way. And, if he was dating, then there was no way he would pick a Slytherin unless they had something really special about them.

Despite Remus and Peter’s fervent arguments against it, James swore himself to a new goal - Mission Impossible: Figure Out Why Sirius Thinks a Slytherin Is Better Choice Than Literally Anyone Else in the School; I Mean Come On There Are Three Other Houses-- (“That’s far too long a name anyway!” Remus shouted indignantly).

He was already spending time lingering when you and Sirius chatted in the halls, so he tried to join in, actually listen instead of grumbling to himself about how long it was taking. You gave him an incredulous look the first time he did it, scampering away much too quickly for Sirius’s liking, if his saddened face was anything to go by. His second and third attempts were met with the same response, so James dropped his attempt, too soft to continue if Sirius was gonna keep giving him that kicked puppy look.

Then, he tried to join you and Sirius for your study sessions, figuring, what could go wrong? The library was a quiet place, and there wasn’t an easy escape if he positioned himself correctly, and you were very dedicated to keeping Sirius’s grades up (from what he’d been told anyway, this was, after all, the first time he ever willingly wanted to spend time with you). Sirius was hesitant to allow him to come when he asked, so he decided to drop by unannounced instead. Sirius’s welcoming smile was more than enough to override your glare, though it was clear this interruption was less than welcome, as no more work got done, and the boys were kicked out almost immediately. You were clear in your instruction to Sirius, whispered quietly but not quiet enough, that James was not welcome if he was going to be so noisy.

So, sneaking had become his last resort. It was hard, what with his friend group practically spending every minute together, but despite Remus’s warning, James scurried off whenever Sirius did. It took several weeks, and several pathetic attempts before James was finally able to catch you and Sirius alone. He didn’t think he was above snooping, especially with all the attempts recently, but there was a tiny bit of guilt that underlined his successful movements as he snuck down the hall, hidden from yours and Sirius’ watchful eyes, all thanks to his Invisibility Cloak. Sirius had that look about him, whipping his head back and forth, something he always did with James when he set up a prank without anyone noticing.

Something big was happening, and it had to be discussed without any prying eyes.

“Sirius, it’s alright,” you spoke lowly, so much so that James had to get a little too close for comfort to hear you. Sirius’ head perked up at the somewhat loud swish of the cloak, but when he didn’t see anything, he turned back to you, pushing you into an alcove of the hallway.

“Alright?! Are you mad?” Though he still had a grip on your arm, James could tell it was gentle, so lightly that you easily could have pulled away at any time. And, to his surprise, you didn’t, instead laying your hand on his with a gentleness he’d never seen from you before.

“This was something we always knew was going to happen,” you squeezed his hand, face stoney, “it was only a matter of time--”

“They’re selling you off like cattle! They don’t care about your life!”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” To this, your face darkened.

“I am not like you, Sirius.” This was the Slytherin attitude James was used to. Poisonous words spouting from your mouth, eyes narrowed to a glare. You didn’t have to push Sirius’s hand away, your now icy stare was enough to have him pull away first. “You and your precious friends can galavant around and do whatever you please, no matter the consequences, but the moment I show weakness, or displeasure towards my family, I will have no one. My friends--”

“Are no real friends if all it takes is standing up for yourself to have them disappear!”

“They know better than anyone that we don’t have any other choice--”

“So, what? You’ll marry the old coot and be the perfect little house--”

“And what would you suggest I do?” Sirius opened and closed his mouth several times, fury on his face, unwilling to admit that maybe you were right. In a house where betraying those thought to be your friends is commonplace, what option did you have? If James was right in following along, though it was incredibly hard with how quickly the two of you whispered, if you rejected this marriage arrangement, your parents would undoubtedly kick you out. With the friends he’s seen you with, there was no chance any of them would reach out in good will, especially since you’d have lost all the power via your family name.

There had never been a Slytherin in his life that he felt empathy towards, but this…this was something even he could not see a way out of.

“Surely leaving your family to be free is better than being locked in a gilded cage,” Sirius finally settled on.

“Freedom always comes with a cost, and this one is far too great.” Sirius’s eyes lowered to a glare.

“So that’s it.”

Oh no. James could feel the anger radiating from his friend, the same anger that has landed him more than a few detentions over the years. This was the anger that led to the initial discovery of Moony’s condition, the screaming match that had Sirius follow Remus into the woods. This was the anger that almost broke their friendship in third year, and the anger that nearly got him expelled for attacking another student.

This was the anger that made Sirius reckless.

“You give everything up and stay that obedient Pureblood you’ve always been, and be miserable forever. Well, I can’t watch you do that. I can’t watch you stoop so low, so pathetic,” --James nearly reached out, desperate to stop Sirius from saying anything more to destroy what you two had-- “and try to kill yourself again.”

Too late. The most emotion he had ever seen from you flicker across your face, hurt turned to anger turned to resentment in one fluid motion. Sirius, as angry as he was, seemed to notice as well, snapping his mouth shut as soon as the words left his mouth. Almost as if an invisible wall appeared between you, you both stepped back, as far as the small alcove allowed.

“Yes, you’re right. How pathetic of me.” You bowed lowly, despite Sirius’s efforts to stop you. “I’ll take my leave then, so your virtue won’t be sullied by the likes of me. Regards to the most Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

James turned on his heel, too embarrassed in his attempts to snoop to watch any further. Sirius chased you down in the opposite direction, calling your name until his echoes finally stopped. When James returned, it only took a look to stop any questions from his other dormmates. Sirius’s late return, the lethal combination of sadness and anger that had him lashing out at anything he could see, was answer enough.

James tried to keep the facade of innocence for the rest of the term, thanking Merlin that it was just a short month away. It was far easier than he hoped, with everyone immersed with their OWLs, but it didn’t do much to stop the guilt of having witnessed such a private and personal conversation. Sirius continued to look for you whenever he could, desperate to catch your eye, but you were just as stubborn as his friend was it seemed; even though James caught you several times watching Sirius when no one else was looking.

Sirius spent the beginning of summer with him as normal, riding on their brooms and keeping their minds as far away from the drama waiting back at Hogwarts. James tried a couple times to ask about you, but Sirius would clam up immediately, snapping at him or immediately changing the subject. By the time the Dark Wanker Gatherings started up again, Sirius seemed to have calmed down some, resigning his anger into a facade of apathy, the kind James seriously disliked. He only hoped your absence wouldn’t make his disappearing act worse.

Then, in the middle of summer, you appeared.

Or rather, you and Sirius appeared, Flooing into his home in the middle of dinner, fancy clothing covered in blood. Your face was panicked, strained against the weight of his friend, who seemed too out of it to stand properly. His Mother screamed at the intrusion, and both James and his father rushed over to take the weight off of you. It seemed all Pureblood customs flew out the window with the desperate need to help Sirius, as you immediately barked orders to take him to the nearest bathroom with a bathtub. Once situated, you started peeling away Sirius’s clothes, revealing the various cuts across his body.

“Hey! What are you--” But you simply silenced him with a wave of your hand, pushing him out of the room and slamming the door in his face. “What the fu--”

“James!” Euphemia’s glare was enough to have him shutting up. “Why don’t you two go back down and finish dinner. Polly spent a lot of time making it.”

“But Sirius--”

“Is obviously in capable hands.” His Father patted a heavy hand on his shoulder, leading him away without another word. Before they made it back down stairs, James caught the gentle knock she rapped on the bathroom door (of her own house!), quietly entering with a, “Is there anything I can get you, dear?”

“A house elf, the one you trust the most. And my apologies for…” your voice faded as they returned to the dining room.

Sirius was up by the time he woke the following morning. James tried several times to see Sirius throughout the night, but you were as strict as you were terrifying, guarding the room like a loyal watchdog until James was too tired to try again. And here you were again, dressed in borrowed clothes and carefully stroking Sirius’s long hair into a complicated braid, pulling strands away from his face so it wouldn’t fall into the bowl of soup he was nursing. Sirius’s face lit up when he saw James enter the room, clambering to get up. His own injuries stopping him from getting far, wincing and slumping back into his chair.

“You can’t move too quickly,” you chastised quietly, trying off the end of his hair. The easy way Sirius let you touch him, to have his guard down completely, caused a shift in James. A Slytherin providing comfort? It was unheard of to him. But here it was, right in front of him, an easy relationship that existed out of two people caring deeply for one another.

Just like his parents.

James felt a pang of jealousy go through him.

“Sorry, Prongs. Gotta listen to the Medi—,” Sirius stopped, grimaced as you pulled lightly on his hair. “What? I wouldn’t want anyone else helping me back to health.”

“And now that you are back to being your annoying self, I must be off.” Sirius tried to stand, but your gentle hand was enough to have him stop. “Rest. And thank you, for everything.”

As Sirius was out of commission, James was the one to walk you to the Floo, taking his parent’s robe from you at your thanks. You straightened out your hair as best as possible, fixing small details of your outfit to hide what you had been up all night, as James wrung his hands, debating whether he should say anything at all. When you reached for the Floo powder, he finally spoke.

“Thank you,” he managed. Your hand paused midair, but it was the only indication you gave to show you were listening. “Thank you for bringing him here. We’ll take good care of him.”

“He’s too proud to ask for help,” you said in response. “But he’s lucky to have someone like you in his life.”

“And like you.” To this, you scoffed, finally turning to look at him.

“I seem to only bring him trouble.”

“He does that fine on his own.” The small uptick of your lips was easy confirmation to your agreement. “But seriously. I’ve never seen him so happy to talk to someone before, and he talks to a lot of people.” When you didn’t say anything, James flushed. “I mean--”

“I’m lucky to have whatever part he’s willing to give me.” And with a flourish, you disappeared into the fireplace.

James never did find out what happened that caused Sirius’s injuries that summer. After a lengthy conversation (the lengthy conversation in question - Sirius: “I pissed my family off and now I’ve been disowned.”, James: “Oh, perfect. I’ve always wanted you as a brother.”), Sirius was unofficially officially adopted into his family. His parents took Sirius to St.Mungos a couple times to make sure everything was okay, but otherwise, the rest of summer was spent just as blissfully enjoyable as the beginning. Only this time, James didn’t have to worry about Sirius having to return to his awful family every night. They stayed up until the sun began to rise, sneaking into each other's room to spend the night, terrorizing the neighborhood with their loud voices until the sun rose.

And, you were there. Not directly, not with the new disgraced title Sirius proudly bore, but in letters and conversation. Sirius now spoke freely and openly about you, how you had always been there to help him with his horrible upbringing, the way you always seemed to know what to do to help. Sirius admitted to getting into that final fight for you, for your honor, but didn’t elaborate any further. He spent many mornings at James’s desk writing to you, updating you on the new freedom he had, and making sure you were alright. That he’d be there in the drop of a hat if you needed him.

Now that James was included in the conversation, willingly and welcomed this time, he was able to see how witty you were, how you weren’t just the Pureblood Slytherin he thought you were, but a genuinely good person for Sirius to be influenced by. You easily scolded him when needed, and praised him without letting his ego inflate too largely. Though you were only there in writing, it was easy to see the easy affection Sirius had for you, and vice versa. And, with James being let in somewhat on the secret friendship you shared, how deep it actually was, almost all the tension released from between the three of you. He even got to apologize for butting in so often last year, to which you waved him off with a promise not to do it again.

So, when sixth year started, and he got to see you for the first time in person since that fateful morning, it was like he’d never seen you before. And, all the better, it seemed you were determined to talk to Sirius, even if it meant you got some nasty glares from your housemates. James liked that about you.

So, he made the effort. When you or Sirius walked up to one another, James stayed close, engaging in conversation. Though you looked shocked, Sirius always gave him a broad smile, the prospect of two special people in his life becoming friends made him giddier than James ever thought possible. And Sirius was very open about that fact, throwing his arms around you and James mid conversation to squish you into a group hug. It didn’t take much to get the rest of his friends involved.

Your study sessions now involved all the Marauders, Remus sending you a thankful smile whenever you managed to calm the rowdiest of them down, comparing notes for class. Peter trailed after you happily, using you as a type of shield from the rest of the Slytherins when you walked together to class. You joined them on Hogsmeade trips, a quiet companion as they carried you from place to place. You never questioned what got them in so much trouble they ended up in the hospital wing once a month, but you did start to bring all of them a little treat for them to wake up to. Sirius started joking about you replacing him in the Marauders, to which you answered with a smack to the back of the head.

And James? Well James seemed to seek you out more and more without realizing it. If Sirius sat on your right, he would take your left. When needing a partner for class, he and Sirius would fight for the honor of being your partner, despite the fact that you already began working with someone else. He looked for you in the Slytherin crowd during quidditch matches, easily spotting you as the only person not booing at their victories. You and he would walk to class together, then hang out alone before the others joined. Your one on one time only increased as you got closer. You stayed up late to help him with classwork he struggled with, patient as ever, even if you did take every opportunity to poke fun at him with that deviously dry wit. You even helped Sirius with a joint gift, a box the size of his hand that would fit anything inside it and could only be opened by him. It was the first time he hugged you without Sirius’s intervention.

“Woah, woah, woah! Back it up!” Sirius said in his best imitation of an angry tone, but his smile was too contagious.

Yes, you butt heads. James’ lackadaisical attitude got on your nerves, sometimes done on purpose because James just loved to get a rise out of you, and your uptight scholarly nature often rivaled Remus, but at the end of the day, it was clear that there was a deep respect for one another, something that blossomed without either of you knowing. James would steal food from your plate without asking, loudly teasing you when you reprimanded him, but he would always replace it with some of your favorites, an unspoken apology. You would call him names (dimwit, airhead, and bludger brain to name a few), but you were always there for him at the end of the day, quietly praising his ingenuity, genuinely asking his opinion on matters.

It was why the guilt of the knowledge of your arranged marriage was starting to eat at him, a secret you didn’t know he knew. It was especially bad on days when that dreaded silver envelope arrived, since you frequently sought out Sirius. He recognized the crest on the back, an old and very Pureblood house, that no doubt had to belong to your fiance. You would crush the letter in your grip after skimming it, catching Sirius’ eye from across the room. No words needed to be said for him to stand, meeting you at the entrance hall. It was rare to see either of you for several hours after that. It was routine at that point.

But today was different. Sirius was in an early morning detention, cleaning McGonagall’s classroom after a series of pranks rendered the board useless, and you were nearly hyperventilating as the silver envelope fell into your lap. James only noticed because you were out of your seat faster than he’d ever seen you move, eyes glistening. He was following behind you before he realized what he was doing.

“Wait!” Your head whipped around at his voice, wiping your wet cheeks in an attempt to hide any evidence of your sadness. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Sirius?”

“He’s in detention--what’s wrong?”

“It’s…” A group of giggling second years passed by, watching their interaction with interest. You instantly clammed up, face slacking into apathy. ”It’s nothing.”

James shook his head before tugging you down the hall. Despite your protests, he led you to one of the many secret passages, pulling you until you were in an unused hallway, rows and rows of empty classrooms creating the perfect hiding place. He didn’t speak until the two of you were in one, locking the door firmly behind him, and covering it with an anti-eavesdropping charm.

“What’s wrong?” Without a word, you held the letter out to him.

My Darling Angel, it read, handwriting barely legible with how shaky it was. Do not fret any longer, for your Father and I have finally come to an agreement. Though your price was a hefty one, I have been assured you are well worth it. In merely a years time---

“You’re getting married?” In a year's time, the summer of your Seventh Year, you were going to be a bride. James’s stomach twisted into knots. Tears piled up to the edges of your lash line.

“I spoke to my Father every summer, showing him my grades and my prospects, anything I could to have him increase his greed for more. I thought if I could keep going, just for a little longer, he would become so unreasonable, no one would want to pay my dowry. After all, why would they?” You sniffed, then furiously rubbed at your face, trying to stop the tears from falling. “I am no one special. Surely there are better prospects--”

“Woah, hey!” Your hands were moving too fast, too erratically, for his liking. As gently as he could, remembering the way Sirius acted, he pulled your hands away from your face. Rubbed raw with nail marks, you didn’t even seem to realize you were hurting yourself.

“James,” his name was said in such sorrow, his very being rattled in sympathy, “what am I going to do?”

So he did the only thing he could think of. He pulled you close, cradling you to his body. You seemed to freeze at the contact. This wasn’t the friendly hug from his birthday, or the forced contact Sirius often made you do. This was something more.

“We’ll think of something,” he promised into your hair. With the gentle grip he had you in, it was easy to pull back and gaze upon the sincerity on his face. He gave you a small, crooked smile. “We won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”

So, for the first time, you latched onto James, holding him tight enough to hurt, and wailed into his chest, mourning the life you tried so hard to protect.

For a moment, James allowed himself to be a little greedy, keeping you close enough to let your smell flood his senses. He allowed his hands to roam your back, feeling, as if for the first time, the way your clothes felt against your body, the heat of your being. He allowed himself to enjoy how you felt against him, how for once, instead of the proud Slytherin you always portrayed yourself to be, you allowed him to take care of you instead of the other way around. You seemed to fit perfectly in his arms, and, as ashamed as he was to think it, there was a part of him that loved how you trusted him to show this vulnerable part of yourself. You only ever show it to…

Then, with startling clarity, James realized he was holding you, Sirius’s person, in his arms, in a locked classroom, hidden away from the rest of the school. That same school who watched you run out of the hall with James following close behind. Those second years watched him pull you away!

Before he could do something stupid, probably throw himself away from you, you pulled away first. Or, really, you yanked yourself away, wand raised with a Tempus spell showing the two of you were about to be very late to your first lesson.

“Thank you, James,” you whispered without looking at him, before you bolted to the door. His heart fluttered--

Oh, crap.

“I need to talk to you.” Sirius shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was at James’s sudden appearance, pulling him away from Marlene and Dorcas. The two, used to the strange way the Marauders always seemed to find one another, turned back to their conversation without another glance. James hauled Sirius up to their dorm by his collar. He had been looking all day for Sirius, with little success. It was just his luck that today, of all days, was filled with classes neither shared, and Sirius had to use his lunch hour to finish McGonagall’s room. And now, when Remus and Peter were meeting up with you to study for your Arithmancy exam, it was probably the best time he’d get.

And there was just one thing Sirius needed to confess to, before James exploded.

“I know your secret. So please just admit it so I can tell you how bad of a friend I am.”

“Woah, woah woah. What?” When Sirius met James’s serious expression, his face turned from jovial to terrified. “...what?”

“I know, okay?” Sirius opened and closed his mouth, and if it was any other conversation, James would have poked fun at him for looking like a fish.

“You…know?” James nodded once firmly. Sirius swore, slumping down onto the nearest bed. “We were so careful!” At this, James raised a brow.

“You weren’t careful at all! Everyone knows!” Sirius paled.

“...everyone?”

“Well, everyone that knows you.” James eyed Sirius’ expression. With a shuddering breath, Sirius dragged a hand down his face. “You seem surprised.”

“Yeah, a little,” Sirius laughed, but it was far too breathy to be sincere. “I’ve only just convinced…Was I so obvious?”

“You always look for each other. And, even though it started off rough, you’ve gotten really close recently.” He clapped a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. The approval, how easy James gave it, had Sirius’ whole body relax, practically curling into himself. “You deserve each other.”

“Tell him for me, won’t you?” Sirius rolled his eyes, far more playful than he had been. “I’ve only been telling him every day for the last year. I mean, I know Moony’s dense, but I didn’t think it’d take this much convincing.”

“...what?”

“You know him as well as I do, mate. He doesn’t handle affection well. Especially mine.” Sirius laughed, this time much more heartily, his shoulders bouncing. James’ hand fell to his side, but Sirius hardly noticed, practically bouncing from giddiness. “Wow, it feels great to say it out loud.”

James continued to stare at him, mouth agape.

“Now that you know, this is perfect!” He jumped up, excess energy pushing him to his desk, rummaging through the pile of papers before pulling one out. “I’ve got so many plans! I’m thinking next full moon, I'll sneak into his hospital bed, bring some strawberries and chocolate, you know, romance stuff. I’ve been planning for months the best way to do it, but you know Moony. Be nice to him and he clams up, so I’ve been thinking--”

When Sirius turned around, James was slumped where Sirius had just been, the only difference being James’ shocked face to Sirius’ dread.

“What?” Sirius laughed. “Didn’t think I’d have a plan? I’m going all the way with this!”

“You--Moony? But I thought…--” Now it was Sirius’ turn to be confused.

“Why do you look like that?”

“You like Moony?!” Sirius dropped the piece of paper, his dread returning.

“You didn’t--” He coughed, like the words were strangling him. “You didn’t know?”

“No!!” James jumped up. “Since when have you liked…?”

“Oh,” SIrius scratched the back of his head, hair falling out of the messy braid that had your signature all over it. “When you said you knew my secret, I thought--” He suddenly narrowed his eyes, and James grew meek, chest and cheeks flushing red. “What secret did you think I had?”

So, what originally was a conversation James was severely dreading, turned into the most honest conversation they’d had in a while. James bared his heart to his best friend, explaining the guilt that had been eating at him since his birthday, worried he was a horrible friend. How he had only fallen for you harder as you hung out more, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you, but didn’t want to do anything to upset either you or Sirius by stepping over boundaries. How he was there for you when you heard confirmation of your upcoming marriage (Sirius looked angrier than he had in a while when James revealed that small development), and it only solidified what he already suspected, and how your tears felt like burning lava on his skin.

Sirius, in turn, explained how he and Moony had gotten closer now that Sirius knew you had other people looking after you, namely the other Marauders. His new free time was spent with Moony, who didn’t think anything of it, until their playful wrestling got out of hand and Sirius kissed him. James vaguely remembered Remus acting strange, but attributed it to the upcoming moon, one where he was much more affectionate towards Sirius than his usual transformations. He talked about the way he had been trying to convince Remus ever since that day that his feelings were real, that it wasn’t just a spur of the moment mistake, but a budding of affection ever since Sirius was freed of his family's clutches.

So, when they finally calmed themselves down, after a massive cry fest that ended in them hugging, promising not to ever keep secrets ever again, and a series of firing each other up, they rushed to the very object of their affections.

“Moony!” Sirius practically tackled Remus as he and Peter walked down the hall, hands stained in ink and stomachs rumbling. Remus stood no chance against the delighted dog, books flying from his hands as he landed on the floor, wind knocked out of him.

“Wh--” But Sirius had already crawled atop him, mouth pushed resolutely against his. Remus struggled only for a moment, before returning the kiss desperately, hands clutching anything he could reach, settling on Sirius’ back and hair.

“Great Merlin!” Peter exclaimed, nearly tripping over his feet to get away from the two heavily making out on the floor. James let out a laugh, rushing over to help his…unoccupied…friend. “But he-- and Sirius--”

“Well, there goes all those plans.” James joked. Sirius and Remus finally pulled away after another moment of kissing, both panting, but faces alight in pure happiness as they gazed at each other. “Okay, Loverboys, no public displays of affection while we’re around, okay? At least until we’re used to it.”

“Prongs…,” Remus whined miserably, face flushing a brilliant red, only disrupted by the white of his facial scars. Sirius grinned wolfishly, pressing a loud, wet kiss in the space between Remus’ shoulder and collar, doing nothing to help. “Padfoot!”

Peter was still staring at them, mouth agape, even as the two stood.

“Where’s—“ James started, looking around. It was strange to not see you with the other Marauders, especially since you should have been with them for the last hour or so to study.

“Huh??” Peter shook his head violently, finally having the decency to wipe away his shock. When he noticed James’ wandering eyes, he clarified. “Oh uh, Astronomy Tower, I think? Needed space to think or something?”

“But I thought you guys were studying--”

“Never showed.” Remus’ nonchalance was not eagerly received. James whipped his head to Sirius, who was already looking worried. You hadn’t shown up? But that’s hours where you’re unaccounted for!

“James!” Sirius’ panic was clear. In an instant, the day James eavesdropped came rushing back, a stone forming in his stomach. “It’s high enough—“

“I’m on it!” Later, James would deal with the consequences of the unneeded explanation. Later, he would address the confused looks on Remus and Peter’s faces, address the shock on Sirius’ for not needing an explanation. Later, he would beg and plead on his knees for Sirius to forgive him for spying on a private conversation, and staying long past knowing it was wrong. Later. It would happen later. Now, he needed to see you.

He’d never run faster in his life, using every shortcut he could think of to make it to the Astronomy Tower in record time. He took the stairs two at a time, practically launching himself onto the platform at the top, breath coming out in hot pants.

“James?” There you were. His knees nearly gave out in relief (though climbing stairs that fast may have had something to do with it), especially since it didn’t look like you had a scratch on you.

“Oh, thank Merlin. You’re alright!” You only looked at him, rising slightly from where you were leaning over the railing to stare out into the horizon. The sun was going to set soon, causing the glow to illuminate your silhouette, your expression hard to see.

“Of course I’m alright.” James tried to catch his breath quickly, before walking over to you. As he got closer, your features slowly became clearer. There was no evidence of your earlier conversation (how had it only been that morning that you cried into his chest??), and it didn’t look like you had been crying again. He didn’t know whether to be relieved you seemed okay, or worried that you might be bottling your emotions. “What are you talking about?”

“Sirius said…” The rest of the words died in his throat. You cocked your head. He guiltily looked at you, then the railing. When you didn’t react, he continued, ”He may have mentioned…”

“Oh.” In an instant, you understood, eyes falling into a glare, no doubt upset at having your privacy violated. “I’m not so fragile as to need a bodyguard to care for me all the time.”

“It’s okay if you do.” You rolled your eyes, turning back to look out over the trees. James copied you, resting his elbows on the bar, but angled his body so his sole attention was on the side of your face.

“That’s a sure fire way to get yourself killed in my world,” you grumbled.

“Well in mine,” he cut in, before you could add on, “if a friend is in trouble, you do whatever you can to help them.”

“Even if they don’t need it?”

“Everyone needs help.” He could see the tail end of your eye roll. “But you do it even if they don’t want it.”

With his breathing returning to normal, the space between you fell quiet. When it was clear you weren’t planning to speak anytime soon, he refocused his attention on the skyline, watching as the sky slowly became more and more orange, the sun nearly hiding behind the mountains. It was cooling down, but with summer nearly there, it created the perfect balmy weather to cause mischief late at night. In the distance, he could hear the faint hooting of an owl, from the forest or the school’s owlery, he wasn't sure, and the faint rustling of leaves. It was peaceful up here.

“Did he tell you?” Your voice startled him out of his thoughts, his body jerking.

“What?” If you felt him move, you didn’t show it.

“Sirius. Did he tell you what happened?”

“Not in so many words,” James said, purposefully vague. He felt bad being deceitful, but he had no idea how to explain his predicament, not when you were wringing your hands together like that, body hunching in on itself, like it was trying to hide how vulnerable you were. And, when you took a deep breath, James understood then that you were about to tell him something important, something life changing.

“He was always there. The Ancient and Noble House of Black always needed to be seen, especially at those parties, but I never really interacted with him. Too famous to be seen speaking to my family, or too busy playing the role of a Pureblood Heir to step away from his parents.” You sighed, crossing your arms, leaning your hip against the railing to look at James. His eyes were wide with innocent curiosity. “Sirius was the one who found me on the verge of jumping off the balcony that summer night.”

“Merlin--” He couldn’t believe how nonchalantly you were acting, as if you hadn’t just revealed your most vulnerable moment to him. You plowed on before he could do something embarrassing, like care for you.

“I had just met my soon to be fiance, all leering and wandering hands, and it was too much. The idea of being sold off like cattle, to be a possession instead of my own person, I always knew that’s where my life would end up but…”

It came as no surprise to you that when you started talking, the story seemed to tumble out without you wanting the full truth to be revealed. It came to him suddenly, the realization that this was probably the first time you ever said it out loud, the only person you probably ever felt close enough to tell, Sirius, being there that night meant he already knew everything from his perspective. The hurt in your voice, the emotion you usually kept locked away behind that Slytherin facade, on full display, made it impossible not to react, even though there was a very Sirius-like voice telling him to let you come to him. He couldn’t stop himself, though, when he reached out when you told him about how you screamed that night, brandishing your wand, even as the old coot laughed. He watched as you described the moment they left, your parents doing nothing but laughing along with your dear fiance, leaving you with nothing but the night air, you climbed up, the least graceful thing you had done in who knows however many years, and tipped forward. His hand latched onto yours, the same way he would have that night if he was there.

He tried not to react as you explained how Sirius’ hands clasped around your legs before you could fall, using his momentum to pull you back onto him and the solid ground. You told him how your arms scraped painfully against the stone balcony, but Sirius’ body took most of the brunt of your fall. You could barely hear what Sirius had said at the time over the ringing in your ears, too shocked at the fact that you were alive, that you didn’t fall, didn’t crash into the floor below like you so wanted, too overwhelmed to hear him yelling at you.

James did the only thing he could and held your hand tighter, keeping you with him, instead of getting swept up in the memory.

He could hear how you tried to keep your voice as even as possible as you spoke, not daring to show any more emotion than you had to, but James could tell. He couldn’t stop his face from contorting in disgust as you described the way your fiance spoke. He felt his eyes widened as you spoke about standing on the edge of the balcony, staring at the sky and not daring to look down. He nearly wept as you described Sirius’ warm embrace, the only thing that kept you grounded at the time. And when you finished, telling him you had to return to normal the following day, hiding what almost happened, he pulled you into his warm hug before he could stop himself.

“James, it’s alright,” you reassured, patting his back as if he was the one who just bared his heart and past, soothing him as best you could.

“It’s not alright!” Though his words were firm, they were not unkind. He pulled away, bringing your hand to his chest, willing you to feel the way it was thumping wildly. “You--you…!”

“It’s all in the past now.”

“The thought that I might never have met you…” He felt you starting to shake, eye swimming with doubt and hesitance.

“...what?”

“You mean so much to me.” His words rattled you, he could tell, but it was nothing compared to the pure determination in his face, not a hint of regret or ulterior motive to be seen. He meant every word. He had to show you he meant every word.

“You hardly know me--”

“Don’t do that,” he begged, his voice coming out weaker than he intended, but there was no way he would be harsh to you now, not after you bared your soul, not while you try to return to that apathetic life you had adapted to for survival over the years. Not if he could help it. “I know you know I’m being sincere. And you know I know you far better than you wish.”

“...what do you want me to say?”

“Say you’ll marry me.”

“What?!” He pulled your hand closer, keeping you as close as you’d allow.

“Not now. Not in five years, not even in ten, not if you don’t want to. But be with me, in any way you’re willing.” Your eyebrows furrowed.

“If this is some cheap Gryffindor chivalry--”

“Not this. Not with you.” He pulled you closer, willing himself not to get his hopes up as you allowed yourself to be pulled a breath away. “I like you. I like you so much I feel my heart beat faster than any Quidditch game would ever make it feel, like it’ll pop out of my chest and flutter around telling everyone who’ll listen how much it feels for you.” You flush at his blatant confession. “I hate your fiance with every fiber of my being for ever making you feel like you don’t have a choice. For making you feel so trapped that you would rather…die,” —his tongue tripped over the word, too overcome with the implication to say it without flinching— “than go through with your marriage.”

“James…”

“It’s not the way I wanted to confess,” he joked sheepishly, before morphing his expression into the most earnest he could will it. “My heart is yours, in any way you want it.”

“I don’t…--”

“I’m offering myself to you,” he clarified earnestly, even as your expression faltered. He lowered his eyes to look at your clasped hands. “Use me however you like. I know Pureblood customs, and this is the way you can get out of it. Marry me, and do whatever you like. Move across the world, or stay by my side. Godric, we could even marry now and divorce immediately if you want!” He met your eyes again. “I just want you to be happy.”

The silence continued to stretch and stretch. In the last few months of teasing, it was rare you didn’t have some sort of quip to put James back in his place, but now, it seems you didn’t have a single word to say.

He knew it was stupid, the way he said it. But, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Asking you for something simple like puppy love wasn’t going to cut it, not when your very freedom was on the line. As much as James could see himself loving you (he wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t already), you didn’t have the luxury of time, not the kind that James wanted to worship you, to prove his earnest feelings the way he knew his parents had, the way Sirius planned to show Remus. But the one thing he could do was make a promise to himself that you would never have to feel stuck again.

The longer the silence lasted, the more James felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment.

“I’ve just made a fool of myself, haven't I? I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying, and Sirius always said I needed to work on my impulse--”

His knees almost gave out from under him, your clasped hands the only thing keeping him from doing so.

Your lips were softer than he imagined.

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