Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bubbles stream from a young ghoul’s mouth as he speeds through the shadowy depths of the healing halls, eyes wide with urgency. He clutches a scroll in a trembling hand, sealed with gold and heavy with the weight of something far beyond him. Something sacred. Something terrifying.

The Hall of the Depths is quiet, filled with an overwhelming scent of medicine. Clean algae, crushed coral, resin and ink. Reeds rise tall around each nest, swaying gently with the currents. Light is scarce here, swallowed by brackish water. The only glow is his own bioluminescence, reflecting off the shimmer of sleeping ghouls’ breaths. He inhales deeply and steadies himself. Searching.

There.

He catches a swift movement ahead, a flash of elegant deep blue, violet-dipped fins pulsating with a calming green light. He surges forward.

“My lady,” he calls, louder than intended, voice echoing through the still.

She turns, her graceful form curling back. “Jasper? Are you alright?”

He can feel his whole body betraying him, skin lit with every nervous hue, flickering in time with his racing heart.

“Urgent,” he says, handing over the scroll with a bow of his head. “From the Prince Himself.”

She examines it carefully, gills flaring for heartbeat when she examines the golden seal. Despite settling back into calm neutrality, Jasper feels the tension bloom in her silence like blood in water. She turns it again, small flickers of yellow present in the webbing between her fingers.

“For me?” she finally asks quietly.

“No,” he murmurs, avoiding her gaze. “It’s for Rain.”

She hums, and turns towards the two younger ghoulettes that had been working beside her.

“Tend the patients,” she says quietly, “and don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

She stills for a moment, recentering herself as she clutches the warm scroll.

“Let us make haste. He should be in the upper hall.”

Jasper nods, unable to keep his glowing skin from betraying the swirl of emotions he carries; duty, confusion, and dread. He follows close beside her, their tails slicing silently through the water as they leave the Hall of the Depths behind. That place, sacred and heavy with sorrow, is where the weakest were nurtured back from the brink. He always admired the ghouls that worked there.

As they swim upward through the ascending tunnels, Jasper can’t help but glance at her. She moves with purpose, but her silence speaks louder than words. He can see it in the subtle twitch of her fin, the ever-so-slight tremble of her gill slits. The seal had rattled her, and that scares him more than anything. .

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain always possessed a deep calm, similar to his mother. But rather than working towards long term, more palliative care, he performed exceptionally in the emergency hall. Quick-witted and sure of his own skill, he has seen a plethora of ill and injured ghouls in the hundreds of years he has practiced alongside the members of his clan.

He nearly barrels into his mother and her page, having darted out at the first opportunity when he felt the brief wave of her distress.

“Mama? Are you well?” Rain’s voice is soft and calm, but Jasper can see the way his shoulders tighten, how his fingers twitch at his sides, bracing for bad news.

She smiles faintly and reaches out to brush her thumb across his cheek. Jasper observes the color shift below his skin, the telltale flicker of yellow - nervousness - tightly coiled and barely hidden. But if fades with her touch, grounding, as it always has been.

“There is to be a summoning,” she states plainly.

“I see,” Rain hums. He tilts his head slightly, processing. Always assessing, always calm.

“For someone in the clan?” He studies her face and searches her eyes and she hates the flash of fear she sees in his. Her silence speaks volumes.

“For you, then?”

She shakes her head and presses the elegant scroll into his palm with quiet reverence.

“For you,” she whispers.

Rain stares at the scroll in his hands, heavy despite the fine parchment. His name isn’t marked on the outside but it feels like it had been written for him long before now. He turns it over once, then once again. The seal shimmers with Infernal gold, the Prince’s signature mark pulsating gently.

“Is it Infernal magic, or are my hands just that cold,” Rain says softly, more to himself than anyone else. It feels warm against his skin, a magic that is old and sure. Final, in a way.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. Rain feels the current shift in the water around her. She watches him, heart breaking quietly behind her calm exterior. He finds a moss-covered rock and perches there, like he had so many times as a child. It grounds him, makes him feel small in a comforting way.

“Perhaps there's a mistake?”

“He doesn't make mistakes, my child.”

He knows she’s right, she always is. With an exhale that was probably more forceful than necessary he slowly, reverently peels back the seal.

He unfurls the parchment and begins to read aloud.

Corentin Tempestas of the Great Salt River Clan,

Rain blinks. No one ever uses his full name. The formality is chilling, and he finds himself swallowing hard before continuing.

Your presence is required on the surface, for the grand Ghost project. One trunk will be sent after your arrival, through a separate portal. Consider one set of ceremonial clothing.

Summoning will take place after moonrise tomorrow.

A drop of blood pressed with your thumbprint will bind you to this contract.

Your Infernal Majesty,

L

Rain shakes his head a few times, reading and reading again, processing. The words are heavier than reef stones, immoveable, undeniable.

He’s caught somewhere between defiance and disbelief. “Isn't summoning supposed to be a request?”

“Typically,” his mother agrees, scanning over the document. “But this is different. He’s not asking, Rain. He’s calling.”

Rain’s jaw tightens and he shakes his head, trying to cast the weight of the words off of it.

“But I am needed here. This is where I belong. I save people, I don’t -” His voice cracks, which startles him. He recenters with a deep breath. “What do they even want from me up there? To play in a band?”

His mother sighs and places a hand on his shoulder, and it's then that he realizes his gills are flaring. He's sure his face is bright yellow.

“If He is calling you directly, there is a purpose. One only you can serve.”

“Signed it ‘L' too,” Rain grumbles, stopping mid eyeroll after catching his mother's quirked brow. “Sorry, mama, I just don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Not yet.” Her hand still rests on his shoulder and she squeezes at him in a way that has always been reassuring. “The path will reveal itself to those that walk it.”

Rain thinks of the other summoned ghouls, the haunted looks they return with. There is fire in their eyes. Pride. A clear cost that weighs on their shoulders upon their return. He’s not met anyone that has come back from this ‘Ghost project,’ and that only serves to heighten his anxiety.

But perhaps that is his purpose, to aid the suffering on the other side. Summoning is not easy, and neither is returning.

Rain lets out a breath, long and low. Then, without ceremony, he brings his thumb to his lips, draws blood with a sharp fang, and presses it to the parchment.

It hisses and the seal flares once - the summons is complete.

“This is a great honor, sweet sprat. I know you will make your clan proud.”

Rain smiles as best he can and squeezes at his mother's hand. He knows she'll sit with him as he packs, probably slip a few extra trinkets into his trunk after he leaves.

Leaves.

He's hardly even been on the dry land of the Pits, let alone ever considered going beyond. He thought he'd follow the path of his clan, remaining in the Halls of Healing until he was needed elsewhere.

And he supposes he has done exactly that.

He just never imagined that the call would come so soon.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Mountain leans on the doorframe of Dewdrop's room, watching him flit about to pack away his various belongings. He's only going across the hall, but the boxes will surely make the change easier. Fewer trips and all. His arms are crossed but there is no judgment in his stance, only quiet observation tinged with sadness.

Dew is everywhere all at once, fluttering from a trunk to a shelf to a pile of clothes and back again. A ribbon of nervous energy trails behind him despite his grin. His tail flicks in nervous bursts, betraying the thrum of adrenaline in his bloodstream.

“Sure about this, then?” Mountain’s voice is low, rough around the edges with worry.

Dew pauses his frantic movements, an old hoodie in his hands, and looks up. His sky-blue eyes meet Mountain’s dark green, and for a moment the room seems to still.

“‘Course Mounty, never been so sure.” His voice is quiet, more deliberate. He sits on the edge of his nest, rubbing the old worn fabric like it will give him the words he needs.His voice always makes Mountain smile, he doesn't have the two-toned metallic thrum that the other water ghouls do. Just one scratchy tenor that makes his heart thump a bit harder. “I just don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don't have to,” he rumbles, stepping further inside and filling the whole door frame. “Not to me.”

Dew looks down at the short webs between his fingers. “Does the Earth talk to you?”

Mountain nods, of course it does. The Earth is his lifeblood, his lullaby. It whispers through roots and rock, through ancient rivers carved in stone. He sings back to it, day in, day out, ancient magic flowing deep in his veins. He doesn’t have to listen for it. It’s simply part of him.

“The water doesn't talk to me,” Dew confesses, his voice steady but with a raw edge. “Not really. Not the way it talks to the others. I get echoes, now and then, when the moon’s full. But that’s it. She’s never felt like home.”

Mountain makes a low sound in his throat, understanding if not quite empathy. He can never claim to know the ache of that silence, but can honor it.

“And fire does?”

Dew’s face brightens with something deep and his tail swishes behind him with excitement rather than nerves.

“Yes,” Dew smiles, big and broad. “I can't wait to feel it in my fingertips. I watched Ifrit and Alpha for hours, practicing, channeling all that passion. Not just into the guitar, but into the Ministry. Keeping hearths warm, leading. It speaks to me in a way the water never did. There is purpose in fire, it makes me feel… seen.”

Mountain tilts his head slightly and his voice, though gruff, holds a softness that only Dewdrop can ever draw out of him.

“As long as you're sure, waterlily.” He pauses, then smiles gently. “Or maybe firelily, now.”

Dew’s tail wags at that, his laugh bubbling out of him like a burst of air during a deep dive.

“I've never been more sure of anything. This is it. This is who I'm meant to be.”

Mountain hesitates, scratches at the back of his neck. “Wha'd'ya think is gonna happen to… her?”

Dew raises his eyebrow.

“You seriously asking about my tentacle at a time like this?”

Mountain flushes an earthy green, the mossy color spreading quickly across his cheeks and nose. He opens his mouth to stumble through an apology but stops when Dew’s warm laughter fills the room again.

“I'm just fuckin' with ya big guy,” he grind. “I honestly don't know. We can all shift, so I've been hoping since I started with her, I get to keep her. I'm really gonna miss her if I don't.”

Mountain nods, still feeling sheepish. “We could ask Delta, if you want.”

Dew stands then, crosses his room to wrap his arms around Mountain's waist, pulling himself close until he can rest his cheek against his chest.

“Rather not. They've got real Haunting of Hill House vibes, you know?”

Mountain laughs, a deep echoing thing, and holds Dew tighter. He knows exactly what he means.

Everyone knew Delta was strange, still water deep and dark. He moves through the Ministry like a shadow, always where he wasn’t expected and somehow never where he should be. His voice was quiet, but carried, and no one could remember exactly what his face looked like after they looked away.

“Once,” Mountain rumbled, “I saw them whisper to a stone wall that leads to the catacombs. It started bleeding.”

Dew blinked, then shuddered. “Exactly. I’m not asking them about my tentacle.”

“Besides,” he continues, nuzzling in close, “what could possibly go wrong?”

The memory of exactly that possibility drifts between them like a slow-moving current, unspoken but vivid.

The Air summoning.

It was supposed to be routing; ceremonial, calculated, precise. The Circle has been drawn in silver dust and bone ink, ancient sigils and lines humming with purpose: to summon one air ghoul. One.

But the veil between realms had a sense of humor.

The portal shimmered like a mirror cracking underwater, refracting reality. Wind howled through the stillness of the summoning chamber, bringing with it the scent of ozone and something far older, storm slick stone, high peaks, and lightning that had never touched the ground.

Two ghouls stepped through.

Not one.

Two.

The first was intended: a willowy ghoulette with eyes like pale grey clouds and short hair that drifted upwards like she had never even heard of gravity. She blinked, startled, but still poised. Confused, but composed.

Her hand was wrapped around that of another ghoulette, this one with eyes like a storm and fluffy, curly hair that seemed to float like a cloud. She was shorter, stockier, and looked more afraid than the ghoulette that came through first.

It caused a bit of a fuss, really, this second figure coming through. There was an urgent need for more: another blanket, a mask, more hands outstretched in comfort, endless voices offering explanations while others searched for answers.

So much chaos, in fact, that no one noticed when a third came through. No one saw the smoke. To be fair, at first, it was just a tendril. Then a slow, spiraling column that spun in silence at the edge of the open gate. It twisted like it was looking, learning, remembering. Before anyone knew what was happening it compressed, sharply, folding in on itself like a breath being held.

And from that breath, he formed.

A figure, tall and lean, wrapped in a glamour so fine it might as well have been his skin. Dark hair bundled at the top of his head, windblown ever so slightly. His eyes were like the eye of a storm, calm only because of the chaos they held in the center.

He stepped forward casually, his glamour finishing its subtle shimmer as his bare feet touched the edge of the circle. No one had seen him until he spoke.

“A mated pair huh?”

Every head turned.

A beat of silence, and then absolute chaos.

There were shouts, gasps. Someone dropped the mask they had found for the extra ghoulette and it dented when it hit the ground. One Sister screamed. And the Cardinal, who had been so steady throughout the initial mess, met the ground with a quiet thud when he passed out in a mostly dignified way.

The ghoul at the center of it all ginned, showing off his perfect row of sharp, gleaming teeth. Nothing hostile, just knowing. Like he understood something no one else in the room had realized.

“Good luck with that,” he muttered, and then turned like he was already bored.

That had been about two weeks ago, and Dew couldn’t remember now without laughing.

Dew chuffs at the memory and affectionately headbutts Mountain's chest.

“You just like his shiny teeth.”

“Yeah,” Mountain says fondly, and Dew can practically hear the hearts in his eyes.

“Freak.”

Mountain laughs and leans back in Dew's arms, taking in his water features for the last time. The clarity of his horns, his wide sky-blue eyes, the pretty green freckles and stripes that decorate his blue-grey skin. Dew comes from the shallows, with shorter webbing between his fingers and toes. More land-like adaptations, due to the proximity.

He's certain Dew will look just as striking once fire takes hold, if not more so with all the confidence he is sure to find in his new element.

“C'mon firelily, Aether should be about ready with the movie.”

Dew purrs and lets himself be pulled out of his room and down the hall, anxiety kept at bay by rising anticipation.

Tomorrow will be the start of the rest of his life.

So, what could possibly go wrong?

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

As the soft sounds of laughter echo down the hallway, a long shadow slinks back into a darker wing of the Ministry. Delta watches them go, unreadable eyes gleaming faintly in the gloom.

They don't sigh, or smile, or even blink, just turn, the beads and chains woven into their robes whispering with their movement. With quiet steps, they slip down a hidden corridor few even know exists anymore.

The Ministry Archives are not closed, exactly, but few bother to visit the deepest stacks where the oldest scrolls are kept in locked drawers, sealed with wax and cursed glyphs. Delta moves with familiarity, not needing light, their fingers brushing across labels written in a dozen dead languages. They find the drawer they want without hesitation.

Inside is a single folder, its contents humming faintly with trapped magic.

He removes a page. Faded, water-stained, but the name still shines faintly under enchantment:

Corentin Tempestas.

Delta’s scarred gills flutter once. Not with surprise, but anticipation.

They fold the paper with reverent care, then open a narrow cabinet hidden in the stone. Inside sit dozens of files. Some are marked with a red sigil. Others are burned around the edges. He files Rain’s under a new section: ACTIVE.

A whisper echoes through the corridor. The same word, over and over:

"convergence."

Delta smiles, just barely. The glamour flickers on his form for a second, revealing something far less aquatic, far more skeletal beneath.

Then it’s gone.

They close the cabinet, seal it with a murmur only the stones understand, and walk back into the halls above.

Chapter Text

“Ceremonial garb as well, really?”

Rain’s voice is a low grumble as he digs through the dry closet of their cove, Jasper having been long dismissed. He pushes aside folded tunics and loose belts, a pile of scarves he never wears. Perhaps he would, if he spent more time on the shores. But the only dry land he’s known in the Pit are the little alcoves of his home where water has been shut away, remaining easily accessed through large doors settled into the floor.

Candlelight flickers against his cheek, highlighting the anxious crease in his brow. Behind him, his mother hums a melody as old as the sea, as steady as the tides. Her presence is a balm, a familiar, calming warm green light thrumming below her skin.

“He always has -”

“A plan. Yes, Mama,” Rain interjects, lifting a faded sash and inspecting it with an unimpressed squint before setting it to the side. “I just wish it was a little more clear. Considering this was a directive sent straight from - what was it He called Himself?” He turns to her, hand on his hip, head cocked to the side. “L, was it?”

His mother’s laugh is soft but irrepressible, bubbling up despite her best efforts to contain it.

“Still not convinced that He’s not my sire,” Rain mutters, mostly to himself.

“He's not,” she says plainly, turning towards a bookshelf to select a few to pack into the trunk. “Though He certainly could have been.”

“Mother,” Rain groans, scandalized deep into his core. His fins flutter with embarrassment and peachy luminescence as he fumbles to stuff his long overshirt into his trunk. The shirt is spun of the finest linen, gold embroidery lining the collar and cuffs. He hopes Lucifer was just being a little… extra with His request, and that the ceremonial items weren’t truly needed. They always made him feel a little too fancy, a little too out of place.

“You brought it up,” she says with a shrug. “But you know full well, you were -”

“Made from love and light, yes yes,” he recites, mimicking her gentle cadence with a fond eye-roll.

“Yes,” she echoes, stepping close now, arms folding around his slender frame. Her embrace is warm despite their cool skin, full of quiet strength. “And I have thanked Him every day for the gift that is you. I'm honestly not sure how I will manage without you here.”

Rain lets himself lean into her, his chin resting on her shoulder. For just a second he’s a kit again, tucked against her side during a storm, listening to the rhythm of her breath and the way it matches the currents around them.

“Bet L could keep you company,” he murmurs, teasing to mask the tightness in his throat.

She makes an undignified type of sound, something caught between a snort and a chuckle, and reaches up to flick at one of his ear fins. He recoils with a half-laugh, swatting at the air while she steps away to retrieve a small, carved box from the top of the closet, one he hasn’t opened in years.

“He said ceremonial,” she reminds him, setting it down. “These are for ceremony. Just in case.”

Rain lifts the lid. Nestled inside on a soft cloth is the jewelry passed down through her line. Strands of dark peals, threaded with the same gold that decorated his overshirt. Gold and silver rings of all sizes; some he could wear on his fingers, and others went on his horns. Earrings, bracelets, and pins. Some pieces still carry the scent of the sea cave where they were first blessed, thousands of years ago.

She slips a silver ring in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail off her thumb and into the box before tucking it in his modest trunk, next to a few wrapped food parcels and a faded stuffed creature with bent limbs and a missing eye.

“Call it a mother's intuition.”

Rain swallows hard, fingers lacing together as he tries to steady himself. The knot in his chest tightens.

“Any of this intuition telling you when the circle will arrive?”

His mother turns, looks out through the small cove window. Beyond, the sea glows with reflected starlight and the moon has begun its climb, slow and steady.

“Soon.” Her voice is thick.

Rain hesitates, his breath catching. The words come out quieter and less sure than he intends.

“Will it… hurt? The summoning?”

She turns back to him. He’s staring now, eyes wide, trying to memorize every detail of her face; the exact color of her eyes, the slope of her smile, the scar on her temple and the freckles that span her nose. He’s heard rumors about the surface rituals, about the pain. He doesn’t know if he’ll come back, the Ghost ghouls never do. At least that’s what everyone says.

She takes his hand, hers worn with age and dedication, and tugs him gently forward. Their foreheads meet and Rain feels her strength flow into him, present and grounding. His breathing calms. But when they part, her cheeks are wet, glistening in the candlelight.

“It will,” she whispers, and he is surprised to find that her honesty is more steadying than frightening.

He nods, jaw tight. The time for asking has passed.

Fate has spoken for him.

“Wait with me?”

“And for you,” she promises, pressing her lips to his forehead. “I will see you again.”

His tears slip free then, cold as they run down his cheeks. He doesn’t try to stop them.

They sit together in the quiet cove, arms wrapped around each other. Outside, the light begins to shift, the moon’s arc casting a pale silver across the grotto’s walls, growing brighter with every heartbeat.

The summoning is close.

And Rain, though afraid, is ready to meet it.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The room smells faintly of sulfur and soap; neroli, lotus, and sea salt.

Dew hums softly as he tucks his last towel into a small crate, careful not to tip the brown glass bottles of bath oils sloshing at the bottom. He's stored the pretty pots of lotion too, Mountain made them all by hand, each one carefully crafted to soothe his sensitive water ghoul skin.

He pauses, fingers brushing the rim of a jar. Will I even need these anymore? He thinks of the new water ghoul, whoever they are, wherever they're coming from. Each clan has its own rhythms, its own alchemy. He considers leaving the lotions behind as a welcome gift… but he can decide later. For now, they are still his.

His hair is damp from a final soak, silvery tendrils curling gently around his neck. The deep porcelain tub he won’t need anymore gleams under the low light, its surface smooth and still like a tide pool drained of the sea. He runs his hand along the rim in passing, fond and grateful.

“Thanks for the memories old girl,” he says, grinning to himself.

In the hall just outside, footsteps shuffle with a hesitation Dew knows all too well.

“You can come in, Aeth,” he calls. “I’m not combusting yet.”

Aether slips through the doorway, brow furrowed and arms crossed tight. He doesn't say anything at first, just scans the room like it might vanish if he blinks too long.

“I don’t like this,” Aether mutters at last. “I don’t like that you're doing this.”

“It’s not dangerous,” Dew says, flicking water from his fingers. “Not really. It's just gonna be… really warm, for a little bit.”

“You’re transitioning to fire,” Aether says flatly. “That’s not a temperature change. That’s a fundamental shift. You’re not going to be the same.”

Dew shrugs, but the edges of his grin soften. “Good. I don’t want to be the same.”

Aether’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Dew’s voice stays light, but his hands still against the folded cotton. “I mean, look, this body, this magic, it never fit quite right. This is… what I’m meant for.”

Aether doesn’t respond. The silence between them thickens.

He lifts his chin, smile returning. “You’ll like the new me. My toes will be warmer.”

Aether looks away, jaw tense. “I like the current you.”

Dew blinks. That lands harder than expected. His throat tightens, and he breathes deep before steadying his voice.

“I know. And I love who I've been, because that version of me brought me here. To you and Mount.” He reaches out, gentle, afraid Aether would startle and run. “But this isn't about leaving something behind. It's about finally embracing who I am.”

Aether still won’t meet his eyes, but he nods once. Behind him, Mountain appears in the doorway, massive arms folded, watching the two of them with quiet focus.

“You’re not doing this alone,” Mountain rumbles. “We’re going to be there. All the way through. No matter what it looks like.”

Dew nods, grateful. “I know. I’m glad I have you.”

“Still you,” Mountain agrees, “you’ll just… look different.”

There is a sadness that Dew can see behind the shine in Mountain's eyes, hidden better with eons of practice. He grabs Aether’s hand and tugs him towards Mountain, settling between them in a long hug.

Dew pulls back just enough to smile up at both of them. “You’ll still know me.”

“We'd know you anywhere, firelily.” Mountain runs his thumb across Dew's ear fin, and Aether squeezes his tail with his own.

From somewhere above, a bell rings once, distant and solemn. The call; the moment broken.

Aether nods and departs, heading towards the summoning chamber.

Dew and Mountain follow, the final stages of Dew's preparations falling to Mountain’s steady hands.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The small preparation chamber glows with a soft, amber light, filtering in from sconces set deep in the walls. They give off a dry, steady warmth, a calming prelude to the inferno that awaits. Mountain kneels beside Dew, his movements slow and reverent, as if afraid to rush the moment.

Dew sits cross-legged on a low platform draped with fire-dyed cloth, bare to the waist, his skin still faintly damp from the bath. He exhales slowly, watching Mountain uncork a slender vial. The scent of ginger, cinnamon bark, and charred cedar fills the air.

"This might tickle," Mountain murmurs, his voice low and sure.

He dips his thick fingers into the oil, then presses them gently to Dew’s forehead, tracing the ancient sigil of renewal. A second touch beneath Dew’s sternum, where breath becomes fire. A third at each palm, where once his magic cooled and will now burn.

The oil glistens, catching the firelight like embers across water.

“Hands,” Mountain says.

Dew offers them, palms down, and Mountain cradles them in his own. He begins to pour warm spring water over them, slow and deliberate, his thumbs rubbing tiny circles into each knuckle. He hums, an old tune Dew recognizes from the Pit. A lullaby of sorts, though not unusual to hear by a pyre. One for endings and beginnings.

Mountain’s hands are steady, but his brow furrows.

“You alright?” Dew asks softly.

Mountain nods once. “Just making sure it’s done right.”

Dew chuckles. “Of course.”

He doesn't notice how Mountain’s thumbs hesitate at his wrists, just for a moment, sensing… something. But then the motion resumes, smooth again, and Dew doesn’t question it.

Mountain dries Dew’s hands with a dark red cloth, pressing it to his palms like a prayer.

“There,” he says. “You're ready.”

Dew exhales, a bit lighter now. The oils shimmer against his skin, the scent already clinging to his breath, his pulse.

Mountain smooths the last edge of the cloth beneath Dew’s knees, then sits back on his heels. The firelight dances between them, casting long, slow-moving shadows across the chamber walls.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Dew breaks the silence, his voice soft. “You’re doing the heavy lifting after this, huh?”

Mountain smiles faintly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“I don’t mean just physically,” Dew adds. “I mean, holding things together. Holding me together. If it gets weird.”

“It’s going to get weird,” Mountain says, deadpan.

Dew laughs, a short burst that trembles just a little. “Okay, yeah, probably.”

Mountain leans forward, resting one massive hand over Dew’s knee. His touch is warm, grounding. “You’ve got the heart for this, Dew. Fire or water. Doesn’t change what you’re made of.”

“That’s the part I’m trying to find out.” Dew glances down at his oiled hands. “If there’s something inside me that I’ve never had the right form to be.”

Mountain studies him for a long moment. “You’re not a puzzle with missing pieces. You’re a song that’s still being written.”

Dew blinks. “That’s… surprisingly poetic for someone who talks like a landslide.”

“I contain multitudes,” Mountain says solemnly.

They both grin, and for a fleeting moment, the weight lifts. Dew leans in, rests his forehead against Mountain’s shoulder.

“I’m glad it’s you with me. For this part.”

Mountain’s arm comes around him in return, holding him gently. “Always.”

Another beat passes. Distantly, the low tones of the summoning bell ring again, softer this time, as if heard underwater.

Dew straightens, breath catching. The moment is ending. The shift is coming.

Mountain rises and offers his hand.

“You ready?”

Dew takes it, steady. “I think I was born ready. Just. Not born right.”

Mountain doesn’t answer, but his hand tightens around Dew’s.

Together, they step into the corridor. The air behind them crackles like striking a match that never quite catches flame.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Aether paces the summoning chamber, checking and rechecking the ley lines and candles. One is tilted, and he corrects it with a careful hand. Perfection is not a preference tonight; it's survival. Dewdrop’s life depends on it. As does the life of the new water ghoul being dragged into this plane of existence.

He pauses at the head of the room, taking in every angle. The last elemental transition only half-succeeded. Delta’s body crossed, but their essence didn’t anchor properly. Now they drift between time and form, a whisper of what they once were.

The Siblings say that they're most active during the full moons, singing quiet songs to stars long dead. Aether remembers the night it happened, how he and Omega swore they'd find a way to pull Delta back, to restore what was lost. But Delta had only giggled, drifting toward the rafters, a teasing ‘you’ll have to catch me first,’ before dissolving into the cobwebs.

Aether is certain they’re here now, ever present where they’re not expected to be.

‘He will be fine.’

The voice is metallic, doubled over itself, the result of two larynxes melted into one. Ghoulish, but not quite.

“Didn’t Alpha say that about you, too?”

Delta hums, the sound distorted and beautiful yet wrong in its entirety.

‘How do you know this isn’t everything I ever wanted?’

Aether turns, scanning for the shimmer they leave behind when they stay in one place too long, like heat rising off asphalt. Occasionally, they take shape, just long enough to remind him of what they used to be.

“You get off on being a little creepy, don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but it earns a full-bodied laugh, the kind that rattles in Aether’s chest. Somewhere under it, the reverb of a bassline trembles through his fingertips.

“They’re here too?” Copia’s voice cuts in, unsure, small. He looks up from his incantations, face pale, searching.

More laughter. Then stillness.

The moon rises further, and the ley lines begin to hum.

Aether moves with practiced precision, tracing the summoning circle in cuttlefish ink, hands twitching through every curve. The air buzzes, not just with power, but presence. Behind him, Copia paces, his footfalls uneven.

“Do you want me to do it?” Aether asks, only half-joking.

“I’m fine,” Copia snaps, but his fingers tremble as he adjusts the script.

Aether has no patience for his nerves. Not tonight. Not when Dewdrop’s entire existence is about to be rewritten; not while a new ghoul hangs in the balance.

One mistake. One note out of place. And it all goes wrong.

Again.

He exhales. Focus.

The fragile calm is interrupted by Copia, a sudden outburst. “What if he screams like the last one did?”

Aether glances up. “Then close your ears. You’re the summoner this time. Dew asked you to do this.”

“Delta asked for it too, of my brother. It nearly killed him.”

“Delta isn’t Dew,” Aether says sharply. They don’t have time for this uncertainty.

Copia flinches. “You saw what it did to them.”

Aether pauses, softens at the edges. “Yes. And I also saw them laughing when it was done.”

Copia’s lip trembles. He swallows hard and looks down at the ceremonial script again. The words blur. He blinks them back into focus.

Under his breath, he whispers.

“Please… let me do it right this time. Just once.”

He exhales, shaky. Straightens his robe with trembling hands.

“Alright. Alright, let’s do this.”

The chamber glows soft blue. Shells glimmer around the seal in the center of the summoning circle, an extra offering to the Moon, a plea for mercy on Her children. The circle is complete, and across from it the transformation seal lays carved into the floor, its sigils made of salt, soot, and blood. Dew stands at the threshold, his silhouette haloed in dim light.

He hesitates.The magic crackles like static across his skin.

Copia glances up. His smile is too wide, too clearly hiding his nerves.

“Right, Dew. There you are,” he says. “Beautiful, I mean, that is - you look ah, ceremonial! That’s…that’s good!”

Dew stares.

Copia clears his throat. “Stand in the center. Yes. That’s it.”

Aether brushes Dew’s shoulder as he passes. He whispers something soft in his native tongue, some ancient language known just to the Quints - words Dew doesn’t understand, but holds like a prayer.

Then he steps back, and Dew walks forward alone.

The moment he crosses the seal, it grabs him. Pressure, at first; behind his eyes, beneath his skin. A hand brushing the edge of his very being. He forces stillness into his limbs.

Above, the moon dims. Clouds pass. The air grows heavy.

Copia begins to chant.

The words are ancient. Older than the Ministry, older than the ghouls themselves. They twist in his mouth, warping his voice.

Dew feels the change in his bones. A heat, alien and growing. His vision wavers.

Breath staggers.

Then -

Pain.

Not sharp, not clean. This pain is a pulling, a breaking apart. A stretch of essence, like his very self is being unwoven, drawn toward some unseen gravity. His mind screams and his body follows.

He doesn’t know if he actually cries out.

Doesn’t know if he falls.

Only that the circle beneath him burns, and he feels it until he collapses.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Somewhere far away, the Pit begins to churn.

Rain doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes now in a chamber carved from living coral, his limbs heavy, spine aching. The water that cradles him has thickened, the temperature wrong. Too warm. Too still. He shifts, but something holds him in place.

It’s happening.

His mother's voice echoes in his memory.

‘You’ll know when it begins.’

The pressure builds around him, magic drawn tight like a net cinched around his ribs. Tiny bubbles escape his mouth and spiral upward, caught in a current he can’t see. He tries to speak, but there’s no sound.

The circle activates beneath him, he doesn’t see it, but he feels it in his bones. Ancient lines carved into the chamber floor begin to glow, each rune a tooth in the mouth of some great and hungry god, something older than even Lucifer Himself.

Rain’s heart lurches. His body locks.

The summoning is in motion now.

The pull begins as a tug behind his sternum, soft, at first, like a heartbeat. But it deepens into something far worse. His magic is unraveling, water pulled against its will. His being unspools, cell by cell. His gills flare wide in panic. He doesn’t want to scream, but the pain is there now, raw and tearing.

He sees the coral begin to splinter, pressure fracturing the edges of his sanctum. Blue light pours through the cracks. He isn’t ready. He wants more time.

But time isn’t a mercy summoning grants.

Rain begins to rise as if a hand made of starlight has reached down and seized his core, dragging it up -

up -

up -

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew's body flashes, blinding white then red-hot. He twists violently within the light, one arm splitting into tendrils of flame before snapping back into flesh. Steam pours from the transformation, and the ground beneath him begins to sizzle.

Aether’s breath catches. Too fast.

“He’s not stabilizing,” he mutters, starting towards him. “It’s happening too fast, he’s skipping steps, he's going to burn right through the cycle!”

Then, the summoning circle flares.

Not golden, not pure.

It opens like a seeping wound.

Aether sees the new ghoul's silhouette rise slowly from the flooded earth beneath the seal. Cold water spills out across the floor, a halo around his feet. He’s drenched, eyes wide, body trembling. There’s barely time for him to adjust before Dew lets out another cry, this one sharp, wet, unnatural. Aether watches the fire of Dew’s pain reflect in the new ghoul's startled eyes.

And Delta, unseen by the others, watches from the wall like a smudge of night, whispering: ‘Mm, now it gets interesting.’

They watch, and see the new water ghoul quake on those lovely long legs before folding into himself, motionless. His gills don’t flutter. No breath. No movement. Poor fish isn’t breathing, freshly plucked from the Depths, and well, that certainly won't do.

Delta moves. They don't walk so much as glide, fog over a quiet lake. They crouch beside him and extend one long hand, and one finger presses against the soft space between Rain’s ribs.

The skin parts without protest. Not a wound, more like a suggestion, as if Rain’s body knows better than to resist. Delta’s fingers sink past bone, reaching in with a healer’s gentleness.

They find his heart, fluttering but out of sync with itself, and squeeze. Just once. The contact is ice - cold like forgotten metal, like distant stars.

Rain gasps awake, eyes wide and blind, saltwater tears streaking down his cheeks.

Delta smiles, pulling their hand back through his chest, mist curling from stone. Not a trace left behind. They stand before anyone else notices, already vanishing again into the candlelit smoke.

And then the screaming starts again.

It tears through the chamber, higher-pitched now, hoarse and crackling, burning from the inside out. Rain flinches, fingers digging into the wet earth beneath him. He hadn’t noticed he was lying in a shallow circle of moss, damp from his arrival. The only thing soft in this entire room.

Rain can see a ghoul laying on the floor, contorting, his silhouette flashing with firelight somehow inside him. It leaks from the slits in his skin, glowing behind his gill fronds, searing cracks through the blue-green tones of his body. His back arches again and something hisses - steam? Bone?

Rain scrambles upright, disoriented. He's pointing, distressed, he wants to help but can't pull on his own magic; too weak from being ripped into fresh existence. He's searching the eyes of the robed figures that line the walls, pleading as best he can through the silence.

But no one moves.

The ring of figures stands stock-still, like statues carved from salt. Only one of them shifts, a smaller being with mismatched gloves and a trembling posture. He steps forward, but is quickly halted by a sharp voice.

“Don’t break the circle!”

Rain’s vision blurs from the dry air, but he can just make out the source: a man at the edge of the ritual, dressed in strange, ecclesiastical robes. His hands are lifted, trembling slightly, and his eyes are wide with focus, or maybe fear.

This must be the summoner.

A large ghoul with big purple eyes stands beside him, teeth gritted, eyes never leaving the burning ghoul. His claws twitch like he wants to leap in, but he doesn’t. Why not?

Rain doesn’t understand any of it. Why is he here? Why is that ghoul burning? Why is he here?

The smell hits him then, sulfur, scorched seaweed, charred hair. It’s nothing like home. He doubles over, gagging, chest seizing from the pressure change, the air too sharp. His body hasn’t adjusted.

He wasn’t ready. No one warned him that the surface would feel like being born wrong.

And then, from somewhere behind the circle, a voice. Metallic, cracked.

‘Well, this is going splendidly.’

He doesn’t see where it comes from, but he feels it in his teeth, a low vibration. A ripple passes through the chamber, distorting the light for just a moment. No one else reacts.

Rain crawls to the edge of his little mossy landing, drawn toward the other ghoul like a tide. He doesn’t understand the words. He doesn’t know this magic. But he knows pain when he sees it.

He reaches, hand outstretched, like he could will it all to stop. His hand falls just short of the summoning circle's edge before he collapses.

Whether the ghoul sees him or not, Rain doesn’t know.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The fire surges again.

Everything is heat. Or rather, becoming.

It starts in Dew's spine, a chain of flares sparking from vertebra to vertebra, snapping like wet cords stretched too tight. His body doesn't feel like his own anymore. It’s too full, overripe, splitting at the seams.

Aether said it would feel like burning.

He lied.

Burning ends. This doesn’t.

Dew tries to scream again, but his voice drops away mid-breath, collapsing in on itself, ash sucked down a chimney. His eyes blur, showing him things that don’t make sense. Glowing circles, distorted faces, symbols drawn in salt and blood - someone reaching towards him with a trembling hand, like a lifeline.

He wants to reach out. He wants it to stop. He wants -

‘You want nothing.’

A thought cuts through him, clean and quiet. It isn’t his.

And suddenly, the pain stills. It doesn't vanish, but it quiets. Suspended.

The world pulls back, like a lens widening. And there, in the corner of the chamber where no light should reach, a pulse.

Delta.

They are watching him, head tilted, half-materialized in the place between form and vapor. Their body is a suggestion: trailing hair like sea grass, limbs fading into a glimmering, star-speckled haze.

They look almost fond.

‘You made it this far,’ they murmur. The sound doesn’t come from their mouth, but from inside Dew’s skull, an echo.

Dew can’t speak. But something of his thought reaches out, grasping.

Delta nods.

‘That’s right, don’t cling to your skin. That’s not who you are anymore.’

The room begins to tilt. The pain coils again, shifting - not just burning, but reshaping. Molten metal being poured into a new mold.

Dew’s gills flare open one last time, gasping, then close. Sealed tight. A shocking, primal terror erupts in him - he can’t breathe - he shouldn’t be able to - except -

‘Breathe.’

His lungs engage. Air floods him like a foreign language, and somehow, his body begins to translate.

Delta watches with solemn pride.

‘I screamed, too,’ they whisper. ‘You’ll hate me for not stopping it. For not pulling you back…’

They glance at Aether, unreadable.

‘But I was asked not to.’

Another pulse tears through Dew’s chest. He convulses, barely conscious.

‘Once it’s done…’ Delta leans closer, shape shimmering. ‘You will never be the same. And that is the gift. Even if it feels like theft.’

Dew’s mouth works around a soundless sob. His fingers dig into the stone floor. His tail has already begun to fray, splitting into a new shape, or maybe nothing at all.

‘I’m sorry it had to be you,’ Delta murmurs, almost lovingly. ‘But there was no choice to be made.’

The summoning magic in the air flares and Copia’s nervous hands lift again, trying to stabilize the rituals. The light above Rain’s circle shifts, and the air fractures. Delta’s form blurs at the edges, their robes laden with chains and symbols not of this realm hang oddly in the heavy air. Every candle flickers inward, flames bending towards them.

Their form shifts, a brief glimpse below the magic. Something skeletal and burning like celestial ash flashes forward and then recedes, like a star that died alone. When Delta’s shape stabilizes it’s like the moment never happened. They glance towards the other side of the chamber where Rain has crumpled, dazed and shaking.

‘It was always going to be you.’

The words linger, slow and stretched, warping the air around them.

And then they vanish, like they were never there at all.

Both ritual circles flash and then go dark, smoke curling around the edges and slowly filling the air.

Dew groans, a soft breath of life, his first as someone new.

Aether doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look at the new water ghoul.

Can’t bear to look at Dew.

He only stares, at the empty spot where Delta stood.

His voice is barely a whisper.

“One more ghost.”

The silence that follows feels like a grave.

Chapter Text

The smoke hasn’t cleared.

It curls in the rafters, clings to the walls, rolls low across the floor like it’s searching for something to take with it. Two figures lie inside the ritual circles: the new water ghoul, folded in on himself, soaked and shivering; and Dew, collapsed in the remnants of scorched sigils, skin steaming, chest barely rising.

Aether doesn’t move at first. He just stands there - breath caught, muscles locked.

He hadn’t expected them both to survive and is frozen by shock until instinct takes over.

Assess. Pulse. Consciousness. Breathing. Get help.

The new ghoul first. He’s blinking, disoriented, half-conscious and gasping like a fish on dry land. His skin glows faintly, like something leftover from wherever he came from, but it’s dulling fast. He’ll make it.

Probably.

He shifts to Dew.

The air still burns faintly, scented with scorched salt and singed lotus. Dew’s body is limp, but mostly intact. His gills are closed, sealed shut. His tail is… not a tail anymore, exactly. Aether doesn’t look too long. He presses fingers to Dew’s throat and feels a heartbeat like a moth’s wing.

Alive.

Barely.

Aether exhales, relief tightly guarded. Dew first.

Right now.

He glances back, searching for help and finds Copia still standing in the same spot he was when the ritual ended. Frozen.

“Copia,” Aether says.

No answer.

The Cardinal’s eyes are locked on the stone floor where the last of the circle has been smudged away. His lips move soundlessly.

Aether tries again, louder. “Copia. I need help. Get blankets. Water. Anything.”

Still nothing.

He crosses the chamber in two strides and grabs the front of Copia’s robes, gives him a small shake. “Snap out of it.”

Copia jerks backward like he’s been burned. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again.

Silent.

Aether’s face softens, just slightly. “They’re alive. You didn’t kill them. I just need you to move.”

But Copia is already backing away, eyes wild, breath shallow. His hand hits the wall behind him, then he turns and stumbles for the door.

Aether doesn’t follow this time. Can't. He has other priorities.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The hall is too bright.

Too loud.

Too close.

Copia doesn’t remember getting back to his quarters. One moment he’s fleeing the summoning chamber, the next he’s inside his room, door locked, lights off, breath ragged.

He slides down the wall, his hands won’t stop shaking.

He sees Delta. Not as they are now, but before, when he first met them.

He sees the moment they screamed, really screamed, during their transition. The way their voice split open like a fracture in the earth. The way the circle shattered, and something else came through. Something the Ministry never acknowledged. Something no one could explain.

And now it feels like it happened again.

He wipes at his face, but his skin feels wrong; too tight, too hot.

He wasn’t meant for this. He was supposed to summon flowers. Light breezes. Small blessings. Not people. Not screaming, burning, breathing people. His mother would tell him they're just ghouls, and tools are replaceable. But he's never seen them like that.

He looks down at his hands and thinks they look like a child’s. Like they shouldn’t be capable of this much damage.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

It echoes, small and useless.

His shoulders shake. And then he’s crying, no ceremony, no dignity. Just raw, gasping sobs in the dark, hunched like a puppet with cut strings.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Only darkness and the sound of Delta’s voice, lingering, stuck somewhere between there and now.

‘You did beautifully.’

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The seal is still hissing with magic as Aether drops to his knees beside Dew.

It reeks of ozone, scorched skin, and ritual dust gone bitter. Somewhere behind him, the candles gutter out, all but one. The water ghoul is curled at the edge of his circle, barely moving, but Dew -

He’s limp. The body is done negotiating, kind of limp.

Aether presses trembling fingers to Dew's throat again, afraid that his life status may have changed in the thirty seconds since he left his side. But the pulse is still there - thready, but determined.

“C’mon, waterlily,” Aether murmurs, brushing matted hair from Dew’s brow. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

The burns are strange. Not all surface-level, not all blistered. Some of them pulse with something internal, something raw and unfinished. Like the transition was trying to rewrite Dew’s body and left the sentence halfway through.

“Mountain!” Aether’s voice cracks across the room.

The giant ghoul is already moving, boots heavy on the stone as he crosses the line of chalk and ash. His face twists at the sight, but he doesn't ask questions. Just kneels beside Dew with arms ready.

“I need you to carry him,” Aether says. “Get him to the infirmary. He’s burning from the inside.”

Mountain nods grimly. He doesn't need further instructions. He gathers Dew into his arms, gently, a bundle of hot coals. Dew doesn't make a sound.

Aether turns, pointing to a Sibling frozen near the door. “You - go find Omega. Tell him it’s Dew.”

They stammer something like a word and vanish down the hall, feet pounding against the stone.

He turns to the last figure in the room. “Stay with the water ghoul. He’s stable. For now.”

Silence.

Too long.

“Do you hear me?”

A nod, hesitant. Reluctant.

“Just until someone else gets here,” Aether adds, softer, voice fraying.

He doesn't see them step back. Doesn’t see them slip away in the opposite direction of the first. Confusion, chaos - the room empties too fast. No one is trained for this.

There’s too much blood to sort. Too much heat clinging to the air, to the walls, to the inside of his throat.

Too much Dew, in places he shouldn’t be, smoldering at the edges.

“Mountain, we need to go!”

So they run.

The chamber behind them sizzles with smoke and dying spells. And the water ghoul lays there, forgotten by all but one whose eyes still watch from the shadows.

-

The stone corridors of the Ministry blur around them.

Aether runs ahead, clearing the path, shouting for the hall doors to open. Mountain follows, silent but fast, Dew a dead weight in his arms.

“I need water, cold compresses - blankets, moonlight draught, all of it ready,” Aether barks as they crash through the lower hall. “We need to prep a burn room, fuck, just tell them all it’s happening again.”

A Sister appears from a side corridor and stops dead in her tracks.

“What is -?”

“Page Omega!” Aether shouts, and Mountain nearly bowls her over.

Dew stirs once, a tremor, his face twitching into something pained. Aether curses under his breath and presses a sigil to Dew’s temple. Cooling, stabilizing. Temporary.

“Hold on, waterlily. Just a little longer.”

They round the final corridor into the infirmary wing.

Omega is already waiting, robes tied back, gloves snapped on, and eyes blazing with unspoken fury.

“What happened?”

“The change I… don't think it took properly,” Aether rasps.

Omega’s face twists in concern. “And is the other still in the chamber?”

Aether doesn't answer, not directly at least. “Help him first. He's critical.”

Mountain lays Dew onto the table. The moment his back touches the cool fabric, steam hisses up around him.

Omega grimaces and lets his quintessence seep into Dew. “We’re losing him.”

“No, not yet,” Aether says, resolute.

He grasps at Dew’s hand and doesn't let go.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Silence settles into every corner of the summoning chamber.

The chalk is ruined, the ink is running all over the floor. The salt has turned to sludge in the humidity of spells now spent. One summoning, nearly fatal. One transition, unsealed.

And now: one ghost, watching.

Delta steps away from the wall with a movement that doesn’t disturb the air. The fabric of their robe doesn’t drag, just hovers, folds drifting like they're underwater or maybe nowhere at all.

They tilt their head.

Rain lies crumpled, eyes half-closed, gills fluttering out of instinct more than need. The skin around his mouth is pale. He’s breathing, but it's shallow, barely tethered to consciousness.

Delta stands over him in silence.

For a moment, there’s no sound at all. Just the low hum of residual magic and the crackle of a dying candle, the only one that dared stay lit.

Then, finally, Delta exhales. It’s not quite a sigh, but it carries weight.

‘You weren’t supposed to come like this.’

They crouch beside him and Rain’s eyebrows twitch.

Delta’s hand hovers near his face, watching the tiny movements like a biologist studies the sea. Curious. Reverent.

They don’t touch him again. Not like before.

‘They’ll think you’re weak because you fell,’ Delta murmurs, eyes catching the shimmer of remaining spell-light in Rain’s hair. ‘They don’t realize the strength it takes to come through that.’

They lean closer.

‘You still hear Her, don’t you? Even here.’

Rain flinches.

Delta smiles, just a fraction. Not cruel. Something closer to awe.

‘He’s been waiting a long time for you.’

A long silence follows.

Delta’s eyes dim a little, and for the first time, they look tired. The kind of tired that has nothing to do with rest. Deeper than magic, the fatigue of knowing too much.

They place one hand on the cracked stone beside Rain’s head and lean in to whisper against his ear fin, voice low and curled with something close to sorrow.

‘You’ll hate what comes next. He still needs to choose. But I hope, one day, you forgive us anyway.’

They stand again, the hem of their robe whispering across the blood-soaked chalk. The air ripples like a mirage, and they vanish, just as Rain begins to truly wake.

-

At first, there is only salt.

Salt in his throat, in his eyes, behind his teeth. It burns, but not like fire. It's older; seawater soaked into bones, the taste of tears shed lifetimes ago.

His lungs ache. Air scrapes through them like broken coral.

Wrong, his instincts scream - he’s not built for this - but something deep within him insists: breathe anyway.

So he does.

It hurts. It’s messy. His chest rises in an uneven gasp, and the sound that escapes him is too raw to be called a breath and too ragged to be relief. His hand twitches against the cold stone beneath him. Wet. Rough. Burned with something unholy.

He opens his eyes.

The chamber is empty.

The circle beneath him, once brilliant, once pulsing with impossible power, is faded, smudged and dead. The magic is gone, but the residue still clings to everything like soot.

Rain tries to sit up. His limbs don’t agree.

He pushes himself up on trembling elbows, head pounding, vision swaying like he’s caught between tides. For a moment, he sees her, his mother, back in the cove, smiling as she tucked his jewelry into his trunk. That smile twists suddenly, and becomes something else.

Someone else.

Rain gasps. His hand flies to his chest, not out of instinct, but memory.

A finger. Cold. Pressing through skin without resistance. Finding his heart.

Squeezing.

It wasn’t a dream.

His skin is marked, bruised, and he remembers. The way his body opened like a door. The way the hand lingered inside him, touching with something older than flame, older than even water.

Invasion.

He doubles over and retches, but nothing comes out. Not even bile. Just dry sobs into the stone. He can’t cry, his body doesn’t remember how.

But he shakes.

His gills gasp for a substance that no longer surrounds him - then seal themselves against the dry air. It feels like he's choking even with full lungs.

He curls around himself.

Everything hurts.

Everything is wrong.

In the silence that follows, the air hums with what’s missing: no footsteps. No voices. No one to offer a word of comfort.

He was left alone.

Except -

The candlelight still moves wrong in one corner of the room.

He doesn’t look.

He can’t.

Instead, he bows his head to the stone, lips moving in voiceless reverence. A prayer, perhaps, or a memory clinging to tide and rhythm. Something meant for water that can no longer hear him.

The only thing Rain knows with aching certainty is that Hell itself is kinder than this.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The first thing Dew notices is the smell.

Ash and salt.

It’s faint but sharp, the ghost of a driftwood bonfire trying to remember what it once was.

The second thing is the quiet.

The room is dark. No voices, no fire crackle, no trickle of water in a nearby pipe. Just the hiss of his own breath.

He tries to sit up. His arms don’t respond the way they should, heavier than they once were. His forearms are charred black, nails glossy and sharp like obsidian. There’s a patch of blistered flesh near his wrist that still pulses, as if it’s trying to finish becoming something else.

Dew presses his palm to his chest.

Something’s missing.

No, not something - everything.

He waits for the welcome rush of warmth, of fire singing in his veins, ready and begging to be used.

Nothing.

He waits for the cool tide, the water’s pull through his lungs. The whisper of Her voice in his blood.

Still nothing.

Panic rises fast. “No - no, no, no, no -”

He tries to scream, but it comes out choked, a hoarse rasp swallowed by the dark.

Then, a whisper slides through the air.

‘You’re not done yet.’

The voice curls through the shadows behind his eyes, unmistakable. Delta.

Dew flinches. Looks around but sees no one.

Their presence clings to the room, like whatever magic lingers here still listens to them.

He presses back against the infirmary cot, breath coming in fast bursts. Not done? What the hell does that mean?

No time to dwell, because the door creaks open.

Aether steps in, slow and careful. His hands are steady, but his face is drawn, deep shadows under his eyes, blood on one cuff of his jacket.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just moves to Dew’s bedside, checking his pulse, the sigil on his sternum, the char still marking the edges of his jaw.

Dew jerks away. “Don’t - don't touch me.”

Aether freezes. “You’re awake.”

“No shit.”

There’s a long pause. Aether sits in the chair beside him, exhaling through his nose. “I was worried you weren’t coming back.”

“Back to what?” Dew snaps. “This? This half-dead, half, whatever this is?”

“You’re alive.”

“I’m wrong.”

Aether studies him. His voice stays calm. “You’re unfinished.”

That makes Dew go still.

“What?”

“I don’t think the ritual is sealed. Something interfered. You’re not… bonded. Not fully.”

Dew laughs bitterly. “Then why does everything hurt?”

“Because you changed.” Aether leans in, voice low. “You held fire. You let it eat you. But there’s space inside of you, I can feel it.”

Dew’s mouth goes dry.

“No. No, I - this was supposed to make me whole. It was supposed to fix me.”

Aether places a gentle hand on the edge of the cot, not quite touching. “Maybe it will. Just needs more time.”

Dew looks away. The silence threatens to swallow him.

He doesn’t say it, but Aether hears it anyway.

I just wanted to be enough.

Aether doesn’t push. He never does. He just waits, steady as bedrock.

But Dew is not steady. He’s unraveling.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to be split down the middle like some kind of cursed experiment.”

“You weren’t split,” Aether says quietly. “You were opened.”

Dew flinches like it was a slap. “That supposed to help?”

“No. But it’s true.”

Dew’s hands shake. He presses his fists to his eyes and growls low in his throat. “I wanted the fire. I chose it. Why is that not enough?”

“It is.”

That cracks something in Dew. The tears come hot and fast, carving trails through soot and ash. His shoulders tremble, and he bites down hard on his lip to stop the sound.

“I didn’t want to be left with this,” he chokes. “This… in-between. The silence.”

Aether doesn’t respond this time. He just holds out a cloth. Dew takes it without looking.

The door opens again.

Mountain ducks inside, looking like he’s trying to make himself small, which is ridiculous given his size. His eyes find Dew immediately, and relief floods his face in a way that makes Dew want to cry all over again.

“Hey,” Mountain says softly. “You’re awake.”

Dew doesn’t answer, just nods and presses the cloth to his face again.

Mountain crosses the room, kneels beside the cot, and sets a rough hand on Dew’s ankle like an anchor. “You scared me, firelily.”

Dew laughs bitterly. “Scared myself.”

Mountain reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Dew’s ear, careful not to touch the burn-scars blooming along his jaw.

“You’re still here. Still you.” His voice is as gentle as his hands.

“Am I?” Dew’s voice is low now. “Feels like I got hollowed out and filled with someone else.”

He finally looks at him. Really looks. “It's so quiet, Mount. Like nothing is even there anymore.”

Mountain’s hand tightens on his ankle. “You’re still changing. Still becoming.”

Dew exhales. Long. Shaky. “Becoming what?”

Mountain shrugs. “You’ll tell us when you know.”

Aether stands, quiet now. “I’ll give you two some time.”

He steps into the hallway, but not far. Just enough to give Dew room to breathe.

Inside the room, Mountain leans his forehead gently against Dew’s calf, grounding them both in the warmth of something unspoken, until Dewdrop gently drifts once more.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain sits up too fast and nearly collapses again. His limbs are too long, too heavy. Gravity pulls at him like it’s personal. Everything is too loud, the scratch of cloth, the shift of air, the flicker of candlelight.

The stone beneath him is warm with residual heat, but it isn’t comforting. He shivers, blinking heavily at the spiraling ceiling.

Wasn’t there a scream?

Wasn’t there someone - ?

Footsteps.

Soft, slow, hesitant. Then the sound of a long sigh, like someone trying to steady themselves before stepping into something they’re not sure they’re ready for.

Rain turns his head just enough to see the silhouette that enters the chamber. Not that he’d know anyone if he saw them.

It’s a ghoul, tall and lean, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and cargo pants. Shiny golden eyes, too bright in the candlelight. Something in the way he moves makes the hairs on the back of Rain’s neck stand up.

Not threatening. Just… off. Like seeing a reflection that doesn’t quite match the mirror.

The stranger crouches beside him, keeping a respectful distance.

“You look like shit,” he says, but not unkindly.

Rain blinks. His throat works around air before he tries to speak, but an unfortunate sound like a bowstring drawn across the edge of a cymbal falls from his lips.

The ghoul tilts his head. “Not much water left down here.” He continues, more gently, “You’re the new guy, yeah? I’m Swiss. You made it.”

Rain stares at him. His gaze drifts - something in Swiss’s aura is familiar. Something he thinks he remembers, but can't be quite sure. Opposing energies. Multiple pulses. Sensations of so many things swirling together -

Rain doesn’t speak, but his fingers twitch toward Swiss’s wrist.

Swiss notices. “Ah,” he mutters, and for a moment something shuttered slips behind his smile when he sees the markings on Rain's neck. “Must have some healer senses kicking in, huh?”

Rain doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t deny it either.

Swiss helps him sit up slowly. “You’re not crazy. Just... tuned in.”

Their eyes meet.

Rain studies him a moment longer. Grounding like the earth, breezy like the air. But there is more there, too. Swiss doesn’t try to offer an answer. Doesn’t confirm. But something in the quiet way he helps lift Rain to his feet says more than words.

He hooks an arm under Rain’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to the infirmary. Your gills look fried, and I’m guessing that’s the least of your problems.”

Rain leans into the support, too weak to manage his pride. But something inside him eases. For the first time since surfacing, he doesn’t feel completely alone.

Swiss doesn’t ask any questions.

Rain can't speak anyway.

The walk is slow.

The corridor stretches long, dimly lit by sconces that shimmer with soft golden flame. Rain tries not to breathe too deeply. The air is thin, like it hasn’t passed through enough water first.

He misses the pressure of the depths.

Swiss keeps his pace steady and easy. One arm around Rain’s back, the other ready to catch him if he slips again. He doesn’t offer any words of comfort. But his presence is grounding, and that’s enough.

When they finally make it, the infirmary doors sigh open.

The room inside smells of alcohol, herbs, and old magic. There are rows of beds, each curtained off with soft linen, and dozens of softly glowing jars tucked into nooks. Jars of healing moss, bandage cloth, elemental salves.

It feels safe.

Healing.

This is a place for healing.

Swiss guides him to a low bed tucked in the corner, where the light is gentler, and helps him sit. Rain collapses onto it, too exhausted to be bound by decorum. The sheets are coarse and dry. He hasn’t been dry, ever, really. It makes his skin itch.

“I’ll get someone,” Swiss says. “Don’t go disappearing on me.”

He turns like he’s going to walk away, but Rain’s hand catches his wrist before he can. He tries to speak but it comes out a wheeze.

Swiss looks surprised. He doesn’t speak right away, just sinks down onto the edge of the bed. “Alright,” he says at last. “I'll stay.”

Rain stares at the ceiling. Something aches behind his eyes. His chest still feels hollow where Delta touched him.

He tries to focus on his breath, on the shape of it in his ribs, on the weight of his own body. The room tilts slightly. He flinches, but nothing tears. No fire, no collapse.

A hand appears beside his own. Swiss, resting his knuckles lightly on the edge of the bed. Silent solidarity.

And just for a moment, Rain feels it.

Not his own pain, not his fear.

But Swiss himself.

The conflicting magic, poorly masked. The way his aura hums at odds with itself. Rain doesn’t reach with his own touch. He just knows, and he lets his eyes close. The last thing he feels before sleep is Swiss shifting to sit a little closer, humming softly under his breath, some old song Rain doesn’t recognize.

But it soothes. And by the grace of the Moon, he sleeps.

-

Swiss, gently, stands from bed and pulls the curtain closed behind him.

For a moment he just stands there in the corridor, fingers digging into his temples, eyes flicking over the dim hallway like it might rearrange itself into something less frustrating if he stares hard enough.

The anger creeps in slow and quiet, a leak beneath a door.

He doesn’t let it boil yet. Not until he rounds the corner and sees them.

Mountain stands with one hand braced against the stone wall, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted, sweat drying across his brow, ash smudged into the seams of his knuckles. Omega is just ducking into Dew’s recovery room, muttering something about clean water and sterile gauze. Aether leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, hollow-eyed, the ghost of Delta’s presence still trailing his heels.

Swiss stops, brows furrowed, trying not to let his voice carry.

“You just left him there.”

Aether looks up, startled. “What?”

“The water ghoul,” Swiss hisses. “Alone. After that.”

He jerks his head in the direction of the summoning chamber like the walls might still echo with the screams.

Mountain’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn.

Swiss continues, quieter now, bitter around the edges. “I know Dew needed help. I get it. But the water ghoul came out of the summoning barely breathing, confused, soaked, terrified - and you left him.”

Aether’s jaw clenches. “I told someone to stay.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Swiss snaps. “It was just him and Delta in there.”

That gets Mountain to turn. His eyes widen slightly.

Swiss throws up a hand, pacing a few short steps away before he whirls back. “He can't even speak. I was with him and he reached out for me, like he wanted me to stay. His chest it's… Delta touched him.”

The words hit heavier than he meant them to, and now the heat in his chest doesn’t feel righteous, it feels helpless.

“I carried him here.” Swiss says, quieter. “I felt how bad it was. No one should wake up like that alone. No one.”

Aether pushes off the wall. “You’re right.”

The admission halts the whole corridor.

“I made the call,” Aether continues. “And I stand by it. Dew was dying. But…” He sighs. “We failed the other ghoul. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”

Swiss nods, teeth gritted. “Yeah. But it did.”

A beat passes between them.

Mountain finally speaks, voice low and worn. “Is he okay?”

Swiss swallows. “Sleeping now. But he’s not okay.”

There’s a long silence before Omega emerges from Dew’s room, rubbing his hands on his sleeves.

“Where is the other ghoul?” he asks, exhaustion heavy in his tone.

Swiss doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll show you.”

He walks off with Omega without another word, jaw set, chest tight.

Behind him, Aether closes his eyes. Mountain sighs and sinks down onto the bench outside Dew’s room, heavy with something he doesn’t know how to name.

-

Dew blinks at the ceiling, the faint outlines of candlelight flickering in the water-stained stone. He tries to breathe deeply. He tries to feel something elemental, fire, water, anything, but there’s just a tightness in his chest. Confusion. Shame, maybe. Or the ghost of something half-forgotten.

He remembers a hand reaching toward him through the fog of pain. Gentle. Unfamiliar. He hadn’t understood who it was at the time.

Now he does.

The new ghoul, barely alive himself, reaching out to comfort him when no one else would.

A knock, and then the door opens slowly. Aether slips inside, his face drawn and pale. He carries a glass of water that he sets on the nightstand.

Dew doesn’t move.

“I heard,” he murmurs.

Aether looks confused. “Heard what?”

“Swiss.” Dew’s voice is low and rough. “Yelling at you. About the new ghoul.”

Aether’s shoulders tense.

“You made the right call,” Dew continues. “I would’ve made the same one. You had to get me out.” He turns his head slowly to meet Aether’s eyes. “But it still wasn’t right.”

Aether’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak.

“He shouldn’t have been alone.” Dew’s voice cracks, grief curling beneath it. “Not after that. Not when he couldn’t even breathe. I know what it's like, to be plucked from Hell's waters.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be alone.” Aether’s voice is tight now. “I told the Siblings to - Omega was supposed to -” He cuts himself off, rakes a hand through his hair. “It got chaotic.”

“And you had no help.” Dew says it like a fact, not a judgment. But it doesn’t land gently.

“No,” Aether agrees quietly.

Dew’s throat tightens. “He reached for me… he reached for me and I -”

“What?”

“The new ghoul. Does he blame me for needing more? For being the reason he was left behind?”

“No.” Aether steps forward, voice fierce now. “Absolutely not. That’s not how this works. He doesn’t even know you yet, but you're part of the pack. I am certain he will understand.”

Dew’s fingers twitch against the blanket.

“I want to see him,” he says.

“You need to rest.”

“I will. Later. But I want to see him.”

Aether watches him for a long moment, then slowly nods.

“I’ll bring him to you,” he says. “When you’re ready. Both of you.”

A pause. Dew glances down at his hands, at the strange scars forming between the lines of his old life and whatever this new one is.

“When I’m ready,” he says quietly, and can only hope that he will be.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The triage area is hushed, full of soft lamplight and shadow. Rain lies still beneath the woven blanket Swiss pulled over him. He’s sore; summoned, fell, died, revived, used what little strength he had to try and reach that burning ghoul, then left alone on a hard stone floor.

He’s not fully asleep anymore, maybe halfway there, when a strange feeling fills the air, the kind of thing that comes before a storm. Rain feels it, the shift in the pressure; the way his skin tightens, his instincts prickling.

A figure leans around the curtain, though there is no sound of entry. No rustle, no clink of hooks or beads. Just presence.

They don’t move. At first, Rain thinks it might be a shadow. Or a memory. Then, the shimmer starts, soft, like heat rising from stone, outlining the faint silhouette of robes, of tangled seagrass hair.

Rain doesn’t lift his head. He just turns his gaze slightly, watching without looking.

They drift closer, silent. They don’t walk so much as appear, their form not quite matching itself from one blink to the next. They stand at the foot of the bed, looking at Rain as if seeing something deeper than skin. Their expression is unreadable, eyes reflecting too much light.

‘Still can't speak, fishy?’

Rain’s eyes open wide, that sound, the voice, the metallic layer of something wrong, unlike anything he's heard before. Delta leans forward, finger extended, pointing towards Rain's throat.

‘Do you want some help from Delta?’

Rain scrambles backwards in an attempt to sit up, head shaking no. The feel of Delta's hand wrapped around his heart is still fresh. He spies a glass of water at his bedside and drinks it too fast, water sputtering out of his gills as he coughs.

“Are you…” he rasps, then stops. Even in his head, the words feel fragile.

‘Does it matter?’

“You’re not dead,” Rain murmurs, not asking. His throat aches, but the words come anyway.

Delta smiles. It's a very small thing.

‘You’d know if I were.’

Rain closes his eyes for a moment, each word a struggle. “Why - are you here?”

A pause. Then a whisper of a response: ‘Because you are.’

Rain opens his eyes again. Delta’s form has softened, flickering at the edges like smoke. They kneel beside the bed, never quite touching, but close enough that the chill of them sinks into the linens.

“You shouldn’t have touched me,” Rain whispers. His voice doesn't feel like his own, not the smooth baritone he was used to below. It's there, but layered with something else over the top, like he's speaking with a scratchy echo. “You weren’t supposed to.”

Delta’s voice is barely audible. ‘You weren’t breathing.’

Rain doesn't argue. He watches Delta, trying to hold onto their shape. Trying to remember their form from before.

“You shouldn’t be real,” he says softly.

Delta looks at him then, eyes sharp and full of something old and aching. ‘You’re not the first to think that. And you won’t be the last.’

Rain shivers. They both sit in silence for a long moment. Then, Delta speaks again, almost gently.

‘You’ll understand, in time.’

They rise. Their form thins, like fog drawing back from a window. Before they vanish, Rain whispers one last thing.

“My name is Rain. You saved my life.”

Delta pauses at the curtain - half-there, half-gone.

‘I know who you are, Corentin Tempestas,’ they murmur.

And then they’re gone.

The name cuts through him like a knife. Only the air remains, chilled, damp, and impossibly still.

Rain lies still, eyes fixed on the place where Delta stood, where the shadows haven’t quite returned to normal.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try.

Something inside him is echoing, some chamber that didn’t exist before. The touch still burns, cold in a way that feels older than pain. It lingers in his chest like frost. He wonders, dimly, if Delta ever really left. Or if part of them is still pressed into his ribs, watching.

The ceiling is dark. He traces a crack with his eyes.

He can still hear the other ghoul’s scream.

It comes back to him in layers, like being underwater, sound distorted and closer than it should be. The scent of burning coral. The dancing firelight in the corners of his vision. The moment when he realized he wasn’t the only one in the chamber. When the burning ghoul’s agony cracked something open inside him.

Rain’s fingers twitch under the blanket. Not in fear. In recognition.

He thinks, hopes, the ghoul is alive.

A ripple shudders through him. Not physical. Something deeper - a premonition, maybe. Or the first stirring of something waiting in his blood. His throat feels tight again, and for a second, he thinks he might cry.

But he doesn’t…he just lies there. Still breathing.

Delta made sure of that.

The silence presses in around him, not the peaceful quiet of the Depths, but something staler. Something empty. He can’t hear the currents anymore. Can’t feel the pulse of his mother’s song humming through the kelp walls of their cove. Can’t smell the coral fields blooming in the dark.

Up here, the air is thick with foreign magic. It’s colder than it should be, and it sticks to the edges of his thoughts.

He misses home. Desperately.

He hadn’t expected it to hit like this, at least not so soon. He thought he was ready, trained, chosen. He thought knowing it was an honor would make it bearable. But it doesn’t feel like an honor, lying alone in a room soaked in someone else’s fire. It feels like punishment.

He closes his eyes.

Why me?

The question isn’t bitter. Just tired. A dull ache beneath his breastbone, where bruising still blooms. There had been no explanation, no purpose laid out in that glowing script. Just the command, the signature, the seal.

He wants to believe in purpose. Wants to believe the Prince doesn’t make mistakes. But all he can feel now is the distance between here and home, and the strange pressure in his chest where Delta’s fingers passed through bone like mist.

He misses knowing.

Knowing who he was.

What he was for.

Why he mattered.

Here, he’s just a name on a scroll. A strange body pulled into the realm through a botched circle that bled when it should have sung. A water ghoul with nothing but dry skin and questions.

Rain curls onto his side, eyes closing again. Maybe, if he breathes slow enough, the room will melt away. Maybe it will carry him home.

But the air never thickens. And the water never comes.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, eyes closed, back to the curtains. The silence stretches - unkind. For a moment, he wonders if he’ll just fade. Slip between cracks no one thought to seal. Maybe that’s why his mother was so sad - because she knew seeing him again would mean watching him die twice.

But then, a sound.

Soft, purposeful footsteps. Not hurried, not shuffled, not uneven or filled with panic. No, this step is steady and familiar. Clinical.

The curtains clatter open and there’s the gentle clink of tools being set down, the creak of a stool, the rustle of parchment. Pages being turned. A breath, deep and thoughtful.

Then a voice, low and even.

“Well. You’re more intact than I expected.”

Rain doesn’t move. But the voice unearths something inside him.

He remembers hearing that tone before, half amused, half irritated, while standing ankle-deep in anemone beds, stitching torn flesh and rubbing salves into split scales. He remembers working beside healers who let silence speak, who moved with grace, who knew that care always came with intention.

That’s what this ghoul is. Intentional. Precise.

The thought steadies something inside him.

“You’re awake,” Omega says mildly. “Or close enough. Good. My name is Omega.”

Rain finally shifts, just a little, and opens his eyes. The infirmary lights are softer now, dimmed to an underwater glow that reminds him of home. Omega has a small kit open beside him, and he’s taking notes in a tight, methodical script.

“You’re going to hurt,” he continues, glancing briefly at Rain. “You probably already do. Not much to be done for that yet. Your vitals are inconsistent, but not fatal. Still, I’m recommending observation. I'll get you set up in an actual room.”

Rain wets his lips, tries to speak again, but no sound comes. His hand curls faintly on the blanket.

Omega’s expression doesn’t change. “Don’t bother talking. Your throat’s not ready. Just blink if you understand.”

Rain blinks. Once.

Omega nods, satisfied. He begins cleaning the small residue of blood from Rain’s neck and collarbone, where his gills flared too violently on arrival. His hands are efficient, but not rough.

It reminds Rain of home.

Of long shifts, of whispered prayers over broken ghouls, of tending and mending and doing something, anything, to make things better.

And suddenly he remembers the way a young ghoulette once reached for him after a near fatal experience. She had pressed a shaking hand to his and whispered, “I didn’t think anyone would come.”

Rain had smiled then. It had been the only thing he was ever sure of - his purpose, his magic, his place. “We always come.”

The memory hits him like a cool current. He inhales, ragged, but reminded.

He can’t give up. Not yet.

Not while someone might need him.

Not while someone still screamed.

Omega, watching, marks something quietly on his chart. “Good. You’re stabilizing.”

Rain blinks again. This time, it feels like a decision.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The hallway outside triage remains silent, the kind of quiet that only follows catastrophe.

Swiss closes the curtain after bringing Omega to the ghoul's bedside, pushes past the urge to linger and decides he wants to find Mountain again. He knows right where he'll be.

He rounds the corner and finds him, leaning on the wall outside of Dew's room. Aether is probably inside. He doesn’t wait to be greeted, instead, he just leans on the wall across from Mountain, arms crossed over his chest.

“We didn’t mean to leave him,” Mountain says, voice sad, eyes stuck on a crack in the floor tile like it's the most interesting thing in the world. “Aether had to triage. Dew was -”

“Dying, yeah, I know.” Swiss rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I know the rule. Sickest first. But Aether didn’t leave someone with the new guy. He gave two orders at once and they both went in opposite directions.”

Mountain nods. It's not his fault. Not Aether's fault either, really. Too much chaos and smoke and blood. It shouldn't have happened, but it did.

Mountain’s voice is quiet. “He’s okay now?”

Swiss looks away, then nods. “Yeah. Omega is with him. He’s got bruises on his ribs like someone cracked him open and stitched him back together with cold iron.” His eyes flick back towards Mountain.

Mountain sighs deep, drags a hand down his face that speaks to unimaginable exhaustion.

“I just hope he'll understand. But I feel terrible.”

Swiss hums and moves to stand beside Mountain, rests a warm hand on his shoulder.

“If anyone is going to get it, it's him. You did the best you could.”

“You sound so sure,” Mountain huffs, but doesn't move Swiss's hand from where it rests.

“Mm. Cardi didn't summon a random water ghoul. I saw his clan markings, he's…important.”

Mountain raises an eyebrow, and Swiss offers no further explanations. He shifts and suddenly he feels Swiss squeeze him gently. He lifts his gaze to bright, shining eyes.

“You’re not hurt, right?” Swiss asks suddenly, like the question has been in his chest all night.

Mountain blinks. “What?”

“I mean, you helped carry Dew, and he was literally on fire. Just making sure.”

A pause. Then Mountain smiles, a little lopsided. “Thanks. I’m alright.”

Swiss shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah, okay. Just checking.”

Mountain lets the silence stretch, then says, “Want to sit a while? You look like you’ve been through Hell.”

Swiss snorts. “Only halfway.”

They walk back down the hall, slower this time, side by side.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Down in the chapel, the silence feels sacred.

The candles along the altar flare gently, untouched by breeze or breath. High above, the stained glass panes send shimmers of red and violet across the flagstones. No choir sings. No chants. Only the quiet groan of old wood and the low thrum of magic still lingering from the summoning chamber below.

Copia kneels.

His vestments are still crooked, he hadn’t stopped to straighten them. His hair is disheveled, and ash still clings to his cuffs. One smudge of soot streaks across his cheek where he rubbed his face too hard in the dark.

Before him, the infernal flame is low tonight, banked and watching. Lucifer’s sigil carved in gold above it gleams dimly, like it, too, is waiting for a confession.

Copia clasps his hands and bows his head. He doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes, uneven and shallow.

When he does speak, it's barely a whisper.

“Mi Signore… I’m trying. But I failed them.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, lets his forehead touch the altar stone. Cold. Grounding.

“I - I thought I was ready. I thought I was steady enough to carry it. To do this right.”

A tremor in his voice now. “But I couldn’t even hold the words straight. I hesitated. I doubted. And now…”

He thinks of the water ghoul's pale, crumpled body. Of Dew’s screams. Of the way Aether didn’t look at him afterward. Of Delta’s laughter still ringing in the cracks of his skull.

“I couldn’t help either of them. I froze. I failed.”

He swallows hard, tears stinging behind his lashes.

“I’m sorry.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. That I wasn’t something closer to You. I don’t know what You see in me, but I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”

He opens his eyes and stares into the flame.

“Give them strength. Give them peace, if nothing else. And if there’s punishment to be had, don’t let it fall on them. Let it be me.”

He breathes out, long and low. His voice is steadier when he speaks again, though it’s ragged with exhaustion.

“Your will be done, Morningstar. I serve as best I can.”

He doesn’t ask for a sign. He knows better than that.

But the flame flutters once, just once, taller and brighter. A pulse of warmth, quick and sharp. Enough to singe the edge of his sleeve.

Copia lets out a shaky breath.

Then he kneels deeper, and prays on.

Chapter Text

The infirmary is quiet in the mid-morning lull, the kind of stillness that invites thinking too much. Rain lies on the narrow bed, one arm folded beneath his head, the other stretched toward the window where slivers of sun paint faint patterns across the stone floor. The air is warm but dry, and his skin itches dully in protest.

He’s alone. Or at least, no one has come in for a while.

He shifts slowly, carefully, every muscle still foreign. The bruising across his chest aches where Delta touched him. Where Delta… fixed him. He doesn’t like thinking about it, but the memory won’t let go. That moment of ice between his lungs.

With more effort than he thinks should be necessary, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His body feels unmoored, seaweed caught in a too-shallow current, but he steadies himself.

At the edge of the room, a dry erase board lists patient details in rushed handwriting. It reminds him of the charts back home in the Halls. On it, someone has scribbled:

Name: [—] Attending: Omega Vitals: improving Notes: observe gill regeneration; hydration protocols

Rain tilts his head at the empty space beside beside “Name.” The blank space stirs something sharp in his gut. It’s such a small thing, just a line on a board, but it feels like a question he doesn’t know how to answer.

A marker sits nearby. He picks it up, hesitant, heavier than it has any right to be. If feels awkward in his fingers. He holds it like it might slip.

He writes his name, slowly.

Corentin.

The name stares back at him, too stiff, too formal. A name pulled from his mother’s prayers and prophetic dreams. A name spoken in ceremony and healing rooms.

A name that once meant he was whole.

But now? It feels too extravagant, soaked in expectation.

He thinks of the summoning chamber. Of smoke, of heat. Of that ghoul screaming. Of Delta, cold and too close, whispering ‘Corentin’ like they owned it. Like they knew him.

He exhales, raises the eraser, and wipes the name away, stroke by careful stroke.

The board is blank again. And so is he.

This time, the marker squeaks against the surface. The sound cuts through the quiet and makes him flin; too loud, too…final. Like he’s claiming something he hasn’t earned.

But he does it anyway.

Rain.

Not the name Delta used. Not the name he inherited. The one he chose.

And when he steps back, he feels something loosen, just a little, beneath his ribs. Not so much rebellion, but becoming.

That’s when the door creaks open behind him.

Rain whirls, startled, but it’s only Swiss.

He's standing in the door frame, wearing an almost comically large shirt, tied in a knot at his waist. His hair is messy sticking up and out in odd angles, and he looks like he didn’t expect to catch anyone out of bed.

He blinks at Rain once. Then his eyes flick to the board.

“…Rain,” he says softly.

Rain nods, his throat is still healing, voice little more than air and ache. But the bioluminescence along his shoulders pulses once instinctively. A soft flash of green and gold, fading quickly.

Swiss’s gaze lingers a second longer. His presence is grounding, but also oddly blurred, like his outline wavers if Rain looks at him too long.

And then he feels it.

It’s subtle. Tucked behind the air of charm and baggy clothes and slight awkwardness. But it’s there. A resonance, or rather, a layering. Rain’s senses, still dulled by recovery, catch just enough to register it.

Not just fire, nor earth. Air is there, and the shimmer of quintessence. Water, too - faint, nearly gone, like memory. But not absent.

Rain doesn't say anything. Just studies Swiss for a beat longer.

Swiss tilts his head. “You okay?”

A soft pulse of blue washes across his chest and forearms; surprise, edged with recognition. He points between himself and Swiss, brow raised, and flashes a deep violet at the tips of his fingers, then taps his clan marking once, over his heart twice. Home.

Swiss hesitates, then steps inside the room, quiet. “It was a long time ago,” he says. “You wouldn’t remember.”

Something clicks, then. Maybe it's the voice.

Or the shimmer. Or the way water never truly forgets. His aura is different now, but he had seen that glow once before, many, many years ago, deep in the temple below the Great Salt River.

He was in that awkward age, not quite a kit yet not quite grown, watching from the back, clutching his healer’s tablet, while a young ghoul knelt in a ring of crushed coral and pearl ash. Wild curls that wouldn’t stay tied back. There was a blessing, a shift, and then blinding warmth. His mother’s voice.

Rain looks at Swiss like he’s seeing a ghost, the air thick with something unspoken between them.

Swiss doesn’t elaborate. He just offers a small, crooked smile and shrugs. “Some things you forget,” he murmurs, “and some things you let go.”

Rain holds his gaze. Something in him wants to reach, but he doesn’t push. He knows what it means to guard the things that hurt to remember.

Instead, he holds his palms up, lets bright yellow light fill the space between them. The closest he can get to thank you.

Swiss just shrugs. “Couldn't bear to see you left behind.”

A beat passes.

“So, Rain, huh?” A little softer now. “Feels like a beginning.”

And Rain, feeling just the right side of optimistic, nods.

It does.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Despite the post-rounds quiet, tension still clings to the corners of the infirmary. Morning light filters through high windows, softened by gauze curtains and the faint haze of incense meant to soothe pain and ward off restless spirits.

Aether sits at the edge of a small metal table, arms folded across his chest, staring down a steaming cup of something herbal he hasn’t yet touched. Across from him, Swiss leans against the far wall with his arms crossed, half-shadowed, like he doesn’t quite belong to the same plane as everything else in the room.

They don’t speak for a while. Words still feel fragile.

“He’s stable,” Aether says finally, meaning Dew. “At least, for now. How's the other one?”

Swiss lifts his brow.

“The new water ghoul,” he says eventually, voice strained by exhaustion. “I know you were there.”

Swiss’s eyes flick toward him at that, unreadable.

“Rain,” he says quietly.

Aether looks up.

“That’s his name,” Swiss adds, without looking over. “He wrote it on the whiteboard himself.”

“He shouldn’t have been alone,” Swiss adds after a beat. “Didn’t want him alone this morning, too. His aura is still frayed.”

Aether sucks in sharply, voice hoarse. “We weren’t prepared. I wasn’t -” He stops, breath catching like he's afraid of what comes next, like it’s the fifteenth time he’s tried to finish this sentence and failed, like he failed his pack.

Swiss doesn’t press. He tilts his head, watching the light shift across the floor.

“Mountain said he knew Dew was in pain. Reached for him before he could even stand.”

Aether rubs at his eyes. “Must have felt the imbalance.”

Before either could say anything else there is a quiet scrape in the hallway beyond. Both of them turn at the same time.

Dew.

He’s half-dressed, swaying slightly against the doorframe of the adjacent chamber, clutching the wall like he might punch it or fall through it, depending on which emotion won out first.

Aether stands immediately. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I’m fine,” Dew rasps. His skin is pale, his balance worse, but pride burns sharp in his eyes. “I need air.”

Swiss moves first, cutting silently across the room. He doesn’t touch Dew, just stands between him and the hallway, arms loose at his sides.

“Where were you planning to go?”

Dew blinks at him. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“I don’t know,” Dew snaps. “Anywhere that isn’t that room.”

Aether exhales slowly. “Dew, you almost died.”

“I know,” Dew bites out. “I was there.”

Something in his tone makes Swiss tilt his head, just a fraction. He looks at Aether briefly, then back to Dew.

“You’re not the only one who was,” Aether says, quiet again.

Dew looks away at that. His throat works around a reply he doesn’t say.

“I’ll walk you to the window,” Swiss offers. “Fresh air. Just there. Nowhere else.”

It takes Dew a second, but he nods.

They move together, slowly. Aether doesn’t follow.

Instead, he looks back at the untouched tea, steam still curling upward like smoke from a dying fire.

“Rain,” he whispers, finally letting the name settle on his tongue. It fills his mouth like an apology.

He had promised he’d be ready. Promised he could do what was needed.

And yet.

The summoning still sings in his blood, a discordant note that won’t settle. Dew screaming. Rain collapsing. The circle breaking. All of it looping behind his eyes like punishment.

He presses both hands flat to the table and bows his head.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” he whispers, not to Swiss, not to Dew, but to someone much older, somewhere deeper.

There’s no answer.

Just the incense curling in the air, too soft to carry the weight of regret.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain sits on the edge of the infirmary bed, blanket folded neatly at his side, bare feet pressed to the cold floor. He had dressed himself, slowly, carefully. His back aches, his ribs still tender, but the gills beneath his jaw are settling.

He's not sure what had pulled at him, exactly. A hum, maybe. A pressure behind his sternum. Not pain, but proximity. He knows the feeling, the way water warns of a coming storm, a presence approaching before it arrives.

The ghoul.

He stands.

The sensation grows louder the closer he gets, not sound, not even aura, but something older. Something he doesn’t have a word for, only the certainty of.

He reaches the doorway just as the ghoul rounds the corner, Swiss close behind.

Their eyes meet.

And the ghoul stops cold.

The hallway light catches on the curve of Rain’s cheek, on the edge of the glowing stripes beneath his eyes. He looks less wrecked than Dew remembered. Still pale, still delicate, but upright and steady. Like he’s already healing.

Like he wasn’t broken the same way as Dew.

Rain’s lips part to offer something. A question. A greeting. An unspoken tether. His mind races and somehow comes up empty, sound dead in his throat.

Dew recoils.

It's subtle but unmistakable. A flick of his eyes away. A shift of his shoulders. Like Rain’s presence touched something raw, and he can’t bear to look at it.

“You’re already up,” the ghoul says flatly, as if that were a crime. His voice cracks halfway through the sentence. “Guess you didn’t need much after all.”

Rain blinks, confused.

Swiss’s brow furrowed. “Dew -”

But Dew is already stepping back, bracing one hand on the wall like it’s the only solid thing left. His breathing is shallow. The heat that had just started to curl around his body in faint waves dims to a flicker.

Rain takes one step forward.

Dew takes two steps back.

“I thought - never mind,” Dew mutters, his voice tighter now. “You’re fine. You’re standing. That’s all anyone cares about.”

His tone isn’t angry, not really. Salt over an open wound.

Rain doesn’t reach out, though every part of him wants to.

Instead, he just watches.

Dew turns sharply down the hall.

Swiss hesitates for a second, torn, then shoots Rain a glance, something quietly apologetic, and follows after him.

Rain stands alone in the doorway. The ache behind his ribs bloomed again, not from the injury this time, but from knowing something else had just shifted.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Swiss’s boots strike a little too hard against the stone as he jogs after Dew.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re not mad at him.”

Dew doesn’t stop walking. “Aren’t I?”

“No,” Swiss says. “You’re hurt. And scared. And… yeah, probably ashamed.”

That makes Dew halt. He turns on Swiss with eyes too bright, too red, too raw.

“I begged for this,” Dew snaps. “I begged to be changed. I was so sure. I wanted it more than anything.”

“I know,” Swiss says quietly. “You still want it.”

“Don’t tell me what I want. You barely know me. ”

Swiss raises both hands, palms out. “Okay. Okay. But I was right next to you, Dew. I could see your face. It wasn’t anger, not even jealousy.”

Dew looks away. His voice drops to a whisper. “It was relief.”

Swiss responds with quiet.

“I thought I ruined him,” Dew says finally. “Dragged him into something he never asked for. Thought maybe the fire took him, too, at least in part.”

His eyes stay locked on a point just past Swiss’s shoulder.

“And then he was just... standing there. Like nothing touched him. Like he didn’t crawl out of the same smoke I did. Still glowing. Still... water.”

His voice drops, bitter and too soft.

“I thought I wanted to see him. I was mad at Aether for leaving him behind. Felt righteous, you know?” He huffs out a laugh with no humor. “Turns out, being angry’s easier than admitting I’m the broken one.”

Swiss doesn’t speak, not yet. Just watches him quietly, letting the silence stretch between them.

Dew rubs at the back of his neck. “I saw him, and I cracked a little. That’s all.”

“You’re not finished yet,” Swiss says gently. “You’re healing.”

Dew looks at him with disbelief. “Delta said the same thing…at least I think they did. That I'm not finished yet.”

“I’ve felt like that before. Empty. Off-balance. Like you’ve been rewritten in a language no one else speaks. It’s not forever.”

Dew stares at him. “What do you mean?”

Swiss smiles without teeth. “This story's not about me.”

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaks. A bell rings in the chapel beyond. Quiet, soft, like something ancient catching its breath.

Dew turns his face away again, voice barely audible.

“He looked at me like I mattered.”

Swiss nods. “Because you do.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain stands in the middle of the infirmary room, the door still slightly ajar.

He just stands there, watching the wall, the floor, the patterns of light on the tiles. His name still glows faintly on the board. Rain. It doesn’t feel as strong anymore, but it still feels true.

He closes his eyes and Dew’s voice still rings in his ears. “Guess you didn’t need much after all.”

Rain paces, and old nervous habit he could never quite break. He thinks of the salt caverns back home. Of his mother’s hands, strong and cool. Of moss and river stones. Of patients who whispered thank you through swollen throats and shaking breath.

He wonders if he will ever feel useful again. Or if this place had summoned him to be broken quietly, like everyone else seemed to be.

His fingers reach for the band around his wrist. A strand of river weed, now dried, woven with his mother’s sigil.

He presses it to his lips and he feels the luminescence thrum under his skin, raw but full of meaning:

I’ll try again tomorrow.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Swiss lets Dew venture a little further than they initially agreed. They end up in one of the side chapels, tucked away behind the old library stairs. No one ever comes here - too drafty, too dim. The old stained glass is cracked and cloudy, casting fractured light across the floor like forgotten dreams.

Dew curls into one end of a velvet-cushioned pew, arms wrapped around his knees. His hair still smells faintly like smoke and salt.

Swiss doesn’t press. He sits beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence settle first. When he finally does speak, his voice is low.

“I think he’s still scared, too.”

Dew doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching the candlelight flicker, like maybe it would tell him what to feel.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “He looks it. I just -” His voice breaks and he huffs, frustrated. “I didn’t want him to see me like this.”

“Like what?” Swiss asks gently.

“Cracked open. Half-finished. Empty.”

Swiss leans back against the pew, the old wood groaning behind him.

“You’re not empty,” he says. “You’re full of everything that hasn’t settled yet. That’s not the same thing.”

Dew laughs, but it's quiet and without teeth. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

Swiss shrugs. “Sometimes. On bad days.”

Dew turns to him then, studying his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he's thinking too hard. The way he doesn’t meet Dew’s eyes unless he really means something.

They sit in silence again. Not cold this time. Just quiet.

After a moment, Dew whispers, “Do you think he hates me now?”

Swiss tilts his head. “Rain?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Swiss says. “I think he sees you. And that scares the shit out of you.”

Dew looks away. “He shouldn’t have to carry any of this.”

“He doesn’t. But maybe he wants to help.”

“Then he’s stupid.”

Swiss chuckles. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just really hard to give up on.”

Dew looks down at his hands. They’re steady again. Still marked with ash, still tinged with old salt, but steady.

“…I want to apologize,” he says softly. “But I don’t know how.”

“Start with not running,” Swiss says, nudging his knee lightly. “Then maybe walk.”

“And then?”

Swiss smiles. “Then you find your own pace. He’ll match it.”

Dew doesn’t answer. But for the first time since waking up in the infirmary, he doesn’t feel like his insides are unraveling.

He's tired.

And almost, almost, ready.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain sits in a small chair in the corner of the room, one leg crossed loosely over the other. His hair is tied back now, curls braided simply behind his ear fins, and the tunic he wears is soft, well-worn, and unfamiliar. It must’ve belonged to someone else. Everything here does.

“Blood flow’s better,” Omega murmurs. “Color’s returning to your fins. Lungs sound... less like a haunted pipe organ.”

He snaps the chart shut with a soft clack.

“You’re stable,” he says. “At least as stable as anyone ever is after being summoned out of one world and dropped into another.”

Rain gives him a wan smile.

He returns it with something gentler. “You’re strong enough to move into quarters. It’ll help. More privacy, fewer eyes. But only if you feel ready.”

He’s not. But he nods.

Omega hands him a slip of parchment. His name, Rain, scrawled neatly in his writing at the top.

“I’ve marked the room,” he says, pausing just a moment too long. “It’s... down the band wing, third door on the right.”

Rain doesn’t miss the shift in his tone.

He tucks the note into his sleeve and lifts himself to his feet slowly. His body is heavier than it should be. Not painful, just strange, like someone changed the blueprint of him while he slept. He rolls his shoulders to test the weight of his spine.

Still there.

Still his.

But he’s not surprised that the room used to belong to someone else. He’s seen the way people look at him when they think he isn’t paying attention. Not unkind but loaded, like they already know his story. Or they think they do.

Omega walks with him halfway down the hall. He keeps expecting him to say more, about the room, about the one who came before, but he doesn’t.

The corridor is warm with old sunlight filtered through stone. At the far end, Rain can hear voices. Laughter. The kind that drifts and swells, packborn and easy.

His throat tightens.

“You’ll meet them properly soon,” Omega says, pausing at the turn. “Don’t rush anything. And if you need space, just say the word.”

He nods again. Grateful, silent.

As he rounds the corner toward the band wing, the voices grow louder. Shapes resolve, ghouls clustered loosely near the hearth, lounging or perched on the old furniture that lines the communal room. Some look up as he passes. A few nod. One waves, awkwardly.

Rain keeps his gaze low. Not in shame. Just in self-preservation.

He finds the door. Pauses.

There’s a smudge on the placard, like a name was once scrawled there and then rubbed away. He opens the door and steps inside.

It’s clean. Sparse. Everything arranged with care. The door to the en suite is half open, letting him get a glimpse of a large, deep tub. The air is dry, but not cruel.

He exhales, closing the door behind him.

The silence that follows is soft. Settling.

Rain lowers himself to the floor of the far wall. Runs his fingers along the grooves in the stone beneath the window.

‘I’ll make this mine,’ he thinks.

He doesn’t know yet that someone else sat here once, whispering nearly the same thing.

The stillness in the room is almost sacred. Rain sits with his knees drawn close to his chest, back pressed against the cool wall just beneath the window. His fingers trail patterns in the stone, sigils from his clan, old soothing motions he learned as a child. Somewhere, beneath all the silence, he thinks he hears the faintest murmur of water.

And then: knock-knock—tap.

A rhythm too bright to be formal. The door creaks half-open before he can answer.

“Hello?” comes a voice like laughter in a sunbeam. “Hope I’m not interrupting some intense brooding. That’s kind of the default around here.”

Rain blinks and turns. The figure in the doorway is hard to miss, skin coppery-bright, with a shock of golden curls pulled back into a loose bun and a grin that could power a lighthouse. Her robes are rumpled and slightly mismatched, her face flushed with energy, and her eyes glow like an ember stoked by wind.

She spots him by the window and beams wider. “There you are! I’ve been trying to sneak a peek at the new ghoul all morning. You’re smaller than I expected. But kind of elegant-small. I like it.”

Rain blinks, unsure how to respond. He’s not used to being spoken to like that.

“Thank fuck you're real,” she says, stepping into the room without waiting for permission. “I was starting to think they summoned a spirit and just forgot to mention it.”

Rain shifts slightly, not quite laughing but not recoiling either. There’s something infectious about her. She’s a summer storm, all wind and warmth. Not dangerous, just full of too much life for one body.

“I’m Sunshine,” she offers, tapping her chest. “Sunny, if you’d rather. I was told to be nice and I usually am. But for the record, this is me trying.”

Rain glances to the foot of his bed and finally notices his trunk, a piece of home, ancient and carved from deep-river driftwood, sealed with layered wax runes. It’s been opened and re-latched, a few items clearly unpacked with care and arranged just as he left them. His stuffy is on the bed, propped up against a pillow. His jewelry box sits atop a folded shawl, a pressed flower tucked into the seam. There's a soft outfit next to it, one he doesn't recognize.

He lifts his brow and holds his palms up, pulsing with golden light.

Sunshine follows his gaze. “Oh yeah. Don't thank me. Swiss carried it in. Said it smelled like brine and heartbreak, so he figured it must be yours.”

Rain snorts a little. It surprises both of them.

“So,” she says brightly, clapping her hands together. “I think it's time you get outside. We're going to the gardens, and if you survive the overwhelming beauty of grass and bees and fresh oxygen, I’ll take you down to the lake.”

Rain hesitates. His hands tighten slightly on the windowsill behind him.

“You’ve been locked in the infirmary, and your fins are probably shriveling from the stale air. You need movement. Sunlight. Ground. Trust me, I’m basically a sentient vitamin D supplement.”

She softens then, sensing his reluctance despite his lack of words. “No pressure, of course. But the lake calls louder than anything else here. You’ll hear it soon enough.”

What Sunshine doesn't realize is that he already does.

A hum, just under the surface of things. Familiar. Cold and loving. Like home.

Rain closes his eyes for a breath, then pushes himself upright with a nod, gesturing for her to lead the way.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Sunshine’s voice is light, almost musical as she leads Rain through the doors and into the garden.

“The gardens here are kind of a mess,” she says with a grin, clearly delighted by her own words. “No one’s really been brave enough to tame them for too long, and honestly, I think it’s better that way.”

They step out into the space, and Rain can feel the change immediately. The air is fresher, thick with the scent of wildflowers; clover, lavender, and something sweeter, something almost intoxicating. The ground beneath his feet is soft, cushioned by moss, and every step seems to sink slightly into the earth. Around them, vibrant green sprawls everywhere, plants twisting together like they’re not meant to stand alone but grow into one another. It’s the work of earth ghouls, the magic in the soil and stone nourishing every inch of life here, feeding it in wild abundance.

“It’s a little chaotic, isn’t it?” Sunshine continues, her voice softer now, as if sharing a secret. “But there’s something about it, isn’t there? It’s like everything here just grows because it can—no one’s stopping it. No one asks for permission, not the flowers, not the vines, not even the trees. They just... live. It’s the earth ghouls, you know? The ones who tend to it. You can feel their magic in every inch of the garden. It’s like they’re coaxing the plants into being.”

Rain glances around, his senses attuned to the hum of life all around him. The garden is alive, not just in the way it looks but in the way it moves, the way the flowers sway, the branches creak and groan as they stretch. It's chaotic, yes, but it’s also perfectly in tune with itself, thriving without restraint.

“Most of the flowers bloom in the morning,” Sunshine adds, pointing to a cluster of golden-yellow petals that catch the sunlight as they sway. “But the good ones? The ones you really want to find? They bloom at night, when the world is quiet and everything’s a little less... bright. They wait for the stars to come out, like they know something we don’t.”

Rain lets his fingers brush against a vine that’s woven itself up a nearby trellis. The leaves are thick and soft, and the magic in the air seems to hum in response, calming something deep inside him. It’s like the garden is breathing with him, offering him space, offering him peace.

They reach a weathered wooden bench, half-hidden by low-hanging branches. Sunshine motions toward it.

“This is the best spot in the garden,” she says, plopping herself down without ceremony. “Best view of the lake, too. I know you’ve been stuck inside for a while, but I promise, the air tastes different here. Everything does. You’ll see.”

Rain hesitates for a moment, then sits beside her, his legs stretched out. His back is still sore, his body still unfamiliar, but here, in the shade of the overgrown plants, it feels a little easier to exist. The garden doesn’t demand anything. It just is.

“See,” Sunshine continues, her voice softening as she settles in, “it’s like you get to be part of something here, even if it’s just the way the wind runs through the branches or how the light dances on the leaves. You know? There’s space for everything.”

She watches him closely for a beat before she shifts and leans forward. “Now,” she says, grinning again, “let’s get that voice of yours back, okay, fishcake?”

Rain looks up, tries to smile. His mouth works but his voice doesn’t. Just a whisper of static. He looks away, embarrassed.

Sunny flinches, just a little, but masks it quickly.

“I can help, if you want.”

Rain’s brows furrow, teal pulses in his cheeks.

Sunny gestures to his neck. “Water ghouls have two sets of vocal cords so it’s just a blood flow thing, right? You’re probably still locked up from the shift. I’ve seen it before. I'm Air but someone a while back was fire, so I've got a little. I can help loosen it. Just warmth. Gentle. I promise.”

Rain hesitates. His fingertips twitch. He wants to say yes, he wants to speak again more than anything, but there’s a tightness under his skin. His throat pulses. The sun feels too warm suddenly.

He agrees anyways.

Sunny takes a step closer, her smile softening. “Just hold still for a second, okay? I’ll keep it light.”

She reaches up, one hand glowing faintly, and touches Rain’s throat.

The touch is gentle. Careful. Sun-warmed and meant to soothe.

Rain’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a rasp, a scrap of air shaped like a scream that never arrives.

He isn’t in the garden anymore.

The sunlight bleaches out. The air thickens. The warmth on his throat becomes something colder. Sharper. A memory, but more than that.

A possession.

He can’t tell the difference.

The vines overhead shiver. Twist. The sky fractures into shapes it shouldn’t make.

There’s a hand on his chest again. Slipping in, cold as old stars. His lungs cinch. His gills flare open in instinctive panic, searching for water that isn’t there.

His bioluminescence startles, streaks of bright color rippling across his skin - then gutters out completely. He’s dark. Blank.

His body is full of static. His limbs don’t belong to him.

Delta.

Their name doesn’t even form right in his mind, but it’s there. A pressure. A shadow with a mouth like prophecy and fingers like needles threading new breath into unwilling flesh.

The world tilts. The garden slants sideways.

He tries to move. Can’t.

Somewhere, Sunshine is apologizing. Her voice cracks around the edges, full of concern but it's too far, as though it’s coming from through a wall of ice. Rain can’t reach it. Can’t reach her. Can’t reach himself.

His body curls in tight. Small. Silent.

And then everything stills.

The only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat, loud and wrong, echoing like it’s ricocheting through someone else’s chest.

He wants out. Of his throat. Of his skin. Of the moment where he was made into something that could survive.

But instead he folds smaller, until he’s nothing but breathless light. Trapped between then and now.

Eventually, someone else will come. But for now, he hides in the sun-stained shadows, trying to convince his own body that he is safe.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew is sitting at the window of his room in the infirmary, his skin still flaky and sore, eyes fixed on the tree line beyond the lake. He’s been trying to meditate, Omega’s idea, but every time he tries to focus, the little fire he has slips away.

But something else is wrong.

He feels it coming, has no time to brace and then -

The panic slams into him like a rip current. Cold water dragged up from memory. Breath caught. Chest tight. Skin prickling..

He stumbles away from the window, clutching his ribs, trying to orient himself. The emotion isn’t his, but it’s bleeding through a bond, faint and feral. Not a proper connection. Something instinctual. Residual.

And Dew realizes it’s him. The new ghoul.

Rain.

A whisper of guilt rises immediately. He doesn’t know Rain well enough to feel this. Shouldn’t ache like this at the echo of his fear. But the circle… the ritual… it had forced closeness. Entangled something between them that now pulls taut across the distance.

Dew sinks to a crouch, jaw clenched. The wave of fear rolling off Rain is thick, terrifying, more than pain - it’s violation. A cry with no voice. A body remembering something it can’t name.

And Dew isn’t there.

He should be there.

For a second, he almost gets up. Almost runs outside.

But what would he even say? What could he offer? He’s still broken. Still flickering. Still not enough. What if he makes it worse?

It would kill him.

Dew clenches his fists. Flames try to rise and turn to smoke as soon as they start to rise. All he can do is sit on the ground and breathe through someone else’s fear, unable to hold it, unable to let it go.

“I should be there,” he whispers, to no one. “I'm sorry.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The garden is quiet again.

Sunshine is gone, her bright energy fading into the canopy like a spark lost in the wind. The flowers sway lazily, oblivious to the ghoul curled in the shade beneath them. Rain lies pressed against the soil, breath shallow, limbs trembling, chest tight with the aftermath of panic.

The sun filters dimly through the vines above, but the shadows feel colder now. Delta’s phantom touch lingers at his sternum, and the air feels too thick, too heavy. The panic claws at him from the inside, all breath and no air.

He digs his fingers into the earth. As if holding tight enough might keep him from falling out of himself completely.

Footsteps crunch softly along the gravel path, unhurried. Like whoever approaches has no interest in rushing for anyone’s sake.

Rain barely lifts his head. His lungs finally pull in a full breath. It’s shallow, but it comes.

“Well, you’re in a state.”

The voice is sharp and dry, older. Worn smooth by time, not softened.

A small figure steps into view. She’s built low to the ground and solid, wrapped in faded robes the color of night. Her black hair is twisted into a loose knot, damp and stubborn, and her presence is like deep water - cold, steady, and impossible to resist once you’re in it.

She eyes him critically. “You planning to dig your way back to the Pit, or is that just a hobby?”

Rain blinks at her, startled out of the spiral just enough to hesitate.

“I’m Mist,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And you’re not where you should be.”

She doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t offer him a hand or coo softly. Instead, she sits on the nearest stone planter with a quiet grunt, folding her arms like she’s got all the time in the world.

“The garden’s a fine place for crying,” she says, “but not for drowning. You need real water for that.”

Rain lets out a shuddering breath that turns into a sob halfway through. It cracks through him like a fault line. He hides his face in his arms, embarrassed.

Mist doesn’t flinch. She waits, legs swinging slightly over the edge of the planter. After a moment, she adds, more gently, “You can’t breathe here. Come on, I know what you need.”

Rain swallows thickly and nods. She hops down and starts walking, glancing back only once to make sure he’s following.

They walk in silence. Well, Mist walks, Rain stumbles. She doesn’t offer her arm. Just keeps her pace slow enough to let him catch up.

Past rows of herbs gone wild. Past the stone gate swallowed by honeysuckle. Until the lake reveals itself beyond the trees, shimmering in the sunlight.

Mist stops at the edge of the water, studying him more closely now. Rain peels off his shoes, feet sinking into the soft silt. He steps in.

“She should’ve brought you down here first,” Mist mutters. “She means well.”

Rain’s fingers twitch at his sides, and then he's fumbling the rest of his clothes off, the pull irresistible.

Her sharp gaze catches on something at the side of his neck, just beneath where his hair clings to his skin. A faint mark, delicate and near-invisible, but unmistakable all the same.

She makes a quiet sound in the back of her throat, something like recognition.

“Haven’t seen that mark in a long time,” she says offhandedly, like she’s talking about the weather. “Your people always had a way of listening deeper than the rest of us.”

Rain blinks at her, startled. He reaches up as if to touch the mark, but stops short.

Mist doesn’t elaborate. Just gives a little nod, like she’s tucking a puzzle piece back into the box.

Then she gestures to the lake, hand curled like she is saying shoo. “Go on. She’s waiting.”

And Rain feels it. Not just cool water and muscle memory, but recognition. A hum in the base of his spine, familiar and magnetic. The lake isn’t just still water.

It’s watching. Listening. Offering.

The lake is calling him home.

Rain walks out further.

Waist-deep. Then chest. Then silence as he submerges.

The lake receives him without hesitation. Cool. Constant. The pressure eases from his lungs, his ribs, his skull. His gills open. Stay open.

He feels like he’s breathing properly for the first time since his arrival.

He floats beneath the surface, barely moving. Letting the stillness hold him.

And then, he opens his mouth.

Not a word. Just a note. One clean sound that vibrates through the water; not loud but full of want. Full of need. A question, trembling at the edges.

The lake answers.

Not in words, but in ripples. In the faint change of current around his skin. And something else.

Light.

His bioluminescence flares gently across his shoulders and chest, first blue, then green, then gold. A slow, pulsing return. Like permission. Like remembering what it means to belong in his body again.

From the shore, Mist hums something old and half-forgotten. A lullaby not meant for land-dwellers. Her voice rolls across the surface of the lake like her namesake.

“There you are.”

Another sound leaves Rain’s throat, soft, sacred, finally unstuck. A prayer pried loose from the mouth of a god who forgot how to weep.

He lets himself drift, his body no longer a stranger. The ache remains, but it floats now, buoyed by the water instead of trying to drown him.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew stands at the door to Rain’s infirmary room, one hand poised to knock. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Just that he has to say something.

He knocks.

Waits.

Nothing.

His chest tightens. He knocks again, softer.

Still nothing.

He glances down the hall, then eases the door open. “Rain?”

The room is empty.

The bed is made, the corners tucked in tight with military precision. It smells like lavender and a cleansing ritual. Everything is quiet. But Rain is nowhere; even the white board has been wiped clean.

Dew steps inside, the silence sudden and sharp.

His stomach twists.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap. His fire flares low beneath his skin, anxious and dim. He doesn’t know where Rain has gone. Doesn’t know if Rain is okay. Doesn’t know if it’s his fault that he isn’t here.

“Fuck,” Dew whispers to the empty room. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”

He stands again, reluctant, unaware that somewhere not far from here, Rain is just beginning to find his voice again.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The Ministry never truly sleeps, but some wings forget how to breathe.

Delta walks in silence through one of them now, bare stone halls veined with sigils so old even the walls have begun to forget what they are meant to hold back. Their robes trail like mist over the floor. Every step seems soundless, yet somehow still echoes.

The Archive is waiting.

There are no guards posted. No torches. No keys.

There never were.

The doors open at Delta’s approach; not with resistance, not with welcome, but with the slow exhale of something ancient recognizing its keeper.

Inside, the room is cavernous, its ceiling lost to shadow. Shelves rise like cliffs around them, filled with scrolls that murmur in forgotten languages and books that blink when the light touches them wrong. The air is thick here, the weight of too much knowledge.

Delta moves like they’ve done this countless times. Perhaps they have.

They stop at a central pedestal carved from obsidian, its surface etched in rings of looping script - threads of fate bound in knotwork, the language of inevitability.

A book waits open.

Its pages glow faintly under Delta’s hand. The script shifts when they touch it, realigning itself into something only they can read. Names stir. Dates ripple. The soft groan of destiny adjusting to accommodate the present fills the chamber like a heartbeat caught between ticks of a clock.

Delta’s gaze sharpens.

There. A name.

Rain.

It glows pale blue on the page, ink reacting not to touch but to presence. Not written before, at least not like this.

A pause.

For the first time in what might be centuries, Delta stills completely.

A ripple runs across their glamour, subtle and wrong. The shape beneath flickers; bones laced with stardust, a body rewritten too many times. They steady themselves with a breath that isn’t breath at all.

A second name gleams beside the first, half-formed.

Dew.

A line arcs between them, thin and fragile. A connection made too early or far too late. It pulses once faintly.

Delta’s expression doesn’t change. But something in their posture falters.

They close the book with slow reverence, fingers lingering on the leather like they could press the truth back down into the paper if they just held tight enough.

Instead, they look up into the dark, and whisper to no one:

‘Time will tell.’

They turn away, the weight of the Archive sealing itself behind them with a whisper, like a match snuffed out too soon.

The air smells faintly of brine and ash.

Just waiting.

Chapter Text

He’s on fire again.

Only this time, it’s not painful. It’s hollow.

The flames don’t consume - they flicker just out of reach, mocking him, dancing along the walls but never touching his skin. He stands in the center of the ritual chamber, but it’s wrong now - charred black and too wide, unraveling into shadow.

He looks down. Water pools at his feet. It rises, inch by inch, up his legs.

He reaches for it - either element.

Something.

Anything.

But nothing comes.

His hands spark, then fizzle. The water beneath him freezes. Shatters.

The fire above him dims.

He screams, but no sound leaves his mouth.

And then someone is behind him. Whispering.

Not Delta.

Not Aether.

Something older.

“What is undone cannot remain so.”

The voice bends the dream sideways - spoken in the wrong place, heard by the wrong heart.

He turns.

But there’s only smoke. A shape inside it. Watching. A smile made of shadow. A voice made of wind and wax and things he does not understand.

“You may choose to burn. But the river remembers.”

His tail is heat-scarred. His gills are gone. But his heart is still wet. Still afraid.

Still trying.

He sinks.

—

Dew jolts awake, chest heaving.

The firelight doesn’t warm him, and there’s saltwater at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know if it’s from the dream…or if it’s a warning.

His hands shake. He presses them flat to the mattress, grounding himself in the weave of the blanket, the steady texture beneath his palms. It’s real. It’s now.

It doesn’t burn.

He touches the side of his neck - habit - where his gills once stood proud. But all he finds are scars. Rough ridges of tissue that won’t open again.

He exhales slowly, willing his pulse to settle.

But the words still ring in his ears. Not the ones meant for him, at least, not exactly.

“What is undone cannot remain so.”

He wonders if he traded one kind of silence for another, and called it change.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

He sinks.

Somewhere else, the moon begins to fracture, and the dream begins in silence.

Not the gentle hush of sleep, but something more hollow. Vast.

Vacuumed of breath, of sound, of time.

He’s back in the summoning circle.

Only now, the stone beneath him is fractured - veins of something black and weeping spreading out like roots. Above, the moon flickers, as if unsure it belongs in this sky.

He tries to inhale, to pull water through his gills. But there is no water.

The world here is dry.

Ash begins to fall - thin, endless, soft as snow. It clings to his skin like memory.

Rain takes a step forward. His bare feet scrape against a mirror-like surface, cold and impossibly smooth. It stretches in every direction, a horizon without edge.

He looks down.

No reflection.

Only a ripple, subtle and spreading, marking the place where he stands.

Then the voice comes.

Not Delta’s, but close. Hauntingly familiar.

“He will break if you do not bend.”

The words snag deep in his ribs - like they were meant for someone else, but delivered here. To him.

Beneath the mirror, something stirs.

Color, at first; red, then blue, then both - twisting into a darker shade that swells toward the surface. A slow, ominous bloom.

He backs away.

The mirror doesn’t break.

Neither does he.

A figure approaches from the far edge of the dream - tall, impossibly so, all angles and shadow. As it nears, a hand emerges. Fingers too long. Dripping with wax.

Maybe blood.

“You were never meant to forget.”

A shimmer pulses in the air like the truth is hidden just beneath the surface.

“You are meant for -”

The dream swallows the rest.

Waiting.

The hand presses to his chest. Not violently, but with purpose.

Rain doesn’t scream.

He just feels it: the echo of something old, carved deep in his ribs.

A truth too large to name.

Something passed to him in the wrong dream, for the right reason.

–

Rain jerks awake.

He blinks, disoriented.

The room is hazy with morning light, golden beams spilling across the floor like fingers of the dream reaching after him. His lungs remember how to breathe before his mind does. Each inhale feels borrowed, thin. Like the dream took something he hasn’t yet noticed missing.

He presses his palm more firmly to his chest. Delta’s mark has faded, but it feels like it should still be there.

His luminescence pulses faintly along his collarbones. Pale green, then dim lavender, then still.

He exhales.

And for a moment, he simply exists. Caught between waking and memory, between the shape of what he is and the weight of what he doesn’t yet understand.

A knock, soft and careful, breaks the hush.

“Rain?”

The tone is softer than usual. Careful.

Sunshine peeks her head around the door, curls escaping the loose bun piled atop her head. She looks different in this light - not dimmer, exactly, but subdued. Like a storm remembering it’s passed through someone else’s sky.

“I… wanted to say I’m sorry,” she says. “About yesterday. I shouldn't have touched you. I was trying to help but -” she cuts herself off, breath tight. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just... I’m really glad Mist was there. She said you started to find your voice.”

Rain watches her in silence, but his eyes soften.

Then he shifts, rising carefully from his bed, and turns toward her fully.

The still that follows isn’t heavy. Just quiet.

Rain looks at her a moment longer. Not measuring, not judging - just… feeling. The warmth of her regret. The care in her presence. The way her storm-light has shifted to meet his current, softer now, but still bright underneath.

He inhales through his nose, slow and full. Exhales just as steadily.

Then, with gentle precision, Rain lifts his hands.

Light gathers at his fingertips, a soft flicker of lavender, subdued but steady. He moves slowly, the motion itself sacred.

One finger draws a circle above his heart, precise. Then both palms press flat to the center of his chest, held there as he bows his head slightly.

The glow shifts - lavender warming into a soft, amber hue.

Sunshine blinks. “What… what does that mean?”

Rain lifts his gaze, eyes warm. He mouths the word, shaping it with care:

‘Melun-shae.’

Sunshine repeats it under her breath, reverent. “The heart has softened again.” Her eyes are wide. “That’s... Lucifer, that’s beautiful.”

Rain hums, and a small smile curves at the edge of his mouth..

“Wait - hang on.” She lifts her hands, attempting the motion. Her circle is too wide, and her palms bumping her ribs. “Like this?”

Rain chuckles, silent but visible, and steps forward.

He reaches for her hands, guiding them gently: a circle, smaller this time. Hands pressed flat. A soft bow of the head.

Her face brightens with it - part pride, part relief, part something more. That quiet wonder of being trusted. Of being let in.

The glow lingers between them.

Not loud. Not blinding. But steady.

Their hands fall apart.

Sunshine glances down, a little shy. “I, uh - brought breakfast,” she says, pulling a small basket from where she’d tucked it behind the door. “Figured you might not want to be around everyone yet, but...”

Rain reaches for it, fingers brushing hers as he lifts the cloth. Inside there is a neatly wrapped rice bun, a few slices of fruit, and a warm, sweet-scented tea nestled in a cork-topped bottle. It’s thoughtful. Kind.

He sets the bundle gently on the dresser.

Then he looks at her again, and something shifts in his glow, lavender melting into soft, sun-warmed yellow. With slow care, he taps his collarbone once. Then he gestures toward the door. A subtle lift of his brow. A small smile. A question.

Together?

Sunshine’s breath catches, then she beams. “Oh! Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

Something stirs beneath Rain’s skin. Not water, not memory, but a thread. Thin as spider silk, warm as dawn. It twines forward, tentative and bright, reaching from his chest to somewhere just beyond it.

He doesn’t name it, but he feels it.

A beginning.

Not tethered by birth or ritual. Not sealed in blood.

But chosen.

Rain blinks, a little startled by the sensation, but then his stomach rumbles…loudly.

“Now we’re speaking a universal language.” Sunshine grins. “Come on, fishcake. And I swear, no surprise healing this time - just porridge and very bad jokes.”

He follows her toward the door.

The world is still soft with morning light, and for the first time in days, Rain is ready to meet it.

Sunshine holds the door open with a little flourish, letting him step out first.

“Careful,” she says, more habit than warning. “Some of these stones bite.”

Rain tilts his head, amused. His bioluminescence flickers faintly, cool blue, as he steps into the hall. The floor beneath him is cold, but not unfriendly.

Sunshine falls into step beside him, quieter than usual. Not dimmed, but softer. Like she understands now that warmth doesn’t always have to shout.

And somewhere between step and silence, the bond continues to take root.

They walk slowly.

Sunshine doesn’t rush him, even when her natural energy wants to bounce ahead. She keeps her steps easy, matched to his, like rhythm matters. Rain glances sideways once. Just enough to catch the line of her shoulders, loose but alert. Like she’s bracing for him to flinch again - and already ready to ease back if he does.

He hums, low and brief. Not a full voice, but close. A note of reassurance.

Her smile curves, small and proud.

“You know,” she says after a few steps, “I’m usually the loud one. Crashing through doorways. Tripping over my own feet. Sunshine, right? All blaze and bounce.”

Rain blinks at her, amused.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “But with you…it’s like I want to hush a little. Like I’ll miss something if I don’t listen closely.”

Rain tilts his head, thoughtful. His glow responds, not bright, but layered. A shimmer of pale green shot through with soft gold. Appreciation. And something gentler still.

She watches it ripple, then whistles quietly. “Still not sure if you’re a disco ball or a divination mirror.”

That pulls a laugh from him, not voiced, but luminous. A sharp, warm rose bursts across his collarbones before fading.

“I mean it,” she adds, a little breathlessly. “You’ve got that calm Depths vibe. Makes everyone else feel like they’re running too fast.

Rain doesn’t respond in words. He just nudges her gently with his shoulder. Not an accident.

Her grin flickers back to full strength.

By the time they reach the curve of the hallway leading into the dining hall, Rain’s light is steady, mellow, and ocean-deep. The warmth from her presence settles at his back like a second sun.

And just beneath his skin, the new bond hums. Not loud. But insistent. A thread spun of trust, and second chances, and the slow, deliberate beginning of pack.

Sunshine pushes the door open with her shoulder.

“You ready?”

Rain nods, glow tucked close now, but no longer hidden.

Sunshine shoulders the door open, and Rain steps in behind her.

One step further into belonging.

It’s warm, and bright, and louder than he’s ready for - but not unpleasant. A handful of ghouls are already scattered across the long table, bowls half-full, spoons clinking softly. The space pulses with the easy magic of morning ritual; shared meals, shared jokes, shared beginnings.

His glow flickers softly across his chest and shoulders, catching the light in slow pulses of cool blue. A few heads lift.

“He’s here!” Sunshine announces, but it’s quieter than usual. Still bright, but softened to fit the hush he carries in with him. “And he’s vertical!”

Now the heads turn.

Swiss lifts his cup in greeting. “Look who decided to join the land of the living.”

There’s a crooked softness to his smile. Rain dips his head in acknowledgement and his glow curls faintly across his shoulders, shy but steady.

Mountain nods once, solid and calm. “Glad you’re on your feet, Rain.”

Next to him, Cirrus tilts her head, appraising. “He’s still shimmering.”

“Let him breathe,” Cumulus says, nudging her mate with her elbow. “He just got here.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Cirrus shrugs.

Rain isn’t sure what to make of them yet - strange, airy, but not unkind. He moves toward the bench Sunshine points to and sits down slowly.

She plops beside him. “Eat. Drink,” she says, nudging a bowl toward him. “You’ll feel better.”

The conversation resumes around them, Swiss and Mountain bickering good-naturedly about some chore neither of them volunteered for. Cirrus beginning a sentence Cumulus finishes, then immediately denies starting.

Rain eats quietly. Listens.

And as the warmth of the tea seeps into his hands, and the sounds of the room settle around him, the thread in his chest, the one still forming, pulls just a little tighter.

Not with pain. But with promise.

He chews slowly, letting the textures root him: soft grain, sweet plum, the faint salt of butter on the rim of his mug. The food tastes like morning. Like normal.

Like home, almost.

He glances down the table again.

Mountain is demonstrating some kind of knot with a napkin, brows furrowed like it’s a sacred rite. Swiss watches with one brow lifted, clearly unimpressed but still leaning in.Their thighs keep bumping under the table, and neither of them does anything to stop it.

Sunshine catches Rain watching and leans in. “It’s been weeks. They still haven’t kissed.”

Rain blinks.

She nods solemnly. “I’m beginning to think they’re cursed.”

Rain lifts his shoulders in a soft shrug, then taps two fingers to his lips, then to the air between Mountain and Swiss.

Sunshine grins. “Exactly! They need to kiss and get it over with. Then they’d both be less grumpy.”

Rain hums a low, amused note, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his ribs. Forgets how heavy the silence used to be.

Someone snorts.

It’s Cirrus.

She’s perched on the edge of her seat like she might levitate at any moment, a half-sliced orange forgotten in front of her.

“Speaking of grumpy,” she says lightly, and the air shifts - just enough for Rain to feel it. Like a change in pressure before a storm.

She’s not looking at Mountain or Swiss anymore. She’s looking directly at Rain.

“You’ve got threads on you,” she says, almost casual.

Rain stills, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Cirrus,” Cumulus sighs, already bracing.

Rain tilts his head, uncertain - does she mean actual threads? Or something else?

Cumulus leans in from her side, chin propped on one hand. “She means fate threads. Don’t let her scare you. She just likes sounding cryptic.”

“I am cryptic,” Cirrus replies, still watching Rain. “But it’s not just that.”

Rain’s glow pulses faintly at his neck and sternum, soft orange, tinged with blue.

Cirrus notices. Of course she does.

“You’re tangled,” she murmurs, voice quieter now. “Lots of threads, some old, some new. But there’s one that stands out.”

Cumulus makes a face like she’s heard this too many times before, but stays quiet.

Cirrus doesn’t blink. “It’s strong. Too strong for how new you are to this place. Almost like you’ve been wrapped around someone for a while without knowing.”

Rain frowns slightly, setting his spoon down. His eyes flick to Sunshine, then to Swiss, to the room - and finally, back to Cirrus.

“Ah,” she says, like something’s just clicked. “He’s still in the infirmary.”

Rain’s breath hitches. His glow flares, then dims.

Cirrus sees that, too. “Mm.”

“He?” Sunshine asks, brows lifted.

“Aether went to check on him,” Cirrus says, slicing another wedge of her orange with unnecessary precision. “Said he felt... off.”

Cumulus cuts in gently, glancing at Rain. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

Rain’s throat works, though no sound comes. The tether is there again - quieter than the growing pack bond, fainter than his blood bonds. But just as real. Something pulls tight in his chest.

Before he can overthink it, Cumulus throws a lifeline.

“Mountain and Swiss are flirting again,” she stage-whispers.

Cirrus sighs, stabbing a slice of fruit. “Disaster.”

Rain turns just in time to catch Swiss very studiously not looking at Mountain - while Mountain is absolutely staring at Swiss’s mouth. Subtle as a flare signal.

“They’re going to combust,” Cirrus mutters.

“Or fuck,” Cumulus adds.

“Or both. Like he wasn't wearing Mount's shirt the other morning.”

Rain’s shoulders shake with a silent laugh. He doesn't say anything, but something in him does ease. The absurdity of their flirting cuts the weight in the room cleanly in half.

Cirrus glances back at him, expression softer now. “You’ll be alright,” she says.

Somehow, he believes her.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Elsewhere, the Ministry holds its breath.

Aether stands in the quiet curve of the old hallway, fingers curled around a steaming mug. It’s too early for much movement; only the low hum of the Ministry’s walls keeps him company, magic pulsing faintly beneath his feet like a second heartbeat. He likes this time of day, the way the world feels suspended in a breath, not yet demanded of.

He sips from the mug, bitter and grounding, and runs a hand through his hair.

Since the summoning, his mornings have shifted. Less peace, more weight. He used to feel his own magic first - clean, balanced, quintessence weaving quietly through his limbs. Now, he wakes with threads that aren’t entirely his.

The pack link buzzes; Sunshine’s boundless cheer, Swiss’s slow stretch of energy, Cirrus’s sharp thought-pings half-formed like snowflakes. But something pulls at him now. Off-kilter. Too sharp.

Dewdrop.

Aether sets the mug down on the stone ledge beside him, breath fogging the window in the morning chill. He listens to the thread between them: low, tight, the tremor of pain pressed flat. Too quiet for the others to catch. But he’s attuned.

A nudge to Cirrus through their bond - he won’t be at breakfast.

Then he’s moving, steps brisk down the infirmary wing. He nods to the sleepy nurse on duty and lets himself into Dew’s room.

The scent hits him first; salt, old fire, lavender burn salve. The window’s cracked, but the air is still heavy. Dew’s on the cot, legs pulled to his chest, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t look up.

“You’re broadcasting,” Aether says gently.

No response. Just silence.

“I felt you from halfway across the wing. If something’s wrong -”

“You don’t have to act like you care,” Dew snaps, sharp. “You’ve barely looked at me since it happened.”

Aether blinks. “That’s not true.”

“You didn’t want this. You’ve made that clear.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Aether says, stepping closer. “That’s different.”

The silence stretches, brittle. Aether eases into the chair beside him.

“You’re not broken.”

“I feel broken,” Dew murmurs. “Everything hurts. My body’s wrong. I can’t feel fire. Water won’t touch me. I can’t even shift - I’m stuck. I can’t do anything.”

Aether’s voice softens. “Maybe you’re still becoming. Or maybe you weren’t broken to begin with, waterlily -”

The word slips before he can stop it.

Dew flinches. Visibly.

The silence that follows is colder.

“I didn’t mean -”

“No,” Dew cuts in, voice low. “You meant it. You still see me as what I was. Not what I’m trying to be.”

“I see you hurting.”

“Then stop naming me like I’m still yours to understand.”

Aether swallows hard. There’s no apology that would land right now.

After a pause, he stands, pulls folded paperwork from his pocket. “Your new room’s ready. ‘Megs discharged you.”

He hesitates. “I'll… be in the gardens.” And then he’s gone.

Dew doesn’t move. Not until the door clicks shut does the tightness in his chest crack open. The tears fall silently, furious and hot.

The silence that follows feels heavy - not peaceful, but thick. Aether always brought with him a strange kind of calm, even when Dew wanted to scream. Now it’s just absence.

"Waterlily."

He flinches at the word. It used to be tender. Now it tastes like failure.

He stares up at the ceiling, tracing the hairline cracks in the plaster. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to hear something else. No comfort. No even understanding. Just... anything that didn’t make him feel like a ghost.

His hands drift to his ribs, to the space where his gills used to flutter like breath. There’s nothing left. The skin there is rough, ridges scarred over and ugly.

The worst part isn’t that he feels broken.

It’s that he doesn’t feel anything.

No fire in his chest. No steam in his lungs. Just... quiet.

Too quiet.

His thoughts circle again. Rain.

He saw him, just once, clear enough to know it hadn’t been a dream. The long legs, the unsteady breath, the ocean still shining in his skin. He’d looked dazed, weak, but alive. Beautiful, even in the aftermath. Like something holy that had survived the impossible.

And Dew had turned away. Snapped at Swiss. Buried himself in his shame.

Because seeing Rain meant remembering.

The scream. The blur. Rain’s outstretched hand. The way the ritual and the summoning had folded together like a curse. He’d wanted to believe it wasn’t his fault. That it had just gone wrong.

But maybe it was him.

Maybe the hunger to be whole cracked something open that should’ve stayed sealed.

He closes his eyes, breathes in the sterile scent of the infirmary, and tries not to gag on it.

He doesn’t know what Rain is to him. Not yet.

But he knows he’ll have to look him in the eye one day.

Apologize, maybe. Or explain.

If there’s anything worth explaining.

Dew pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders and curls in on himself.

He isn’t ready.

But his room is.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The dining hall is still buzzing, but Rain pushes his bowl away gently, his appetite waning beneath something deeper. His body feels restless, not in pain, just full. Like something inside is stirring toward motion again. A pull.

Like a tide turning.

Rain shifts, stretching slowly. His limbs ache in a way that feels less like injury now, more like readiness. The kind of ache that asks for movement. For water.

He rises with care, brushing his fingers lightly across the table in thanks. Then he lifts his hand again - two fingers pressed briefly to the side of his throat, then tilted outward.

Sunshine catches it immediately.

“Heading out?”

Rain nods, tipping his chin toward the corridor that leads back toward the gardens.

She starts to rise. “Want some company?”

His smile is soft. He hums a sound of gratitude and tips his head - no thank you. Then he turns, long limbs loose and careful as he walks.

Sunshine softens. “Alright, fishcake. Just don’t let the frogs claim you. You’re too pretty to be crowned swamp prince.”

Rain’s eyes narrow playfully. He gives an exaggerated curtsy, well, the upper half of one - paired with a limp-wristed wave that would make any court in the Pits proud.

Sunshine blinks, startled, then laughs.

She doesn’t know who he was down below. But something about the gesture tells her - he remembers.

The others glance up, but no one presses. No one interrupts. It’s a small grace, and he feels it.

He walks slowly out of the warmth and into the quiet.

The corridor air is cooler, the stone beneath his feet giving way to the wild pulse of garden earth. The moment the sun hits his face, he exhales, shoulders sinking.

It’s quieter here. Not the hush of isolation, but the kind of silence that breathes with him. The gardens greet him differently this time, less overwhelming and more inviting. The vines still sway lazily, the clover still hums, and somewhere in the canopy, a bird calls once, clean as punctuation.

Rain steps off the path.

He moves through the greenery like he belongs to it - fingers brushing tall grasses, knuckles trailing the rough bark of fruit trees. There are no air ghouls to guide the wind. No one is waiting on his next breath.

Just the sound of the world, as it is.

At the edge of the garden clearing, he stops. Lets his hands fall. Lifts his face to the light.

Sun dapples through the canopy in rippling patterns, light moving across him like waves. For a breath, it almost feels like standing in the Depths again. Light above. Darkness below.

Suspended.

He closes his eyes and lets air fill every inch of him that used to hold water.

The bond to his clan is faint here, an echo on the wrong frequency. But the newer threads - delicate, tentative - shimmer at the edge of his senses.

Sunshine. Swiss. Even Cirrus, sharp-edged and watching.

It doesn’t replace what he lost.

But it doesn’t have to.

He opens his eyes and walks.

Past the flowering mint. Through the honeysuckle gate.

Toward the lake.

Where the water waits.

Where his body will remember how to breathe.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew leans against the window frame of his infirmary room, arms folded tightly across his chest, the fabric of his shirt twisted between his fingers. Sunlight pools across the courtyard stones outside, fractured by the vines climbing the outer arches. The world looks softer than it feels.

He isn’t looking for anything in particular, not really.

But then - he sees him.

Rain.

Standing just beyond the garden’s edge, half-draped in shadow and light. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Breathing like it’s the first thing that’s made sense all morning.

And for a moment, Dew forgets how to breathe at all.

The sunlight catches in Rain’s curls. His skin gleams, a shimmer of luminescence painting pale streaks across his cheeks and collarbones like blessings. He looks ethereal. Untouchable.

Sacred.

Dew swallows hard.

It’s not want, exactly. Or maybe it is - buried too deep beneath guilt to name. All he knows is that the ache in his chest isn’t just shame anymore.

It’s something warmer. Something worse.

He doesn’t deserve to look at him like this.

Not after the hallway. Not after what he said. Not after what he didn’t say.

Rain shifts slightly in the breeze - long and lean and quiet. The gills at his neck flutter. The fin at the tip of his tail begins to unfurl, swaying like seaweed in a gentle current.

Dew’s hands clench tighter in the fabric of his shirt.

He wants to turn away.

But he doesn’t.

He watches the ghoul he once feared he’d broken begin to shine again - untouched by him. Healing without him.

And the sharpest part is that he’s glad.

Even if it means Rain never looks back.

He watches as Rain walks, alone. No packmate trailing behind him. Just his long limbs and sea-washed skin disappearing down the lake path.

Dew’s heart skips. Not relief. Not quite.

Something closer to reprieve.

Because if Rain’s gone - out where the wind and water might hold him steady - it means Dew can leave without seeing him. Without having to speak. Without having to carry more than what’s already crushing his back.

He pushes away from the window. His legs are steady enough. He pulls another soft layer folded on the side table - Aether’s doing, probably. Then, with slow hands, he gathers the few belongings brought to the infirmary, tucks them into a satchel, and exhales.

It’s time.

He doesn’t know what comes next. Only that he can’t stay in the infirmary any longer.

The cool tile stings his feet as he crosses the room, but the pain is grounding. It makes it feel real.

He moves through the corridor with his head down, past the corner where he’d seen Rain after the summoning, past the infirmary doors that creak softly behind him.

For the first time since the ritual, Dew steps forward.

Alone.

And maybe that’s what he needs most right now. Just one breath without guilt.

He doesn’t rush. Just walks.

Past the supply rooms and nurses’ quarters. The little chapel where he and Swiss once sat. The wide window overlooking the gardens, bench seat tucked beneath it - Aether’s favorite spot. Each step is a little lighter than the last.

Not easy. But his own, on his terms.

By the time he reaches the band wing, the halls are still empty. Laughter curls faintly from the mess hall, but no one crosses his path.

His new door is marked with his name. Not the old one. Just Dew, a small triangle etched beside it.

He stands there for a long moment, letting the weight of that settle.

Then he opens the door and steps inside.

The room is warm. Clean. Unfamiliar.

Blank walls. Folded linens. A desk too tidy to have been used recently. The air smells like lemon oil and lavender, like someone tried a little too hard to make it feel safe.

He doesn’t move right away.

Just stands there, caught in the center of a space made for him that doesn’t yet feel like his. Almost as much a stranger here as he is in his own skin.

Eventually, he sits. Boxes and crates line the walls, unopened. The sheets are too crisp, too rough against his arms.

It will take time, he thinks.

But he’ll make it work.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

There’s a soft knock, followed by the creak of the door opening before Dew can answer.

Of course it’s Swiss.

“Hey,” Swiss says, voice low and careful, but not pitying. He leans against the frame in his usual slouch, all limbs and quiet muscle, like he’s trying to take up less space than he usually does. “Heard you moved in.”

Dew blinks at him from the bed. He hadn’t expected anyone. Not yet.

“Didn’t exactly throw a housewarming,” he mutters, tugging his sleeves down over his hands.

Swiss shrugs. “Didn’t exactly wait for an invitation.”

That earns a faint smile.

The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, but Swiss can feel it - something sitting heavy behind Dew’s ribs.

Eventually, Dew speaks. “I waited until he was gone.”

Swiss tilts his head, gently prompting.

“I saw him,” Dew says quietly. “In the garden earlier. Head tilted to the sun. Like he could finally breathe again.”

There’s no judgment in Swiss’s posture. Just listening.

“I told myself I didn’t want to interrupt his healing,” Dew goes on. “But I didn’t go down there. I didn’t say anything. I just watched. Then I ran.”

His hands twist in the fabric at his knees. “Because I couldn’t bear it if he looked at me and saw… this.”

Swiss steps forward, placing a warm, steady hand on Dew’s shoulder.

“You’re allowed to not be ready,” he says. “But I don’t think he’s looking for perfection. None of us are.”

Dew doesn’t answer, but he breathes, deeply, for the first time in what feels like days. After a moment, he swallows and meets Swiss’s eyes. “I heard you and Aether. Arguing. About Rain.”

Swiss huffs, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He deserved it.”

“I know.” Dew’s voice drops. “And… thank you. For finding him. For staying.”

Swiss looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t not. He needed someone.”

Dew doesn’t reply, but the words settle inside him warm and complicated.

Swiss squeezes his shoulder once more, then adds, “He went all the way to the lake, you know.”

Dew looks up, startled.

“Mist took him,” Swiss says. “Yesterday morning. After a little… incident with Sunny. Said he needed real water. She was right.”

He hesitates. “He went back on his own, after breakfast. Still... might be good if someone checked in. Just in case.”

He doesn’t say Dew’s name. Doesn’t tell him what to do. He just lets the space between them settle like a question.

Dew nods, once. Almost imperceptibly.

When Swiss leaves, Dew lingers.

Then he moves to the closet, pulls out a jacket that smells faintly of popcorn and smoke, and slips it on.

–

Dew walks the narrow path behind the Ministry. The sun is lower now, casting long beams through the trees, gilding everything in gold. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, only that his feet kept moving. Past the edge of comfort. Toward something quieter.

The trail curves around the lake before opening into a wide stretch of moss and stone.

Dew slows, heart thudding behind his ribs.

There, knee-deep in the shallows, is Rain.

Hair damp. Gills fluttering. Still and self-contained, like he belongs to the water. Like the lake itself called him home. Dew stops beneath the shelter of a tree just beyond the clearing. He doesn’t step closer.

He can’t.

His fingers clench and unclench at his sides. A wave of something rises; regret, shame, maybe longing; but he swallows it. From here, Rain can’t see him. From here, he’s safe.

He leans against the bark, grounding himself. Watching.

Just watching.

Rain moves his hand slowly through the water, fingers skimming the surface like he’s speaking a language Dew’s forgotten how to hear. The lake responds in soft ripples. The moment feels like prayer.

It makes Dew ache in a place the fire hasn’t touched yet.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Then again. A third time.

He pulls it out.

🔥💅: you done sulking yet, salamander? time to see what those new limbs can do 👀👀

Daddy Issues:yard. 10 min. don’t make us come get you.

🔥💅: bring water, if you still know how. (kidding. mostly)

Dew exhales through his nose, thumb hovering over the screen. He types nothing. Just slips the phone back into his pocket and lets the silence wrap around him again.

He closes his eyes.

Inhales.

And then he turns away.

Back to the path. Back to the Ministry. His footsteps are quiet, like he was never there at all.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The water is cool around his knees, wrapping up his calves like silk drawn from old memory. It hums against his skin - an old lullaby from the Depths. Not the thunderous pressure of the deep trenches, but a quieter kind of song. The lull between waves. The hush before a storm. It speaks to something in him that’s still rebuilding.

He exhales, submerges, and his gills shudder open.

The breath he takes trembles, but it’s full. Drawn in soft through gills that aren't flinching, coaxed by water that doesn’t ask him to pretend.

It doesn’t hurt. Not here. Not with her.

The lake cradles him with quiet dignity, every ripple a reminder that he’s still here - still capable of belonging to something. The silt beneath his feet shifts gently with each step, soft as a heartbeat. The reeds nearby lean toward him like they recognize their own.

He moves slowly, fingers trailing below the surface in wide arcs. The water embraces every motion like it’s part of him. And maybe it is. Maybe this is where he still fits. Not in the halls of the Ministry, among strangers trying too hard to smile. But here. Between breath and reflection.

And then - he pauses. The stillness shifts.

A prickle crawls up his spine, delicate and cold. He comes to the surface and glances over his shoulder, heart stuttering. The trees across the water hold nothing but dappled light and shadow. No sound. No movement.

But he knows…someone was there.

Rain straightens slowly, pulse fluttering beneath his skin. Water doesn’t lie. The lake wouldn’t have warned him for no reason. His eyes settle on a patch of grass where a footprint remains - half-formed, already softening. He closes his eyes, and senses no fear, no danger.

Instead, something gentler. Warmer. But uncertain.

Rain exhales and swims into the shallows for a while longer, letting the silence stitch itself into his bones. The lake knows he’s not whole. But it holds him anyway.

And when he finally steps out - dripping, quiet, chest steadier than when he arrived - he casts one last glance toward the trees.

And tips his head.

Just there, at the edge of the moss where shadow meets sun, something glows. Faint, pulsing - like breath caught beneath the earth. The moss has lit up in soft blue-green threads, a whisper of bioluminescence clinging to the place where someone must have stood.

Not fire. Not air or earth. Definitely not quintessence.

Water.

The lake stirs behind him. Rain doesn’t move. Just watches the glow fade, slow and reverent, as if the ground itself had remembered someone it once knew.

Someone who had not stepped forward. But had watched. And left a trace behind.

Rain presses a hand to his sternum, feeling the thrum there. The tether, still faint. Still unclaimed.

But present.

Then he turns. And walks back toward the light.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The walk back to the Ministry feels longer than it should. Each step away from the lake weighs heavier than the last. Dew keeps his eyes down, boots scuffing the gravel path, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

He doesn’t remember when the training yard started feeling like a crucible.

The fireyard opens like a scar behind the eastern wing - flat, scorched earth ringed with obsidian stone and charred ash markers. Smoke hangs faint in the air, caught in the updraft from the twin braziers at its center. It smells like sweat, like cinders, like a future he's not sure he deserves.

Ifrit is already there, bare-armed and grinning, flame licking harmlessly along the curve of one shoulder like a pet. Alpha stands just behind him, quiet, arms folded, gaze is sharp enough to cut steel.

Dew hesitates at the edge of the stone.

Ifrit clocks him immediately. “There he is.”

Dew steps forward, trying to keep his breath steady.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Alpha says, stern, but not unkind. “Figured you might still be licking your wounds.”

“Figured wrong,” Dew mutters.

Ifrit chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.”

They circle him slowly, appraising. Alpha flicks his fingers once - an invitation, or maybe a challenge.

“Let’s see what survived.”

Dew swallows hard and lifts his hands.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then - a thin stream of smoke curls from his fingertips. Not fire, not yet. But the promise of it. The scent of singed air rises. The shadows around his feet twist slightly, caught in some invisible heat.

Ifrit whistles low. “There’s the spark.”

Alpha doesn’t smile. But he nods once.

“Again,” he says.

So he tries again.

Not because he wants to prove anything.

But because this, too, is becoming.

The smoke coils again, slow and reluctant, as if unsure of him. Dew narrows his eyes, willing it forward - not with anger, not even with force, but with focus.

He doesn’t want to burn the world down. He just wants to belong to it again.

The heat rises faintly from his palms, wrapping his forearms in a shimmer that doesn’t quite become flame. It pulses - unstable. Incomplete.

Alpha circles him again, his boots silent against the stone. “You’re holding back.”

“I’m trying not to lose control.”

“You think control means holding your breath?” he snaps. “No wonder you’re choking on your own magic.”

Ifrit just laughs and tosses him a water flask. “Don’t mind him. He believes in tough love and spontaneous combustion. Try again.”

Dew wipes the back of his hand across his brow. His skin still feels wrong - too tight, too quiet. There’s no fins to curl around himself, no water to sink into. Only the hum of fire and the echo of what used to be.

He crouches low this time, steadying his stance. Exhales.

The flame comes slower now. Less like a flare, more like a breath. It curls around his hands, wraps down his arms like a second skin - thin, silken, whisper-hot. His jaw clenches. His focus sharpens.

For a heartbeat, it holds.

And then…it snaps. A burst, sharp and sudden, like a match struck against the inside of his chest. A ring of heat fans out around him, scattering ash and gravel.

Dew stumbles back, coughing.

Alpha doesn’t flinch. He studies the scorched arc beneath his boots. “Better.”

Ifrit’s grin softens, just slightly. “Still not angry enough.”

“I’m not angry,” Dew grits out, straightening.

“You should be.” Alpha’s voice is level. “You lost your gills. You lost your fins. You nearly lost your life. And still you act like you’re the one who should apologize.”

Dew doesn’t answer. The words hang in the air like smoke.

Ifrit steps in, claps a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll find it,” he says. “Fire doesn’t come easy. But when it does… it stays.”

Dew swallows.

His hands still ache with the memory of flame. But beneath that, for the first time in days, there’s something else.

Warmth.

Not from the fire.

From the choice to stay.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain takes a leisurely pace, bare feet tracing the sun-warmed stone as he follows the path back from the lake. His skin is still damp, salt-tinged water trailing down the backs of his calves. His hair clings to his neck. The wind is soft here - just enough to stir the reeds and dry his shoulders.

The lake’s stillness lingers in his chest, but something else is tugging now.

A current beneath the calm. Thin, but present. Like the feeling he’d had in the infirmary - that quiet echo of proximity.

Rain pauses, one foot on the worn edge of a step. He tilts his head slightly, bioluminescence flickering along his ribs and down the curve of one thigh - soft pink, edged with silver. Presence.

His fingers trail the stone wall beside him as he climbs. Narrow stairs wind up between dense ivy and old Ministry brick, wrapping the base of a squat tower tucked between wings of the building. He's never been here before, but he moves without questioning, the pull of the tether leading him.

At the top, the space opens into a circular alcove with a deep-set window, framed in cracked wood and lined with a cushion gone soft with age. Dust drifts lazily through the beams of light, and the glass is streaked but clear enough.

Rain sinks down into the seat and looks below at what must be a training yard.

Two older fire ghouls move in a slow arc, flanking a third.

Dew.

Rain exhales, the breath catching briefly at the end.

He’s seen Dew only in fragments since the ritual - half in memory, half through the haze of panic and healing. But now, seeing him in motion again, his form ringed with firelight - Rain goes still.

Dew’s shoulders are squared. His stance is tight but holding. And there’s heat pouring from his palms, smoke drifting from the edges of his fingers like old incense.

The flames don’t roar, but they're starting to catch.

And Rain watches.

Not with fear. Not even confusion. But recognition. Something in him ripples with it, deep in the salt of his blood. The bond hums low in his throat like a shell held to the ear. He presses his fingers to the window ledge, leaning closer.

Dew stumbles, and the fire breaks.

One of the ghouls, Rain doesn’t know who, says something too soft to hear. Dew nods, barely. His hands curl inward like he doesn’t trust them anymore.

Rain’s glow dims slightly in sympathy. He should look away.

But he doesn’t.

He stays in the tower’s shadowed quiet, eyes fixed on the figure below. Dew, ringed in the firelight, trying to hold something steady.

And something in Rain stirs.

His luminescence flares once, copper with silver streaked blue, then sinks back beneath his skin as a steady thrum.

Recognition.

Like something old calling his name in a language he doesn’t remember learning.

Below, Dew falters. His body shifts, a hand rising to press over his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together from the inside.

Rain’s breath catches.

The gesture feels too intimate to watch. Too raw.

He steps back from the window. Not far, but enough to hide.

His back finds the cool stone wall. He presses there, still glowing faintly, afraid that if Dew looked up, he’d see it, that thread, that tether, that want.

Not yet longing, but the first shape of it.

-

Down in the yard, Dew exhales. Slow. He rubs his chest once, steadying himself.

Then something strange, soft, touches the air. A scent that doesn't belong.

Lotus.

Delicate and faint, but impossible to mistake. A water bloom in a firelit yard.

Dew turns instinctively, eyes sweeping the edge of the courtyard. Toward the tower.

But there’s no one there.

Just heat shimmer and stone.

Still, he knows he wasn’t alone.

And whatever that was, whoever that was…it didn’t feel like watching.

It felt like being seen.

He breathes in once more, the lotus still lingering like memory on the air.

He tucks it away, something to name later.

When he’s ready.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Elsewhere, below, the Archive breathes.

Its walls, etched with lines older than language, hum beneath centuries of dust and divine interference. The torches do not flicker. The air is still. Time does not pass here; it pools.

Delta stands before a map.

Not one of roads or geography, but of threads - etched faintly into stone, pulsing with light only they can see. Lives. Timelines. Echoes. Some flicker, some blaze, some twist in on themselves. Two now burn brighter now than they should.

Water and fire.

Not yet joined. But circling. Spiraling closer.

Delta touches the wall with two fingers, and the lines ripple beneath their touch.

“Soon,” they murmur.

But the wall does not answer. It never does. The pattern simply shifts. That, even they cannot stop.

“I intervened. The bond was collapsing. His body was breaking. It was the only way.”

Their gaze follows the radiant thread Rain carries, seeing how it tugs faintly at Dew’s.

“It marked them both. I see the weight of it now - the fracture where their reunion should have begun. The silence between them is mine.”

Their expression doesn’t change, but something in them flickers.

“I do not regret it,” Delta says. “But I will carry it.”

A book behind them closes on its own. The sound is soft, but final.

And then - He arrives.

No footsteps. No breath. Just presence. The air thickens, bends inward. The walls shiver like bone beneath a psalm. Delta does not turn, but they lower their head in reverence.

“My Lord.”

The silence that follows is vast. Listening.

Delta straightens.

“Their paths will converge. There will be pain, but they will hold.”

A hush sweeps through the chamber, colder than before.

“I touched what was sacred,” Delta says, quieter now. “I know the cost.”

And then, just briefly, the air around them warms. Not bright. But unmistakable.

Forgiveness.

Delta’s eyes flutter shut.

“They are beginning to recognize each other.”

A shadow passes through the Archive, unseen but known. Pages rustle. The torches dim.

Delta presses one hand to the map and speaks a final phrase in a language older than fate. A seal. A promise.

“It will be as You wish.”

The pressure lifts. The stillness returns.

But the mark remains - on the wall, on the map, and somewhere far deeper.

And just before the quiet swallows everything whole, a voice like silk passing over an open flame whispers:

“Let it be done.”

Chapter Text

The Ministry hums.

A soft light spills through stained glass, catching motes of incense and dust. Somewhere below, the first bell has rung - but up in the study, the air still holds the hush of prayer not quite extinguished.

Cardinal Copia leans back in his chair, one sock inside-out, one foot bare. A fig bar has died a slow death beside his elbow. Incense from Lucifer’s altar still clings faintly to his sleeves.

He hasn’t been sleeping well. But he’s been moving.

Across the room, Aether stands near the window, arms crossed, spine straight. He’s been summoned. Again. Still doesn’t know why, but could hazard a guess.

Copia lifts his espresso and sighs through the steam. “How are our wayward elemental sons?”

Aether tilts his head. “Healing. Slowly.”

“‘In their own ways,’ I assume?” Copia arches a brow. “Cryptic, vague, and entirely unhelpful. Sure you’re not part air ghoul?”

Aether doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Copia shrugs, the tease fading. “I’m glad they’re healing. I am. But the Ghost Project wasn’t given to us as a grief ritual. We’re meant to spread something. Shake the walls. Scare the faithful. Preach through distortion. The band cannot simply be vibes and divine trauma forever.”

He taps his fingers on the rim of his mug. “And that means rehearsal.”

Aether lifts a brow. “You think they’re ready for that?”

“I think they need it,” Copia says, setting the cup down. His hands still. “We all do.”

A pause.

“I asked Him to forgive me,” Copia says, quieter now. “And He did…I think. Said the work still matters. That it was never just about summoning or survival - but voice. Witness.”

He exhales, sharp and thin. “I’m doing my best to believe Him.”

Aether studies him. “So this is your redemption arc?”

Copia smiles, small and bright. Perhaps a little too sharp. “It’s a revival, caro. And I’d like to share it with the ghouls who survived the worst of what we summoned.”

Aether exhales. “Rain is… close. Not quite speaking yet. But he’s present.”

“And Dew?”

“Present as well…but volatile. Like a heatwave looking for somewhere to break.”

Copia chuckles. “That’s fine. I like a little fire.”

He rises, smoothing his rumpled cassock and grabbing a clipboard from the floor. It’s blank, but he carries it like it holds a divine plan.

“Tell them rehearsal’s starting soon. Gently. Preferably with snacks.”

Aether crosses his arms. “And if Dew explodes?”

Copia shrugs. “Then I’ll hand him a guitar and tell him to scream in E minor.”

He heads for the door, calling over his shoulder:

“Also, let’s discuss wardrobe. Something bright. With very tight pants.”

Aether sighs, long suffering, and follows anyway.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Omega finds him beneath the flowering arch near the sunlit garden wall, half-curled in a patch of violet moss and clover. Petals drift in the warm breeze, jasmine sweet on the air - but Rain seems separate from it. Not untouched. Just apart, like something carved and left behind by a gentler age.

Light spills across his skin, catching in the slow pulse of bioluminescence winding up his throat. It moves like the tides, soft and rhythmic.

Omega lingers a moment longer on the path. Staring would feel rude, if Rain weren’t so… well.

No one should look like that - limned in gold, glowing faintly blue, quiet as a held breath.

“Mind some company?” Omega asks, voice gentled by awe.

Rain blinks. Tilts his head - not quite a nod, but not refusal either.

Omega takes it as welcome.

He sinks into the grass beside him, careful not to disturb the moss where Rain’s hand rests. “You’re hard to track down,” he says, smiling. “Aether said you’ve been walking the perimeter like a cat with a compass. Looking for something?”

Rain watches him for a moment. Then he opens his mouth.

The sound that escapes isn’t a word. It’s a chord, soft and layered. Then, with a firm swallow and look of determination, Rain speaks.

“Not looking,” he says quietly. “Listening.”

His voice folds in on itself, each syllable wrapped in harmony, two voices from one throat. One from the upper larynx, airy and high. One from a deeper place, the one shaped for the water.

Omega blinks, stunned by the sound.

Rain’s glow responds, flaring peach under his eyes and in his ear fins before ebbing again.

“That’s…” Omega exhales slowly. “Gorgeous.”

Rain ducks his head slightly. The reaction is quiet, but it ripples through him - a wash of green across his collarbones. Uncertain.

“Do you always sound like that?”

Rain hesitates. “Only where it’s dry,” he says softly. “Like the others.”

Omega doesn’t look away. “The harmonics settle with time,” he says. “Especially when the upper larynx isn’t used to air yet.”

Rain’s fingers twitch. Then still. Then rise to his chest.

He inhales. The shimmer moves through, lavender to blue to silver.

“…I’m still learning,” he says. The sound is slow, but it’s more stable this time; still layered, still harmonic, but easier now. The high voice threads like mist through the low one’s hum.

Omega can only stare.

“You sound like the ocean dreamed you up,” he murmurs. “Lucifer.”

Rain flinches slightly at the name.

Omega catches it. “Not a bad thing,” he says quickly. “You’re beautiful. Not just how you look - which is unfair, by the way - but what you are. You don’t have to soften that voice for anyone else’s ears.”

Rain’s glow flares - pale green with a kiss of gold, curling low beneath his ribs.

He tries again.

“My name is Rain.”

This time it’s clear. Layered, yes, but centered. The higher voice dances, and the lower one grounds.

Omega’s smile softens, breath caught.

Rain glows steady now, light pulsing at the base of his throat.

And for the first time since rising to the surface, he feels fully heard.

Omega lets the silence linger. The good kind. The kind that settles like dust in sunlight.

“You ever played before?” he asks gently.

Rain tilts his head, curious.

Omega clarifies. “An instrument. Bass, specifically. That's why Copia pulled you up, water always has great rhythm. Rumor mill says rehearsals start soon.”

Rain blinks. His fingers flex faintly, like remembering something he never learned.

“I’ve… moved with it,” he says slowly. “But never made it. Not like that.”

Omega laughs. “The instruments are like extensions of us. Especially bass. It’s not loud or flashy, but it holds everything else up. Beneath the melody. Beneath the drums.”

Rain murmurs, “Like the undertow.”

Omega beams. “Exactly. It’s the pull. The weight. The part that lets the others rise.”

Rain repeats the word under his breath, carefully. “Un-der-tow.” His voice echoes itself in silver-blue.

Omega watches him quietly, then adds, “It used to be Dew’s role.”

Rain’s expression shifts, like a bell struck far away. Not pain. Not surprise. Just… recognition.

“I know,” he says.

Omega blinks.

“Not fully,” Rain adds. “But something in me, somehow, knows.”

A silence opens between them again, softer now. The kind that waits without pressure.

Omega leans back on his hands, casual and warm. “You don’t have to rush. But when you’re ready, there’s a bass in the studio with your name on it.”

Rain tilts his head, bemused.

Omega grins. “Figuratively. Unless you want me to paint it on.”

Rain hums - a soft pulse that rolls like a breeze.

Not quite laughter.

But close.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Omega rounds the corner quietly, the scent of jasmine still clinging to his skin. There’s a calmness in his steps, something steady and lit from within. The warmth of the garden, of Rain’s voice echoing faintly in his mind, lingers like an aftertaste.

Aether nearly walks into him.

They both pause.

“On your way back?” Aether asks.

Omega nods. “Infirmary’s calling. Figured I’d check on Rain before lunch rounds.”

Aether hums in acknowledgment, adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. There’s something a little tight about his posture - like he’s walking toward something he’s not ready to face.

“You?” Omega prompts.

Aether glances down the hallway that leads toward the outer courtyard. “Going to meet Dew.”

Omega nods again, slower this time. “Rain spoke today.”

That stops Aether mid-step.

His brows pull together. “He - what?”

“Full voice,” Omega says, voice measured but reverent. “Said his name. Harmonics fully layered, nearly stabilized.”

Aether’s throat bobs.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Omega continues, fingers drumming lightly against the railing. “Not with that level of clarity. It usually takes time for water ghouls to adjust. But he sounded…integrated. Like he’s already syncing with the surface.”

Aether exhales, slow. A long beat passes before he says, “Good. That’s good.”

“But?”

Aether hesitates. His gaze drops to the floor between them.

“I always wonder if Dew could have sounded like that. If we’d just… really listened, we would have heard him.”

Omega’s voice stays soft. Steady. “You know he couldn’t.”

“I know.” It comes too fast, too defensive. “I know.”

Omega studies him.

“He only has one larynx,” Omega says, gently factual. “We both saw the scan. The lower one didn’t form. It wasn’t something he could grow into.”

Aether nods once, like it’s an old truth he never made peace with.

“And still,” he murmurs, “I kept waiting. Hoping. Like something would eventually click and he’d just… harmonize. Like the others.”

Omega says nothing.

“He told us it was because he was from the shallows,” Aether continues, voice raw. “But Lake is too. And Lake’s voice still has that buzz. Quieter, sure, but it’s there.”

Omega is quiet for a long moment.

“You wanted him to be something he never was.”

Aether closes his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.”

It’s not cruel. Not accusing. Just truth laid bare.

Aether’s hands flex at his sides. “I thought he was holding back. I thought he was ashamed.”

Omega exhales, his tone doesn’t waver. “Maybe he was. But not because he couldn’t sing like the rest of them. Because no one ever told him he didn’t have to.”

That lands.

Aether looks away, jaw set, something splintered in his eyes.

The hallway falls quiet as Omega’s footsteps fade, swallowed by the stone.

Aether doesn’t move.

The silence around him stretches wide - too wide. The kind that used to be sacred, comforting. Now it presses. Suffocates.

He exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t clear anything. Not the tightness in his chest. Not the sharp heat behind his eyes.

Because no one ever told him he didn’t have to.

The words cling heavy.

Aether lowers himself to the bench tucked beside the wall, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp. His fingertips glow faintly with residual quintessence - instinctive, unsettled. He could shape it into anything. But today, it refuses to quiet.

He thinks of Dew a few days after his summoning. A few months, a few years.

Curled around a pain he couldn’t name.

He thinks of the long silences. The sharp looks.

The way Dew’s voice always felt like an interruption, not a song.

He never meant to make it that way… but he did.

Aether presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

It doesn’t change anything. But it holds something back, for now.

Just long enough to walk into the fireyard and face what he shaped with silence.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The fireyard is quiet this morning, but still smoldering. Ash curls lazily in the updraft, caught between the braziers where Dew has been pacing slow arcs into the scorched stone. His palms ache from strain. Smoke clings to his skin like a second breath.

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps. He knows them by heart.

Aether stops just shy of the circle.

“Still burning through breakfast?” he asks, lightly. Like this is routine. Like they haven’t been circling each other in silence for days.

Dew doesn’t answer.

Aether exhales, but he doesn’t retreat. “You’ve had enough time in the yard,” he says, voice pitched somewhere between teasing and serious. “Copia wants to start rehearsals this week.”

Dew wipes a forearm across his brow, sweat streaking soot. “So?”

“So, someone’s got to show Rain how to hold a bass. You know the parts best.”

Dew turns at last. The firelight catches the edges of his jaw, the fine tremble in his fingers. “You came all this way to tell me to go to rehearsal?”

“I came to talk,” Aether says, quieter now. “But sure. Let’s start there.”

A flicker of heat flares at Dew’s shoulders - not magic. Temper. “Funny how you only want to talk when it’s about what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Aether steps closer, careful. “I’m not trying to push you.”

“Yes, you are.” Dew’s voice is sharp. “You didn’t want me to change. Not really. You stood by while I tore myself apart - and now you want me to pick up where I left off, like this -” he gestures at his body, jaw tight, “- doesn’t still make you flinch.”

Aether’s shoulders tense. “I didn’t push you. I supported you when you asked.”

“You called me waterlily.”

“That was -”

“A mistake,” Dew cuts in. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with memory.

“I’m trying, Dew,” Aether says, low. “I’m trying to meet you where you are. I just don’t know where that is anymore.”

Dew’s voice is quieter when it comes. “Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. Smoke curls between them, faint and uncertain.

Aether breaks the quiet. “Your amp’s in the practice room. Still set the way you left it.”

Dew nods once. Not agreement, just acknowledgment.

“If you come,” Aether adds, “come because you want to. Not because I told you to.”

He turns, leaving the circle as quietly as he entered.

Dew watches the place where he stood, fire still trembling low at his fingertips.

He doesn’t know if he’s angry at Aether, or if he’s angry because he isn’t.

He exhales, sharp and bitter. Moves to wipe his hands on his pants. But before his fingers meet fabric, something shifts.

The fire that hovered in threads and wisps suddenly flares.

No smoke or spark or hissing steam.

Flame.

True flame, hot and hungry and whole, rips up from his palm and dances up his forearm in a ribbon of blistering gold. It’s beautiful.

It’s terrifying.

It holds steady for half a heartbeat - and then it vanishes.

Dew stares down at his hand, chest heaving.

Then groans.

“Of course,” he mutters, dragging both hands down his face. “Now? Now?”

No witness. No guidance. No idea what triggered it.

Just heat. Just proof he’s not completely cut off. Just a magic he doesn’t know how to trust.

The scorch mark on the stone still smokes, thin and curling. If it wasn’t for that mark, he might have thought he hallucinated the whole thing.

Dew sits hard on the edge of the training bench, rubbing his palm with the heel of the other hand.

For a second, he almost laughs.

It figures.

The fire finally answers.

And all it gives him is more questions.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The breeze shifts.

Rain’s fingers trail along the last of the ivy as he rounds the curve of the garden path. Sunlight warms his shoulders, his breath easy in his chest.

For a moment, he forgets where he is - not in the Depths, not in the summoning chamber. Somewhere in between, still learning what it means to be here.

Swiss waits by the outer gate, leaning against the post like he’s been there a while. One foot propped, arms crossed, an easy grin tugging at his mouth when he sees Rain approach.

“Hey, fishcake,” he says. “Didn’t want you getting turned around on the way to rehearsal. The Ministry is tricky when it wants to be.”

Rain stops beside him, head tilting slightly. The light catches in his hair, still damp from the lake.

“Thank you,” he says.

The harmonics bloom behind the words like low tide and sunrise.

Swiss blinks. Stares. “Shit. That’s your voice?”

Rain nods once.

“It’s... wow. That’s something else,” Swiss says, breath caught. “Could knock the air right out of someone if you weren’t trying to be so polite.”

Rain’s glow flares faintly - soft green, edged with blue.

Swiss straightens and nudges him lightly. “C’mon. They’ll want to hear you. Whether you’re ready or not.”

They fall into step together. Rain walks barefoot, quiet. Swiss doesn’t push for more.

The moss gives way to stone as they near the rehearsal wing. Ahead, a guitar hums - warm-up chords, soft and familiar.

“Do you know anything about what they’re having me play?” Rain asks, voice low.

“Bass? Not really,” Swiss admits, with a half-shrug. “But you’ve got the hands for it. That, and... it was Dew’s.”

Rain’s glow shifts at the base of his throat again, pale violet and uncertain. Swiss doesn’t push. Just adds, “You don’t have to be him. You’ve just gotta be you. That’ll be enough.”

They stop at the half-open door.

Rain’s fingers brush the frame. “I want to try.”

Swiss smiles. “Then try.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The rehearsal room is sunlit and vaulted, soundproofed with thick stone and careful spellwork. Racks of instruments line the far wall - guitars, basses, a battered upright piano. The air smells faintly of rosin, ozone, and old incense, like someone’s been there recently.

Copia is pacing near the mixing table, clipboard in one hand and a half-empty espresso in the other. His suit jacket is off, sleeves rolled, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Aether stands by an amp rack, adjusting a cord with sharp, efficient movements. He doesn’t glance up at first - too focused, or at least pretending to be.

Rain steps inside beside Swiss, quiet and unsure.

Copia turns at the sound. His expression, already mid-sentence, softens as he spots Rain.

“Ah, il nostro pesciolino!” he says brightly, voice pitched somewhere between theatrical affection and genuine surprise. “You came. Bravissimo.”

Rain inclines his head. ““I want to try. The music.”

Copia blinks. Then beams. “Your voice!”

The words echo - not just in sound, but in texture. Rain’s voice carries that layered resonance again, subtler now, like a chord played in a minor key beneath the melody.

Aether stills.

Copia chuckles. “Lucifer’s tongue, you water types are always melodic. I should have brought a recorder.” He sets the clipboard down with a flourish. “No matter. We’ll get you tuned up soon. And,” he gestures toward the wall of instruments, “we’ll need to choose your bass.”

Rain’s gaze drifts across the lineup. His eyes catch on a worn, light-bodied one near the end. He doesn’t reach for it yet.

Behind him, Aether speaks. “That was Dew’s.”

Rain doesn’t turn.

“I know.”

Copia’s expression falters, just for a beat. He smooths it with a smile. “And Dew will teach him to play it, when he’s ready.”

Rain hums low in his throat, not quite agreement or refusal.

Copia claps his hands together, a little too briskly. “Well then! I’ll leave you boys to it. Swiss, don’t break anything. Aether…try.”

Swiss gives a mock salute. Aether doesn’t respond.

Copia sweeps from the room in a flurry of espresso fumes and rehearsal notes.

Rain doesn’t move to the instrument. Instead, he studies Aether for a moment - measured and silent. He doesn’t speak the question rising in his throat.

Aether answers it anyway.

“I didn’t help,” he says. “At the summoning. When Dew was burning. I should have. But I didn’t.”

Rain’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his bioluminescence dims, just briefly.

“I remember,” he says.

Aether swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Rain doesn’t respond. He just steps toward the bass he’d already chosen. His fingers brush the neck and the strings hum faintly beneath his touch.

“Then show me,” he says softly, “what comes next.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The rehearsal room isn’t what Dew expects.

It’s brighter than it used to be. Still layered with cables, dust, and old incense ash - but now it hums faintly with something he can’t name. Like a lost memory trying to rebuild itself.

He steps in without knocking.

And stops - fast.

Rain is near the far amp stack, bass cradled against his chest like something fragile. Not the communal beater either - his.

The white one, scuffed where his claw used to rest. The strap is adjusted too high, the grip is all wrong.

Aether stands near him and Swiss is perched on a stool nearby, strumming an acoustic guitar low and easy, his foot tapping in time.

He knows they can’t see him yet. He could still leave. Back away into the hallway, vanish like he was never there at all.

Rain plucks a note. It buzzes out of tune. His face creases and his ears glow pink, embarrassed.

“You’re fine,” Aether murmurs. “Try again - loosen your shoulder.”

He leans in towards Rain, reaching a hand towards him. Rain stiffens just slightly, breath sharp - not fear, but not welcome either.

Dew sees it and his chest pulls tight.

Before he knows it, he’s moving.

Across the room. Fast, quiet. The air around him smells of smoke - static and tight. He steps between them. Doesn’t look at Aether, doesn’t say a word.

His voice is low, gruff with restraint, eyes staring distinctly over Rain’s shoulder. He holds out an open hand, gesturing to the strap.

“May I?”

Rain’s gaze drops, looking to meet Dew’s. He doesn’t, but gives the smallest nod anyways. Before Dew can lose his confidence, he’s stepping in, hands already moving. He adjusts the strap first, unhooking it and lowering it two notches.

“It’s too high,” he mutters, low and clipped. “You’ll lose all your wrist motion.”

He steps behind Rain - close, but careful. His hands settle on the instrument, not the ghoul.

“Your fretting hand, it’s too tight. You’re choking the neck.” He reaches around to adjust Rain’s grip, gently brushing against his fingers.

“It should feel like an extension of you. Not a fight.” His voice is quieter now.

Rain doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just watches him. Watches how Dew’s hands remember the bass like it’s still part of him. Watches how he never once looks up.

“You’re holding the pick wrong,” Dew adds, stepping to Rain’s side. “It’s not a dagger. Loosen your grip. Let it move with you.”

He shows him, his own pick in hand, fingers loose, motion smooth, and then clips his own bass on in one practiced sweep, muscle memory taking over.

Aether shifts like he might say something but thinks better of it.

Swiss gives Rain a look, something unreadable.

Rain says nothing. But he feels it.

The tether.

His glow pulses a rosy gold in the webbing between his fingers, soft and steady.

Dew doesn’t see it, focused on tuning his bass… but Rain does.

He feels it, too. Like a rising tide, too slow to drown in, but too fast to outrun.

Swiss strums a slow, steady chord. “Try following this.”

Rain nods once, jaw clenched, and adjusts. Another note. A little clearer, this time. The strings vibrate against his fingers like a question.

“Good,” Swiss says gently, strumming something simple for him to follow. “Try playing that root. Just once, every four.”

Rain tries. Fumbles. Tries again.

And Dew watches him - soft curls falling across his brow, gills flexing faintly with the effort, luminescence stuttering up his arms and across his hands. He doesn’t say anything…just flicks the bass on and starts playing.

Rain listens, eyes narrowed as he watches.

Then, without thinking, he plays it back. It’s not perfect, but the root note lands. The slide catches a beat late, but the tone is warm and resonant.

Aether stills. Swiss blinks. And Dew doesn’t stop.

His fingers press harder to the strings now, anchored into the music.

Rain matches him again.

Not because he knows how. But because, somehow, he remembers.

Swiss keeps strumming slow chords, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. But his eyes flick between the two bassists, amused and maybe a little in awe of Rain’s focused concentration and the tension crawling up Dew’s spine.

Aether crosses his arms, leaning against the amp stack, gaze pinned to the low thrum between them.

Their sound locks - gravity, orbiting. Pulling towards something neither of them can name.

Rain glances down at his hands, the webbing of his fingers pulsating soft violet now, edged in the same rose gold.

Dew still doesn’t look up. But his jaw tics, like he’s trying to not feel what’s blooming between the strings.

The tether tightens, rhythm pulsing, something growing between them that is undeniable.

Dew adjusts slightly, shoulders squaring toward him now. Still not looking directly at Rain, but… closer. His fingers slide along the strings, smoother. Familiar. Muscle memory rising where thought used to crowd.

Rain mirrors the phrasing. Still not perfect, but instinctive.

Aether shifts, voice too casual. “Nice phrasing.”

Swiss shoots him a look, then clears his throat. “Think I left my slide ring in the other room.”

Aether nods, suddenly serious. “And I need to check the…call schedule.”

Dew sends a single pulse down the pack-thread, dry and sharp: if you leave me alone with him right now I will immolate myself and take this cursed bass with me.

Aether’s brow lifts, amused, and neither of them moves.

Rain watches them. Then looks back at Dew. The music falters, but doesn’t stop.

Rain plays one more note. Then another.

Dew answers it, even as he grits his teeth.

The sound between them hangs - not music anymore. Not quite.

Aether shifts awkwardly, moving towards the amps, and his foot catches the power strip.

Click.

Silence. The hum cuts out. The air stills.

“Whoops,” he mutters. Too loud, not sorry in the slightest.

Swiss lets out a quiet laugh, unstrapping his guitar. “Alright. Guess that’s rehearsal for today.”

Rain doesn’t move at first, just rests his fingers lightly on the frets, reluctant to put the instrument down.

Dew steps back. His eyes flick to Rain. Then away. Fast. His mouth opens, then shuts again. Like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“Take a break,” he grits, the words landing sharper than he means.

Swiss gestures toward the door. “Rain. Want to walk with me?”

Rain nods slowly and sets the bass down with careful hands, like it’s something sacred. He follows Swiss out and doesn’t look back.

The door closes behind them with a quiet click.

Dew stays where he is. Fire flickers faintly at his fingertips, barely there. The air still smells faintly of ozone and ash; residue from the amplifier’s cut power, from everything unsaid. He stares at the floor where Rain had stood. The imprint of him, the memory of his hands on the bass.

Aether shifts beside the unplugged amp, uncertain. “Hey -”

Dew doesn’t look up.

Aether tries again, gentler. “Dew, I -”

“Just don’t.” Dew’s voice is flat. Final.

It hits like a punch to the gut. Dew doesn’t look up, doesn’t wait. He walks out, footsteps hard and fast, his fire whispering smoke behind him.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

They walk in silence for a moment, footsteps echoing through the hall.

Rain is the first to speak, voice unsure. “Can we go there?”

Swiss glances over. “Where?”

Rain doesn’t meet his eyes. “Where it happened. I think… I need to see it.”

He doesn’t explain why, and Swiss doesn’t ask, just nods once. “Alright.”

Rain’s eyes linger on the walls as they walk, on the worn tapestries, the sigils carved into stone. Some pulse faintly with old summoning magic. Others just ache.

They turn the corner - and nearly run into Mountain.

“Hey,” Mountain says gently. “Was just coming to find you.”

Rain tilts his head and Swiss glances at him, then back at Mountain. “He asked to see the summoning chamber.”

A beat passes, but Mountain nods once. “I’ll come with.”

Rain doesn’t speak, but he meets Mountain’s eyes with a gentle smile. Mountain falls into step on one side, Swiss on the other. No words. Just presence.

The corridor narrows as the air thickens. The stone underfoot shifts, etched with circles and faded burn marks like clawed hands reaching outwards.

The chamber waits ahead.

Watching.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew rounds a corner, alone now. His pulse too loud in his ears. He plants a hand on the stone wall, steadying himself. The surface is cool - wrong. He wants water, wants fire, wants anything but this choking in-between.

He presses his forehead to the wall and whispers, “You said I’d be enough.”

But the wall doesn't answer.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain slows as they approach, feeling the shift in the air. Swiss steps forward and pulls the doors open with a grunt.

The chamber is colder than he remembered, wide and domed and strangely quiet.

Rain steps over the threshold and his glow dims. No out of fear, but something older. Respect maybe. Recognition.

The room feels like it's breathing around him, still laced with the scent of smoke and salt. The circles remain, one water-washed and the other scorched…the soot never quite came out. The sigils around it have frayed, the wax in the candle dishes have long since cooled to cracked stone.

But something hums.

Mountain’s voice is gentle. “You came up here.” He points to the mossy outline near the circle’s center. There’s a faint outline near the edge - just the size of a lanky water ghoul - where Rain collapsed after he arrived.

Rain stares at it. His breath shudders.

Swiss crouches beside the old sigils near the burned circle. “And Dew was -” he gestures to the scars burned into the floor. “Right in the center.”

Rain’s eyes drift toward the ash spiral.

His fingers twitch.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew paces now, aimless. His fists clench and unclench. Somewhere in the Ministry, he knows Rain is standing in the chamber. He feels it like a blade twisting into his side. He wants to know why Rain’s down there, he wants to understand why he cares.

Why he keeps being pulled towards things he’ll never be enough for.

Aether appears at the end of the hall.

"I didn’t mean to -"

Dew stops walking. Doesn’t turn.

"You don't get to mean anything anymore."

Aether flinches.

Dew walks away. Smoke curls at his heels.

Aether doesn’t follow.

It lingers long after Dew is gone - sharp and bitter and final.

The corridor stills.

Then - a pulse. Quintessence.

It hums low in Aether’s chest, a resonance he can’t stop. A tremor behind his ribs.

This is what it feels like when a bond breaks. Not with a snap.

But with silence.

He feels the shape of it, the space where Dew used to be. The way he never quite fit into the places Aether kept trying to make for him.

All that time, Aether thought he was helping. Supporting.

But he hadn’t seen him. Not really. Kept waiting for a voice Dew would never have, despite insisting that he was listening.

And now it’s too late.

The resonance fades.

And Aether is alone in the quiet.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain steps carefully to the edge of the circle, lowers himself gently to his knees.

The ash has settled, undisturbed. He brushes his fingers over the grooves in the stone, and something pulses faintly against his palm. Not pain, but a memory.

Then - a glint. Half-buried in ash near the edge of the circle. Rain leans over and lifts it.

It’s…a shard. Translucent, blue-green, like sea glass melted at the edges. It’s beautiful.

He cradles it in both hands, something precious. The lavender ringed in rose gold returns, now pulsing in the palms of his hands.

Swiss and Mountain stand quietly, alert, but giving space. They don’t say anything. Just watch as Rain holds Dew’s broken horn in his palms, and lowers his forehead to it, pulsing a faint, ocean blue before softening again.

In the shadows near the far archway, a figure waits. Still as bone, cloaked in silence. Delta doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. They, too, just watch.

Lips curled.

Pleased.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The dorm corridor glows dim with evening light, warm and heavy. Behind the closed door, Dew can hear faint sounds: the soft scrape of a drawer, the click of a glass being set down. Rain is inside. Alive. Settling.

Whole.

Dew stares at the door like it might open itself. Like it might offer him something if he just waits long enough.

His fingers twitch as he stands in silence.

He bounces on his feet, tail flicking behind him. Finally, he raises his hand to knock.

And -

---

---

---

The knock is soft - two short taps, then a third, more tentative.

Rain blinks from where he’s perched cross-legged on his narrow bed, half-awake, the piece of Dew’s horn still clenched in his fist. His eyes catch the last streak of sun trailing across the floorboards like a ribbon of gold, and for a moment he hesitates.

Then he rises, shoves the horn into his pocket, and opens the door.

Swiss and Mountain stand in the hallway, framed by warm lamplight and the scent of garden soil and ozone.

“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Mountain says gently.

Rain shakes his head.

Swiss grins. “We brought you a gift. Kind of. Thought you might like it.”

He reaches into the pouch slung across his shoulder and pulls out a small, boxy object - rounded corners, see-through plastic. Tangled headphones trail from it like seaweed.

Rain tilts his head. “...What is that?”

“This,” Swiss says, holding it up reverently, “is a walkman.”

Rain stares.

Mountain adds helpfully, “It plays music. Like a - like a song stone. But human.”

Rain’s brow furrows further. “It looks like a... bait trap.”

Swiss barks a laugh. “Honestly? Not far off.”

He offers it up. Rain takes it with both hands, cradling it like a strange relic. It hums with static magic he doesn’t recognize - mechanical, hummingbird fast, somehow alive.

“We brought a bunch of Ghost tracks,” Mountain explains. “Old performances. Copia’s picks. You can listen and start getting a feel for the sound.”

“There’s one button that skips forward, one that rewinds,” Swiss says, pointing like it’s sacred geometry. “Start slow. You’ll get the hang of it. You push this button here to open it and change the tape.”

Rain slides the headphones over his ears - wrong at first, then right. He touches the play button and flinches slightly at the sudden surge of sound. The vocals kick in first - sharp, bright, layered with power. Then the rhythm section drops in behind it, and he goes still.

The music crashes like a wave against something deep in him. Unexpected. Unfamiliar, but something speaks to him all the same.

Swiss watches him. “Not bad, right?”

Rain lifts the headphones off one ear. “It’s... loud.”

Mountain chuckles. “It’s supposed to be.”

Rain sets the walkman gently on the nightstand, glow flickering faintly along his jaw. “Thank you.”

Swiss shrugs, casual. “You’re part of the project now. Gotta start somewhere.”

Mountain nudges him. “We’ll leave you to it. Let us know if you need help rewinding it. It’s a little cursed.”

They retreat with a wave and a smile.

Rain closes the door behind them and sits back on the bed, fingers still ghosting over the strange little device. The weight of it is solid, a reminder that it’s all real.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew hears them before he means to.

Laughter. The low thrum of Mountain’s voice. Swiss teasing softly. Rain’s quiet curiosity, unfamiliar and sharp in his chest.

They sound like pack.

He closes his eyes.

That old, sour ache flares low and deep in his stomach. He could open the door. Could cross the hall. Could try.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pushes up from the floor and crosses to the storage crate tucked beneath his bed. The lid sticks at first, then gives.

Inside there’s cables, old picks, a few worn notebooks with setlists half-scratched through. And at the bottom, stacked in a thin case, nearly forgotten, are his old training tracks. Bass lines isolated. Raw. Just the bones.

His fingers hover over them.

He pulls them out one by one, thumb brushing over the labels. Ghost songs stripped down to what held them steady. What used to hold him steady.

Then, slowly, he rises.

Walks to the door.

He lays a hand against it. Just his palm, just enough to feel the cool of it. The world waits on the other side - warmth, maybe. Or failure.

But he’s still standing.

Still listening.

Still thinking about opening it.

Chapter Text

The halls of the Ministry are still when Rain returns.

Early light filters through the upper windows in pale blue streaks, pooling across the stone. The floor is cool beneath his feet, and the air clings damp to his skin. Water beads along his jaw and drips, silent, to the floor.

The lake’s quiet still lingers in him, moonlit and endless. For a while, it had felt like the only sound in the world was his own pulse.

Now, back on dry stone, the silence feels hollow. Waiting.

He rounds the corner to his room.

Pauses.

Just outside his door sits a small stack of jewel-colored cases, their handwritten labels neat but smudged at the edges with time. He crouches to inspect them, water trailing down his calves.

Absolution (bass only). Ritual (bass only). FTPTTP – isolated/slowed.

He touches one.

No music plays, but something inside him answers, something deep and coiled behind his sternum. A resonance. As if someone had left a chord behind for him to find.

The air around the towering stack of tapes still holds a hint of warmth. Just the faintest flicker of heat, not from the rising sun, but from someone who left just before the light broke.

Dew.

He doesn’t know for sure, but he’s certain anyway.

Rain gathers the bundle to his chest, glow blooming soft and yellow at his collarbones and in the palms of his hands. A thank you he can’t yet voice.

He slips inside his room, no intention to linger.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Barefoot, shirtless, and still dewy from the lake, Rain pads into the kitchen.

The den is quiet. He assumes the others are still asleep - Swiss and Mountain tend to stay up late, Sunshine usually rolls out after mid-morning. The silence feels permissive.

So he moves softly, deliberately.

He fills the kettle. Slices fruit with a small, precise knife. The music hums in his ears - low, rhythmic, the isolated bassline threading like a heartbeat through his movements.

He hasn’t quite figured out the cord for the headphones yet. It loops awkwardly over one shoulder, winds once around the base of a horn, and causes them to sit just a little crooked across his ears.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

His hips sway gently to the beat as he slices - tail flicking low, shoulders loose. Every now and then, he pauses to rewind the tape, head tilting slightly, lips moving soundlessly along with the pulse of the song.

The light in the kitchen is soft; honey-filtered and absurdly flattering. His glow has settled into a pale wash along his collarbones and spine, like starlight trying not to be noticed.

He thinks he’s alone.

He is definitely not alone.

“Okay,” Sunshine says softly, lifting one hand like she’s surrendering to art. “I take it back. The surface sickness was worth it.”

Rain startles, nearly dropping the knife.

He turns - and there she is, half-leaned against the doorway, grinning like a cat who’s just found something breakable.

“I didn’t hear you,” he says, pulling the headphones down, still a little lopsided.

“Clearly,” she hums. “Don’t stop on my account. The vibes are immaculate.”

Rain flushes faintly. The glow along his chest shifts toward peach. He straightens, adjusting the cord with awkward fingers.

“Do you do this every morning?” she asks, circling the kitchen island with far too much interest. “Is this, like, your ritual?”

Rain blinks. “I -”

“Because if so,” she adds, plucking a slice of pear from the board and popping it into her mouth, “I’m converting to whatever religion this is.”

Before Rain can respond, another set of footsteps approaches.

Swiss rounds the corner, yawning - and freezes mid-step.

“Oh, no.” He turns back into the hallway like a man repenting. “Nope. Nope. Not again.”

“Coward,” Sunshine calls after him.

Rain frowns slightly, confused.

But then the air changes.

Another presence enters the room. Familiar…tense.

Rain turns slightly, smiling. “Oh. Good morning.”

And Dew sees him. Really sees him.

Shirtless, glowing, hips swaying gently to the bassline he doesn’t even realize is still playing. Headphones crooked around one horn, glowing like some kind of radiant disaster.

Dew’s breath catches mid-step.

The edges of the room blur. He registers the heat first, then the ache - low and awful and alive in his chest.

He forgets how to move.

Rain tilts his head, innocent as still water. “Did you sleep - ?”

Dew makes a sound. Might be a word, could be a prayer.

Rain tilts his head the other direction. The headphone cord shifts again, snagged ever so slightly on his left horn, one ear covered, the other bare. His eyes are clear and soft, and one fang is pressed into his bottom lip.

Dew thinks - this is it. This is what they meant by torment. This is what humans feel when they see angels and can’t bear the heat of it.

Sunshine hums into her tea like this is the best thing that’s ever happened. “This is so much better than pancakes,” she mutters.

Which is exactly when Swiss reappears - this time dragging Mountain behind him, one hand clamped dramatically over Mountain’s eyes like he’s shielding him from divine judgment.

“Don’t look, it’s not safe -”

“Swiss,” Mountain says calmly, “I can see just fine.”

Rain lets out a soft, strangled noise as Mountain peers over Swiss’s shoulder.

He takes in the scene: Rain flushed from head to tail, Dew frozen mid-breath, Sunshine drinking in the chaos like it’s chamomile.

Mountain nods once. “So, uh. Who wants pancakes?”

A beat of silence.

Then Cumulus pokes her head around the doorframe, blinking sleepily. “Did someone say pancakes?”

Cirrus follows close behind, rubbing her eyes. “Why is it glowing in here like someone triggered a mating display?”

“Don’t,” Dew mutters, barely audible.

“Oh, it’s you,” Cumulus says, spotting Rain. “That makes sense.”

Rain nearly drops the walkman. The glow along his throat and ribs has darkened into deepwater blue, swirling toward indigo in pulses he can’t control. He fumbles to tug the headphones off, but the cord only tangles further around one horn.

Dew mutters something foul and unintelligible into his sleeve.

Swiss finally lets go of Mountain’s face, waving dramatically. “Alright, alright! Everyone out of the kitchen unless you’re making breakfast or adding to Rain’s existential crisis!”

“I’m fine,” Rain lies.

“You’re navy,” Cirrus says flatly.

“I’m leaving,” Dew grits out, turning - but walks straight into Mountain, who casually steadies him.

“Pancakes,” Mountain says again, smiling like the only sane being in a collapsing universe. “Rain, sit down. Dew, breathe. Someone… find a griddle.”

Rain blinks as a plate appears in front of him. He sits, dazed, headphones still dangling, cord looped around one horn.

Dew slinks to the far end of the table, trying to be invisible. Swiss throws a dish towel at his head.

Cumulus is already making coffee. Cirrus is humming something that sounds like a funeral hymn. Sunshine clinks her mug gently against Rain’s.

“Welcome to the band, fishcake.”

Rain doesn’t answer. But the deep navy glow along his spine has dimmed, washed out by the warmth of the room, the smell of frying batter, and the quiet realization that this might be what belonging here feels like.

The kitchen fills - voices overlapping, dishes clinking, warmth blooming like steam. The chaos arranges itself into something functional.

At the stove, Mountain flips a pancake with practiced ease. Swiss sidles up behind him, eyes narrowed.

“That one’s too dark.”

Mountain glances back. “It’s golden.”

“It’s almost burnt!”

“It’s caramelized.”

Swiss snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It’s literally a thing.”

“Is it a thing or are you just trying to sound hot while you flip breakfast?”

Mountain freezes. Just for a second. Then, coolly, “Why, is it working?”

Swiss blinks, hard, recalibrating. Then he grabs another spatula and flips the next pancake flawlessly, shouting over towards the table - “Rain! You like your pancakes more golden or more… caramelized?”

Rain blinks from where he’s cradling his mug, unsure of what a pancake is, exactly. “Uhm, yes?”

“That’s not an answer,” Swiss grumbles, accidentally flipping the next one onto the floor.

Mountain picks it up with tongs, calm as ever. “That one’s yours.”

They do not look at each other.

“For the love of Luci,” Cirrus grumbles, “mate already.”

Sunshine, without missing a beat, cackles into her tea.

Rain shakes his head with silent laughter, the headphones still hanging crooked, cord snagged.

“Hold still,” Cumulus says gently, stepping closer. She reaches to unwind it with careful fingers.

Rain tilts his head obediently. Her touch is soft, like she’s detangled worse from kits and performance gear alike.

Dew watches from across the table, spoon halfway to his mouth.

Cumulus’s fingers brush just behind the base of Rain’s horn.

Crrrrrrrrt-

The spoon in Dew’s hand bends with a sudden, sharp twist of heat.

The table goes still.

No one says a word.

Cirrus lifts an eyebrow. Sunshine slowly lowers her tea.

Mountain takes the bent spoon from Dew’s hand without comment and replaces it with a fork.

Rain blinks, looking between the two utensils like he’s unsure what just happened.

Cumulus hands him the now-unwound headphones. “There. Good as new.”

“Thanks,” Rain murmurs, his ear fins pulsing brilliant salmon.

He carefully tucks the headphones tighter into the curve of his arm, as if trying to make himself smaller. Dew hasn’t looked at him once, just picks at his plate as the chaos begins to settle again.

Rain sips from his mug quietly, his shoulders lower now. Sunshine is pouring what may be considered an obscene amount of syrup onto her pancakes, sticky with delight while Cirrus watches in what could only be described as abject horror.

The whole den smells like cinnamon, and for a moment, it feels like the morning might actually stay kind.

That’s when the door opens, and Aether strides in.

He’s carrying a clipboard. No coffee. No preamble.

His expression makes it clear he’s had exactly one hour of sleep and has already filed three complaints in his mind since entering the room.

“Glad to see the kitchen survived,” he says, voice dry. “Anyway, the first formal rehearsal’s tomorrow.”

He’s met with a chorus of groans.

“Copia expects everyone present, punctual, and -” his eyes flick briefly to Rain, to the tangle of his headphones, to Dew’s spoon still cooling on the table “- somewhat functional.”

Sunshine lifts her mug in mock salute. “Well. If we’re gonna be tortured tomorrow, we’re bonding tonight.”

Aether exhales sharply. “Sunny -”

“Nope. Not optional.” She grins wide, full of teeth and authority. “Everyone’s meeting at the firepit by the lake before sunset. You don’t show, I’m dragging you there by your tails, horns, or ears, depending on my mood.”

Mountain nods solemnly. “She will.”

Cirrus raises a hand. “Do we get food?”

“Of course we get food,” Sunshine says, scandalized. “This is a healing bonding night. With carbs and bad decisions.”

Cumulus hums into her tea. “Should we pack bandages or just marshmallows?”

“Yes,” Swiss says.

Aether looks toward the floor like he’s begging Lucifer to swallow him whole.

Rain glances around the table - at the laughter, the teasing, the bent spoon no one mentions.

He doesn't speak.

But he doesn’t stop glowing, either.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Later in the day and under the guise of “needing to get ready,” Dewdrop slips back to his room.

The noise of the den fades behind him as he stands near the wide window at the end of his bedroom, forehead resting against the cool pane. Evening presses soft against the glass. Beyond the trees, the lake catches fire in the low sun.

In his hoodie pocket, the spoon presses against his hip bone.

He doesn’t remember taking it. Couldn’t say why he did.

It’s bent - clean and decisive, the metal curled like a ribbon, heat-warped where his grip had clenched too tight.

He exhales. Not quite a sigh. Just… release.

They’d all looked so effortless in the kitchen. Like they’d always belonged.

Rain glowing navy and pink under compliments. Cumulus unwinding wires with quiet ease. Sunshine grinning into her tea. Swiss cracking jokes, Cirrus laughing too loud. Even Aether, clipboard and all, had looked almost normal, despite the way he looked at everyone but him.

But Dew?

He’d sat there burning. The only one who couldn’t make it look easy. The only one who couldn’t pretend it wasn’t too much.

The heat’s still there now, under his ribs, low and bitter.

But it’s not just about Rain. Not really.

It’s about how Rain makes it all look so doable. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Just new.

Dew remembers what it felt like to be new. To wake on stone with his throat raw and his magic wrong. To see Aether’s face shift from relief to doubt in a single breath. To be silent in a place that demanded song, suddenly thrust into a world where he could speak and yet still no one listened.

His fingers twitch.

But he’s still here. Still standing. Still trying.

Isn’t that worth something?

His gaze drops, catching on a lime green tape that he doesn’t remember keeping out of Rain’s pile.

See the Light – bass only.

He turns toward a small crate by his desk, shuffling through cords, a worn strap, a few scraps of useless paper. At the bottom is a tape player. Still functional…mostly.

He turns the tape in his hands a few times before loading it in and hitting play.

The player hums.

And then - just bass. Just bones. The sound of structure beneath the noise.

The part no one hears until it’s gone.

Dew closes his eyes.

The song plays through him. Doesn’t ask for anything. Just lets him sit, cradled in the warmth of something familiar.

When it ends, he doesn’t speak.

But he moves.

Back to the door, one hand on the knob.

Still listening.

Almost opening it.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain arrives before the others.

The lake is glassy and still, rimmed with low golden light. He doesn’t hesitate - just steps to the edge, sheds his clothes, and slips into the water with the quiet grace of someone returning home.

Below the surface, everything muffles. Even the worry. The lake holds him, wrapping cool arms around his limbs and spine. He lets his body drift, bioluminescence trailing from his gills and the soft undersides of his arms. Breathing is easy here. Easier than it ever is on land.

He doesn’t hear the crunch of footsteps at first.

Doesn’t hear Sunshine round the bend, balancing a crate of mismatched mugs and a box of marshmallows against one hip.

She stops dead in her tracks.

Rain is just emerging - water sheeting down his chest, hair slicked back, eyes half-lidded like the surface light is still too bright. He moves slow, unhurried. Radiant without meaning to be.

Sunshine stares for exactly three seconds.

Then, as flat as can be, she speaks. “Thank Lucifer Dewdrop isn’t here. We’d be putting out a forest fire.”

Rain blinks at her, unaware, water dripping steadily down his spine.

She tosses a towel in his direction. “Dry off and cover up, Prince Tidelight. I need help setting up seating before this turns into an elemental catastrophe.”

Rain catches the towel mid-air, expression soft with confusion and the faintest curl of a smile.

“Yes, Sunshine.”

She groans like it’s a personal attack, already turning toward the firepit with her crate.

Rain watches her go, then turns back toward the lake.

The surface has already stilled behind him, save for the slow eddies trailing where he stepped out. His reflection breaks and reforms - salt and flame, old waterlight caught on new skin, something not yet named.

He presses the towel to his chest before wrapping it tight around his waist.

It’s strange, being above water and still feeling… held. He’s not sure it will last, if Aether will come, if Dew will show, or what that even means for him.

He breathes. Once. Twice.

Then joins Sunshine with a quiet smile, laughing when she very firmly asks him to put on his fucking pants.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Sunshine finishes arranging the last chair and tosses a few more logs onto the firepit, her motions efficient and half-singing with leftover adrenaline. She checks her watch, mutters something about needing to grab skewers from the pantry, and disappears back toward the path.

Rain remains.

The sun has slipped lower, staining the lake copper and wine. The firewood is stacked, the kindling arranged. All that’s left is the waiting.

Rain walks the edge of the fire circle in slow, measured steps. His bare feet leave faint, wet prints in the grass. He pauses by one of the chairs, off to the side but not apart. A little out of the fire’s direct warmth. He reaches down, folds a blanket across the seat. Neatly. Thoughtfully. His glow flickers gold-green.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but it’s for Dew.

He doesn’t know if he’ll come. But the seat will be warm if he does.

Rain straightens, then crouches beside the firepit. The kindling is dry, the edges already catching the last streaks of sun. He reaches into the crate beside the pit and pulls out an old lighter that Sunshine showed him; metal-bodied, a little rusted at the hinge.

She’d taught him how to flick it open with a flourish, grinning like it was a magic trick, her fingers warm and sure on his wrist. Click, spark. Try again.

His hands are damp now. Of course they are.

The first flick sparks. Then dies. The second skitters off his thumb.

He frowns in concentration, glow fluttering faintly at his collarbones. Tries again.

Spark.

Then flame.

He sets it gently to the kindling’s edge and watches as it takes; slow, uncertain, like it’s trying to remember how to be alive. He leans in - not close enough to burn, just close enough to feel the promise of heat.

His glow answers - amber and pale green, moving in slow tides beneath his skin.

He doesn’t fear it.

He just wonders - does it always hurt first, before it warms?

The fire crackles steady in the quiet clearing, dusk settling in like breath held between heartbeats.

“Is this private or can we interrupt?”

Swiss’s voice cuts through the stillness, light and teasing.

Rain turns.

Swiss steps into the clearing first, carrying a guitar case and two bags of snacks slung haphazardly over one shoulder. Behind him is Cumulus, already complaining about splinters, and Cirrus, who has somehow acquired an entire armful of camp mugs and a bag of instant cocoa.

“You’re early,” Swiss says, dropping into one of the chairs and setting his guitar case down.

Rain gestures slightly toward the lake. “It was quiet.”

“You say that like it's hard to find around here,” Cirrus laughs, stealing the best log seat with no shame.

“It is,” Cumulus adds. “Especially with this lot.”

From the trees, footsteps crunch - Sunshine reappears with a bundle of skewers in one hand and a triumphant smirk on her face.

“Look at that. Everyone’s behaving so far.”

“Miracles happen,” Mountain says, emerging behind her with a tray of something wrapped in foil and enough napkins to survive a full meltdown.

He passes Rain and pauses just long enough to nod at the fire.

“Nice light.”

Rain nods back. The corner of his mouth tilts upward.

Cirrus glances around. “Where’s Aether?”

Cumulus stirs her cocoa. “Omega needed help in the infirmary. Said he’d come if he could.”

Sunshine shrugs. “If he shows, he gets no marshmallows. Consequences.”

Rain’s eyes flick once toward the path. Aether isn’t coming. Not tonight.

Swiss is already tuning the guitar. Cumulus hands Rain a cup of cocoa. Cirrus starts pulling marshmallows from the bag with the precision of someone performing a sacred rite.

The circle grows brighter. The laughter starts to settle in.

But one chair remains empty, with a blanket folded across it.

The fire crackles low and steady, casting warm light across their faces. The scent of toasted sugar and pine wood curls in the air. Cirrus is busy constructing a marshmallow tower too structurally unsound to survive, while Cumulus heckles her from two seats over.

Mountain tends the food without comment, every movement unhurried. Sunshine, legs stretched toward the flames, tells a story about catching a mortal bassist trying to summon her with nothing but a kazoo and glitter chalk.

Rain sits quiet, absorbing it all.

His glow has mellowed to something pale and content. He curls his fingers around the mug Cumulus gave him, steam fogging slightly over his lower lashes.

Beside him, Swiss plucks idle notes on the guitar, a soft rhythm beneath the conversation. Not quite a melody. More like scaffolding.

Rain tilts his head, watching his fingers. Then, softly:

“What do you do in the band?”

Swiss doesn’t look up. Just shrugs one shoulder. “Still figuring that out.”

Rain’s brow furrows, faint.

“I wasn’t summoned,” Swiss adds, glancing sideways at him now. “Not like the others.”

“You weren’t?” Rain asks.

“Nope.” He grins, wolfish and not at all sorry. “Cirrus and Cumulus got called, and I just… jumped through with them. Hitched a ride.”

Cumulus, without looking up: “Ruined the formation spell.”

“He looked so smug about it,” Cirrus adds.

Rain blinks. “You weren’t punished?”

Swiss leans back on his hands, expression easy. “Copia was too busy trying to figure out what I was. Thought I was a misfire at first. I kept showing up to meetings until he gave up and handed me gear.”

“And now you play guitar?”

“Sometimes.” Swiss shrugs again, but it’s softer this time. “Mostly, I’m still trying it all out. I can hold rhythm when Aether’s out. Cover for Cirrus if she’s got a migraine. Bit of synth, bit of backup vocals.”

“Bit of everything,” Cirrus mutters.

Swiss smirks. “Jack of all trades. Master of none.”

Rain studies him, head tilted slightly. “But you belong.”

There’s no judgment in it. Just observation. Certainty, like a stone dropped in deep water.

Swiss holds his gaze for a moment longer. Then gives a quiet nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess I do.”

Rain smiles back.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The lake glows ahead - low firelight flickering between tree trunks, casting long shadows through the underbrush. Laughter rises and falls like wind, warm and undemanding.

Dew stands just out of sight.

He can see them - Rain’s silhouette close to the fire, a halo of gold-green clinging to his skin. Swiss with a guitar in his lap. Mountain tending something wrapped in foil. Cirrus and Cumulus arguing about sugar ratios while Sunshine adds even more.

It doesn’t feel like he’s outside of it.

But it doesn’t feel like he’s in it yet, either.

His hand rests on the nearest tree. The bark is rough beneath his palm. His heart kicks unevenly.

No one’s seen him yet. He could walk away. He’s done it before.

But tonight…

Tonight the laughter doesn’t sting. The glow doesn’t mock.

Rain isn’t waiting for him - Rain’s living.

Which might be worse.

And still -

Dew takes a breath, and steps out from the trees.

The firelight catches him as he crosses into the clearing. No one gasps. No one freezes. But Swiss lifts a brow in greeting. Mountain nods. Cumulus slides a foil packet a little closer to the fire like there’s suddenly just enough for one more.

Rain doesn’t turn.

But the glow along his shoulders shifts, as if he knows.

Dew swallows the rest of his fear and walks into the circle.

The night is full now - stars sifting through the trees, firelight throwing faint orange and umber across soft faces and relaxed shoulders. Somewhere off to the side, Cirrus is attempting to toast three marshmallows at once. Cumulus heckles her with theatrical gasps every time one starts to sag.

Rain’s glow is dim and steady, low gold where it gathers in the hollows of his throat. He sits beside Mountain now, a little apart from the main chatter, but not distant. Just listening.

Sunshine leans back against a log, arms folded behind her head, grinning the way she does when she’s about to be a problem.

“So,” she says casually, “have you two kissed yet, or are we still in the awkward breakfast tension stage?”

Swiss chokes on his cocoa.

Mountain doesn’t even blink.

Rain, startled, glances between them. “You still aren't…?”

Cumulus cackles. “They’ve been not-kissing since Swiss crawled out of our summoning circle.”

Rain’s brows lift slightly, glow deepening in quiet wonder. “But you act like -”

“We’re functional,” Swiss says quickly. “Mostly.”

“Perfectly capable of maintaining a stable working dynamic,” Mountain murmurs.

Everyone else groans.

Rain just smiles - like he’s watching something sacred and mildly ridiculous unfold.

The fire crackles.

Swiss shifts, brushing ash off his knees. His voice lowers - just enough to change the shape of the moment.

“Do you know how rare true soulbonds are?” he asks. The teasing fades, replaced by something steadier. Older. “Not just pair-bonds, or alignments, or promises. I mean the kind that burn themselves into myth.”

Dew settles onto a log near the edge of the firelight - not far, but not close enough to cast a shadow on anyone else. He doesn’t speak. Just watches Rain out of the corner of his eye, heart ticking a little too loud in his chest.

The story hasn’t started yet, but something in the air says it’s coming. Something old. Something that knows how to ache.

He braces himself without meaning to.

Rain’s glow catches on the curve of his cheek. He tilts his head. Listening.

Dew settles more fully on his log. He watches Rain, the shape of his glow, the way he holds still as if he's heard this story before. Something in Dew stills, too. He’s not ready.

But he listens anyway.

Swiss’s eyes reflect the firelight. “Not even Lucifer has one.”

A few heads turn. Even Cirrus looks up from her half-melted marshmallow tower.

“But that wasn’t always true,” Swiss adds quietly.

He leans forward, elbows on knees. The air stills around them - expectant, hush-hovering.

“Want to hear the story?”

Everyone nods, and Swiss leans closer to the fire. The glow paints his face in soft ochre and gold.

“Long before the Ghost Project,” he begins, voice low and warm, “Lucifer wandered the rivers.”

Rain’s breath quiets.

“Not for conquest,” Swiss continues. “Not for praise. Just to walk. To remember. To listen to the pull of the deep. Some say he wore no crown then - only salt on his boots and stars tangled in his hair.”

Sunshine makes a quiet sound, but doesn’t interrupt.

“He found her where the Great Salt River breaks into three. A water ghoul, ancient as the undertow. A healer. A leader. Her horns were ringed in silver and bone, and when she spoke, even the current stilled to hear her.”

Rain’s fingers tighten around his mug.

“They didn’t fall like mortals do. There was no rush to it. Just two old forces circling. Learning each other’s weight. She taught him to hold silence like a sacrament. He taught her to burn slow.”

Swiss smiles faintly.

“For a while, he stayed.”

Mountain sets the foil-wrapped tray a little closer to the flames. No one reaches for it.

“They say he carved her a ring from obsidian and river glass. Asked her to rise with him, to leave the depths and take the throne by his side.”

“And?” Rain asks, barely above a whisper.

Swiss meets his eyes.

“She said no.”

A hush rolls through the circle. The fire sputters once, then settles again.

“She loved him,” Swiss says. “But she had a people. A purpose. And he wasn’t her calling - just her match.”

Rain’s glow shifts, soft and sea-glass pale.

“So he left her with a blessing. And a promise. That if she ever needed him, she’d only have to whisper.”

Cumulus murmurs, “Did she ever call?”

“No,” Swiss says. “They say a year later she bore a child.”

Rain goes still.

“No one knows if it was His. Or if it even matters. The boy came out half-starlight and half-storm. With river water in his lungs and something older in his bones. They say he swam without shadows and spoke truths he hadn’t yet learned.”

Rain’s throat bobs. He doesn’t speak.

Swiss leans back slightly, letting the silence wrap around the story like a shawl.

“They say Lucifer still listens for her voice. That He keeps a glass horn on his altar, cracked down the center but never discarded.”

Then, softly - like the last flicker of myth:

“Legend says… He still watches over the plains, hoping one day to see her again.”

No one speaks for a moment.

The fire crackles.

Cirrus shifts, quietly blowing on her cocoa. Mountain adds another log.

Rain’s glow flickers now. Just faintly. A ripple of sea-glass green across his jaw before it disappears again.

Across the fire, Mountain watches him. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. Just sees him.

Swiss is quiet, still leaning forward. If he notices Rain’s reaction, he doesn’t show it - except for the softness around his mouth. A kind of knowing.

Then he leans back, brushing ash from his knees like the story hadn’t just sent someone spiraling quietly into their mug.

“Anyway,” he says, tone lighter now. “You asked what I do in the band.”

Rain looks up, startled. A half-second late, as though his thoughts had drifted somewhere too deep.

Swiss offers a casual grin. “Remember how I said jack of all trades?”

Rain nods, slow.

“I wasn’t kidding.” Swiss leans back into his seat, stretching his legs toward the fire. “I hold them all.”

Cirrus blinks. “Wait - what?”

Cumulus nearly drops her cup. “All? All the elements?”

Swiss just shrugs. “Earth. Fire. Water. Air. Touch of quint. Bit of shadow from an accident once, but I control it better now.”

Sunshine whistles low. “That’s not ‘jack of all trades,’ that’s ‘entire damn forge.’”

“Lucifer’s forge,” Cirrus mutters.

Rain doesn’t speak. But his gaze sharpens - focused now, less overwhelmed than curious. Like something clicked. Like Swiss just shifted the axis of the story.

Mountain just shakes his head, slow and fond. “No wonder you’re impossible to contain.”

“I prefer the term versatile,” Swiss says brightly. “And annoying.”

Cumulus kicks his boot. “You could’ve led with that when you came up.”

“I did,” Swiss says, grinning. “Just not with words.”

Rain’s eyes narrow slightly in thought. Not unkind. Just… recalculating.

The laughter is gentle now. Softer.

Swiss’s reveal hangs in the air like woodsmoke - shocking, yes, but already settling into the fire-warmed space the pack holds for strange truths.

The fire pops gently. Someone stirs the cocoa. The conversation doesn't rush to fill the silence.

Rain studies Swiss for a moment longer, thoughtful.

“Water-born?” he asks idly.

Swiss glances at him, curious. “Yup.”

Rain’s brows lift just a fraction. “Then fire?”

“Yep.” Swiss’s grin sharpens, but not cruelly. “Can tell, huh?”

Rain doesn’t answer.

Just hums low and noncommittal as he turns his gaze back to the fire. But his glow shifts, just slightly, curling soft around the base of his throat.

He knows.

That vision. The ghoul with the wild hair, the blessing at the temple. His mother's echoing voice and the flare of blinding heat.

He doesn’t say it aloud.

But Swiss catches the hum, the look, and his eyes twinkle like he’s letting Rain keep the secret… for now.

Rain leans back against the log, shoulders easing.

And that’s when he realizes -

Dew is sitting closer than he thought.

Not beside him, exactly. But not far. A few feet away, knees drawn up, a foil-wrapped something half-eaten in his lap.

Their eyes meet for half a second.

Then Rain looks away, polite.

But the heat curls in his chest all the same.

Dew watches Rain from the edge of the firelight.

He hadn’t meant to sit so close. Just… close enough. Close enough to hear him speak, if he chose to. Close enough to be counted, even if no one said his name.

Rain is still glowing as he leans back against the log, long fingers relaxed around his cocoa, head tilted as he hums something low under his breath. Not quite music. Not quite silence.

The kind of sound someone makes when they’re not afraid to be seen.

Dew’s throat tightens.

He thinks of spoons bent and tapes left by doors. He thinks of the fire in Rain’s hair, and the glow at his throat, and the way Rain had looked at Swiss like he understood something.

He wonders what it’s like - to glow without flinching. To be wanted without having to bleed for it.

Rain shifts slightly, and their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

There's only warmth. Quiet and slow, like a fire built to last.

Dew swallows hard and looks away.

But he doesn’t move.

The blanket is around his shoulders now - folded like he did it himself, but too careful, too precise.

Rain sees it. The one he left.

His breath catches. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

The glow at his throat flickers sea-glass soft, warmth blooming slow where it pools beneath his collarbones, streaked with rose gold.

Something settles in his chest.

Not ease, not yet.

But something like it.

Close by, wrapped in warmth Rain meant for him, Dew doesn’t look away. Not this time.

No, this time…he stays.

Chapter Text

The studio lights buzz low overhead, casting long lines across the floor like stage marks no one remembers laying down. Dust swirls in the beams, stirred by the low thrum of an amp warming up.

Rain stands near the doorway, still and sharp-eyed, as the older ghouls take their places one by one.

Ifrit slings his guitar up with the casual grace of someone born to wield it. Zephyr’s already perched at the keys, fingers flexing like he’s summoning lightning. Sunshine cracks her knuckles beside the mic, wild curls tamed into something of a high bun. Mountain settles behind the drum kit, calm as a held breath.

Dew lingers near the rack.

Two basses wait for him.

The older one - charcoal gray, scuffed along the edge, played during the other day's impromptu rehearsal. Familiar. Reliable. Distant.

And the white one.

His. Or at least… it used to be.

Sleek, sharp-lined, faintly opalescent under the stage lights. Rain used it - held it like something special, unsure and careful and reverent.

Now Dew’s hand hovers between them.

He hesitates.

Then reaches, slow and deliberate, for the white one. His thumb brushes the neck like an apology. Or a homecoming.

Rain doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the strap slides over Dew’s shoulder.

He watches, unmoving. Wishing, for a brief aching second, that he could step forward. Offer something. Say anything.

But the moment passes as Dew turns toward the riser, bass in hand.

The only move Rain makes is towards an unoccupied bench, settling with a quiet sigh.

-

Dew was the last to join the stage.

He’s all tension as he steps into the spotlight, but the second his fingers curl around the neck of the bass, something changes. Not all at once, but enough to be seen.

His magic hums low and steady. His jaw unlocks. His shoulders roll back.

Rain watches.

Watches his hands - his beautiful, nimble hands - move like they’ve always known the shape of that instrument. The same one Rain held like it might vanish if he touched it wrong.

The strap sits perfectly against Dew’s chest. The body curves against his ribs like it belongs there.

It does belong there.

Rain’s exhales. He wants to be glad Dew took it. That he felt safe enough to use it again. But something in his chest pulls tight. Not sharp, just… sore.

Rain doesn’t smile. But the line of his jaw tics, and his tail curls once around his ankle like it’s trying to tether him.

Copia leans against the far wall, arms folded, observing with careful stillness.

“This,” he says, voice pitched low to the row of new ghouls seated nearby, “is what Ghost is.”

Ifrit glances over and grins. “Let’s warm ’em up.”

Then the lights shift -

And the room explodes.

The opening riff kicks like ritual fire: sharp, intentional, grinding low into the gut. Zephyr’s synth weaves in next, electric and celestial, while Mountain hits the downbeat with thunder. Aether lays a backing rhythm and Sunshine’s voice slices clean through it all, radiant and cruel in the best possible way.

And Dew… moves.

There’s a breath of hesitation. A pause like a held note. But the rhythm catches him, and he gives in.

His body rolls with it, hips snapping, bass snarling under his hands. He leans into the groove, glow cracking molten down his wrists. Every motion sharp, hungry, precise.

Rain forgets to breathe.

He watches Dew swing with the beat, lashes damp, sweat curling the hair behind his horns.

Dew licks his thumb. Settles it against the pick again. Rain knows it has to be self-soothing. Knows it.

But it doesn’t help.

Because then Dew licks the neck of the bass.

A long, slow thing as he holds a tone - and then it’s over. His head snaps forward, tilted like he’s studying the audience.

Rain’s pupils dilate like he’s been struck.

He tells himself it’s just adrenaline.

It’s not.

He tells himself he’s not feeling it in his pants.

He is.

The spark that flares through his gut is something hungrier than a passing attraction. More dangerous. Like the tether tugged hard enough to twist.

He wants - fuck, he wants to look away. To respect Dew’s space. To offer something comforting, something safe.

But instead he’s sitting here, aching and angry at himself for not being able to do anything but watch.

Dew grinds against Ifrit. Just a moment. A flash of hip and snarl and shared flame.

Ifrit cackles and bites the air in return. Sunshine laughs in delight. Even Mountain nods along to the beat, grinning like he’s seeing an old part of Dew reawaken.

Rain’s luminescence flares once, instinctual and tight, like a defensive shimmer across his collarbones.

Not because Dew touched someone else.

Because Dew didn’t look at him once.

Because Rain can feel the tether in his chest growing taut - and still he doesn’t know how to reach despite it pulling him exactly where he needs to go.

He watches Dew lean into Aether’s space during a solo break, body close, smirk parted on his lips, but there’s no real mirth there. Just performance.

Rain sees it. Feels it.

But the arousal doesn’t dim. If anything, it sharpens; curled up tight with the yearning.

The wanting.

The grief.

Grief because he’s not the one Dew is smiling for, because he could make that smile real.

Grief because he doesn't know if he's allowed to try.

Grief because whatever’s made its home in his ribs won’t stop whispering: just step closer.

The performance ends in a blaze of distortion and light. One final beat from Mountain, one lingering synth chord.

Rain exhales like something inside him just broke.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just crosses his arms over his chest, fingers pressing hard into the fabric of his sleeves like he’s trying to hold something in.

His glow pulses low and erratic beneath his collar; it's not fading, but it’s unsteady. It matches the tightness in his chest. The pressure building behind his ribs, behind his teeth. He feels cracked open. Scalded and shivering in equal measure.

He doesn’t know what hurts more. That Dew never looked at him. Or that he couldn’t look away.

Behind him, a throat clears.

Copia hasn’t moved from his place against the wall.

He shifts now, just slightly, tilting his chin up, arms still folded, expression unreadable behind his glasses.

“Well,” he says, tone mild. “Now that was a performance.”

The silence lingers a beat too long.

Then Cirrus, from somewhere in front of Rain, stage-whispers, “Should I do what I did on summoning day?”

Copia chuckles. “No, cara mia, you screamed and tried to kick a Sister.”

Cirrus beams. “I love making new traditions.”

But Rain doesn’t laugh, just takes in the stage. It looks so much bigger now.

Dew rolls his shoulders back, hair damp with sweat, ember glow still thrumming low around his fingertips. He’s flushed from exertion - alive in a way Rain hasn’t seen before. Like the fire in him has finally found a place to burn clean. He pulls the bass from his shoulder and holds it by the neck, studying it. Like it isn’t still humming with heat and rhythm and want.

Rain’s throat feels too tight.

He watches as Ifrit slaps Dew on the back, grinning wide.

“Still got it, you little bastard,” he laughs, tugging the bass from Dew’s grip and setting it in a stand. “But this -” he holds up the lead guitar, “ - this is yours now.”

Dew hesitates.

Just for a second, before he takes it.

The strap slides over his shoulder with practiced ease. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look around to see who’s watching.

Rain still is. Watching the way Dew’s fingers skim the frets, light and quick. The way his stance shifts to something stronger. More sure of itself. The way the embers in his wrists flare a little brighter.

Rain’s heart gives an uneven thump.

He still doesn’t understand it, not fully. Not the wanting or the ache or the flicker of guilt that trails behind it like a shadow.

Because he saw Dew before this. He saw the frayed edges, the parts held together by nothing but force of will.

And now - now he’s watching him command the stage like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

Rain’s glow dims slightly, curling back into his throat.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

Contained and unsure.

Ifrit hops off the riser, tossing a towel over his shoulder as he waves toward the rest of the room. “Alright, new kids. Time to see the light.”

Rain’s studying the space Dew left behind, the warmth in the floorboards, the echo in the frets. His fingers twitch where they rest on his thighs.

Cirrus whoops. Cumulus elbows her. Swiss mutters something obscene under his breath and stays planted on his bench.

Rain swallows and walks forward.

The stage is still warm. Still humming.

And Dew, sweaty, glorious Dew, still doesn’t look at him.

Rain swallows hard. Stares at the bass in its stand for a second too long.

It’s his instrument now. He’s the one who started learning with it, chose it from all the others. But when he reaches for it, it feels heavier. Louder.

Like it remembers Dew’s hands better than it remembers his.

He picks it up anyway.

Rain steps across the riser slowly, careful with every movement. The strap tugs sharp at his shoulder. The body of the bass settles cold and unfamiliar against his ribs - like it knows it was held better by someone else.

It doesn’t fit the way it did before.

Or maybe he just doesn’t.

Cirrus and Cumulus bound up behind him, moving with the easy rhythm of ghouls who trust the floor to catch them. Cirrus twirls once beside the stack of keys, a ring of magic scattering from her hair. Cumulus hums as she adjusts her monitor, already layering harmonies under her breath like weather rolling in.

Rain finds a spot, tucked up on the riser, as far back as he can manage while still technically being on stage. He tucks his shoulders in. Quiets his glow.

His tail loops low around his ankles, careful not to touch anyone or anything. The stage that just looked so massive feels smaller now. Sharper.

Behind him, Mountain settles at the kit.

Swiss does not follow.

Instead, he stretches out next to Zephyr and Ifrit, lounging like he owns the place.

“I thought you were trying out,” Zephyr says, eyebrow raised.

Swiss grins. “I want to. But first, I’m testing how they perform under pressure.”

“You just want to ogle Mountain,” Ifrit mutters.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Swiss says serenely, chin propped on one hand. His gaze doesn’t leave the drums.

Rain catches the exchange from the corner of his eye.

It tugs a tired thread of amusement in his chest. But it doesn’t reach the surface.

And then Dew steps up to the front, where Ifrit stood before.

Rain feels the heat before he sees it. Fire magic coiled just under the skin. Guitar slung high, expression unreadable. All edge and distance and restraint.

Rain doesn’t look up but every sense strains toward him.

He wants to do anything but drown in the silence.

But Aether calls to him over his shoulder - reminds him which chord to strum on four, sets the tempo, and the moment slips away.

Cirrus and Cumulus pick up performing effortlessly, bright and cloudlight, their voices weaving into harmony with the kind of ease Rain can’t fake.

Rain lifts his hand.

Mimics Dew’s earlier posture. The stance. The angle. The hold.

But the bass feels heavier now. Like it's testing him. Judging.

He presses his fingers to the strings.

And falters.

The chord stutters. Off by half a breath. Barely audible.

But Rain hears it. Feels it. Like a crack splintering through something inside his chest.

His glow dims. Tucks tight to his spine like a creature folding in on itself.

He tries not to flinch.

Fails.

In front of him, Dew notices.

Rain doesn’t need to see it - he feels the shift. Feels the pause, sharp and silent, like teeth gritted behind a closed mouth.

Then Dew stumbles. Misses a note.

One beat. Then another.

Rain’s breath catches.

Dew recovers, but when Rain stumbles again, so does he.

And that’s when Aether speaks. Too sharp, too loud.

“Try listening behind you, Dew. You’re ahead.”

He doesn’t mean it in a cruel way, but that's how it lands. That, and it’s wrong.

Because Dew was listening.

To Rain.

To the ache of something trying to hold its shape.

-

The air changes.

Heat rolls off Dew’s shoulders, not fire exactly, but fury. The kind that burns low. The kind that scars.

The amp crackles.

A foam panel above them smokes.

Before anyone else can move, Rain does.

He doesn’t think. Just lifts his hand, his glow snapping brilliant turquoise in the tips of his fingers, and sends water arcing across the stage.

It hisses against the smoke.

Silence crashes down.

No one breathes.

Dew doesn’t speak, doesn't look at anyone.

He sets the guitar down gently, too gently, like he’s afraid it might break if he lets his grief through.

And then he walks offstage.

No words.

No look back.

Just the sound of footsteps leaving and the echo of everything unsaid.

The rehearsal room holds its breath.

The air tastes like ozone and ash.

Rain's fingers have gone still. His glow retreats and hovers faint and shaken along his collarbone, like it doesn’t know if it’s allowed to stay.

He doesn’t know if he is either.

Copia stands near the back.

Arms folded. One heel cocked against the baseboard, like he knew this would happen.

He surveys the stage - not as a mess, but as a reckoning.

A fault line split wide open.

“You know,” he says lightly, almost to himself, “when I asked for fire onstage… this isn’t quite what I meant.”

No one laughs.

Not this time.

Ifrit rolls one shoulder and winces like the entire rehearsal aged him ten years. Zephyr has already started coiling cables, slow and precise. Aether hasn’t moved - still near his amp, guitar tight in his grip.

Copia steps in closer, voice low.

“You alright, vecchio mio?”

Aether’s jaw tightens. His thumb presses hard into the fretboard, enough that the string warps slightly under his grip.

“We’re still finding our footing,” Copia offers, gentle now. “That’s what rehearsal is for.”

Aether doesn’t look up. “They’re not the problem.”

Copia’s brow lifts. “No?”

Aether pulls at his guitar strap like it might hold him together. Doesn’t answer.

Then - too quickly, too rehearsed - “Omega paged me.”

Copia blinks once. “Since when does Omega have a pager?”

Aether doesn’t blink at all. “Pack link.”

There’s a pause. One beat too long.

“Ah,” Copia says, smiling faintly, almost sad. “Tell him I said hello.”

Aether nods. Too fast. “See you tomorrow.”

He slips out the door. Doesn’t slam it. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just vanishes like smoke.

Copia watches the handle for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighs. Rubs a hand over his temple.

“Dramatic little shits,” he mutters, half-fond, half-exasperated, and starts humming to himself as he turns to leave, something old and liturgical that doesn’t quite resolve.

The room seems to breathe out with him.

Zephyr finishes winding the last of the cables. Ifrit groans and slings his towel toward the laundry bin like it personally offended him.

“I need a drink,” he mutters.

Zephyr hums in agreement. “And I need a reincarnation.”

They move toward the door without ceremony, nodding toward Rain in passing.

He's seated on the riser, bass across his lap like a prayer he forgot the words to.

His glow is quiet now. Peachy pale, pulsing faintly at the collarbones.

Swiss appears beside him, looking like he’s about to say something, then pivots mid-step, laser-focused on Mountain. Who is, naturally, pretending not to notice.

Swiss saunters over, exaggerated casual. “Need help?”

Mountain eyes him. “You a tech now?”

“I’m a ghoul of many talents,” Swiss replies smoothly.

Their shoulders brush. Neither moves.

From across the room, Sunshine stretches like a cat, arms up, back arched, curls slipping out of her bun.

“Alright, sad band’s over,” she declares. “New space. Plunge pool. Ten minutes.”

Cumulus raises a lazy hand from the bench. “We already called it.”

“Now I’m co-signing it,” Sunshine says cheerfully.

She crosses to Rain.

He’s staring down, beyond the strings, beyond the stage. Like he’s trying to read something in the scuffed floorboards that won’t give him answers.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice softer now. “Seafoam.”

Rain lifts his head slowly.

“You coming?” she asks. “Can cool off, or just remember what it feels like to float.”

Rain blinks. Then nods. Once.

Sunshine beams. “Good. Cirrus will be devastated if she doesn’t get to show off her synchronized backstroke.”

She vanishes stage-left, muttering about towels and waterproof mascara.

Rain sets the bass gently in its stand. His thumb brushes the strings once, catching a soft accidental note. A goodbye.

Then he turns, and walks.

The hallway feels longer this time. Quieter.

He can still feel it - the tether, quiet but unbroken.

Like something in Dew pulled taut, then recoiled. A beat of reaching before curling back on itself.

Rain doesn’t know if he’s allowed to follow, so for now he pushes forward.

Lavender vines hang heavy along the outer path, perfuming the air. The breeze rustles low through the trees. Birdsong echoes distantly from somewhere near the chapel.

Rain doesn’t hurry.

His glow stays dim. But it’s steady now, soft behind his skin, still singing even if the melody hurts.

The sting in his chest doesn’t ease, but he walks anyway.

Toward the cold. Toward the quiet.

Toward the only place that doesn’t ask him to pretend.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The rehearsal room fades behind him.

So does the noise. The clipped apologies. The static hum of tension. The sound of Rain breathing in the same space.

Dew doesn’t go back to his room.

His feet move before his mind catches up - left at the chapel stairs, past the hallway that always smells like sage and lavender. Down a corridor etched with scorch marks and history.

Out into the fireyard.

The stones are still hot beneath his boots. Heat clings to the walls like memory. The air is too dry. Too still. Like a breath the whole building forgot to let go.

He steps into the center of the circle.

The same one where he first tried to conjure flame.

Back when he thought if he burned hard enough, it might drown out the ache of what he used to be. Back when fire was supposed to mean becoming.

The ground remembers.

Blackened cracks spider the ritual rings. Melted lines where hope once curled sharp inside his chest. He doesn’t look at them now. Just sets his feet shoulder-width apart and closes his eyes.

Reaches.

It doesn’t come easy.

It never does.

Smoke curls from his fingertips. Not fire. Not fury.

Just smoke.

Bitter. Thin.

Gone too fast.

He grunts - he needs something, anything, to prove it wasn't all a mistake.

He tries again - harder this time. Pulls from the place behind his ribs that used to know how to pulse with certainty.

A spark flares.

Flickers.

Dies.

He doesn’t scream.

Just sinks to his knees. Lowers himself until his palms are flat on the scorched stone, forehead bent like prayer.

Like defeat.

“I don’t know what you want,” he whispers.

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

Lucifer, maybe.

Himself.

The fire.

… Rain.

His jaw clenches.

Magic hums along his spine - aimless, aching, unspent.

He exhales.

Thin and smoke-rough.

Then tilts back until he’s lying flat on the stone.

Lets the heat burn through his clothes and into his skin, not to punish, not exactly.

Just to feel that it's all real, not some Delta-driven infirmary nightmare.

Above him, the sky is too blue. The kind of blue that makes him feel like he’s trespassing in his own skin.

The horizon bleeds to haze at the edges, like it knows how to become something else.

Dew stares until his eyes sting.

Still, no flame.

Still, no answer.

Just him.

Just this.

A flicker with no fire.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain’s glow shifts.

Just barely.

A flicker of molten apricot at the base of his throat - like candlelight through water. Too quick to name, too soft to trace.

But Cirrus notices. Her head tilts.

“You okay, handsome?”

Rain startles slightly - halfway submerged, curls slicked down, ear fins flicking toward her.

He nods.

Then hesitates.

“I… don’t know.”

His voice is soft. Foggy. “Something just felt... sad. Like something got dim. Far away.”

Cirrus hums. “Soulbond ripple?”

Rain’s eyes snap to hers.

Cumulus, head still pillowed on her arms, murmurs, “You do glow more when he’s in the room.”

“I do not,” Rain mutters - and immediately glows a little brighter.

Cirrus smirks. “Sure, sure. Keep pretending.”

Rain scowls faintly, but it doesn’t quite land.

“It’s not -” he starts. Then swallows. Softer now, “There’s something. Sure.”

A pause.

“But it’s probably just... weird residue. After everything. The ritual. Delta. Him changing. Me dying. It’d be… weirder not to feel something weird.”

“Weird residue?” Sunshine echoes, appearing like scandal incarnate, towel tossed over one shoulder. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Rain glances away, embarrassed. “It’s probably from the ritual. Or Delta. He changed. I died. There’s bound to be some leftover jumbled up energy.”

Cirrus raises a brow. “Mm. That’s not how bonds work.”

“It’s not a bond,” Rain says too quickly.

Silence.

Cirrus grins. “Mhm. Sure. And the lake doesn’t know your name.”

Rain sputters, tail flicking behind him like a disoriented eel. “That’s, listen, there's -”

“Weren’t you listening to Swiss?” Cumulus interjects. “They’re rare, not fake.”

“Air ghouls always get weird about this,” Cirrus says breezily. “It’s the whole ‘untethered’ thing. You float too long, you forget how roots work.”

“I have roots,” Rain mutters.

“Babe,” Sunshine cuts in, settling on the edge of the pool. “You glowed when he sat down yesterday. We all saw it.”

Rain’s mouth opens. Shuts. His gills flare slightly, traitorous and pink-tinged.

Sunshine points at him. “He left you his entire stack of training tracks. You know how hard those are to get? I had to bribe Zephyr with two pounds of candied ginger.”

Rain still says nothing.

“Also,” Cirrus adds cheerfully, “he bent a spoon when Cumulus unwrapped your headphone cord from your horn.”

Cumulus shrugs. “And I was being so gentle.”

“And!” Sunshine finishes triumphantly, “If he ever manages to make eye contact for more than three seconds, I swear on Lucifer’s good eye he’s either going to combust completely or just burn all his clothes off.”

Rain doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t say what he knows. What he’s known since the moment he reached for Dew as he burned.

That something sacred tethered then - and it hasn’t loosened since.

But if he says it out loud, and Dew doesn’t feel it too…

He wouldn’t survive the echo.

Rain groans and dunks himself underwater to escape the onslaught.

When he resurfaces, his glow has gone a touch rose gold around the gills.

He flicks water toward all three of them, voice low. “He doesn’t even like me.”

All three ghoulettes snort, cackle, and gasp in unison.

“Sure, darling,” Cirrus coos. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Rain tries to scowl.

Fails.

Ducks back under - not to hide in embarrassment, but to hide the smile nearly breaking his cheeks.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The fireyard is behind him now. Still hot. Still empty. But no longer unbearable.

Dew stopped back to get his guitar. Now it hangs over one shoulder, boots scuffing the stone as he winds through narrow garden paths and under low archways. The world quiets as he moves. Heat gives way to hush. Stone to moss.

Only when he sees the silver thread of falling water ahead does he realize where he’s gone.

The hidden falls.

No one ever comes here. The path is too narrow, the trail too easy to miss unless you’re already hurting.

He steps off the main walkway and ducks beneath the ferns. The little pool waits at the base of the stone wall; shaded, shallow, cold. The cascade is gentle here, a veil more than a torrent. It sings, just barely, over smooth rock. The kind of song meant for secrets.

Dew drops to the mossy bank with a breath like surrender.

He doesn’t unpack carefully. Just sits cross-legged on the cold earth, guitar settling into his lap like an old friend he hasn’t seen in too long

Then he plays.

Not performance. Not practice.

Just - need.

The first notes tumble from his fingers, soft and uncertain. His thumb misses a fret. He flinches. But keeps going.

Each chord lands a little truer than the last.

He remembers how it felt onstage, how his hands shook. How Rain watched him, not with pity, but with something else. Something like grief and recognition braided together.

Dew closes his eyes.

The music swells not loud, but full. The trees hold the sound like a secret. The falls hum harmony.

He thinks of Mist, when she found him here. She told him to follow the spring - feel it through the stone, all the way to the plunge pool below.

He never could.

Reaching for water never came easily to him.

But in this moment… there’s a pull.

Not a current. Not a flare. Only the brush of warmth at the edge of knowing. A hush where something used to ache.

Like someone’s thinking of him.

Like he’s not as lost as he feels.

The thought slips through him before he can name it.

And still, he plays.

He forgets the weight in his chest for a moment. Forgets the eyes that looked at him like he was fractured. Forgets he ever held anything but this - this string, this rhythm, this ache.

I know your soul is not tainted…

The lyric doesn’t leave his mouth. But it rings in his head all the same.

And for the first time in days, Dew doesn’t feel like he’s unraveling.

Just changing.

And maybe… maybe that’s something worth staying for.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain floats back up, curls slicked to his forehead, gills humming faintly at the edges of his throat. He’s calmer now, held by the cold water, the sky, and the ghoulettes’ quiet affection.

They’re still talking.

“He was glowing before he walked in,” Sunshine is saying, “and now he’s all moonstone shimmer and soft tail flicks. That’s not just a crush. That’s yearning.”

“I give it two more rehearsals,” Cumulus offers.

“One and a half,” Cirrus corrects.

Rain lifts his head just enough to break the surface. “Okay,” he drawls, voice distorted but amused, “but what about Swiss and Mountain? What are the odds they’re making out right now?”

All three girls light up.

Cumulus taps her chin. “Statistically, they should be. Emotionally? Unclear.”

“Oh, by my calculations,” Cirrus says, kicking her legs lazily through the shallows, “they should’ve fucked weeks ago.”

Rain’s eyes go wide. “Wait, weeks?”

“Minimum,” Cirrus confirms. “You should see the threads. They coil. It’s very romantic. Or very stupid. Possibly both.”

Rain chuckles, shaking water from his lashes. “And ours?”

Cirrus doesn’t answer immediately.

Her gaze cuts sideways, not to him - but past him. Where the fading sunlight catches the ripple of water he disturbed. Where Rain’s glow is strongest.

“I already told you what I saw,” she says, voice low, almost dreamy. “Two threads. Already touching.” She pauses, studying.

“You just need to name it. And Dew… his thread’s already moving.”

Rain stills, but his luminescence ripples, pastel lavender streaked with gold rolling over his chest.

Sunshine, noticing, bumps her shoulder against his. “Don’t worry. He was way too gone to not come back around.”

Cumulus grins. “And we’ll be so annoying when it happens.”

Rain sinks deeper into the water, glowing brighter than ever.

But he doesn’t protest.

Not this time.

-

They don’t rush to leave.

Eventually though, the water chills enough to nudge them toward the edge. Sunshine hoists herself out first and immediately shakes like a wild dog - soaking Cirrus, who shrieks and retaliates with a towel to the face.

Cumulus slinks out more gracefully and tosses a towel to Rain. “You’re practically soup.”

“I thought I was soup,” Rain murmurs. “You keep calling me sea-stew.”

Sunshine barks a laugh. “Only because you always look like you’ve been simmering in your own bioluminescence.”

As Rain dabs at his gills, Cumulus swoops in and ruffles his curls into a ridiculous halo.

“Perfect,” she declares.

“You’re trying to blind Dew at rehearsal,” Cirrus accuses.

“Again, he doesn’t even like me,” Rain protests weakly, cheeks and ear fins pulsing salmon.

“Factually incorrect,” Cirrus states.

“I touched you once and he bent a spoon about it,” Cumulus reminds.

Sunshine leans in and runs her thumb across Rain’s glowing cheekbone - quick, warm, and utterly without ceremony.

“If he doesn’t kiss you soon,” she declares, “I will. For science.”

Rain tries to pout and fails.

Instead, something soft tightens behind his ribs - not the bond he’s too afraid to name, but something else. Something just as ancient. Just as sacred.

A thread curling quietly around his heart, reaching out to his friends.

His… pack.

He pulls the towel tighter around his shoulders and lets the teasing swirl around him like warmth.

He’s not so cold anymore.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The pack drifts back toward the dorms, waterlogged and glowing, laughter still echoing between the trees.

Rain trails behind, towel slung loose around his shoulders, curls damp and sticking to his cheeks. The others peel off one by one: Sunshine to check on the tea stash, Cirrus muttering about clean pajamas, Cumulus disappearing into the showers with a yawn and a wave.

But Rain keeps walking.

The rehearsal room is dark when he slips inside, lit only by the blue exit light near the door. The silence is weightless now, no amps buzzing, no laughter ricocheting off the walls. Just him and the row of instruments, waiting like ghosts.

He crosses to the bass.

His bass. Still in the stand where he left it. Still shaped like something that might want him, if he could just learn how to speak its language.

Rain runs his fingers along the curve of the body. Thinks about the way it felt earlier, heavy and unfamiliar.

But it doesn’t feel that way now.

It’s just an instrument. Quiet. Patient.

He lifts it gently, careful with the strap, and hugs it to his chest. It fits better now. Not perfect. But closer.

He doesn’t play.

Just carries it.

Back through the hall, around the corner, into the corridor lit by moonlight slanting through high windows. Past the tension. Past the ache.

Toward the threads that are finally beginning to hold.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The stars are bright tonight - clear and scattered across the sky like someone laid salt across dark velvet.

Swiss sees Rain pass through the far corridor, bass slung over his shoulder.

He doesn’t call out. Just watches the way Rain’s glow shimmers around his collarbones, soft and low, as he rounds the corner and disappears into the quiet.

Mountain stands at the back stairs with a mug in hand, watching the wind comb through the trees. Quiet. Still. Like he’s waiting for something, or maybe someone.

He doesn’t turn when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You always out here looking like a prophecy?”

Swiss.

Mountain smiles into his cup. “You always sneak up on people like a raccoon?”

Swiss shrugs and leans against the railing beside him. “Only the ones I like.”

A beat passes, easy.

Then Swiss exhales, soft and almost shy. “Told Copia I wanted to try out. Like, properly.”

Mountain glances over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Swiss shifts, toeing a groove in the stone. “He said yes.”

Mountain’s brow rises. “Wait - really?”

“Mmhm.” Swiss’s grin curls lazy and lopsided. “I haven’t told anyone else yet. Wanted you to be the first to know.”

Something flickers across Mountain’s face. Not surprise. Not pride exactly. Just warmth, steady and deep, like something banked low under ribs.

“That means a lot,” he says, quiet.

Swiss bumps his shoulder against Mountain’s. “Means a lot to me.”

Their eyes meet. It holds longer than it needs to - long enough that the air thickens, softens.

Then Mountain breaks it, looking back toward the trees. “So what’re you gonna play?”

“Something dramatic,” Swiss says. “Something with teeth.”

Mountain huffs a laugh. “You mean something by Ghost.”

Swiss makes a face. “Please. Predictable.”

“You are at the Ministry.”

“Yeah,” Swiss drawls. “But I’m not trying to summon myself.”

Mountain chuckles, but doesn’t press. He just sips his drink and watches the stars. Swiss leans on the railing beside him, still grinning - maybe from the permission, maybe from the way Mountain hasn’t stepped away.

Neither of them says it.

But they don’t have to.

The moment is already there, humming quiet between them.

And when Swiss finally turns to go, humming under his breath, Mountain watches him disappear around the corner.

Still smiling.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew hears all of it.

He hadn’t meant to.

He was just cutting through the far hallway on his way back from the falls, head low, guitar still against his back. But the window above the stairs had been open, and their voices carried on the breeze.

Now he stands just out of sight, pressed to the cool stone, jaw clenched tight.

Not because he’s jealous.

Not really.

But because something about the ease of it - the way Swiss said ‘I wanted you to be the first to know’ - carves open a space in his chest that hasn’t been full in a long time.

That used to be him and Aether.

Once.

A breath slips out. Not quite a sigh. Not quite steady.

And just like that, the quiet from the falls slips away.

He moves on. Doesn’t interrupt.

Just… walks away.

Like always.

-

The hallway is dark.

Dew walks it like a ghost, barefoot, hair still damp from the waterfall, guitar high across his back. The fire’s banked inside him now, low and pulsing. Contained.

But not quiet.

He turns the corner near the dorms.

And stops.

It’s faint. Almost nothing. But it’s there.

A melody, soft and hesitant, spilling through the half-cracked door of Rain’s room.

His breath catches. He doesn’t move.

Just stands there, fingers curling tighter into his palms.

He wants to show him more. Wants to lean into that room, guide his hands, lay the music between them like a bridge.

But how can he?

When he’s still so fractured inside he can’t tell where the fire ends and the ache begins?

Rain plays on.

It’s not just the notes - it’s the intention. The shape of it. The pauses. The way Rain fumbles in the same places Dew had at the falls, like he’s following a trail left behind in the sound.

Dew wants to ask how he knows - how he feels it like this, like he was there.

But he doesn’t.

He just listens.

And lets himself feel.

It's there, the tether.

Soft, but undeniable - like a thread pulled taut through the quiet. It doesn’t blaze like fire. Doesn’t crash like water.

It tugs.

Like memory. Like gravity. Like a truth that hasn’t been said out loud yet.

He lets it coil around him.

And somewhere, in the stillness of his room, Rain feels it back - not a flame, but a flicker.

A beat of warmth.

A hush of knowing.

Dew turns then.

Walks to his own door.

Slips inside, closing it behind him like it hurts.

Then he slides down the back of it, knees drawn to his chest, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

His voice, when it comes, is low and rough - lyrics not spoken, but confessed.

“Can’t you see that you’re lost?”

The chord quivers beneath his hand.

He doesn’t play the next line.

Just sits in the quiet that follows -

And wonders what it might feel like to be found.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal room smells faintly of smoke and lemon oil. Not fresh… just lingering. Something burned and cleaned, but not quite forgotten.

A few days have passed since the last fallout. Long enough for the amps to cool. Long enough for the room to stop echoing.

Long enough to pretend it doesn’t still hurt.

Dew is already there.

He doesn’t look up when the door opens, just keeps playing, fingers moving in slow, aching phrases across the strings of the lead guitar. Not fast. Not flawless. But steady, searching.

The melody is unmistakable - He Is, stripped of its soaring choir, its shimmer. Just bones. Just breath and pain and prayer.

His jaw is tight. His eyes rimmed red.

He misses a chord and flinches, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps playing like maybe, if he can hold the shape of the song long enough, it might forgive him.

Rain steps in. Pauses at the threshold.

He hadn’t expected Dew to be early. He’d thought - hoped - he might be the first. Hoped for time to settle his nerves, to breathe before the pressure began.

But Dew is here, already unraveling. Not all at once, but in slow, fraying threads, like a knot coming loose under the weight of its own tension.

The song wraps around the room like smoke.

He is... he's the shining and the light...

But the line never gets sung. It just hovers, haunting.

Rain’s breath catches.

He doesn’t move forward. Doesn’t interrupt. Only watches from the back, still drowning in the weight of unknown expectation.

Dew’s shoulders are drawn in tight, like he’s holding himself upright out of sheer force of will. His fire hums low - not flaring, not gone, but banked. Contained.

Rain adjusts his grip on the bass strap over his shoulder. The gesture is small, but it grounds him.

Swiss is the next to arrive. He sees Rain immediately, then glances toward Dew.

“Giving him space?” he murmurs.

Rain nods once.

“I don’t want to crowd him.”

Swiss’s expression softens in a way few people ever get to see. He leans against the doorframe beside Rain, arms crossed.

“Sure,” he says quietly. “Just don’t let him drift too far. Even embers go out, if they’re left alone long enough.”

Rain doesn’t answer.

But his luminescence pulls in, soft and low - dimmed like a candle flickering tight against a draft. A sympathy pattern. Like his glow is reaching in a way he can't voice.

Dew misses another note. Swears under his breath.

The melody breaks.

But the ache remains.

Cumulus and Cirrus arrive next, hand in hand, humming some harmony Rain doesn’t recognize. Aether follows a few steps behind them, quiet, posture stiff, giving Dew a polite nod that goes utterly unreturned. Sunshine bursts in with Ifrit not long after, trailing energy and stray glitter like a comet. Mountain thuds in last, drumsticks already tucked behind his ears like some kind of soft declaration of war.

Dew doesn’t stop playing until Ifrit claps his hands and calls rehearsal to order.

Rain takes his place. Not beside Dew, but across the riser, distance stretched like a protective spell between them. He tunes in silence, careful and efficient.

Across the stage, Dew kneels by his pedalboard, adjusting a setting with the delicacy of someone not in control of his hands. The knobs slip once beneath his fingers and he swears under his breath, sharp and low. His magic crackles, barely contained. Smoke curls at the edges of his sleeve.

He stands too fast. The strap slides wrong. He shifts it twice before it sits properly.

Aether steps into place to the far left. He keeps his distance… deliberate. Like proximity might set something off. His stance is precise. Too precise. Rain clocks the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he doesn’t look towards Dew.

Copia slips in through the side door, clearly hoping to go unnoticed. He fails.

Sunshine catches him immediately. “There he is,” she grins, voice bright and cutting. “Our fearless leader.”

Copia clears his throat, smoothing the front of his cassock. “Yes, well. Here to observe. Not interfere.”

He casts a glance at Dew, shoulders high, fire humming beneath his skin; and then Rain, whose luminescence still curls inward, low and tight.

“Lovely energy today,” Copia mutters, mostly to himself. “Nothing like thinly-veiled hostility to make the music sing.”

Swiss snorts from the back row.

Ifrit pulls out a metronome. Loud. Unapologetic.

“Let’s warm up with If You Have Ghosts,” he says, glancing toward Dew. “Ease into it.”

The music starts.

It’s… almost fine. Not good, not fluid, but it's functional. Rain holds the tempo. Cirrus finds her harmonics just in time to support Cumulus. Dew’s fingers shake only once during the second chorus, but he plays through it, jaw tight.

By the time they reach the final chord, the silence that follows feels like a held breath finally let go.

Aether opens his mouth like he might say something. Then thinks better of it.

Copia claps twice, dry. “Miracolo. No one died.”

Ifrit doesn’t laugh. Just lifts a brow.

“Okay, good. Better! Let’s try From the Pinnacle to the Pit. Get that energy up!”

Dew’s eyes flick up.

That bassline - it used to be his. He could play it in his sleep and he has, more times than he can count. It used to be muscle memory. Joy. Water in his fingers and rhythm in his bones.

Rain, however, tenses.

Everyone up here knows this track. It opens with bass - bare. Nothing to hide behind. No harmony. No percussion. Just him.

He adjusts the strap. Breathes slow. And starts.

It’s not bad. Not at first.

But it’s not right, either.

His fingers slip in the second measure. He catches it, barely. Overcorrects. Misses the syncopation on the fourth. The pedalboard blinks red. Feedback squeals - too brief to break the run, but enough to raise every hackle in the room.

Rain is trying. Dew can hear it in every careful note, every second guess. He tries not to wince when a tone drops flat.

It’s his entrance next, right after the line repeats. A pattern he’s played for years, on stages lit brighter than this room ever gets. It should be automatic.

But it isn’t.

He misses his cue.

Fingers stumble. Timing off. A sour chord rings sharp and hollow before he yanks his hand back like it burned him.

Cirrus winces. Cumulus glances between them. Sunshine glows slightly hotter.

Dew’s whole body goes tight, and the whole song grinds to a stop.

And then -

Aether speaks.

Voice careful. Almost kind.

“Maybe… maybe let Ifrit play lead on this one, for this run? Just so Rain can hear it right. You could grab the bass line, help ground him.”

It’s not untrue.

It’s not cruel.

But it hits like a closed fist against a three day-old bruise.

Dew’s hands fall still.

The fire in his chest coils sharp and fast, smoke flickering up from his sleeves before anyone speaks again.

And when he does speak, it’s flat.

Dangerous.

“Ground him?”

Aether’s posture stiffens. “I just mean so he can hear it right. You’ve done this one a thousand times, Dewdrop.”

Dew can feel his fire crack.

“Yeah,” he says. “And I still fucked it up, didn’t I?”

No one breathes.

Dew’s guitar hits the ground with a crack like bone meeting pavement.

The whole room flinches.

Smoke curls from the neck where it hit the floor. Dew doesn’t look down.

Copia straightens in the back, brows drawn, mouth parted and about to speak.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Dew lifts his head. Eyes glowing not with pride or power but with fury barely held in check.

“You want someone grounding, someone steady?” Steam is rolling off Dew’s back. “Then summon a fucking rock.”

The words land like cinders.

He storms off.

The door doesn’t slam.

It detonates.

Half off the hinge, the paint blistered, smoke streaking up the frame in his wake.

Copia exhales slowly through his nose, pinches the bridge of it like it’s aching.

“So,” he murmurs, “I take it the rehearsal is… adjourned.”

No one answers.

Rain sets his bass down. Gently.

Then steps off the riser.

“Rain?” Swiss calls, cautious, from his seat. He doesn’t stop, but he glances sideways.

Swiss lifts a brow. “Don’t let him go too far, yeah?”

Rain nods once.

His glow, dimmed earlier, is pulsing now, bright and unmistakable: a warning-orange flare that curls along his throat and spine like a beacon. Not directed at Dew, he's not a threat. But a signal, instinctive and old.

Stay back. Let me go.

He slips out the door without another word.

The corridor smells faintly of heat and cedar smoke. Aether’s voice is already echoing behind him, trying to explain something no one asked him to.

Rain doesn’t listen.

He walks fast, focused.

The air still crackles where Dew passed.

Heat clings to the corridor like memory.

Scorch marks crawl along the baseboards. A cracked tile. The scent of something once-sweet, now flash-dried. The trail of wreckage leads to Dew’s door.

It's warped at the edges, scorched and smoking faintly. The paint curls like burned parchment, and the handle gleams too hot to touch.

Rain stops a pace back. The heat hits him first - radiant, not just from the fire, but from whatever Dew is trying to hold inside. The kind of heat that warns: stay out. The kind that begs: please come in.

Rain doesn’t force either. He just exhales and sinks down to the floor.

He folds his arms across his knees and lets his head tip back, exposing his throat - a quiet surrender. A show of trust for someone who still won’t look him in the eyes.

“I don’t have the right words, Dewdrop,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the ache rippling through his chest. “But I came because… not saying anything felt worse.”

The floor is warm beneath him. The air carries the faintest sting of ozone and regret.

“I didn’t cause this,” Rain says, steady and low. “And I never would’ve chosen it for you.”

He closes his eyes, lets his glow settle - soft, not seeking anything.

Present.

“But if I’d known - if I’d understood how much pain you were in…”

His shoulders curl inward - not with shame, but with tenderness. Like holding the pain of someone else and knowing it matters.

“I would’ve come sooner. I would’ve followed the ache right to your shore.”

The silence on the other side of the door isn’t empty.

It listens.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rain murmurs. “Not unless you ask me to.”

A pause.

“And She’s here too, if you want Her. You were never supposed to be left behind.”

Another breath. Quieter still.

“The water doesn’t turn its back.”

He places a hand on the door. Not knocking. Just… touching. Open-palmed and gentle.

Behind the threshold there's no response.

But Rain feels it - that flicker through the bond, low and tight, like tension coiled too long in the dark.

So Rain stays.

And when the tears prick at the corners of his eyes, he lets them fall.

Not for pity.

But to make space.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The door glows faintly where Rain’s hand rests. The heat spreads around Dew like a storm trying not to break. He’s curled against the frame, forehead pressed to the wood, arms wound around his middle like he’s trying to hold himself together.

The room is scorched at the edges. Curtains half-burned. Floorboards cracked in spiraling bursts where fire escaped before he could catch it. The bed is untouched and neatly made, like no one lives here at all.

He doesn’t speak.

But the bond tugs behind his ribs, soft and insistent.

He doesn’t want Rain to leave. But his fingers twitch - like they might reach for the handle. Or bolt the lock. He doesn’t know which would be worse.

Instead, he chokes on air thick with ash.

Rain’s voice rises again, gentle as tidewater.

“I can help you find Her again.”

Dew can’t breathe.

Rain’s voice is a balm and a blade; too gentle, too kind, cutting through everything he’s tried to bury. His chest heaves, lungs full of smoke and shame. The bond flickers between them, not oppressive, but real.

Unavoidable.

He can’t hold this much of himself all at once.

So he moves.

Fast.

A flick of motion, familiar and frantic. He’s up and across the room in three strides. The latch on the window sticks; he forces it. The frame groans. Heat-warped. Bent.

Then he’s outside, onto the ledge, down the trellis, boots scraping stone and catching on ivy. The night air hits him like a wave.

It doesn’t soothe.

But it doesn’t scald, either.

He breathes, hard.

Once.

Twice.

Then runs.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The lake opens before him, moonlit and wide. Still. Waiting.

It’s too calm.

He wants it to rage. Wants it to boil like his chest. But it doesn’t. It just reflects him back - small and furious.

He doesn’t step into the water.

He stops just short and kicks the sand. Hard. The grains scatter across the shore in erratic bursts. He kicks again. And again.

Until his calves shake.

Until his fire sparks at his palms.

Until the scream in his throat feels like it could light him from the inside out.

“I always knew I wasn’t good enough for You!”

His voice cracks.

The lake doesn’t respond. It only shimmers.

“Did You think that because I couldn’t speak, I wasn’t listening? That I didn’t try to hear You?”

He swallows heat.

“I tried.”

His voice rasps, ragged from the scream, from all the years he couldn't give voice to one.

“I listened, even when I couldn’t answer. I screamed - underwater. Didn’t You hear me?”

The flames arc from his hands now, uncontrolled and white at the edges. Bright and hollow.

“I needed You! And You left me to rot.”

He laughs, sharp and joyless.

“I thought maybe I was meant for something else. Maybe I was supposed to burn.”

He drops to his knees in the sand.

“But this - this hurts.”

His fists slam into the ground.

“I hurt.”

The flames sputter.

He curls over his own body, spine hunched like something breaking open.

“All I do is hurt.”

His voice drops with the words, so soft they dissolve in the wind.

Tears streak his cheeks, leaving track marks where they burn away from the heat of his skin.

Then -

Footsteps.

Soft. Familiar.

Too gentle for this rage.

“Dewdrop -”

Rain.

Dew turns like a weapon unsheathed, fire leaping to his fists -

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

The lake quietly laps at the shore.

Dew’s voice hangs in the air, hot and cracked, flames curling sharp around his fists.

The sand doesn’t move. The wind holds its breath.

Rain doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t step back.

He just stands there, glow pulled close, like even it knows this moment isn’t for shining.

A beat.

Two.

And then - soft, steady, certain -

“What do you want to be called?”

The flames in Dew’s hands flicker.

Then lower.

Just a fraction.

The silence that follows listens the way the deep does. Like Rain’s stillness is a current, tugging at the edges of Dew’s fire - cooling, soothing. Calling him back.

And then -

Rain steps forward.

Slow. Careful.

Not to fix. Not to force.

Just to be with him.

Dew’s arms stay raised for a second longer.

Like he still might burn something.

Like the fire’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Like if he lets it go, he'll never get it back again.

But Rain’s presence, calm and glowing, presses against him the most dangerous edges of him, unafraid.

“What do you want to be called?” His voice is calm and even.

Dew’s breath hitches.

The heat around his fists pulses once - then softens. He exhales hard. The kind of sound that doesn’t want to be a sob. But nearly is.

“I don't -”

And he lets the fire go.

His hands fall.

His shoulders cave.

He slumps into the sand - legs folding beneath him, breath coming shallow and fast, face buried in his palms.

The sand is cool beneath them, soft and grainy where it sticks to sweat-damp skin. The air smells like salt and scorched ozone. Somewhere behind it all, no wind moves across the lake. No ripple breaks the surface. No frogs croak in the reeds.

It’s the kind of silence that feels earned - a prayer. Or maybe grief.

Rain doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Only lowers himself into the sand beside him, cross-legged, open and waiting.

And after a beat, Dew sinks sideways.

Not into Rain, not quite.

But near enough that his body can begin to remember what safety feels like.

—

They sit in the gentle hush that follows, moonlight tracing soft arcs over their shoulders. Somewhere in the trees, a nightbird calls.

Dew doesn’t lift his head from his hands, but his breathing slows. The fire’s gone now - burned out, or maybe just laid down. It’s hard to tell the difference. What’s left is heat at the edges of his skin, and salt drying on his cheeks.

Rain doesn’t ask anything.

Just waits.

And eventually, Dew shifts.

Barely - just enough for his knee to brush Rain’s.

A ripple.

Rain breathes in at the exact same moment Dew exhales. Perfect sync. Like a chord struck somewhere beneath their ribs. The bond pulses, faint but present, a low resonance neither of them tries to name.

Their hands move at once.

Not toward each other, but together.

Dew scrubs at his eyes with the heel of one palm. Rain tucks a curl behind his ear. The motions mirror like tide and moon - each pulling gently on the other.

Dew doesn’t seem to notice.

But Rain’s glow pulses once - soft white, threaded through with the faintest rose-tinted gold.

A call, or maybe an echo.

A third heartbeat in the sand.

Dew shifts again.

Lifts his head - slow and careful, like it takes more effort than it should. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped. But he’s steadier now. Breathing easier.

Rain watches.

Patient as tide.

Dew doesn’t meet his gaze. Not at first. He scrubs his palms down the sides of his face, then through his hair, fingers catching in the snarls.

“…How’d you know I’d be here?”

Rain tilts his head - a soft question behind his glow.

Dew huffs. Barely a breath of sound.

“It wasn't that obvious.”

Rain says nothing. Just offers the gentlest smile - something that doesn’t press or tease. Just says I see you.

Dew mutters, “Shut up,” and drops his forehead to his knees again, like hiding is easier than being seen. But there’s no venom in it. Only a strange, warm embarrassment - like being known is something he hasn’t learned how to live with yet.

Rain tucks his knees to his chest too. Not touching. Just mirroring. A quiet offering. Like a surface waiting for Dew’s reflection; calm, steady, and unchanged by the storm.

His glow pulses once, soft and slow, then settles into the rhythm of Dew’s breathing, coaxing his heartbeat back into place.

It’s quiet again for a few moments.

Then Dew breathes out - a soft, broken noise, like he didn’t expect to be understood. His hand curls in the sand, digging fingers down until the grit bites his skin.

“I didn’t even know I was still mad at Her,” he says. “I thought I buried that a long time ago.”

A pause.

“But I think it buried me back.”

Rain leans in slightly closer.

Not to fix…but listening.

Dew doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t pull away.

He just closes his eyes.

And for the first time since the change, lets someone stay close without shrinking from the weight of it.

Dew drags a hand across his face, smearing soot and salt and whatever else is clinging to him. He doesn’t look at Rain - but he doesn’t pull away, either. The bond between them hums like something half-heard underwater - warm and low, matching the pulse in Dew’s throat.

He doesn’t mean to speak.

Not really.

But the words rise anyway.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re okay?”

His voice is quiet. Croaky. Like it’s been scraped over stone.

Rain nods - just the littlest bit.

Dew pushes on, softer now.

“I had this rule, I guess.”

He drags a hand down his face again, grimacing like the words taste bad coming out.

“If I could just do it - hold shape, show up, pretend like I fit - then maybe it’d mean I was real. That I belonged.”

His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“But I wasn’t becoming anything. I was just… performing hard enough to pass as something I’m not.”

A pause.

The lake glimmers. Silent.

“And I was calling that a life.”

Dew takes a long breath and looks up at the stars.

“And then you showed up. And you -” His voice hitches. “You look at me like I’m not broken.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a confession.

Rain stays still.

His glow curls slightly inward, dim and warm - like arms wrapping around something fragile without touching it. The air around him shifts with the subtlest chill, calming, the moment just before water washes over a fresh wound.

He doesn’t move, but his presence leans in.

A quiet invitation.

A soft, mutual silence settles between them - like the space after a prayer, when the world holds its breath to listen.

Dew tilts his face again, back toward Rain. Only a little. Just enough to finally look at him - really look.

That’s when he sees it.

The faint glow brushing Rain’s cheekbones. The starlit symbols that pulse like they too are alive. The mark on the side of his neck behind his ear - faint, but elegant and unmistakable.

A vertical line intersecting a curved downward stroke. Two dots beneath. Ancient water script.

A memory stirs.

Dew squints. Then straightens, just slightly.

“Wait…”

He stares - not with accusation, but awe. Raw, disbelieving awe.

“You’re Salt River Clan, aren’t you.”

Rain doesn’t flinch.

Just nods.

Once.

His glow doesn’t flare - but it pulses, slow and steady. Like a deepwater current. Like a yes that has never needed to be loud.

Dew exhales through his nose.

“Fuck. I thought I was imagining it. But the markings - those are ancestral.”

Rain tips his chin, modest. Maybe even shy.

“They came through during my training. Or maybe before. I don’t know. I was born with some. The rest... appeared. A few were given.”

He lifts one hand, trailing his fingers over the dot at his philtrum. Then to the curved line behind his ear.

“This one was placed. For protection. This one’s as old as I am... clan marking. Belonging.”

Dew swallows and shifts again - nervous now, almost fidgety. He picks at the edge of his sleeve, then blurts:

“So… this is probably stupid, but. Do you - do you know her? The Lady Nymede?”

Rain tilts his head. Not surprised. Just curious.

“Why do you ask?”

Dew exhales slowly. Like he’s digging up something heavy.

“Well, since I’m over here being vulnerable and shit…”

He laughs once, soft and self-deprecating.

“I met her. Once. When I was a kit. My parents brought me to your river. Hoping - well. You’ve probably noticed by now, one voice. I’m… mute. Underwater.”

He doesn’t look at Rain. Just flicks a few grains of sand off his boot.

“They thought maybe she could fix me.”

A pause. He presses a hand to his chest, grounding himself.

“But she didn’t try. I’ll never forget how kind she was when she said I didn’t need to be fixed.”

His voice drops - quiet, almost fragile.

“Even if I didn’t believe her back then. Or now.”

Rain’s expression softens and his glow brightens - quiet and steady, like trust.

“That sounds like her,” he murmurs. “Exactly like her.”

Rain pauses again.

He just exists - quiet and luminous, the lake’s reflection casting silver across his skin. The markings on his face pulse faintly with each breath, not as performance, but as something natural. A rhythm that belongs to the deep.

When he does speak again, it’s soft. Gentle.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know her.”

His glow swells - cool white and soft green, like kelp caught in starlight, the calming shade he learned from her.

“She blessed me before I ever rose,” Rain murmurs. “Placed a hand on my chest and told me to remember who I was, no matter what the world tried to call me.”

He looks down at his palms. Slowly curls them into loose fists.

“I didn’t understand it, back then.”

A pause.

A breath.

And then -

“But I think I do now.”

Dew stares at him. Stares into him.

“Who is she to you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Rain glances up - meets his eyes without hesitation.

And this time, he does smile.

“Lady Nymede?” he says, with a soft, almost mischievous warmth.

“She’s my mother.”

A pause. The lake listens.

“She named me something older,” Rain adds quietly, gaze flicking toward the water. “Something meant to hold lineage. Power.”

He draws a small line in the sand beside him. “But Rain... that’s who I became. Who I chose, when I rose.”

He glances at Dew. The glow at his collarbone shifts subtly. “It’s the part of me that felt most true.”

Dew huffs a laugh - dry, scraped thin. “Figures. You get lake-stilled serenity and divine blood. I get spontaneous combustion and a complex.”

Rain’s laugh is light but full.

It ripples across the lake like mist curling on warm water. Something that shouldn’t be possible on land, and yet - here it is. Bright and melodic, with that soft-metal distortion underneath. A harmony even when alone.

Dew stares.

Not because it’s funny.

But because it’s beautiful.

He didn’t know he’d been waiting to hear that sound.

Didn’t know it would make his ribs ache in a way that wasn’t fire. Wasn’t pain.

Didn't know it would make him want. A strange, quiet kind of want.

Rain glances at him and raises a brow, still smiling.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Dew snaps upright like he just sat on a live wire.

“Wait. Wait! Nymede is your mother? For the love of Lucifer’s taint, what are you doing here?!”

Rain shrugs with maddening composure.

“Serving Him, apparently.”

“You’re a Salt healer,” Dew sputters. “Your mother is - the Salt healer. You should be in the deep. Wearing pearls. Breathing starlight. Not -” he gestures wildly, “- dodging fireballs and watching ghouls scream into lakes!”

Rain chuckles again, softer this time.

“You’re not wrong.”

Dew scrubs a hand down his face. “This is insane.”

“A little.”

He’s still sputtering - half-glare, half-awe.

Rain’s smile softens. The laughter fades, but not the warmth. Not the openness.

He tucks one knee beneath him, rests his elbows there, and continues. “I didn’t understand it either. At first.”

Dew blinks.

Rain gestures loosely to the lake, the stars, the stretch of sky between them.

“I’d never been on land. Not even in Hell. Then the summons came. The Morningstar himself said I was needed topside - for the Ghost project.”

He shrugs one shoulder. Casual, not flippant.

“So I prepared. Learned what I could. Said my goodbyes. The ritual wasn’t… smooth.”

His glow trembles faintly at the edges - cool light stuttering like a ripple beneath skin.

He glances at Dew. A flicker of empathy.

“I think we have that in common.”

Dew exhales through his nose. “You think?”

Rain gives him a look that says it plainly:

that's fair.

“I didn’t know what I was walking into. How much hurt was waiting here.”

His voice goes quiet.

“But if I had… I still would’ve come.”

Dew looks at him sharply. “Why?”

Rain meets his eyes.

And this time, there’s no glow. No aura. Just truth.

“Because you’re still here. And I think, maybe, that’s enough reason.”

Dew doesn’t answer right away.

He just... looks at Rain.

At the curve of his cheekbone lit soft by moonlight. At the markings that glow like bioluminescent runes. At the quiet way he stays.

And something in Dew’s chest pulls tight.

Not painful.

Not quite.

But not comfortable, either.

He presses a hand to his sternum. Drags his palm slowly down, like he’s trying to ease the ache.

“My chest never felt like this before,” he mutters. “Not until you.”

Rain’s breath catches.

Dew doesn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s not fire. I know that. It’s not even the water. Or at least, how it used to be.”

He pauses.

His fingers curl into the sand. He dares a glance at Rain, then drops it again.

“It’s you. It’s been you since the minute you opened your eyes.”

Rain doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t glow.

He just shifts a little closer. Not touching.

But near.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

The words hang in the air like heat off stone.

Neither of them moves.

Rain’s glow pulses low at his throat, calm and steady, like the lake behind them. Dew doesn’t look at him again, but he doesn’t pull away either.

And that -

That’s everything.

He presses his palm flat to his chest again, doesn’t say anything more.

Doesn’t need to.

And Rain doesn’t push. He just lets the silence wrap around them.

Being seen shouldn’t feel this safe, Dew thinks. It never has before.

But with Rain -

For the first time in too long, he’s not trying to be anything.

He just… is.

They sit like that until the ache in Dew’s chest softens.

Not gone. But changed.

Mapped.

Understood.

Named.

—

They don’t speak.

Not right away.

Somewhere across the lake, a frog croaks once.

The sound barely ripples.

Rain exhales through his nose, slow and even.

Dew mirrors him without thinking.

Their knees are close again, like maybe they could stay like this for a while.

Then -

Rain shifts.

Not much.

Just enough for his voice to find the space between them.

“May I ask you a question?”

Dew glances sideways. Then shrugs - casual in that way that clearly means he’s stalling.

“Can I ask you one first?”

Rain nods, soft smile steady, and waits.

Dew squints out at the lake like it might offer backup.

“So… when you swim - do you have a shadow?”

Rain blinks.

Then tips forward, burying his face in his hands.

“Lucifer’s tits. Everyone thinks that myth is about my mother.”

Dew raises a brow. Doesn’t not smile. “Could be.”

Rain lifts his head just enough to glare. It’s the softest glare anyone’s ever given - barely a warning. More like seafoam pretending to be the tide.

“Yes, I have a shadow.”

“And you’ve seen it with your own two eyes?”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m curious!”

Rain sighs long and slow then shifts again, gaze drifting toward the water.

The quiet between them deepens - not awkward, but heavier now.

“Can I still ask you something?”

Dew’s amusement lingers for a heartbeat longer. Then softens, replaced by something quieter. Something that listens.

He nods.

Rain glances at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks away again. His dim glows - like the question costs him something, too.

When he does speak, it’s quiet.

“Did anyone ever explain how the elemental transitions are supposed to work?”

Dew frowns. Straightens a little, instinct bristling.

“I mean… yeah. Pain. Fire. Changed forever and always. All that shit.”

Rain’s glow dims, just slightly.

“That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

Dew’s stomach twists. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they did it wrong.”

Rain says it gently. No judgment. No heat. Just quiet gravity.

Dew stares.

Rain presses his palms to the sand and leans back, eyes drifting toward the lake.

“There’s meant to be a closing ritual. A choosing. You don’t just burn the water out and hope for the best. That’s not balance. That’s mutilation.”

He says it like a healer - like someone who’s seen too many broken things stitched back wrong.

“You're not finished.”

Dew opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Rain glances back at him. Eyes soft.

“You’re still holding Her. I can feel it. It’s dormant. But it’s there.”

Dew’s fingers curl into the sand, knuckles white. He doesn’t look at Rain - can’t - but his jaw shifts, clenching like it might hold him together.

His breath stutters and his whole chest feels hollowed, like something old and rotted has floated back to the surface. He wants to argue, to reject it outright - but the truth has already sunk in.

“So what,” he rasps, “I’m a half-fucked ritual someone gave up on halfway through?”

The words taste bitter. But underneath the bite -

There’s grief.

Rain watches him for a breath, glow dimming further.

When he speaks again, it’s softer. Like the words hurt to say.

“You were supposed to choose. Not be carved.”

—

Dew stiffens.

His fingers twitch against his knee. His jaw sets harder.

“No,” he says, voice thin and taut. “I - I did choose. I accepted it. I did.”

Rain watches him. Doesn’t interrupt.

Dew presses on, louder now, like momentum might make it true.

“I’m not a water ghoul anymore. I let it go. It’s gone. I burned it out.”

He doesn’t mean to sound desperate.

But he does.

Rain doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t challenge him.

That silence is the worst part.

He drags a palm across his arm, scrubbing at a smudge of soot where his sleeve has burned away - right over one of the long, raised scars that trace his forearm.

The place where fins once crested his skin.

Like if he rubs hard enough, he can wipe away the memory.

Or the ache.

But it doesn’t go.

“I accepted it,” he says again, quieter now.

Rain asks, soft as a ripple:

“Are you sure?”

Dew’s throat works around the words he doesn’t say.

He doesn’t answer.

Because he isn’t.

His whole body’s gone still - but not the calm kind.

The kind that’s holding everything just barely in place.

And when Dew doesn’t move, doesn’t speak - Rain reaches out.

He gently holds out his hand, palm up. Waiting.

“May I?”

Dew hesitates.

But something in him aches to know - aches enough that he reaches out too.

Their palms meet.

Rain hums low in his throat, a sound like sonar - like searching.

His other hand slides slowly down Dew’s forearm. Over the skin. Over the pulse. Over the scars that magic has left behind.

And he feels it.

His glow brightens, cool blue at the fingertips.

“She’s still here,” he whispers. “Faint. Dormant. But not gone.”

Dew stares down at their hands.

The touch shouldn’t feel like anything. Not after everything. Not after years of hiding that part of himself, pretending the fins didn’t hurt every time he looked at them. But Rain touches the ghost of them like they’re not a flaw. Like they matter.

And suddenly they do.

Something deep in Dew twitches. Not a memory of belonging - he never really had that. Just the shape of a want, an echo of what it might’ve felt like, if things had been different.

“What... what does that mean?” he says, voice barely audible.

Rain looks at him.

Not like someone about to deliver bad news.

Like someone offering truth.

“They forced the change. Took without giving. Left you stuck between.”

A pause.

“You’re not fire. Not fully.”

Another breath, a gentle swipe of a cool thumb against too hot skin.

“But you’re not just water, either.”

Dew’s eyes flick up, searching Rain’s face.

“Then what am I?”

Rain’s voice is steady. Sure.

“You’re you.”

Dew flinches.

Not like he’s been struck. More like something inside him gives way - quiet, clean. He doesn’t pull away, but he goes still. Blinks fast, like he’s trying to blink something back in.

The words land in his chest like a skipped heartbeat - like something ancient being named for the first time.

You’re you.

Not a mistake.

Not a burden.

Not unfinished, or broken, or wrong.

Just... you.

Dew swallows hard enough his throat clicks.

One hand lifts toward his own sternum, then stops, hovering like he’s afraid to touch the place that suddenly feels real again.

A beat.

And then another.

He finally exhales. Quiet. Barely a whisper. But it sounds like something letting go.

Dew’s voice is uncertain.

“So… I’m like Sunny?”

Rain hums, tilting his head in that way he always does when he’s deciding how to speak gently.

“Close,” he says. “But not quite.”

He traces a slow circle over Dew’s pulse with his thumb, grounding him.

“Sunny was born straddling elements. Air and fire braided together. That’s a hybrid. It’s in her bloodline.”

He hears the question leave his mouth before he knows he’s going to ask it.

“Rain. What am I?”

It lands somewhere deep - past the scars, past the smoke, into that hollow place no ritual ever touched. The place that never got a name.

He braces for the answer to hurt.

Another verdict. Another half-truth to file away like an apology. Something to swallow dry without choking.

But Rain doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer pity.

Just meets his gaze - soft and sure.

“More like Swiss.”

Dew blinks. His expression shifts - surprise, then something dry and reluctant curling at the edges.

“That man is pure chaos.”

Rain actually laughs. And something in Dew, tense for hours, starts to unspool.

“He is,” Rain agrees, smiling. “But he’s also balance. All the elements, held in harmony. He wasn’t born that way. He became.”

Dew processes that. His gaze drops to their hands.

“And you think I could be…”

Rain waits.

Lets him say it.

“…like that?”

Rain’s voice is quiet.

“I think you already are.”

Dew’s hands have stopped trembling. His fire’s long since gone.

But his heart - still loud in his ears. Still pounding with uncertainty… and something dangerously close to hope.

He stares at their joined hands - at the soft curl of Rain’s fingers around his wrist, his thumb still circling slow over his pulse like a prayer.

“I think you’re holding both. Fire and water. That’s what you're meant for.”

He leans in slightly, just enough that their knees brush. Just enough for Dew to feel it:

That pull.

Not from Rain’s hand.

But from somewhere deeper. Lower. Older.

Like tide drawn to moon.

Like warmth remembering what it used to reach for.

Like a door left ajar - not forgotten, but waiting.

Dew’s breath catches.

And Rain feels it too - his glow shifting to a brighter rose gold beneath his collarbone.

The bond between them tightens.

Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.

Just… there.

Like it always was.

Like it’s been waiting for this quiet all along.

Rain’s fingers pause on Dew’s wrist.

“You could finish the ceremony,” he says gently. “If you want.”

Dew swallows.

The bond presses warm behind his sternum - and for once, it doesn’t hurt.

“Would it work?” he asks.

Rain hums, low and even.

“With help.”

A pause.

And softer:

“With me.”

Dew doesn’t answer right away.

He looks out across the lake instead - moonlight silvering the water, the trees, the broken sand at his feet. His shoulders rise. Fall.

But he doesn’t speak.

And Rain, ever gentle, ever attuned, doesn’t press. He lets go slowly.

The warmth between them lingers like the echo of a promise.

“I can give you some space,” Rain says softly. “If you want time to think. I’ll head back to the -”

He begins to rise.

And then -

A flick of motion.

Dew’s tail curls around his wrist. Not tight. Not desperate. Just… there.

A tether.

A request.

Rain freezes and looks down.

Dew still hasn’t turned to face him - but the touch, loose as it is, says everything he can’t.

“Stay,” Dew murmurs. “Just for a while.”

Rain sinks back into the sand without hesitation.

“Okay,” he says. “As long as you need.”

Their shoulders don’t touch.

But their bond does - warm and steady between them, a thread that hums like a promise.

The lake breeze stirs again, light and cool against their skin. Not urgent. Not demanding.

Just an exhale.

As if the water, too, had been holding her breath.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The walk back is mostly silent - settled.

Dew walks a step behind, hands in his pockets, eyes on the stone floor. Rain doesn’t lead so much as accompany - his glow dim and calm, a quiet beacon guiding them through the dark. Their footfalls echo softly in the corridor, like waves retreating back into sand.

When they reach their hall, they pause.

Rain stops in front of his door, fingertips brushing the edge.

Dew lingers across from him, back to his own.

They don’t look at each other right away.

Just breathe.

“Goodnight,” Rain says, voice low and doubled, soft as waterlight.

Dew swallows.

His tail curls once around his ankle. Flicks free.

“Yeah. You too.”

He opens his door.

Rain opens his.

And then -

They both feel it.

That subtle stretch of something invisible pulling between them. A thread. A tether. The bond bending, not breaking - but aching with the distance.

Rain hesitates. Looks over his shoulder.

So does Dew.

They meet eyes for a half-second longer than they mean to.

Then they slip inside, let the doors click shut like sighs.

And the hallway is quiet again.

But not empty.

Not anymore.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

In the belly of the Ministry, the Archive breathes.

Paper rustles without wind. Candles flicker without flame. Scrolls rearrange themselves when no one’s watching.

But someone always watches.

Delta stands still as stone, eyes aglow with mirrored flame. Their hands are folded behind their back, but one finger twitches slightly, as if counting something unseen.

They are reading.

Not a page, but a thread.

Two, in fact.

Tied now. Braided not by ritual—but by choice.

They hum.

“It’s almost time.”

Behind them, old walls groan with the weight of fate shifting.

Delta tilts their head.

Smiles.

And whispers:

“Becoming indeed.”

Somewhere else, far above the Archive’s breath and the weight of fate - a heart keeps time in the dark.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Rain lies awake.

Not restless. Just listening.

To the hush of his own breath.

To the low thrum of the bond behind his sternum.

To the space Dew carved open and left in his hands.

He turns onto his side, facing the window now - moonlight painting soft across the sheets. One hand rests lightly over his chest, fingers tracing the rhythm there.

Not glowing. Not grieving.

Settling.

And somewhere between breath and sleep, between memory and hope, he hears it again.

Not aloud.

But present.

He is… He’s the shining and the light…

The line Dew never finished.

Rain doesn’t hum it. Doesn’t whisper it.

He just holds it.

Lets it echo in the quiet.

Lets it mean something now.

Lets it become.

Chapter Text

The first thing Dew notices is the light.

Too bright, too golden, streaming through the tall windows like it doesn't care who burned down the hallway yesterday.

He blinks into it, bleary and slow, eyes still red from salt and smoke. Every bone in his body aches. Not so much from fire. Just… worn. Hollowed out and still reeling from too much feeling all at once.

It's with a resigned sigh that he pulls himself from bed and out of his room, he knows they'll come looking eventually.

The den hums low with morning energy - soft voices, the occasional clink of a mug. Someone’s humming off-key near the kitchenette. Sunshine, probably. He catches a scent of jam and coffee and scorched citrus and breathes in slowly, grounding himself.

The moment he pads into the room - barefoot, rumpled, and clearly late - conversation stutters.

Not stops, but... shifts. Lowers. Curves toward quiet.

Aether pretends to check the kettle. Cirrus tugs gently on Cumulus’s sleeve, murmuring something with her eyes fixed very pointedly not on Dew.

He pretends not to notice.

Mountain doesn’t.

The earth ghoul is already rising, slow and steady, arms open like a weighted blanket about to walk.

“Don’t you dare,” Dew mutters under his breath, squinting at him.

Mountain just lifts a brow.

Dew sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. One hug. Feet stay on the floor.”

Mountain smiles.

The hug is enormous. Warm. Crushing. All chest and no lift, like a boulder trying very hard to be gentle. Dew endures it with a long-suffering eyeroll and a muttered, “You smell like moss and emotional damage.”

“You smell like smoke and regret,” Mountain replies, deadpan.

Fair.

When Mountain finally lets go, Dew doesn’t linger. He moves through the space like he’s trying not to touch anything. Too many eyes. Too many questions barely held behind soft smiles and half-sipped coffee and tea.

No one wants to be the one to ask.

But he can feel it.

Feel the tension, the concern, the unspoken: Are you okay? Are you still burning?

Did you fall, or did you let him catch you?

And the truth is - he doesn’t know how to answer.

Not alone.

So he figures he’ll explain it with Rain beside him. Let Rain steady him like he seems to do without trying.

That’s when he looks around and realizes he's not there.

No wet curls. No quiet glow. No tea mug tucked against his chest like armor.

Just… absence.

Dew’s stomach twists.

Where is he?

He scans the room again, slower this time. Rain isn’t tucked into the corner chair. Not perched on the windowsill. Not padding barefoot across the tile in his usual morning rhythm - up before the sun, lake by dawn, tea by nine.

It’s later than that now.

Late enough for something to feel wrong in Dew’s gut, slow and sour.

He turns toward the kitchenette, half out of instinct, half in hope, and finds Cirrus already watching him.

She doesn't say are you okay? or do you need anything?

She just steps quietly closer, voice low.

“He went down early today,” she says. “Didn’t come back yet.”

Dew swallows. “The lake?”

She nods. “Sunshine went to check on him like an hour ago. Said she couldn't see him, but she could tell he was there.”

That’s all it takes.

Dew nods once, more reaction than choice, and turns sharply.

He’s already halfway to the counter before he realizes his hands are moving on their own.

Bread. Eggs. Jam. Tea.

Something solid. Something warm.

Something for his hands to do besides shake with leftover adrenaline.

It’s easier than answering questions. Easier than looking up and seeing how many of them are still watching him, quiet in the corners of the den.

So he focuses on the food.

Not because he’s hungry.

But because Rain had given so much the night before - his voice, his steadiness, that soft glint of forgiveness. Dew has nothing of equal weight to offer back. But maybe he can offer this.

Warmth in a different form. Something gentle in return.

He slices, scrambles, assembles.

Keeps his eyes down, even as his thoughts drift toward the lake.

The tray is shaping up like something ceremonial. Embarrassingly so. He's got a thermos of Rain’s favorite tea steeping, the one that smells like fennel and clove and something vaguely oceanic. Honey. Bread. The good jam, without seeds in it. He flips the eggs from the pan and pauses, tapping his lip with a claw.

He looks up and stands on his tiptoes, reaching for a tin of smoked oysters. Most water ghouls loved them. Dew never did, but… well.

Another moral failing, he always supposed. At least now he could share the stash he never touched anyway.

He’s setting the tin on the tray next to a pile of grapes when he is interrupted by a voice behind him. Low. Reverent. And entirely full of shit.

“I’m gonna say something,” Swiss stage-whispers, “and I need you to receive it with an open heart.”

Dew freezes.

Does not turn around.

“Swiss, I swear to Lucifer -”

Swiss grins, leaning against the counter like he owns it.

“You’re the most down-bad bitch I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Dew sighs.

Rolls his eyes so hard he sees the inside of his skull.

“Have you tried a mirror recently?”

Behind him, Swiss cackles.

The den, silent only moments ago, is no longer pretending not to watch. Mountain is choking on a piece of toast. Sunshine is wheezing. Cumulus murmurs something about planning an intervention.

Dew very precisely finishes buttering the toast, mutters something about “not throwing hands before breakfast,” and storms off toward the lake.

He doesn’t look back.

The tray is steady in his hands.

But something in his chest trembles.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The lake is quiet this morning.

It's hushed, like breath held beneath a hymn. Rain kneels below the surface, spine bent, hands and forehead pressed gently to the silt. He's quiet. Listening.

Not asking. Never asking.

He was not taught to beg.

He was taught to become a vessel. To make his body a mirror. To offer breath, skin, blood, and bone - and receive in return whatever the currents chose to give.

This morning, they give nothing.

No ripple. No tug. No whisper. Only the weight of presence. Only Her.

Rain bows his head lower.

Above him, light filters through the ripples in fractured gold. Weeds sway like dancers in slow motion. Silt rises gently with his exhales, blooming into little galaxies before fading again.

The water is cold and honest. It does not pretend to be more than it is.

His knees are sunk into the soft mud, ceremonial rings looped over both horns. The same rings his mother insisted he take, and he tried to leave behind. Salt-stamped, river-bent, made to sing when the wind moved right.

He doesn’t pray to Lucifer.

He never has.

Not out of defiance - but distance. Lucifer was flame and will and sharp edges. Rain was born into water’s womb. Salt before thought. Love before law. He knows Her not by name, but by ache. By rhythm. By tide.

And this morning, he aches.

Not for punishment. Not even for clarity.

Just… kindness.

Just enough strength to offer Dew something gentler than guilt.

To become something sacred again.

He exhales slowly through parted lips. Lets the water take it. Lets the soundless current hold what he cannot carry.

His thoughts drift.

Last night.

Dew shaking in his hands, eyes red and luminous with shame. The soft sound of his what am I? cracking open something so old Rain had forgotten it was still healing. And his own answer - true, but not yet enough.

Not yet.

So he came here before dawn.

To remember how to ask without words.

To listen without flinching.

To offer himself again.

She accepts it all in silence.

—

His eyes are closed when the bond stirs.

Not sharply, but like a thread tugged gently through the middle of his chest. A vibration. A warmth - muffled and tentative.

Him.

Approaching and hesitant. The way light inches toward water, not knowing if it’ll be swallowed whole or reflected back.

Rain does not rise immediately.

Slowly, reverently, he brings his palms together over his chest. Fingers touch, thumbs meet. A shape formed not in language, but in knowing.

Nael-surin - the tide has taken it.

His gills glow once, soft and fleeting, a bioluminescent shimmer of white along his neck and ribs.

Then, with breath long-held and offered freely, he kicks upward - breaking the surface in a quiet ripple. Rain blinks water from his lashes, breath catching softly in his throat.

The air is sharp with morning, and something else. A scent he knows now. A glow that isn’t his.

Dew.

Standing on the bank like a sacrament gone sideways - tray in hand, eyes everywhere but on him.

“You came all this way.”

He tilts his head, soft and curious.

A pause. Just long enough to be felt.

“Was it to bring me strength, flicker?”

Dew blushes so hard he could evaporate the whole damn lake. He hesitates at the water’s edge, tray in hand like a peace offering he’s suddenly not sure how to hold.

Rain’s tone curls around him - gentle, teasing. Warm enough to disarm. Sharp enough to scatter.

“Was it to bring me strength, flicker?”

Dew makes a noise that might be a scoff or a choked laugh. Hard to tell.

He clears his throat, carefully avoiding eye contact as he kneels and sets the tray down on a smooth patch of grass.

“I brought breakfast,” he says, as if that explains anything. As if the jam wasn’t meticulously spread. As if the fruit wasn’t arranged just so.

Dew finally looks at him. Just for a second.

Rain is glowing. Not literally, but close. He’s still wet, golden in the late morning light, still pulsing faintly with the hum of something older than names.

He looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he can smooth out the heat rising under his skin.

Rain’s wet head dips back below the surface with a sigh and the water ripples wide.

And that's when Dew sees it.

A neatly folded towel.

And one pair of thin drawstring sleep pants.

He freezes.

Oh no.

He glances toward the water. Then the comically small pile of dry items. Then back at the water again.

Rain surfaces, lazy and glowing, hair slicked back and clinging to his shoulders. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he is, very clearly and very comfortably, naked.

Dew, in contrast, is not comfortable.

He makes a strangled sort of sound, somewhere between a cough and a prayer.

“You’re naked.”

Rain blinks. “I’m in the lake.”

“You’re naked in the lake.”

“It’s called communing, flicker.”

Dew swipes a hand down his face and mutters something vile under his breath.

“I brought you toast. Could you please put your pants on?”

Rain tilts his head, amused. “You sound like Sunshine.”

The ember-glow at Dew’s throat stutters, just once, but it’s unmistakable.

“Do you want a sandy ass while you eat?”

Rain laughs. It’s low and warm and unapologetically delighted. He doesn’t argue. Just swims to the edge with languid ease, climbs out of the water in one smooth motion, and begins toweling off.

Dew catches a single glimpse of bare, glistening skin and whips around so fast he nearly throws his back out.

“For the love of - please - just pants, Rain, I swear -”

Behind him there's soft rustling. The sound of drawstrings. A towel flapping once in the breeze.

This is not his moment of triumph.

This is his crucible.

He sits down heavily on the grass, buries his face in his hands, and tries very hard not to expire from mortification.

“This is a test,” he grumbles. “A cosmic test. I am a lesson in restraint. A parable.”

“I am wearing pants,” Rain says, so serenely it has to be a trap.

“You might as well still be naked,” Dew grumbles, hands over his face. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you walked around without a shirt?”

Rain’s tone is all wide-eyed grace.

“You told me to put on pants.”

A pause.

“I followed your instructions exactly.”

Dew exhales through his nose so hard it sounds like steam.

“This is entrapment.”

Behind him, Rain hums innocently as fabric rustles.

“I thought it was breakfast.”

“It was. And then your dick got involved.”

Rain laughs at that.

Dew buries his face in his hands and tries not to pull his own hair out.

“This is. So fucking stupid.”

Rain doesn’t press. Just settles beside him on the grass, close but not crowding, the warmth of him radiating like morning light.

A quiet beat passes between them. The breeze shifts. A frog croaks in the distance, then goes quiet again.

“What is?” Rain asks softly.

Not challenging. Just... curious.

Dew scrubs a hand down his face, groans softly into his palm.

“All of it. Me. This.” He gestures vaguely - at the tray, the water, the kiss of heat still lingering in the space between them. “I don’t know. It’s just... a lot.”

Rain nods like he’s felt it too.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

And of course, that’s exactly what makes Dew want to.

His hands drop to his lap. Stares ahead, at the lake, the trees, anywhere but Rain.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “But I kind of want to.”

His voice is rough around the edges, like it hasn't been honest in years.

“I thought I was coming here to feed you. Not to -” A vague, frustrated gesture at himself. “Combust. Again.”

Rain doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t soften it. Just listens.

“You’re allowed,” he says. “Especially after all that you've held back.”

Dew swallows.

“I was scared,” he says finally. “Of what it meant. Of what you saw.”

Rain turns to look at him, eyes steady. The light plays off his cheekbone, shimmering faintly like the lake is still holding him.

“All I saw was someone trying to survive.”

Dew doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t flinch either.

They sit in silence for a moment longer. The tea’s steam curls skyward, slow and fragrant. Rain reaches toward the tray, careful not to disturb its arrangement, and picks up the small tin of smoked oysters.

He tilts his head, studying the can.

“What is this?”

Dew glances over.

“Oysters. Smoked. From a can.”

Rain blinks at him, amused.

“You’re feeding me seafood from… a can?”

“It’s not just any seafood,” Dew mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “All the water ghouls here love them.”

A pause.

“I never did.”

Rain turns the tin in his hand slowly, feels the weight of it.

“So why bring them?”

Dew shrugs, looking everywhere but at him.

“Figured you might. It’s just… something I had. Something to share.”

Rain doesn't say anything right away. Just sets the tin gently aside, like it’s been received with the gravity of a sacred offering.

Then, without ceremony, he picks up a slice of toast. Looks at it. Looks at Dew.

And tears it neatly in half.

“Here.”

He offers one piece without fuss, holding it out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Dew stares at it. Takes it.

Their fingers brush. Neither of them pulls away immediately.

They eat slowly. No conversation. No demands. Just two halves of a whole morning - warm bread, soft breeze, and something like a friend.

After a while, Dew reaches for the tin.

“You wanna try one?” he asks, already peeling back the lid. The metal hisses softly, and the scent wafts up - brine and smoke and something aggressively fishy.

His nose wrinkles.

“Lucifer,” he mutters. “I forgot how bad they smell.”

Rain leans closer, curious. He plucks one out with elegant fingers and studies it like it might reveal a secret.

“This is a delicacy here?”

“Supposedly.”

Rain raises an eyebrow. And eats it.

There’s a beat of silence. A full-body shudder.

“You’re joking me,” he says flatly. “These are terrible.”

Dew snorts, surprised.

“You don’t like them?”

“Absolutely not. Vile. I think the silt on the lakebed would taste better.”

Dew huffs a laugh, shoulders shaking.

“Literally all of the water ghouls here love them. Even Delta.”

Rain swallows hard, chasing it with a sip of tea.

“Then maybe it’s not about being water at all.”

Dew’s breath catches. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

A little levity. A little grace.

Maybe he’s not as bad at this as he thought.

Maybe he’s not as alone as he feared.

Maybe he's allowed to want more than survival.

The tea cools in their hands, the sun edging higher above the trees.

It’s Rain who speaks first, voice low and dry.

“Is there practice today?”

Dew huffs. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Don’t exactly feel like going anyway.”

Rain nods. Looks out over the lake.

“Me either.”

Rain finishes the last bite, licking a smear of something sticky from his thumb, and Dew watches him for a beat too long before looking away.

“You’ve got…” Dew gestures vaguely toward his mouth.

Rain blinks, then dabs at his lip with the back of his hand. Misses.

Dew exhales - half laugh, half groan - and leans forward.

“Here,” he says, brushing the smudge from Rain’s lower lip with his thumb.

It’s not even that intimate.

But Rain still goes very still beneath the touch.

Dew doesn’t move, not at first. His thumb lingers a second too long. His eyes flicker to Rain’s.

And then -

He feels her.

Sunshine.

A warm buzz at the edge of the pack link, not probing, but present. Curious. Noticing.

Dew huffs and leans back, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sunshine’s gonna sniff this out like smoke.”

Rain tilts his head. “This?”

Dew shrugs, suddenly shy. “You. Me. Us. Whatever this is. She’s tuned in.”

Rain smiles faintly. “Will she ask?”

Dew snorts. “Oh, she won’t ask. She’ll announce. Loudly. With fanfare. Probably while you’re holding something fragile.”

Rain hums. “I like her.”

“Lucifer help us,” Dew mutters.

There's a flash of laughter between them. Easy. Unforced.

They don’t say anything for a long, long moment.

Then Rain lifts the teacup and mutters, mostly to himself:

“We should probably go back before Sunshine gets binoculars.”

Dew snorts.

“Too late. Ifrit made her a spyglass.”

Rain groans softly. “Of course he did.”

They gather the tray together.

And when they walk back toward the Ministry, they do it side by side.

Quiet.

Not strained, just careful. Like neither of them wants to disturb the fragile peace they’ve built between toast crumbs and lake light.

Dew keeps his eyes on the path most of the way. The tray’s balanced in his hands. Rain’s close beside him, not touching, not speaking. Just present. There.

But then…

They round the corner of the south corridor.

And Dew sees it.

In the harsh clarity of full daylight, there’s no mistaking what he’s done.

The scorch marks crawl up the walls in jagged streaks. The handrail is melted in places, twisted like it recoiled from his touch. A cracked tile near the baseboard still smolders faintly around the edges. The hallway smells like soot and citrus and regret.

His chest tightens. Not with fire - not this time. With shame.

“Fuck,” he breathes, halting without meaning to. “I didn’t realize…”

He trails off.

Rain stops too. Doesn’t say anything.

Just… looks.

Not at Dew.

At the wreckage.

At the hollow ache of everything burned too fast to name.

At what was left behind when the flame finally went out.

Dew braces himself for pity. For something soft and patronizing.

It doesn’t come.

Rain just stands beside him, eyes calm. Steady.

“It’s not worse than what we’ve survived,” he says, finally. “Just newer.”

Dew doesn’t answer. His throat's too tight.

Rain doesn’t press.

He lets the silence settle around them like ash.

Lets Dew feel it. All of it.

And then, gently, Rain reaches over.

Brushes a bit of soot from Dew’s sleeve.

He doesn’t try to clean him. Only makes sure he’s seen.

And then keeps walking.

Step by step, the wreckage reveals itself.

Dew keeps his head down, jaw tight, but he sees it.

The scorched stairwell. The faint burn-shadow of his own handprint on the banister. A melted corner of the wainscoting near where Cumulus keeps her orchid pots. She’s already moved them. Of course she has.

No one’s in the halls right now, thank Lucifer. But the silence is worse somehow.

Makes everything echo.

They pass the spot where a mirror used to hang. Only shards remain now, glittering faintly on the ground like accusations.

Dew clenches the tray tighter.

He can feel Rain watching him.

Not judging. Not speaking.

Just… there.

When they reach his door, it’s worse than he remembers.

There’s a bloom of ash around the frame, like something exploded outward from within. Soot feathers across the wood in a shape that almost looks like wings. The floor outside is cracked. His nameplate is half-melted, still holding on by one screw.

Dew twitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible.

Rain doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. Just walks ahead like nothing’s wrong.

Dew follows.

There isn't much of a choice.

—

By the time they reach the den again, the laughter has faded. Whatever mid-morning chaos had sparked earlier has softened into quiet chores and half-finished conversations.

Someone’s cleaned the counter. The tray in Dew’s hands suddenly feels ridiculous. Too heavy. Too much. Too fragile.

He sets it down a little too hard.

The teacup rattles.

Rain is still beside him.

Dew’s hands curl into fists.

“It’s everywhere,” he says. Not angry. Not even bitter. Defeated, more than anything else. “I ruined everything.”

His voice cracks at the end. Just slightly.

He doesn’t realize he’s trembling until his fingers clench too hard against the edge of the counter.

Rain notices.

But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach out.

Instead he steps past Dew into the little prep nook and grabs the largest ceramic bowl he can find. Turns on the tap and fills it with steaming water, slow and steady.

Dew watches, confused, until Rain crouches to peer into the cupboard beneath the sink like he’s deciphering an ancient riddle.

“Where do you keep the sea-foam husks?”

Dew blinks. “The what?”

Rain looks over his shoulder, completely unbothered.

“You know. The squishy things that trap bubbles.”

Dew stares at him for a full two seconds.

“…You mean a sponge?”

Rain shrugs. “That’s a very ugly name for something so useful.”

Something about that - about the earnestness, the slow way Rain says useful like it matters - cuts clean through Dew’s spiral.

His shoulders shake once.

Then he lets out a laugh. Sharp. Unexpected. Like a steam valve releasing just before the system explodes.

“Top shelf,” he mutters, face half-hidden behind his hand. “Behind the soap.”

Rain nods solemnly. Retrieves the sponge. Dips it into the steaming bowl, wrings it out with elegant precision, and sets it on the counter between them.

“Sometimes things burn,” he says softly. “So something new can grow.”

Dew looks at the sponge.

Then the bowl.

Then Rain.

“You want me to scrub the walls of the Ministry with a sea-foam husk.”

“Not all at once.” Rain’s lips twitch on the edge of a smile. “Just the part you see first.”

Dew is quiet for a long moment.

Then, gently, he reaches for the sponge.

The bowl of water is quiet.

So are they.

No more talk about fire. Or sponges. Or wreckage.

Just the soft, rhythmic sound of cloth against scorched tile. The gentle drip of water hitting the floor. The occasional creak of a joint. A quiet sigh. The slow exhale of something neither of them is ready to name.

They work side by side.

Rain wipes soot from the cabinet doors. Dew scrubs the backsplash where the heat bloom warped the edge of the tile. Their shoulders bump now and then - light brushes, unspoken apologies.

Neither of them says a word about it.

Rain hums low and tuneless. It almost sounds like something ancient, half-remembered from the rivers below.

Dew doesn’t ask.

But he stays. Keeps moving.

Keeps breathing.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

They’ve cleared most of the burn-smudge from the counter and half the wall when the den door creaks open and voices drift in - laughter, footsteps, the scrape of chairs across tile.

Sunshine’s hair bounces into view first, followed closely by Swiss, who halts in the doorway like he’s stumbled into a ghost story.

“Are you two… scrubbing the Ministry?”

Dew startles and straightens too fast - crack - right into the open cabinet.

“No.”

Rain, serene as ever, lifts the sponge like a ceremonial object.

“Sea-foam husk. Reusable, even.”

Sunshine grins, stepping fully into the room. “You missed a spot.”

Dew glares from beneath his hand, massaging the fresh bump on his head.

She winks.

Dew exhales, still scowling faintly.

Rain reaches out. Gentle. Two fingers brush the spot where Dew bumped himself, light as a blessing.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Dew hums, embarrassed but not pulling away.

Rain hesitates.

Just a breath.

Then he leans in, slowly, like he’s about to press a kiss to Dew’s forehead.

But before he makes contact -

“Oh by the way!”

They both jolt as Sunshine pops back through the doorway.

“Mountain’s on lunch duty. If he sets the kitchen on fire, I’m blaming you two for distracting him with your little -” she gestures vaguely - “domestic redemption arc.”

She disappears before either of them can respond.

A beat of stunned silence.

Rain pulls back, his ear fins pulsing pink.

Dew mutters. “Lucifer damn her.”

Rain, very quietly, laughs.

—

The table’s full.

Not just with food - though there’s plenty of that. Mountain’s made something hearty and fragrant, all roasted roots and buttered grain, the kind of meal that settles into your bones and lingers.

Sunshine keeps sliding the bread basket across the table like she’s trying to broker peace between factions. Swiss is stealing olives from Rain’s bowl with all the subtlety of a raccoon at a picnic. Cirrus hums gently between bites, one leg swinging under her chair, while Cumulus rearranges the salt shakers into constellations no one else can quite see.

The room buzzes with soft chaos, the comfort of familiar noise.

And then Swiss spots it.

The tin.

The can of smoked oysters, barely touched and deeply cursed, sitting proudly in the center of the table like a dare.

Swiss reaches without hesitation.

“Mmm.” He pops two into his mouth. “These slap.”

Rain doesn’t even look up. “There is something deeply wrong with you.”

Swiss, mid-chew, grins. “I mean, probably. Ask your mother.”

Dew chokes on his tea.

“I’m sorry - what the fuck do you know about his mother?”

The entire table freezes. Forks pause mid-air. Sunshine's hands still mid-basket-pass. Even the air seems to hold its breath.

Someone gasps.

Rain and Swiss exchange a look across the table. Rain shrugs, indifferent and almost amused.

Swiss swallows dramatically, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans back like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“Only that she’s the most powerful healer in all the pits. The Salt Mother herself. Lady Nymede.”

The room detonates.

Cirrus drops her spoon with a clatter.

Sunshine shrieks, “You’re kidding me.”

Mountain murmurs, “That explains so much.”

Cumulus lets out a high-pitched, unintelligible squeak into their hands.

Rain takes a slow, measured sip of tea.

Dew, not comforted, narrows his eyes.

“And how the hell do you know that?”

Swiss shrugs, far too casually for someone dropping bombs.

“She gave me my fire blessing. Many years ago. Rain was barely an adolescent then.”

Sunshine yelps and launches the bread basket straight into Cirrus’s lap. Cirrus barely notices.

Swiss eats another oyster like nothing happened.

“Rain,” Sunshine breathes, “do you have a shadow when you swim or not?”

Dew, deadpan: “Didn’t see one this morning.”

Rain sighs. Long-suffering. “I was underwater. You were on shore. It wouldn’t have shown.”

Dew shrugs. “Still didn’t see one.”

Rain glares at him, gently, but his ear fins are vibrant pink, the luminescence spreading down his cheeks. “Then maybe you should look harder.”

There's no settling after that.

The pack’s still buzzing.

Cirrus is pointing at Swiss like he’s a prophet. Sunshine is drawing on a napkin, sketching the curve of Rain’s horns with dramatic flair, labeling them divine tuning forks.

Laughter hums low. Even Rain looks like he might be smiling -

And then -

The door slams open.

The sound cracks through the room like a bone breaking.

Aether fills the frame. Coat sharp. Jaw locked. His mouth a grim line like he’s already halfway through an argument no one else has heard yet.

The room drops into silence.

Swiss, caught mid-bite with a half-eaten oyster, mutters something under his breath with a sharp exhale.

Dew goes still. The ember-glow at his throat flickers, then dims.

Aether’s eyes lock on him.

“Copia wants you.”

No greeting. No explanation. Just a command, flat and cold.

Rain’s mug hits the table with a soft, deliberate clink.

Dew stiffens further. It’s not the summoning that unsettles him, it’s what might follow. Everything he burned. Everything still smoking in the halls. Is this punishment? Is he being benched? Reprimanded? Removed? Or worse… sent back?

“What for?” he asks, voice low, fraying at the edges.

Aether doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t even look at him anymore.

His gaze slides to Rain.

“You.” He points. “Don’t follow him.”

The words fall like a lead weight in the center of the room.

Rain goes very still.

His fingers curl hard enough against the edge of the table that the wood creaks beneath his grip. His glow dims, then spikes; first red, then orange, then a deep, murky teal that shudders and pulls tight beneath the surface.

Fear, swallowed by fury.

The bond bristles. Rain doesn’t flinch.

He growls.

Low. Deep. Cold.

It thrums through the floorboards like the pressure shift before a storm.

Cirrus’s spoon rattles in her bowl. Sunshine’s eyes go wide. Mountain’s shoulders rise. Swiss, still chewing, straightens, his smile gone.

Aether’s expression flickers. Brief. But Rain sees it.

Still, he doesn’t rise. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

The growl does all the talking.

Dew stands. Slowly. Deliberately.

“If I don’t go,” he mutters, “it’ll only make it worse.”

Rain looks like he might argue, but Dew brushes his fingers against the back of his hand. The growl dies in his throat.

A touch, soft and quiet. I know.

“It’s okay,” Dew says.

It isn’t. Not really. But it’s all he can give.

As Dew turns to leave, Rain growls again. Softer this time, but no less deadly.

When he reaches the door, he doesn’t look back.

Rain’s eyes never leave Aether as he follows. Cold and quiet and tracking every step.

The door clicks shut behind them like a slammed verdict.

Rain exhales, his growl quieting. Not with relief. Not in fear.

Something darker.

A warning.

His hand stays curled on the table, the ghost of Dew’s touch still burning against his skin. His glow pulses hard - sharp, quick staccato bursts chasing the wild beat of his heart.

He hasn’t moved. Not really.

The door is closed, but Rain hasn’t caught up. He’s still in the moment before. Still braced - for what, he doesn’t know. Loss? A fight? The echo of footsteps down a hall he wasn’t allowed to follow?

His tea has gone cold.

But he stares into it anyway, as if the answer might be steeping beneath the surface.

What does he know that we don’t? Rain didn't like what he saw in Aether’s gaze.

Not concern.

Not protection.

Possession.

And Dew had seen it too.

That’s why he touched Rain like that, quick and final.

A little goodbye, disguised as reassurance.

And Rain…

Rain was not built to stand still.

His hand trembles slightly then steadies. He exhales through his nose, the sound tight, threaded with something more dangerous than panic.

Resolve.

The silence stretches, waiting. Rain doesn’t meet their eyes.

It’s Mountain who speaks first.

He shifts in his seat. Sets down his bowl. Moves with the kind of careful gravity that only comes from centuries spent tending new growth.

Not loud. Not sudden.

Present. The shoreline hugging the sea.

“He’ll be okay.”

The words fall gently between them, like stones placed in a riverbed. A truth to step on. Something solid.

“It’s better he sees Copia than Sister,” he adds. “She’s far worse.”

Rain’s jaw ticks.

He doesn’t know this “Sister.” Barely knows Copia. He only sees the wake of wreckage left behind when change wasn’t made with love.

Cirrus sets her cup down, porcelain clinking faintly on wood. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him, gaze steady in a way that feels too still.

When she does speak, it’s soft.

“You knew.”

Not an accusation. Not quite a question. Simple observation.

Rain’s jaw tightens.

“I felt it,” he murmurs. “Before the door opened. Like the bond was warning me.”

Cirrus hums. Like a wire drawn taut.

“And now?”

Rain finally lifts his eyes.

They’re still glowing, still soft around the edges, but steadier now. More sea-glass than lightning.

“Now it’s worse.”

Another silence follows. This one a little looser. A little less razor-edged.

Sunshine moves next, quietly sliding her chair closer, like she’s trying not to spook a bird. Her knee bumps Rain’s under the table.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says, with the absolute confidence of someone who once threatened to bite a priest’s hand off for looking at Swiss wrong.

Rain feels his eye twitch.

Swiss leans back in his chair, exaggeratedly casual, and pops another oyster into his mouth like it’s a power move.

“I could go shadow mode,” he offers around the last bite. “Just to keep an eye.”

Rain glances at him sideways.

Swiss shrugs, all faux innocence and fangy grin.

“Purely observational, of course. Surveillance. Not interference.”

Then, quieter and with more honesty he adds:

“Unless he needs me.”

Cirrus hums in approval. Sunshine beams. Mountain says nothing, but the pause in his chewing says he’s already weighing strategies.

Rain exhales, slow and even. The barest curl of gratitude touches his mouth.

“You’ll let me know if he does.”

Swiss taps his temple.

“You’ll feel it before I do.”

The tension doesn’t vanish all at once, but it softens.

It loosens its grip on the room. Unwinds from Rain’s spine, inch by inch, as he exhales again and settles back into his seat.

He nods once.

Swiss is gone a moment later, melted into shadow with a fizzling pop and the faint scent of something… vaguely singed and deeply questionable. Like burnt sugar. Or ozone. Or whatever cologne he should never be allowed to wear again.

Sunshine waves a hand in front of her nose.

“Why does it always smell like witch candy and regret when he does that?”

Mountain tries to hide his laugh and fails.

Cumulus, serene as ever, reaches across the table and gestures at Rain’s hair.

“Might as well give these curls a braid while we wait,” she says. “Can’t have the unholiest of bloodlines looking as feral as he sounds.”

“Ah,” Rain murmurs, “so the problem is looking feral. Not being it?”

Sunshine snorts, an entirely undignified sound as she stands with a flourish.

The table creaks as chairs scrape back. Someone grabs the breadbasket. Someone else collects the mugs.

They migrate without ceremony, drifting toward the den’s cluster of couches and sun-warmed cushions. The conversation lingers, quieter now, threaded through with comfort.

Rain settles into the corner with a soft groan.

He doesn’t protest when Cumulus slides in behind him, her fingers gentle in his curls, sectioning with practiced ease. She hums as she works; something quiet, melodic, older than the Ministry itself.

“One braid,” he mumbles. “And no shells.”

“No promises,” she says, smiling.

Sunshine leans in, eyes full of trouble.

“This is dangerous, Lulu. First a braid, then some shared tea, and next thing we know Dew’s building him a nest.”

Rain chokes on air.

His glow stutters pink at the edges, blooming up his throat like the blush is trying to flee his skin entirely.

He taps a rhythm on his thigh, trying to recover.

“One shell,” he says. “You get one.”

Sunshine clasps her hands like she’s been blessed.

“So it begins,” she sings under her breath.

Cumulus grins and keeps braiding.

Cirrus hums softly behind her tea. “Weren’t you the one in the plunge pool insisting that he doesn’t even like you?”

Rain doesn’t look up, but his glow flares faintly - soft white edged with pink.

“I didn’t say it because it was true,” he murmurs. “I said it because I was scared it wasn’t.”

A silence ripples outward, a quiet beat of knowing.

And then, as if on cue, Sunshine stage-whispers, “He’s so fucked.”

From across the room, Mountain huffs a quiet laugh.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm but grounding. “Can I ask you something?”

Rain glances up, wary, but open.

“Not about your mother. Or your shadow. Or feelings, or any of that.”

Rain nods, just slightly, not wanting to disturb Cumulus’s handiwork.

“Just… what’d you do down there? Before all this?”

The air softens again.

Rain tilts his head, considering.

And, for the first time since the door slammed open, he smiles. Soft and dull.

“Well,” Rain says quietly. “I swam.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The hallway is colder when you’re shadow.

Swiss doesn’t walk so much as slip along the grain of the walls, around the seams in the stone, body stretched thin like smoke in a draft. There’s no real light here, not anymore. Only vibration. Only scent. Only pulse.

And Dew is burning.

Not outwardly. His steps are calm, deliberate, jaw locked - but Swiss feels it. The smoke curling in his ribs. The hum of his pack bond, straining like wire under tension. Aether walks just ahead, coat flared, saying nothing.

Swiss follows.

He is the wall. The floor. The ceiling. He listens not with ears but something stranger: pressure-awareness, static memory pressed into stone.

The deeper they go, the more the air hums.

Not with power. With history.

And in the silence, something else coils nearby.

Ancient. Watching.

Aether’s voice pierces the hush first.

“You’re spiraling.”

Dew doesn’t answer. Keeps walking. Shoulders drawn tight. Breath shallow.

Swiss trails him, tucked in every corner the light avoids. The shadows cling to Dew, drawn in like a tide pulled by grief. Swiss presses closer.

“You think I don’t see it?” Aether keeps going, sharp and loud. “You’re agitated. Untethered. And now Rain’s growling at me like -”

“Because you deserved it.” Dew’s voice cracks, brittle flame on dry bark.

Swiss nearly gasps. He feels it, the shift. The way something unseen inhales.

“You think he’s soft?” Dew scoffs, bitter. “He’s stronger than you ever gave him credit for.”

The air goes strange. Not cold. Not hot.

Heavy.

Swiss tastes salt on his tongue. Salt and soot and something older than ash. His limbs numb slightly, like he’s pushing through static.

He blinks and catches a pulse.

Not visible, not quite. Just a shape in the deeper dark.

Eyes. Mirror-bright.

Delta.

Folded into the seams like Swiss is, but deeper. Like they were born from the mortar itself.

Swiss recoils instinctively.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

But Delta isn’t watching him.

They’re watching Dew.

And they’re smiling.

The kind of smile that means the story is finally getting good.

Swiss feels it, a low resonance curling around the edges of the hall, like fate tightening a drawstring bag.

Delta doesn’t move.

They don’t need to.

Swiss feels their gaze like a pulse in his bones. Like being remembered by something that shouldn’t know your name.

His instincts scream to run. Melt back into the den, the kitchen, Rain’s light.

But he doesn’t.

Because Rain asked him to keep watch.

And Dew, as cracked and stubborn as he is, deserves to be seen.

So he presses deeper into the shadow. Low. Careful. Watching as Dew slows near the end of the hallway.

“You know what the worst part is?” Dew mutters.

Not sharp now. Just tired. Ached-out.

Aether says nothing.

“You promised I’d be okay.”

Dew turns just enough for Swiss to see the cut of his jaw, tight with everything unsaid.

“I wasn’t.”

Silence.

Brittle.

Aether speaks quietly, like it costs him. “Maybe I didn’t know how to help. Maybe I still don't.”

Dew’s laugh is small. “No. You just didn’t want it to happen at all.”

Somewhere in the wall, in the breath between moments, Delta hums.

Not in sound, but in shape. Warm. Like something ancient and waiting has just been confirmed.

Swiss swallows hard. Doesn’t back away.

Not yet.

Not while Dew’s still speaking.

Not while the shadow is still smiling.

“I thought,” Dew mutters, “you just didn’t want me to change.”

His boots scuff the stone floor. He doesn’t look at Aether. But the heat of him pulses, steady and rising.

“But the truth is… you were scared because you had no idea what you were doing, did you?”

Aether stiffens. “That’s not -”

“You didn’t.” Dew’s voice is steady now. Quiet, but final. “You made all these promises about who I would be, who we could be, when you had no idea what it would do.”

They stop in front of Copia’s door.

For a moment, the only sound is Aether’s breathing, shallow yet sharp.

Swiss, pressed thin into the wall, holds his breath too.

Then Dew turns to face him fully. His glow is steady, almost quiet, but his voice carries enough weight to make the air feel thinner.

“You didn’t just fail me,” Dew says. “You made promises you couldn’t keep. And when it went wrong, you left me in the dark.”

And in the pause that follows, something shifts.

Swiss feels it curl around the doorframe, warm and pleased. Approving.

Aether flinches. Dew reaches for the door, lets it click open.

Copia looks up from his desk, papers askew, glasses perched on his nose like they’ve seen better centuries. He’s clearly been pacing; his vest is unbuttoned, collar wilted, and one glove is missing entirely.

He tries to smile.

Fails.

“Ah, Dewdrop. Aether.” His tone is too light. “Thank you for coming.”

Dew doesn’t answer. He steps into the room, jaw tight, arms folded.

Aether follows more slowly, gaze averted.

The door shuts behind them with a solid thud.

And in the shadow just to the left of Copia’s cabinet, where a tall candelabra leans slightly too far to one side, Swiss watches.

Copia’s nerves. Sweat behind the ear. Fingers twitching.

Dew’s restraint. Controlled, practiced, dangerous.

Aether’s guilt. Like burnt citrus and pride with no spine.

And behind it all, curling under the floorboards like steam from an unseen spring, Delta joins. Amused. Interested.

Fully aware.

Swiss feels it like a ripple through oil.

He dares not move.

Just listens, pressed into shadow and intent.

Copia gestures toward the chairs. “Please, sit.”

Dew doesn’t.

“You called for me.”

“Yes,” Copia says, folding his hands. “I… wanted to discuss the state of things. Of you. Of what’s next.”

Dew raises a brow. “What’s next? You mean after I lit half the courtyard on fire?”

Copia winces. “That wasn’t - well. That was certainly not ideal.”

Dew exhales through his nose, jaw tightening.

“It’s not like I planned it. But I didn’t plan to lose control, either. No one warned me the fire wouldn’t listen. Or worse, come when it wanted.”

His voice frays at the edges. Raw.

“No one told me I’d be hollowed out first. That I’d have to crawl through emptiness to find it.”

Aether flinches.

Swiss shifts enough to catch the scent of copper and ozone building behind Dew’s teeth. His voice is low, steady.

“I’m trying to become something I still don't fully understand,” Dew says, voice low but steady. “And you’re still looking at me like I’m dangerous.”

Copia’s breath catches. “Not dangerous,” he says, too fast. “Just… unpredictable.”

“And why do you think that is?” Dew asks, voice sharpening.

Swiss nearly grins from the shadows.

The air thickens.

Copia’s gaze flicks to Aether again. A silent plea. Do something.

But Aether’s jaw is set. The walls seem to sag around him. And Dew sees it.

Something inside him twists.

“Nobody knew what they were doing,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Did you really think summoning another ghoul while forcing an elemental change at the same time would work?”

Copia sits up straighter. “It was an authorized integration ritual. Sister Imperator assured -”

Dew cuts him off with a humorless laugh.

“Oh,” he says, flat. “Imperator assured you. That’s your defense?”

He turns to Aether.

“You should’ve known better.”

The room tightens like a wire pulled taut. Aether’s eyes flash.

“You didn’t seem to know better either,” Copia snaps, bristling now.

“I’m learning how wrong it was. How wrong it’s always been.” His gaze shifts - first to Aether, then to the sigils carved into Copia’s desk. “All of it.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.

The truth hums in the silence that follows, hot and damning.

Copia frowns, uncertain. “What do you mean, my ghoul?”

Dew doesn’t answer.

He just straightens.

“Ask Rain.”

Then he turns on his heel, done with the conversation, done with the stifling room, done with all of it.

In the wall behind them, Swiss watches, breath held.

Delta smiles deep below the floorboards of the world.

And Dew’s footsteps echo down the hall. Gone.

The door slams shut behind him.

Silence swells in his absence.

Copia slumps back in his chair, one gloved hand rubbing his temple. His other hand twitches toward the drawer where he keeps the stronger wine, but doesn’t open it.

Aether just stares at the closed door. The light around him flickers like a guttered flame.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, half to himself. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

Copia laughs once, brittle.

“You don't say.”

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and stares hard at the small, framed sigil of the Ministry. The one Imperator gave him when he was promoted. It wavers. Not physically, but in meaning. In faith.

“We followed the protocols,” Copia says quietly.

Aether doesn’t answer. He’s too busy blaming himself. He’s good at that. Always has been.

But in the walls, the air shivers.

Swiss feels it first as a buzz along his spine. The shape of his shadow form beginning to fray, the edge between presence and absence thinning. Something’s shifting, subtly but urgently, like he’s no longer meant to be here.

Like the Archive has made a note.

He pulls back, quickly but carefully, slipping out before he can be seen in any meaningful way.

The hallway takes shape around him. Limbs re-solidifying. Veins remembering blood. The scent of ozone and incense clinging to him as if he burned his way out.

Swiss steps through the den wall like smoke with bones, shadow giving way to flesh just behind the den threshold.

Rain looks up first. His eyes scan him with the kind of urgency only bonds carry, then soften just a fraction.

“Where’s Dew?”

Swiss shrugs off the last of the shadow from his shoulders. “Lost him.”

A beat.

“But he’s okay.”

Cirrus tilts her head. “What happened?”

Swiss rubs the back of his neck, lets the silence stretch just long enough to be dramatic.

Then he grins.

“He stood up for himself.”

The coffee table creaks as someone shifts. Sunshine, for once, doesn’t speak. Rain’s breath catches, subtle but there.

Something uncoils in the room. Something breathes easier.

Swiss flops into the nearest chair and reaches for the last piece of bread like he didn’t just ghostwalk into hell and back.

“Miss me?”

No one answers. Not with words.

But Rain’s glow steadies. Sunshine picks up the bread basket. Cumulus hums a little tune.

And Swiss just leans back, lets the warmth of the room settle over him like a second skin. He doesn’t say what he saw. Doesn’t mention the cold edge of the Archive, or the way Delta tilted their head like a clock ticking down.

Rain will feel it. Already does, probably.

For now, Dew’s safe.

And that's all that really matters.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew leans against the wall of the fireyard, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’s trying to phase through the stone.

Alpha finds him like that, still glowing faintly with aftermath.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands a few feet off, sharp and steady, letting the silence settle between them until the air shifts.

And then -

“You look like hell.”

Dew exhales, sharp and shaky. “Feel worse.”

“Why come here?”

Dew doesn’t look at him.

“I wanted to try again,” he mutters. “To see if I could call it.”

He digs the toe of his boot into the ground, frustrated.

“I can’t. It doesn’t listen.”

Alpha hums once. Thoughtful. Quiet.

“You wanna try with me?”

Dew hesitates.

He could. He should. A spar, a tumble, bruises in place of thoughts. Alpha wouldn’t make it personal. Wouldn’t ask.

He can feel his skin crackle with heat when Alpha nods toward the sparring circle.

“Come on. We'll get it out.”

Dew hesitates.

Then steps in.

They don’t speak after that.

The first punch lands squarely against Alpha’s forearm. The second grazes his side. Dew moves fast - too fast. Sloppy, angry, burning. Alpha absorbs it all like stone absorbs fire.

He lands a hit in return, light but solid, against Dew’s ribs.

Dew stumbles. Growls. Charges again.

It lasts maybe a minute.

Then he stops.

Just stops.

Breathing hard, chest heaving, shoulders hunched like a collapsing arch.

“This isn’t what I need,” he gasps.

Alpha doesn’t move. Doesn’t gloat. He straightens slowly, eyes sharp beneath his sweat-damp curls.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

Dew wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Ash smears.

“Used to help.”

Alpha shrugs. “Used to help me too.”

They stand in silence for a moment, both catching their breath.

Then Alpha speaks again, quieter now.

“There’s a point in your life where hitting something stops feeling like release. Because what you need isn’t blood. Or bruises. Or fire.”

He looks at Dew, steady.

“It’s witness.”

Dew frowns.

“Witness?”

Alpha nods. “Someone who sees you. Even when you’re not worth seeing.”

He presses two fingers to the leather cord around his wrist, a simple loop, worn smooth with time. A gesture so small you might miss it, but Dew doesn’t. Not this close. Not now.

“Especially then.”

Dew sways slightly where he stands. Because Alpha is right. And now he knows, seeing more clearly now than he has in weeks.

It’s not the bruises he’s aching for.

It’s the look Rain gave him in the kitchen. The crumb on his lip. The sponge between them. The soft hum. The quiet hands.

The fact that Rain didn’t just stay, but walked toward him.

Even as he burned.

That Rain reached for him before he even knew his name.

“Shit,” Dew whispers.

Alpha tilts his head. “You good?”

Dew lets out a breath that almost breaks him.

“No. But I know where to go now.”

Alpha tilts his head. “You sure? You’re humming like a live wire.”

Dew looks past him. Past the yard. Toward the treeline that hides the lake just beyond.

“I just…”

He swallows.

“I just want to go home.”

The word catches.

Not the den. Not the fireyard. Not the lake.

Home.

And it hits him - how loud the bond is when he finally stops running from it.

He was never looking for a place.

He was looking for someone who would stay.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The pack has drifted into the lull that follows full bellies and soft laughter. Sunshine has somehow claimed three pillows and part of Mountain’s lap. Swiss is using Cumulus as a backrest, telling her a story she’s pretending not to enjoy.

Rain sits cross-legged on the couch, a warm mug cradled in his hands. His curls have been woven back into elegant French braids, three neat rows, each tipped with a small shell.

He feels settled, until the bond… shifts.

It blooms. Like a ripple across still water. No words. No images.

Just feeling.

Warmth.

Ache.

Resolve.

Rain blinks once, slowly. His fingers tighten around the mug.

He doesn’t smile, but he knows.

And he’s up in the next breath, already padding toward the tiny kitchenette.

“Where ya going?” Sunshine calls.

“Tea,” Rain says over his shoulder.

Cirrus’s eyes glitter.

“Didn’t you say something earlier, Sunshine? First a braid, then shared tea…”

Rain ignores her. But his ears are glowing, faint and sweet.

Cirrus leans toward Cumulus and whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“He’s coming.”

–

Rain opens the cupboard, grabs a few things without thinking.

Orange. Vanilla. Cinnamon rooibos.

Too sweet. A little strange. Definitely not for him.

But it feels right for Dew.

Like warmth instead of edge. Like softness, offered first.

He sets the kettle on. Measures the tea into the strainer with slow, deliberate fingers.

Behind him, Cirrus hums from her perch, a smug, shining sound that ripples across the pack bond.

Sunshine’s head snaps up. She clutches the blanket tighter.

“It’s happening,” she breathes.

Mountain raises a brow. “What is?”

Cirrus doesn’t answer. She only says, “You’ll feel it.”

Sunshine bolts upright like she’s been struck by divine inspiration.

“I need my whiteboard.”

There’s a flurry of motion. A crash. A muffled “WHERE is it—” and then, “HAH.”

Rain stirs the tea with practiced calm. But his hands are steadier now. His bond has gone still and bright.

A moment later, Sunshine reappears, victorious, the whiteboard tucked under one arm and a fistful of dry-erase markers clutched in the other. She plants it next to the side table like a scholar about to map the stars.

“Kiss Watch is live,” she declares. “Column one: Rain. Column two: Dew. Predictions. Timestamps. Emotional damage. Let’s go.”

“You are deranged,” Cumulus mutters between sips of her drink.

Sunshine beams and uncaps a marker. “Thank you for your support.”

Swiss strolls past with a snack in hand, muttering something about front-row seats to a slow-motion heart implosion. He elbows Rain as he passes, eyebrow raised.

Rain doesn’t react.

He just watches the kettle.

Listens to it begin to sing.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills the room. And beneath it all, something quieter, steadier, thrumming in his chest.

He doesn’t say it aloud.

But he knows.

Dew is coming.

And their bond, after all the flickers, false starts, and flare-ups, is no longer reaching. No longer unraveling.

It’s just… there.

Like breath.

Like choice.

Like something that was always going to happen.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The doors creak open on rusted hinges.

Copia steps inside, careful not to let them slam. Dust swirls in pale shafts of light filtering through broken stained glass. It smells like wax and salt and old incense - like memory refusing to fade.

No one comes here anymore.

No one, except… well. The one being that seems to be everywhere, and nowhere all at once.

Delta sits now where the choir once stood, arms folded, spine impossibly straight. Backlit by flickering candlelight that casts no true shadow. A single red thread trails from their fingertip, vanishing into the floor.

They don’t look up.

“Looking for salvation, Little Cardinal?”

Copia swallows. His throat is dry.

“Looking for answers.”

“Mm. Same thing, depending who you ask.”

The silence stretches wide.

Copia steps closer. Slow. Careful.

“I think I made a mistake.”

Delta hums. The sound curls like smoke.

“Only one?”

“There’s something happening between them. Rain and Dew. I thought it was just elemental fallout, or emotional residue from the rituals - but now…”

“Now?” Delta tilts their head. Eyes aglow, mirroring flame.

“Now I think it’s fate.”

Delta smiles.

“Could be.”

Copia’s stomach knots.

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“You weren’t ready.”

“I’m still not ready.”

Delta lifts their gaze, slow and deliberate.

“Then pray you survive it.”

Their hand twitches. The thread loops into the air, braiding something unseen. A binding. A warning. A knot.

“Pretty little fishy’s more than you bargained for, hm?”

Copia flinches.

“He’s not just water, you know.”

Copia frowns, not following. Delta has the grace to elaborate.

“No. He’s salt and blood and blessing.”

“And Dew?”

Delta’s smile softens. But not gently.

“Still becoming.”

A long pause.

“You said I wasn’t ready,” Copia murmurs. “What if I never am?”

“Then you’ll drown. A storm is coming.”

Delta closes their eyes.

Copia’s voice cracks.

“Is this who you were meant to be? Or did we ruin you?”

Silence - so deep it swallows the light.

Then -

Delta laughs.

Low. Strange. Almost kind.

The air splits open with a fizzing pop like champagne and static and blood, Quintessence flaring too close to the skin, stinging behind the eyes.

Copia reels, gasping, hands clutched to his face as the scent hits him:

Salt. Fire. Ink. Rotting honey.

It clings under his nose like a dream decaying into something holy.

When he blinks the tears away, Delta is gone.

Only the red thread remains, coiled on the stone like something left behind on purpose.

Copia stands alone.

Trembling.

He lays a hand on the back of a broken pew, trying to steady himself.

When he speaks his voice is low, barely more than a prayer:

“Please don’t take him from me, too.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The kettle finishes its song just as footsteps echo down the corridor.

Rain doesn’t look up, doesn’t need to. Their bond thrums, low and certain, a second pulse behind his ribs. He lifts the kettle, pours the steeped tea into a mug - Dew’s mug. The black one with a chipped handle and a skeletal middle finger on the bottom.

A few heads turn toward the hallway.

Swiss raises an eyebrow. Cirrus hums behind her cup.

Rain just sets the mug on the counter, waiting.

The footsteps slow.

Then stop.

There's a quiet creak and then he's there.

Dew stands in the doorway, smoke clinging faintly to his collar. There’s something unfinished in the way he holds himself but his eyes are on Rain. Only Rain.

For a second, no one breathes.

Rain lifts the mug, walks the short distance, and wordlessly offers it.

Dew’s throat works as he swallows. He takes it with both hands, fingers brushing Rain’s without meaning to.

“Thanks,” he says, low.

“It’s hot,” Rain murmurs.

Their hands linger a second too long.

Dew starts to speak, something about the walk, about Alpha, about how warm the tea smells, but he stops.

Because now he feels it.

The air is too quiet.

He turns, mug still in hand -

And sees the pack.

All of them.

Watching.

Trying so hard not to.

Mountain sits very still, holding his tea like it might explode. Cumulus has ducked halfway behind Cirrus. Swiss is hiding a grin so wide it’s nearly criminal. Sunshine looks like she’s suppressing a sneeze made entirely of chaos.

Dew stares back at them.

“…Why does it feel like you were all waiting for something?”

Swiss snorts.

“Waiting? No. Noooo.” He gestures broadly. “We’re just… enjoying the quiet. Right, guys?”

Cirrus raises her cup in solemn mockery. “To silence.”

Sunshine’s eyes are glowing.

Dew sighs and takes a sip of the tea.

“I hate it here.”

“Liar,” Rain says soft enough that only Dew can hear.

Dew exhales steam against the rim of the mug.

Rain moves back to the counter, quietly rinsing the strainer. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t even look up.

But Dew’s still watching him.

The soft way Rain moves, precise without being fussy. Like everything he does is part of some unspoken ritual. A prayer in motion.

The bond pulses once. Not loud. Just present.

And warm.

Dew feels it hum behind his ribs.

His voice is dry when it comes, still half-hidden behind the mug.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I hate it here less.”

Rain doesn’t turn.

But Dew sees the smile anyway, in the slope of his shoulders, the way his luminescence shivers just barely.

He lowers the mug, steam curling past his lips.

And that’s when he sees it.

Sunshine, crouched half-hidden behind the couch, whiteboard in lap and marker poised like a blade. Her expression is nothing short of feral glee. Cirrus is pretending not to look. Cumulus is absolutely looking. And Swiss, traitorous bastard, is casually pointing at them both while mouthing ‘kiss watch’ with zero shame.

Dew raises a brow and glances sideways at Rain.

Rain doesn’t move, but his sigh is suffering and quietly poetic.

“Don’t ask,” he murmurs.

Sunshine freezes mid-letter. Tries to cough quietly in the world's most obvious attempt at a cover up.

The squeak of the marker resumes two seconds later.

Dew huffs something that might almost be a laugh.

“When did that happen?”

Rain’s hands still over the drying cloth.

Dew gestures faintly with his mug. “Your hair.”

Rain glances up, curls shifting gently where they fall in neat, coiled ropes, three plaits woven back with small river shells tucked into each like pale punctuation.

“Cumulus,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She said I was looking a little too feral.”

Dew’s lips twitch.

“They’re nice,” he says. “Suits you.”

Rain’s eyes soften.

“Thanks.”

The moment hums between them, quiet and close.

And behind it, the whiteboard squeaks again.

Rain doesn’t turn around but his voice is flat.

“Sunshine.”

A pause.

The sound of the marker cap snapping on.

“Just data collection!” she chirps.

Cirrus snorts softly behind her cup.

Dew shakes his head and sips his tea.

“You all are so fucking weird,” he mutters.

Rain just smiles. “Welcome home. They’ve been at this all afternoon.”

The pack begins to settle again, murmuring in low clusters, half-finished tea and cocoa cooling on the table. Sunshine vanishes, only to reappear with snacks. Swiss attempts to re-sneak another oyster. Mountain stops him with a single look.

Rain crosses the room without fanfare and sinks into the couch, same spot he always does. Right corner, legs folded beneath him, the quiet center of a storm that never quite reaches.

Dew lingers for a beat longer at the counter. Finishes the tea in one long, slow sip.

Then he follows.

Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just… settles beside him.

Not quite touching, but closer than they’ve ever allowed themselves to be in front of others.

Rain shifts, and his shoulder brushes Dew’s once. They both still.

There's just a soft graze as a hand moves, barely there.

Pinky to pinky.

But neither of them pulls away.

Rain doesn’t even look over. He just lets it happen.

And Dew…

He stays.

The hush between them stretches, warm and certain. Rain’s hand shifts slightly, a breath of movement.

He taps his finger once, just over Dew’s pinky.

A rhythm with no pattern. A question without pressure.

Dew doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer out loud.

But he doesn’t move away, either.

So Rain leaves his hand there. Not curled. Not clinging. Just resting. Steady.

Pinky over pinky. Touch over silence. A choice.

Sunshine clocks it immediately. Her head whips toward Cirrus with a squeak of joy and a fist pump. The whiteboard is retrieved again. Swiss leans over to whisper something to Mountain, who groans softly and mutters something about teenagers. Cumulus clutches a throw pillow like it’s sacred text.

But Rain doesn’t flinch.

And Dew doesn’t run.

There’s peace in it. Quiet.

But it holds.

Like breath. Like faith. Like the inevitable turn of the earth.

When Rain’s finger taps once more, just lightly, Dew exhales.

And lets it mean everything.

The quiet holds for a beat longer, just enough for the weight of it to settle, before the inevitable squeaking begins again.

Dew’s eye twitches.

His gaze shifts to Sunshine, who’s crouched near the far end of the couch, hunched over her whiteboard like she’s drafting scripture. Her tongue is poking slightly out the corner of her mouth in deep concentration.

Eeeeeek. Eeeeek.

Another long, dramatic squeak. Then she caps the marker with a flourish and spins the board around like it’s a game show reveal.

KISS WATCH, it reads, in bubble letters outlined with little hearts and flames. Beneath it, a pie chart. The title:

What Will Finally Make Them Snap

42% Rain gets hurt

38% Dew nearly combusts

17% Accidental soulbonding

3% Rain in a tank top

Rain blinks. Dew stares, deadpan.

“You’ve got betting pools?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

Sunshine beams. “Multiple.”

Rain makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and ducks his head slightly, the tip of one braid falling forward. The little shell at the end clicks softly against his collarbone.

Dew glares at the board like it personally betrayed him. “You are so unserious.”

Rain leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m really not sure you want to know what’s in Pool Three.”

Sunshine flips the board back around and begins scribbling again.

Rain’s shoulder is still pressed lightly to Dew’s. Their pinkies still touch.

Dew shifts like he might lean away, then doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs. “I changed my mind. I'm going back to hating it here.”

Rain smiles, small and private.

“Maybe I'll join you.”

Swiss glances up, catches the angle of their heads, the faint curve of Rain’s smile, and mouths ‘unholy shit’ at Cumulus, who huffs into her tea.

Dew catches the pie chart’s corner out of the corner of his eye and groans.

“Come on,” he mutters.

He rises. Rain follows, silent but sure.

“Where you guys headed?” Swiss calls, absolutely not playing it cool.

Dew doesn’t answer.

Rain lifts a silent hand in parting.

Sunshine grins at her chart, triumphant.

—

Their footsteps echo soft down the corridor.

Dew walks beside Rain until they reach his room.

Or what’s left of it.

A grim reminder of what he saw this morning. Of that disastrous meeting with Copia and Aether. The scorched linens. The unspoken cost.

Dew stops walking.

Just looks.

His jaw tightens. Not with anger this time, but something closer to shame. Regret, maybe. Recognition.

Rain pauses too.

But his voice is gentle.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just turns and opens the door to his own room.

Dew hesitates.

Then follows.

The air inside is cool. Dim.

The bed has been re-made. Sheets tucked with reverence. A basin of water in the corner. Small shells glint on the windowsill, catching the low light like quiet offerings. A cup of river stones sits on the desk.

Dew stands in the doorway, unmoving.

This space used to be his.

But it’s Rain’s now.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a loss. Rather… something sacred.

“You changed it,” Dew says quietly.

Rain glances over his shoulder. “I made it mine.”

A beat.

“You can sit, if you want.”

—

Dew stands just inside the doorway, unmoving.

The room smells of cedar and river mint. The sheets are pale, soft blues and greys - like stone under running water. A folded blanket sits at the foot of the bed, handwoven, frayed at one edge. A clan gift, probably. Every corner speaks of care.

He takes a few steps forward. Slow. Quiet.

There’s a low shelf by the desk, worn smooth with time, holding a few trinkets.

One of them is a small shell bowl, glazed in deep lapis holding a bundle of dried kelp wrapped in twine.

And resting at the center, unmistakable in its simplicity, is a riverbell.

Dew swallows.

He remembers it now. Something he kept in his pocket during summoning prep. Not because it mattered - but because it didn’t. A talisman he didn’t believe in. A small, chipped thing meant to ward off drowning.

He’d forgotten it was even there. Couldn’t have told you where he left it.

But Rain found it. Cleaned it. Polished the rusted edge. Laid it gently in the bowl on a cushion of kelp like it meant something.

Like it was worth holding on to.

Dew doesn’t touch it.

But his fingers twitch.

“You kept it.”

Rain looks up from where he’s straightening a blanket.

“Of course I did.”

Dew exhales slowly, a soft release of breath he didn't realize was holding in his chest.

“Didn’t think it worked.”

“Maybe not then,” Rain says. “But I think it does now.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It settles.

Dew glances toward the window. Sees the shells lined along the sill, arranged by shape and color like a silent prayer.

“I didn’t bring much,” he murmurs. “I was ready to leave everything behind.”

Rain doesn’t smile. But his eyes soften.

“I know.”

“Didn’t think I’d leave anything anyone would want to keep, either.”

Rain’s answer is quiet. Certain.

“You left you.”

Dew turns to him.

Really turns.

Something cracks in his chest.

He doesn’t say thank you.

He just steps closer.

One pace. Then another. Close enough that their knees might brush if they sat down. The space between them has gone soft and heavy, like fog.

He speaks, barely a breath:

“I didn’t think anyone would make a place for me.”

Rain tilts his head.

“Then you weren’t looking very hard.”

The bond pulses.

Dew feels it, low and certain, curling behind his ribs. He breathes in.

Cedar. River mint.

Lotus.

The scent blooms faintly - unexpected, but not unfamiliar. Like a memory returning in the right light. He smelled it in the fireyard once, when nothing made sense.

He doesn't know what it means, not exactly.

But he knows who.

Rain shifts - just slightly, enough to close the breath of space still between them.

And then -

Knock knock knock.

Three sharp raps at the door.

They freeze.

The bond stutters.

Dew exhales like he’s been punched.

Rain blinks. “Seriously?”

Another knock. This one softer. Hesitant.

“Rain?” Copia’s voice. Muffled. Strained. “Rain, are you - ah - are you alone?”

Rain glances at Dew.

Dew is already cold-sweating. Eye twitching.

“It’s him. Why is it him.”

Rain moves to the door, but doesn’t open it. He calls through it instead.

“I’m not alone.”

Pause.

Copia speaks again, faltering.

“Right. Of course. I… may I speak to you anyway? Both of you, perhaps. I… I have some uh. Concerns.”

Dew’s jaw tightens. Rain’s shoulders square.

“About?” Rain asks.

“It’s about Delta,” Copia says. “And you. And Dew. And the, ah… all this talk of becoming.”

Dew turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck’s sake.”

Rain sighs.

“You cannot come in here with that energy.”

“I’m not trying to accuse! I just… I need to understand. Please.”

His voice wavers. Uneven. Almost young.

Rain looks back at Dew.

A question, silent but clear.

Copia waits on the other side, probably wringing his hands, mouth full of questions he doesn’t know how to ask, too afraid to leave and too afraid to stay.

“Please,” he says again. Softer now.

Like a prayer.

Rain’s fingers brush the doorframe.

Dew’s jaw clenches.

And in the corner where the candlelight stutters, the shadow lengthens.

Delta smiles.

But does not blink.

Chapter Text

Copia clears his throat for the third time.

“Perhaps we could… talk? Properly. If now’s not too -”

Dew doesn’t move. He’s still watching Rain, lips parted like he might say something. But Rain is already at the door.

He doesn't open it, but glances back towards Dew.

Dew nods, barely.

Rain rests his hand on the wood and says, voice even, “We’ll meet you outside.”

There’s a pause, some gentle shuffling.

“Of course,” Copia says quickly. “Yes. Outside. Fresh air. Excellent.”

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

They don’t speak as they step into the hall.

But their shoulders bump once. Then again. Rain doesn’t move away.

Dew murmurs under his breath, something too low to catch.

Rain glances at him, soft and sidelong.

Doesn’t answer.

But his tail brushes gently against Dew’s calf - just once, like punctuation. Like: I heard you.

And then it’s gone.

They find Copia pacing near the trellis, half-bent in apology, half-wrapped in anxiety, like he’s not sure whether to bow or bolt. Dew keeps two steps behind Rain, arms folded, eyes like flint.

Copia straightens when he sees them but his smile falters on arrival.

“I appreciate you meeting me,” he says.

Rain nods. Doesn’t offer more.

They begin to walk, slow and wordless. The path to the garden glows faintly underfoot, bioluminescent moss catching the twilight.

“I, ah…” Copia tries again. “I’ve been speaking to the others. To Aether. To Delta, in a fashion. And I - I think I owe you both an apology.”

Rain doesn’t stop walking. “For what, exactly?”

Copia hesitates. “I’m… not sure I know.”

That earns him a glance. Sharp, but not unkind. Rain’s voice is quieter now. “Then why are you apologizing?”

“Because it feels like the right thing to do,” Copia says. “Because I was handed something divine and treated it like a glitch in the summoning protocol. Because… I thought if I joked enough, maybe no one would notice how badly I misunderstood everything.”

They walk in silence a while longer. The wind plays low in the reeds.

Dew finally speaks. “You could’ve asked.”

Copia doesn’t look at him. “I was afraid of the answer.”

Rain’s eyes soften. “And now?”

Copia exhales. “Now I’m afraid of the damage I’ve done.”

Another silence.

When Copia speaks, it’s soft.

“I’m sorry, Dewdrop. I truly am.”

Dew says nothing at first.

But Rain hears the breath he takes. Feels the bond catch for just a moment, like something loosening inside his chest.

He doesn’t forgive him. Not yet. But he heard him.

Rain stops along the edge of the garden path, near the lilies.

“You can’t fix what’s already changed,” he says. “But you can stop running from it.”

Copia swallows. Nods once. “I’d like to try.”

And for the first time, Rain offers a small, strange smile, more an acknowledgement than approval.

“Then try.”

Copia lingers, foot half-turned toward the path. Eyes flickering, uncertain. Still running from answers, just more slowly than before.

Dew shifts beside Rain. Close, but unspeaking.

The ends of their tails curl together, just slightly. A quiet reassurance. A shared pulse.

Dew doesn’t pull away and Rain's fingertips glow low cerulean, steady beneath the quiet.

Copia scuffs his boot lightly against the stone.

“…Rain?”

Rain glances back. Waiting.

Copia’s voice is quieter this time. “What… what happened? That night?”

A silence settles. Heavy. Hushed.

Rain looks to Dew, who gives the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Steady. Each word placed with care marking a path back to the beginning.

“I was pulled up too soon.”

Copia blinks. “What?”

Rain doesn’t repeat himself. Just holds the silence for a breath longer, lets the truth sink in like settling sediment.

“My body hadn’t sealed. My form wasn’t complete. You summoned me before the ritual finished.”

Copia goes still. “That could kill a ghoul.”

Rain’s glow flares faintly. “It did.”

Copia staggers half a step back, color draining. “I didn’t - no one told me -”

“I know,” Rain says, the truth simple. “Delta brought me back. Because something in this world still needed me.”

His gaze shifts. Finds Dew.

“He never got to finish his transformation.”

Dew’s breath catches. He doesn’t speak, but Rain feels it - like a tide pulling back from shore, bracing for impact.

“He burned too fast,” Rain says, voice low. “And there was no closing ceremony. No final blessing. He’s been open ever since.”

Copia sways slightly, like the ground beneath him has changed slope.

“That’s why neither element comes when he calls,” Rain murmurs. “Why his magic is unruly. Why he feels like he doesn’t belong anywhere.”

Silence stretches. Thins.

And then Rain says it - barely above a whisper, but it lands with the weight of something sacred and sharp.

“He wasn’t born broken. But he was left unfinished.”

The words hang in the air like incense.

Dew doesn’t move at first.

But Rain feels it, the tremor that ripples through the bond. The hitch in his breath, the way his tail curls tighter around Rain’s like he’s anchoring himself.

His gaze is fixed on the ground, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. And when he blinks, it’s too slow. Like he’s holding back something hot and unwelcome behind his eyes.

He doesn't speak.

But the shake in his exhale says everything.

Copia opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, or maybe to fill the silence, but Rain lifts one hand slightly, a small motion that stills the moment.

This is not a wound for words.

Rain shifts just enough that his tail brushes more firmly along Dew’s. Not a touch meant to calm, but to say: I’m here. I meant it. Every word.

Dew, for his part, doesn’t flinch.

He just breathes.

And lets himself lean, just barely, into the presence beside him.

When Copia does speak, his voice cracks like something splintered at the root.

“I never thought you were broken, Dew. Not ever. You were always my favorite, you know that?”

He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. Just grief. Just guilt.

Just an apology that could never be enough.

“I saw how happy the fire made you. I thought… I thought if I gave you that, maybe it would help you love yourself a little more. I didn’t want you to hurt anymore, in a body that never felt like it was yours.”

His shoulders curl inward.

“I should have researched more. I should have asked more questions. I was so busy trying to give you what you wanted, I didn’t see what you needed.”

Dew doesn’t speak.

But Rain sees the way his jaw works. Sees the war behind his eyes. But quietly, and with no fanfare, Dew steps forward.

He wraps his arms around Copia. Just for a moment.

Copia stiffens, startled - then melts. His breath hitches. One hand curls into the back of Dew’s shirt like he’s trying to hold onto something that could slip away at any moment.

“You tried,” Dew says, voice rough. “And maybe that matters more than anything.”

They stand there like that, under the edge of the trees. Dew and the man who tried to help him change.

Neither whole. Neither untouched. But trying.

Trying to be better.

Trying to be more than what the Ministry made them.

When they part, Copia’s eyes are rimmed red, but his shoulders are straighter. His voice steadier.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Rain offers nothing more than a nod, but his glow is calm. Soft. Like dawn over still water.

“Come find us again,” he says. “When you’re ready.”

Copia swallows hard. Nods once. Then turns his gaze toward the sky, toward the stars bleeding through the clouds.

“I can feel it, you know,” he murmurs. “Something’s… shifting.”

Rain watches him.

“I’ve always had the Sight,” Copia continues, voice quiet. “All the Emeritus sons do… or did. We see things others don’t. The shape beneath the sermon. The flame behind the veil. But lately -”

He hesitates.

“Lately, it’s like trying to see through fog. It doesn’t block me. It just… twists the path.”

Dew studies him, cautious.

“You think this is a part of something?”

“I think,” Copia says, eyes flicking toward Rain, “that you two are part of something. Something bigger than what is here and now. And it scares me how little I understand of it.” He rubs a hand across his jaw. “Delta isn’t the only one watching. They… made it sound like there is more.”

That hangs there a moment, weighty and uncertain.

But Rain doesn’t look away.

“Maybe it’s time you listened instead of looked.”

Copia hums.

They continue walking and the garden path glows silver with moonlight, shadows curling like ink between the stones. Rain walks in silence, the soft crunch of his steps barely louder than the wind brushing the tall grass. Dew trails beside him, the bond pulsing low and steady between them, calmer now, but not distant.

At the end of the path, they stop.

Rain rests a hand lightly on the gate as Copia shuffles through.

He lingers just beyond, backlit by candlelight spilling from a nearby hall window. He looks smaller now. Not physically, but folded. Dimmed around the edges, like the weight of everything has finally begun to press inward.

He studies Rain with an unreadable look, equal parts reverence and confusion.

“You’re wise,” he says quietly. “For someone who’s barely spoken since arrival.”

Rain blinks, caught off guard.

“You listen first, something I should try and do more of.” Copia’s voice softens. “Don’t lose that. Even when the path darkens.”

He nods once to Dew, then slips away down the path; one glove tugged back on, shoulders a little straighter.

Silence settles.

The path stretches ahead, silvered with moonlight, but Dew’s voice, low and theatrical, breaks the stillness before Rain can take another step.

“You’re wise,” he parrots, eyes wide with mock admiration. “So wise. So glowy. So full of profound silence.”

Rain exhales a long, performative sigh. “I will push you into the koi pond.”

“You’d like that, huh? Me, all wet and repentant?”

Rain’s glow flares a dangerous coral. “That is not -”

Dew bumps their shoulders as they walk. “I’m just saying, wise one.”

They fall into an easier rhythm, the path winding ahead in soft moonlight. For a while, there’s only the crunch of moss and gravel, the hum of night.

“He’s not wrong, though,” Dew says quietly.

Rain glances over.

Dew’s thumb brushes his pinky.

“I trust you,” Dew says, voice low. “Even when I don’t understand it yet.”

Rain doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead he tugs lightly on Dew’s sleeve, then nods toward the trees just off the path, half-swallowed in shadow.

“Five minutes?”

Dew doesn’t ask what for. Just follows.

Always follows.

The willow branches hush behind them. The garden exhales.

It’s darker here, sheltered from moonlight, woven with the perfume of night flowers and damp stone. The world narrows to breath and breeze, the soft hush of wind through leaves.

Rain settles first, folding onto the edge of a moss-draped stone bench. His legs tuck neatly beneath him. The shells at the ends of his braids catch threads of starlight, swaying as he lowers his head. He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Dew hovers a second longer. Then sits, close enough their knees nearly touch. His forgotten tea has long gone cold somewhere behind them, but its scent still clings to his collar. Orange. Vanilla. Smoke.

For a while, they just sit.

“I thought it’d hurt more.” Dew’s voice is barely louder than the wind.

Rain doesn’t move. Just waits.

“Being seen,” Dew clarifies. “I thought it would feel like… like being cracked open. Like drowning in it.”

He moves his hand, pinky hovering, almost touching. Almost -

Rain’s hand is already there. Palm up and open.

Dew’s breath catches, lets two fingers settle Rain’s.

“But it’s not.” He swallows. “It just feels like -”

“Breathing,” Rain says.

Dew nods. “Yeah.”

The breeze shifts and a petal lands in Rain’s lap. He lifts it gently between two fingers, delicate.

“You always this gentle?” Dew asks, teasing but quiet.

Rain looks up at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

“In the Halls, I was careful. Outside of them, you could say I was… skilled.” He tilts his head, glowing a soft lavender. “But with you, I want to be gentle on purpose.”

Dew doesn’t know what to do with that.

So he doesn’t move.

Rain leans, just slightly, resting his temple against Dew’s shoulder.

Dew exhales slow. “You’re not scared?”

“Terrified,” Rain hums.

“But still here?”

“Still here.”

And under the branches, no eyes on them but the stars, they let the silence hold.

Between them something grows.

Like a promise they haven’t made aloud. But both believe in anyway.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Beneath the willows, something begins to settle.

But further down the path, beneath old light and older memory, something else begins to stir.

Aether dozes in the chair beside an empty cot, one Dew hasn’t needed in weeks. The lights are low, humming softly, and someone left a mug of forgotten tea beside him. He hasn’t moved in hours.

Sleep isn’t kind to him.

It never was.

And tonight, it does not come alone.

At first, it’s subtle: shadows deepening too quickly, the soft rhythm of the infirmary clock skipping a beat.Then the lights go out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Aether startles upright.

The air is colder. Too cold.

The windows are too dark to see through, frosted over and cracked. But something beyond the wall begins to glow. Paper-thin, veined in red and gold, like candlelight through skin.

A figure stands between him and the door. Tall. Still. Impossible.

Delta.

But not as he’s ever seen them.

Tonight, they are draped in robes like woven dusk, and their hands bare. No book. No scroll. Only a thin red thread wrapped around their wrist, trailing like blood.

They tilt their head.

“You’re awake.”

Aether doesn’t answer. His mouth won’t move. He’s not even sure he can move.

Delta takes a step closer.

“You’ve been walking blind,” they say. Their voice isn’t loud, but it splits the silence like lightning through ice. “Trying to divert the river when the flood has already begun.”

They inhale and the room grows colder.

“The shape of it was written long before you tried to hold it back.”

The walls of the infirmary shudder.

Aether tries to speak. Fails.

Delta’s gaze glows brighter.

“Fate gave you time. Mercy.”

They take another step. Their feet don’t make a sound.

“But even mercy has a current. And it moves toward him now.”

Delta clicks their tongue.

“You thought the fire was the danger. You were wrong… The danger is what happens when he chooses.”

Aether finally finds his voice. It scrapes out like gravel. “What… what do you want from me?”

Delta smiles.

“I don’t want anything. He does.”

Aether stares. “Lucifer?”

Delta's expression shifts, something softer. Sadder. Almost… reverent.

“No. Him. The one born of salt and light.”

They extend a hand.

A riverbell glows in their palm, broken.

Aether’s breath catches.

The room begins to flicker. Burn.

“You wanted Rain to be soft. To stay small. But he is not yours to shape.”

Flames lick the walls, water flames, blue and silver and cold.

“What do you want for Dew?” Delta prods.

Aether chokes. “He’s not ready. I didn’t want him to shatter -”

“Too late.”

Delta steps close enough now that Aether can see the reflection of his own fractured face in their eyes.

“You were never meant to shape him,” they whisper. “Only to witness what he becomes.”

The red thread coils tighter around their hand, wrapping until it cuts skin.

“Now you know the cost of turning away.”

Delta lifts the thread from their wrist. It floats in the air, impossibly long, before curling around the riverbell like a noose.

Their voice softens to something almost fond. “The end begins,” they say, “where the song forgets itself.”

A pause. A tilt of the head.

“You’ll know it by the echo,” they add, with a smile that isn’t a smile, and a laugh like silverware scraping glass. “It always comes back around.”

The lights flare, all at once -

And then - the bell rings.

Not in the air.

But in Aether’s chest.

A low, hollow chime that reverberates through his bones, sharp as a pulled thread, deep as a confession never spoken. His breath catches. His heart stutters.

When he looks back up…

Delta is gone.

—

Aether wakes with a ragged breath, the cold still clinging to his skin like frostbite. The infirmary lamp hums overhead. The mug of tea is long gone cold.

But on the empty cot beside him…

A single riverbell.

It doesn’t ring aloud.

But it resonates, low and hollow in his bones, like something sacred trying to break through marrow. A sound without sound. An echo without a source.

It lingers.

Aether doesn’t move.

The cold hasn’t left. Neither has the vision. Delta’s laugh still claws at the inside of his skull, bright and metallic, like something rusted loose from time. The riverbell gleams dully in the faint light, red thread curled tight at its base like a brand.

He stares at it. Doesn’t touch it.

The memories come flooding in, fast and sharp.

Rain - collapsing in the summoning chamber. Silent. Fading. Dying.

Dew - burning too fast, screaming. A ritual that left him not remade, but wrong.

Twin pulses of magic, colliding like tectonic plates. And Aether, at the center of it all.

He let it happen.

Because he was told, it had to be this way.

Because he let himself believe Dew was strong enough to bear it.

Because Sister had made it clear: Delta’s transformation went sideways because their base element wasn’t summoned in tandem with the one they were shedding. The energy needed somewhere to go.

So they tried it, for Dew.

And still, it all went wrong.

Everyone lived, but they still lost someone. Or at least Aether did.

That someone now burning through the bonds Aether had so carefully wrapped around him.

He clenches his jaw. Rakes a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know how to fix any of it.

He doesn’t even know if he should.

But he can’t keep pretending nothing has shifted.

He glances toward the hallway.

The den will stir soon. Rain always swims before dawn. Dew rises early now too, quieter than before. Sometimes Aether hears his steps in the dark… then silence, like a flame flickering out before it ever caught.

He wants to reach out, but every time he tries, he scorches what’s left.

So instead he stands and takes the bell. Examines it between his fingers before giving it a gentle flick.

The chime lingers.

He’s not certain if it’s a warning… or a vow.

—

The vision still clings to him like smoke.

Aether hasn’t spoken since waking. Hasn’t moved from the edge of the cot Dew once occupied. The only proof that time is passing is the slow hum of the lights and the faint clink of glass as Omega sets down a tray.

Omega doesn’t look at him. Just checks the vials on the counter, movements steady.

“You’re paler than usual,” he says, not unkindly. “Bad dream?”

Aether exhales shakily. “I didn’t know,” he says. “What the ritual would do to him.”

Omega doesn’t answer right away. He moves with the steady precision of someone who’s tended centuries of wounds.

“You thought you were helping.”

Aether lets out a bitter laugh. “I thought I was doing what was best. For the band. For the Ministry… for Dew.”

He looks up, eyes red-rimmed, but sharp. “But it was about control. Wasn’t it?”

Omega turns. His eyes, usually warm, are unreadable in the low light.

“You were scared,” he says. “Scared of what would happen if someone became something you didn’t recognize.”

Aether flinches. “He trusted me.”

“I know.”

The silence stretches longer this time. The kind that tightens in the chest.

Aether exhales. Rubs the heel of one hand over his eye, like it might ground him. Like it might change the shape of what he’s about to say.

“I thought I could handle it. That I could shape it. Keep it from going too far… I see now it wasn't mine to shape.”

Omega doesn’t speak.

And Aether’s voice drops, hoarse and uncertain. “Is that what happened to Terzo?”

Omega doesn’t answer immediately. He moves to the counter. Picks up a cloth. Wipes his hands, not because they’re dirty. But because it buys him time.

“He saw something,” Omega says. “Something about the band. About what would awaken if the right voices aligned.”

Aether’s breath catches. “What did he see?”

Omega shakes his head.

“He could never fully say. Sight doesn’t come with instruction.”

“And Delta?”

A slow inhale.

“Delta is the thread. But they are not the loom.”

Aether leans back, eyes dark. “Then what are we weaving?”

Omega looks at him. His smile is calm, unnervingly so.

“The next age.”

Aether doesn’t speak for a long moment. Watches the shadow of his hand tremble against the cot frame.

“I failed him.”

“Yes,” Omega agrees, without cruelty, without glee. Just truth.

Aether breathes out hard. “And yet you’re not surprised.”

“I’ve been watching for a long time.”

Another pause. Then Omega continues, voice quieter now. “You made mistakes. But you didn’t stop them.”

Aether’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You can't stop fate. Ministry already tried that. And now we're closer than ever.”

Omega’s eyes catch the light, just briefly, and shimmer with something more than reflection.

Aether notices. Doesn’t ask.

But the air shivers.

Omega turns back to the tray, voice softer now. Steadier.

“Be grateful,” Omega says softly. “You’re still here to witness what unfolds.”

—

Aether steps out of the infirmary into the cool hush of the corridor.

The door hisses shut behind him. For a moment, he just stands there, palms flexing like he doesn’t know what to hold onto anymore.

The halls are dim this late. The sconces burn low, casting long shadows that stretch and sway across the Ministry’s stone spine.

He walks slowly.

Past the old chapel. Past the closed doors of the rehearsal room. Past the alcove where Delta sometimes appears… and sometimes doesn’t. The den is just ahead, amber light spilling faintly beneath the threshold, warm, alive, and edged in laughter.

He doesn’t approach.

Not yet.

Instead, he turns toward the garden doors.

They’re cracked open. Cool air seeps in, tinged with green and river mint and something he can’t name.

He steps outside.

The night has teeth, but it’s not cruel. The stars are hazy above the treeline, and the wind rustles through the tall grasses like a hush passed between old friends.

But then there’s movement.

Two figures at the far edge of the garden path.

Dew’s pale hair catches the light, fine strands swaying with each step. Rain walks beside him, close. Not touching. Not quite. But his hand hovers near Dew’s, like it might reach without meaning to.

They don’t see him.

They’re deep in something. Not conversation, something quieter, more gentle.

Aether’s eyes track the distance between their hands.

It’s barely a breath. And yet the bond between them sings. Not with volume, but with gravity. Like planets aligning in a system no one has ever mapped.

He turns away before they reach the den doors.

Not because he doesn’t want to see. But because he understands now.

He was never meant to be the center of this story.

Inside, the laughter rises, bright as bells.

Aether walks slowly back into the dark.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The path curves gently beneath their feet, gravel crunching softly in the hush of night.

Dew walks beside Rain, the last of the chill clinging to his cuffs, the scent of mint and smoke still curling faintly in his hair. His hand swings loosely by his side. Every so often, it brushes against Rain’s.

He lets it.

Rain’s pulse doesn’t spike this time. Just holds steady, the bond like warm tidewater lapping against the edges of his chest, present and peaceful.

For once.

Dew exhales slowly, his voice quiet. “Still can't believe he called you wise.”

Rain laughs gently. “He also knocked on my door like a harbinger of doom.”

“Fair.”

They walk a few more steps in silence.

Then Dew nudges him, gentle, almost playful. “You gonna let it get to your head?”

Rain turns just enough for him to see the curl of a smirk. “Too late.”

“Lucifer help us all,” Dew snorts.

Ahead, light spills from the den windows, warm and chaotic and far too bright for the hour.

A familiar squeal echoes faintly through the walls.

Rain sighs.

Dew chuckles, voice dry. “They’ve already started without us. No sneaking in now.”

Rain opens the door, holding it with one hand, the other brushing just barely, intentionally, against Dew’s fingers as he passes through.

Inside there’s laughter. Snacks. A tower built out of throw pillows. Sunshine, gesturing wildly to the whiteboard that has been added to several times in the past hour. Swiss explaining, loudly, why ghouls cannot and should not ever be trusted around fondue forks.

Rain steps through the threshold first, the door closing softly behind him. The warmth of the den wraps around them immediately; light, the low hum of voices, the faint scent of butter and something slightly charred.

The entire room doesn’t stop, but it tilts. A few heads lift. A few grins bloom.

“You’re back,” Cumulus says, soft and pleased, already nudging Sunshine who’s halfway into her next fevered pie chart.

“We definitely did not eat without you,” Swiss lies, sprawled across the floor with Cirrus perched on his back like a throne.

“You absolutely did,” Dew mutters, but it lacks heat. He toes his boots off at the door anyway, eyes darting across the sea of limbs and cushions and snack bowls.

Rain’s curls brush his shoulder as he leans slightly toward the room. “Did Copia come back here?”

Swiss shakes his head. “Only passed through.”

“He looked like a wet ghost that got told off by a prettier ghost,” Cirrus offers, sipping her tea.

Rain presses his lips together, visibly holding back a smile.

Mountain chuckles. “I told him there was leftover soup in the chapel kitchens. He looked grateful. He’ll be fine.”

“Dinner’s still warm,” he adds. “I kept bowls in the oven.” He nods toward the kitchen, like it’s not a big deal.

Dew glances at Rain.

Rain glances at Dew.

There’s space on the couch. On the floor. On the pile of cushions near the fire.

Space made for them.

“C’mon,” Swiss says, beckoning the two over with a wave of his long arm. “You can have the good corner. Just don’t kick me.”

“No promises,” Rain laughs.

Dew exhales. The last of the night’s weight falls from his shoulders.

And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe:

Maybe this is what home feels like.

—

Dew sinks into the couch with a quiet sigh, landing in the claimed corner like he belongs there. His limbs are heavy in the good way, worn and full, like someone who’s survived something.

Rain doesn’t sit.

He lingers just behind the couch, one hand braced on the back cushion, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tilts his head. “You hungry?”

Dew looks up. Blinks once.

He absolutely has a flirty answer locked and loaded.

He does not say it.

“…Yeah,” he says instead. “Kinda.”

Rain nods, and disappears into the kitchen.

He returns a moment later carrying the same tray Dew used earlier that morning, cleaned and warmed slightly, like it remembers what kindness feels like. Two bowls balanced neatly, steam curling from the top. Something herby and rich and sharp with garlic.

He sets the tray down gently on the low table, passes a warm bowl to Dew.

“Here,” Rain says, fingertips brushing Dew’s against the rim of the bowl. “Shael’uren.”

The words hum with something old. A blessing in water’s native tongue. The kind offered only when healing is meant to be shared.

Dew murmurs a soft, “Thanks.”

Rain’s glow hums faintly as he answers.

“Of course, flicker.”

The room freezes.

Cumulus swats at Sunshine. Sunshine drops her marker.

Swiss, from the floor, nearly chokes. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

Cirrus is already up, grabbing the marker and writing a new symptom, cute nickname, before checking off.

Rain just settles in beside Dew, calm as ever, blowing gently on his spoonful of stew.

Dew just grins into his bowl and takes a bite.

He’s not ready to say anything out loud yet. But he doesn’t mind if the whole room hears it.

Peace, however, never lasts long in the den. Sunshine flops dramatically across the ottoman like she’s been waiting weeks, not hours.

“So,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Where exactly did you two -”

“We went for a walk,” Dew deadpans between bites.

Rain tilts his head, very serene, very done, and points the next question at Swiss. “How’s your courtship going?”

Swiss chokes on a piece of popcorn. Mountain blinks.

Rain doesn’t look away. “You know. You and Mountain.”

Swiss makes a strangled noise. “Are you serious right now?”

Rain just sips from his mug like he’s asked about the weather.

“You’re displaying classic nesting behavior,” he says mildly. “I’ve seen more subtle courtship in a spawning pool.”

Cumulus coughs hard enough to spill tea. Cirrus starts humming a wedding march under her breath. Sunshine looks ready to combust.

Mountain’s ears flush forest green. “We’re not -”

Swiss throws his arm across Mountain’s lap with theatrical flair. “Oh no, don’t backpedal now, babe. You heard the expert.”

Mountain mouths the word “babe” like it might summon salvation from the ceiling beams. It does not.

Rain’s glow flickers, smug. “Just making observations.”

“You’re chaos,” Dew laughs, hiding behind his mug as he shakes his head.

Rain’s glow flutters faintly, warm, bright, and sharper than it has any right to be. “I’ve been spending time with your pack.”

Sunshine claps her hands once. “Alright! Since the emotional tension has been temporarily exorcised via romantic deflection,” she raises the whiteboard with dramatic flourish, “let’s play a game.”

Rain narrows his eyes.

Dew groans.

Swiss grins like he’s been waiting all night.

“Fun fact roulette,” Sunshine declares. “You say one weird thing about yourself, or someone else says it for you.”

Dew eye twitches as he looks for the nearest exit.

Rain gently taps his pinky against Dew’s. “Stay?”

Dew does.

There’s only a brief, dangerous silence.

Then Cirrus, lounging across the arm of a chair with a piece of popcorn halfway to her mouth, raises a brow. “You made the game, Sunny. You go first.”

Sunshine’s eyes flash like she’s been waiting. She doesn’t even hesitate.

“I used to eat coals as a kid because I thought they made me stronger.”

Rain blinks. “Did they?”

“Debatable,” she shrugs. “But I did fart sparks for like three days.”

Mountain covers his face with both hands.

Swiss lets out a wheeze and nearly drops his bowl.

Dew, against his will, snorts into his tea. “That explains so much.”

“I was five!” Sunshine cackles. “My horns were barely nubs! I wanted to be the hottest in the pit, okay?”

“You still are,” Cirrus says dryly. “Just… in a different way.”

Sunshine bows extravagantly and gestures to the room like a very unholy ringmaster. “Alright, lambs. Who’s next?”

Sunshine’s coal confession sets the room alight. Laughter bubbles up, popcorn flies, someone nearly spills their drink.

Cumulus, curled up at the foot of the couch, lifts her hand next.

“I once licked a quartz battery to see if it would make me faster.”

Mountain raises a brow. “Did it work?”

Cumulus shrugs. “I blacked out and woke up on the ceiling.”

“I had to pry her off with a broom,” Cirrus nods.

Dew hides his face in his hands. “You’re all unwell.”

Cirrus laughs kindly. “She tried to do it again the week after. Said maybe it just needed more commitment.”

“Still think it would’ve worked if I had a running start.”

Dew fondly shakes his head.

Mountain rumbles, amused, and gestures to Cirrus.

She doesn’t miss a beat. Just smooths her pants like she’s about to present a thesis.

“I was excused from a seminary class for reading the instructor’s fate thread out loud.”

Rain leans forward, intrigued. “What happened?”

“He fainted. Woke up speaking Infernal backwards. They moved me to independent study.”

“That’s my girl,” Cumulus beams.

Rain shivers. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

Swiss stretches dramatically, one arm slung over Mountain’s shoulder like he’s trying to distract from what he’s about to say. “I once wooed an infernal prince using only interpretive dance and a jar of honey.”

“There’s no way that worked,” Dew laughs.

“Oh it did. I was still getting postcards before I came here.”

Mountain sighs into his hands.

Sunshine’s already halfway to scribbling honey-based diplomacy on the whiteboard.

Dew hums and hesitates.

He looks like he might retreat, but something in the air - Rain’s presence, the pack’s laughter, the warmth of stew made with love and magic - anchors him.

He clears his throat.

“I once bit the tail off a demon eel for stealing my shell.”

The room falls silent.

Very slowly, Sunshine lowers her mug. “I’m sorry. Your what?”

“My shell,” Dew says simply. “It was very nice. Shiny. Had spiral striations. I carried snacks in it.”

Swiss stares at him, wide-eyed. “What did the eel do?”

“Laughed,” Dew says, expression flat. “Until I bit him.”

Cirrus, very calmly, takes a sip of her tea. “So you’re the reason Hell’s eastern trench ecosystem is off-balance.”

“No regrets,” Dew says with a half smile, one fang poking out.

Rain stares at him like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. A soft shimmer of rose gold flickers at the base of his throat.

Mountain clears his throat.

“I once carried a cracked incubation cradle on my back for three days so the hatchlings inside wouldn’t get jostled.”

“The whole cradle?” Swiss gasps.

“It was stone-lined,” Mountain says simply. “Held heat better that way. They needed somewhere stable.”

“You are the platonic ideal of a spouse,” Sunshine sighs, clutching her chest.

Swiss throws an arm over his eyes like he’s been personally attacked. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Rain’s voice is quiet, almost soft enough to miss. “That’s sacred work,” he says simply, without any air of tease.

Mountain doesn’t quite meet his gaze. But his smile is warmer at the edges.

Sunshine wipes her eyes with a dramatic sniff. “Okay. Alright. That was beautiful. Disturbing, but beautiful.”

She spins a marker like a game show wheel. “Next.”

Everyone looks at Rain.

Cumulus grins. “Come on, seafoam. You’re up.”

Rain speaks as calm as ever. “I used to sing to coral polyps.”

Cumulus tilts her head. “I’m sorry - you what?”

Rain’s expression doesn’t change. “Some coral colonies respond better to vibration. Especially when they’re young. So I’d hum. Sing, sometimes. Soft tones. It helped them root.”

Swiss leans forward, utterly bewitched.

“You’re telling me you sang lullabies to baby reef structures.”

“It soothed them,” Rain shrugs.

Cirrus is blinking like her brain has bluescreened. “How do you even know that?”

“They glowed brighter.” Rain hums softly, maybe a note, maybe a memory. “They liked minor keys.”

Dew looks like he might pass out.

“That explains so much,” Cumulus whispers.

For a moment, no one speaks. Just the soft hum of disbelief and Rain sipping his tea like he didn’t just confess to vibing underwater with marine invertebrates.

Sunshine is dazed. “He’s not real. He’s a fever dream. We summoned a bioluminescent cryptid that may or may not be the son of Lucifer.”

Rain blinks once, tilts his head. “Huh. That would explain the horns,” he says dryly.

Sunshine narrows her eyes at him. “We all have horns.”

“Not like his,” Dew rumbles low behind his cup. He immediately takes a sip, like it’ll erase what he said.

It doesn’t.

Cirrus raises a brow. Cumulus starts giggling.

Rain doesn’t react, except for the faint, unmistakable shimmer at the base of his throat.

And then Swiss gets that look.

“Well,” he says, stretching. “We’re gonna need to hear this.”

Mountain groans.

“Don’t do it.”

Swiss is already halfway to the closet door. “Too late. The coral choir needs a backing band.”

Rain raises a brow but doesn’t protest. Just sets his mug down and begins rolling up his sleeves as he slides to the floor.

Sunshine is already clapping.

“Pack jam!”

Mountain drags over a floor tom and a stick bag with quiet resolution like this is absolutely not his first time being coerced into late-night percussion. Cumulus unearths a little kalimba she swears belongs to Dew. And Cirrus crosses the room to the upright piano tucked into the corner, the bench creaking as she sits and runs her fingers over the chipped keys.

Swiss hands Rain a small, low-toned drum with a wink before tossing Sunshine her tambourine. She shakes it in his direction.

“Rhythm, baby.”

Rain stares at the drum for a moment before he starts tapping, subtle and pulsing, like a heartbeat heard underwater. His hum joins, deep and layered, more bassline than melody.

Dew hesitates, then joins him on the floor without a word, folding his legs in the exact opposite direction, like they’re trying to create symmetry. Swiss pads over to a pile of cushions, settling in with his shaker that he spins idly in one hand.

It starts light.

A gentle rhythm. The soft pulse of Rain’s hands, the layered sound of his humming. Mountain joins in with quiet restraint, the floor tom thudding like distant thunder. Cumulus taps a simple pattern on her kalimba. Cirrus weaves low chords on the piano, gentle and strange.

And Dew follows, brushing his fingers against Rain’s knee in time without realizing it.

It builds slowly. Looping, echoing, layered.

There's no need to talk about it.

Because something’s starting to click.

Something about Rain’s tempo, Dew’s instinct, the hush beneath Cirrus’s melody. A tether pulling tighter. An instinctive rhythm forming - not from practice, but from proximity.

Sunshine leans back against Mountain’s leg, humming along, voice low and golden.

“Bunch of lovable freaks,” she says fondly.

Mountain’s hand settles on her shoulder. “Speak for yourself.”

“Please,” Swiss mutters, eyes closed, shaker balanced on his chest. “We’re a walking elemental circus.”

Rain glances at Dew, just once, and Dew smiles.

For a while, nothing matters but the music. The warmth of the den. The rhythm between them.

Rain feels it, rising slow and steady. Not the sharp tether of the soulbond, not the ache of being known too deeply too fast. This is something gentler. Pack-threaded. Familiar, but new.

He’s known this before, in the steady hush of tidepool healing chants. In the cool weight of sea-silk robes against his shoulders. In the soft weight of his mother’s hand on his spine.

But here… here it’s different. Wider. Wilder.

Chosen.

It doesn’t demand. Doesn’t hollow him out or pierce through. It cradles. Warms. Holds him without holding tight.

And beside him, Dew sees it too.

Not in Rain’s glow, though it softens, but in the slow ease of his shoulders. The way he exhales into the space around him like he trusts it to hold him. Dew says nothing.

But his pride flares warm in the bond, quiet and steady.

Warmth hums through the threads between the pack, low and quiet, pulling soft across the room. A resonance of presence.

Of family.

Of home.

As the night stretches on the rhythm slows. Then shifts. Cirrus lifts her hands off the keys, lets the silence stretch.

Then, without a word, she rises and crosses the room.

An old guitar settles into Dew’s lap before he can protest.

“I think it wants you,” she says, brushing his hair from his brow. “Play something mean.”

Dew blinks. His fingers curl instinctively around the neck. It’s a little out of tune, Swiss always tunes to vibes, not pitch, but he adjusts by feel.

“Mean, huh?” he murmurs.

She smiles, feline. “Mean and yearning.”

He snorts but strums once, twice. A minor chord, low and bruised. The kind that tastes like storm air and half-healed cuts.

Rain shifts closer.

Not by much.

Just enough that their thighs brush now, not knees. His leg pressed lightly alongside Dew’s. His tapping stills, waiting.

Dew plays again. Letting it ring out this time. A short phrase, unresolved.

Rain hums under his breath. That same low vibration, slipping beneath Dew’s melody, strange and steady.

Cirrus slides back onto the piano bench. Cumulus leans against the couch behind her, kalimba resting in her lap. They fall in together, no cue needed, each member of the pack settling in to the music.

And in that gentle twilight of song and silence, the den feels more like a chapel than a living space. A sanctuary made of breath, warmth, and chosen closeness.

They play until the rhythm thins.

Until the melodies run out of places to go.

Until the hush returns - not because the music ends, but because something fuller settles in its place.

Sunshine starts to nod off, half-slumped against the ottoman, legs tangled with Mountain.

Swiss exhales like he’s been holding something in all day.

Rain doesn’t move away. He sighs, slow and full.

Dew doesn’t flinch, but his fingers still against the strings.

For a moment, no one moves. The hush feels sacred. Not reverent, exactly, but known. Shared.

Then Swiss, already half-splayed across a pillow pile, shifts and mutters, “Alright, somebody better start leaning on me soon or I’m gonna take it personally.”

Mountain snorts. “That’s your default setting.”

“Exactly,” Swiss says, patting the space beside him. “I’m a deluxe ghoul-shaped mattress. Warmth guaranteed. Comes with limited-edition snuggles.”

Cumulus giggles and flops sideways, dragging Cirrus with her in a tangle of limbs. Sunshine is already halfway asleep, all her curly-haired menace gone quiet as she nestles around Mountain’s legs.

“Join me, Swissy,” she murmurs, reaching out without opening her eyes. “Together we can make all of Mountain’s dreams come true.”

Mountain’s eye twitches. But he sighs, long and theatrical, and opens his arm anyway, smug smile gentle on his lips.

Dew watches it unfold, this slow collapse, like the tide pulling everyone toward some quiet center.

He doesn’t move at first.

But then Rain brushes his shoulder again. Light, almost shy.

“You don’t have to,” Rain murmurs. “But there’s space. If you want it.”

Dew looks over.

Rain is seated like an invitation, leaning back against the couch, body angled towards him just so. One braid is staring to loosen, and his bioluminescence is faint but warm, a gentle amber.

His hands rest neatly in his lap, not reaching out, but waiting without expectation.

And Dew… wants.

The wanting is quiet, not sharp. Not greedy. Just there, like warmth rising in his chest. Like something he doesn’t have to earn.

Like breath settling in a room that finally feels safe.

So he shifts. Slowly. Slides closer.

Lets his shoulder touch Rain’s.

Lets his head tip just slightly toward him.

And when Rain doesn’t move away, just opens his arm a little, quiet and sure, Dew lets himself relax against his side. Lets the shape of Rain become a place to rest. A place to stay.

Someone behind them speaks dreamily, already half asleep.

“This is the weirdest family I’ve ever had.”

“You’re welcome,” Swiss grumbles from where he's resting.

Rain laughs softly.

Dew closes his eyes.

The den hums with pack-shaped presence, a kind of magic that can’t be taught or forced. Only found. And only when least expected.

Dew is tucked against Rain’s side, ember-glow soft and pulsing at the base of his throat. His tail loops lazily over Rain’s ankle. A silent tether.

Just as Rain begins to drift, Dew exhales, barely more than a breath.

“Don’ wanna sleep alone anymore.”

It’s quiet, not meant for anyone else. Maybe not even meant for Rain.

But he leans closer anyway, enough for his glow to catch across Dew’s collarbone.

No one else stirs.

But the bond between them curls tighter, warm and quiet, at the very heart of the den.

Chapter Text

The den wakes slowly.

Light filters in through the high window slats, softened by gauze curtains and dust motes that dance like sleepy fireflies.

Sunshine is the first to rise, mostly by rolling off Mountain in a tangle of limbs and blankets. She groans like she’s dying and immediately starts searching for snacks.

Cumulus shuffles past her, pillow under one arm.

Cirrus doesn’t move, except to throw a blanket over her own head.

Swiss yawns like a bear. Mountain mutters something about pancakes.

And then -

Sunshine freezes mid-rummage.

“Uh. Guys?”

No one answers. Or rather, they all answer - groans, grunts, the universal chorus of not yet.

She points to the floor in front of the couch.

There, tucked into one another like it’s the most natural thing in the world, are Rain and Dew.

Still asleep.

Still touching.

Dew’s head rests against Rain’s shoulder, lips parted faintly in the way that betrays how deep he’s out. One of Rain’s hands is loosely curled on Dew’s knee, and his tail is coiled lazily over Dew’s ankle - possessive in a way he’d never name.

But it’s not just the pose.

It’s that they’re still here.

Rain - always at the lake by dawn.

Dew - never one to miss breakfast.

And yet: here they are. Breathing slow. Peaceful. Glowing soft and quiet in the morning light.

Cirrus lifts a blanket corner to peek.

“Unholy shit,” she breathes.

Swiss stares, then clutches his chest. “I’m not ready.”

Sunshine is vibrating. “We have to wake them up, don't we?”

“No, we don’t,” Mountain grunts. “Let them sleep.”

Cumulus sighs, dreamy. “They look like a painting.”

Sunshine nods and reaches for her abandoned whiteboard. She scrawls a new entry to the Kiss Watch symptom tracker:

‘Sleeping together in public.’

Check.

And still, they don’t stir.

Rain shifts slightly, curling closer in his sleep. His breath brushes Dew’s jaw. Dew hums something low and contented - half-dream, half-bond - and sinks deeper into Rain’s gentle warmth.

The den falls quiet again.

Because for once, they’re not running.

They’re resting.

Together.

And in that hush, soft with breath and warmth and something unnamed, morning continues to bloom as the pack makes their way to the kitchen, as quietly as they can.

—

Rain wakes slowly.

Not with alarm, not with urgency. Only the gentle pull of morning against his skin.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just breathes.

There’s warmth at his side. A steady exhale against his collarbone. Fingers, not his own, resting near the edge of the blanket, close enough that if Rain shifted even slightly, they’d brush.

He opens his eyes and sees Dew.

Still asleep. Brows unknit. Shoulders uncurled. No tension around his mouth, no flicker of flame in his throat. Just a soft, quiet presence. The kind Rain’s never seen him allow.

He doesn’t dare speak, but he watches with something close to quiet awe.

Because here is proof, unguarded and glowing:

That Dew can be held.

That he can let himself be.

That he trusts Rain enough to rest.

Rain’s luminescence flutters. Lavender and rose gold. His tail shifts gently across the floor, curling tighter where it’s looped around Dew’s ankle.

His body hums with it, that sweet, aching pull through the bond. Not loud. Not urgent.

Just…

You’re still here.

A floorboard groans. A breath catches.

Rain blinks once, slowly. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge it. He lifts one hand and very subtly places it, light as seafoam, on Dew’s forearm.

Not enough to wake him. But enough to feel it. To stay.

A quiet giggle floats from across the den followed by the sound of Sunshine smothering herself with a pillow.

Rain doesn’t flinch.

He shifts a fraction closer. Lets his glow stretch between them like a tide rolling in.

And for a long moment, he just watches Dew breathe.

He looks peaceful.

And that undoes Rain more than anything.

When Dew stirs, it's with a soft inhale.

Then another.

Eyes blink open, glazed with sleep, still caught in the undertow of dreaming.

Rain’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Hi.”

Dew blinks once more.

Then his brow smooths. And with a voice like gravel smoothed by riverbed moss, he says simply:

“Hi.”

Neither of them moves.

Neither of them looks away.

And for a moment, nothing else in the world exists.

Rain’s breath catches. Not loud.

Dew’s eyes flutter, almost closing again - but they don’t. He holds Rain’s gaze, dazed and still half-dreaming, like he’s not quite convinced this isn’t one.

Their foreheads rest close. Breath-sharing close.

Close enough that Rain could lean in, just slightly, and -

Dew shifts.

Nose to nose now.

Rain’s hand twitches. His tail cinches slightly tighter - like he’s anchoring him to the moment.

Neither of them speaks, but the moment hums like a struck string. A breath away from something more.

And then -

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

A horrible shrieking yowl from the hallway smoke alarm.

Someone swears.

Someone else yells, “Who put a bagel on broil?!”

A crash. A curse. The smell of something charred and deeply offensive.

Rain sighs, a mile long. Dew groans and drops his head to Rain’s chest.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “I really do hate it here.”

Rain curls an arm around him, gentle.

“No, you don’t.”

Dew grumbles, but doesn’t move.

In the hallway, Sunshine’s voice rises. “Everyone stay calm! I have a plan -”

A second alarm goes off.

“Why are there two?” Swiss yells.

Rain’s laughter is silent, just a quake in his chest where Dew’s cheek rests.

“I’m not getting up,” Dew says flatly.

Rain runs a soothing hand along Dew’s back. “Good. Stay.”

And though the alarms scream and the chaos builds, they do. Just a moment longer.

Rain doesn’t flinch away from the touch.

Dew stays pressed to his chest, grumbling into the fabric of Rain’s shirt like it personally offended his entire bloodline.

But the moment is quick because just like that, the air changes.

Not from the alarms, those are still blaring, but something else quiets.

One by one, faces appear. Ghouls peeking into the den, realizing that despite the chaos, two of them have still yet to be seen amongst the living.

First Cirrus, wide-eyed around the doorframe, a dish towel clutched in one hand.

Then Mountain, barefoot and frowning, holding the charred remains of what used to be someone's breakfast.

Cumulus gasps. Swiss appears behind her, shirtless, holding a spatula like a weapon and mouthing no fucking way.

And finally - Sunshine.

Wrapped in an oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, she stares with slow-dawning awe.

“Lucifer,” she whispers, reverent as a prayer. “They’re still cuddling?”

The others lean further in.

Rain doesn’t move, but his tail flicks once.

Dew doesn’t lift his head.

“Say one word,” he mutters, dark and half-asleep, “and I’ll light the damn toaster on fire again.”

Cirrus stifles a laugh. Cumulus clutches the doorframe. Mountain blinks like he can't believe his own eyes.

Sunshine just presses a hand to her forehead, like she’s seen a vision.

Rain finally looks up at the pack, entirely unfazed.

“Good morning,” he says, voice low and serene. “And good-bye.”

Swiss, quietly dying, laughs as he returns to the stove. “They’re so fucked.”

The pack retreats - Rain’s piercing gaze not something to challenge before carbs.

He shifts slightly, letting the soft weight of Dew settle more fully against him. His eyes flutter closed for one last breath, just long enough to feel him - chest to cheek, bond full and humming.

Dew shifts with the smallest scrunch of his nose and the realization that the whole world had been watching.

“You let them see,” he mutters.

“I was busy,” Rain murmurs back. “Enjoying the view.”

Dew huffs against his collar.

The moment doesn’t break, but it shifts.

Dew lifts a hand slowly, fingers brushing the loose end of Rain’s braid. The tiny shell at the tip is barely hanging on, its twine unraveled in sleep.

With gentle precision, he plucks it free and closes it in his palm.

“So you don’t lose it,” he says softly. “Wouldn’t want to upset your whole deep salt river aesthetic.”

Rain laughs under his breath, drowsy and delighted. “Thank you.”

They finally begin to rise, slow and quiet. No sudden moves. Just limbs uncurling like tide-pulled seaweed, careful not to shake the softness from the air.

Rain stands first, offering his hand.

Dew takes it.

When they turn toward the kitchen, the pack finally exhales - quiet, for the moment. Even the ghouls know better than to ruin this with a joke.

At least, not until caffeine.

The kitchen is already warm when they enter - light filtering through the window like honey, the smell of cinnamon toast and over-brewed coffee drifting through the air. Sunshine dances barefoot in front of the stove, flipping something in a pan with theatrical flair. Mountain slices fruit with terrifying precision. Cirrus and Cumulus are seated at the table with matching sleepy eyes and mismatched mugs, hair still a little tousled from sleep.

Swiss is perched on the counter like a smug gargoyle, shirtless as ever.

He grins the moment he sees them. “Well, well, well.”

“Don’t,” Dew groans.

“I’m just saying,” Swiss drawls, waggling his eyebrows. “You both look well-rested. Peaceful. Positively glowing.”

Sunshine spins, pointing her spatula like a dagger. “I knew I felt something in the air. I thought it was just the burning toast but no - it was vibes.”

Rain floats past them, entirely unfazed. “Any vibes were Dew’s fault.”

Dew throws a piece of cut fruit at him. Rain catches it, pops it into his mouth without blinking.

Cumulus eyes them over her mug. “Are they always going to be this insufferable before nine?”

“Yes,” says Cirrus.

“Unfortunately,” adds Mountain. “It’s a symptom.”

Swiss stretches luxuriously, snagging a slice of toast. “Alright, alright, alright. Settle down. We’ve got big plans today.”

“Is it the Kiss Watch wrap-up party?” Sunshine asks, eyes gleaming as she nods hopefully toward Rain and Dew.

“No,” Swiss says. He continues, dramatic finger guns blazing, “It’s Swiss Day.”

Rain blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s his audition,” Cirrus explains. “For backup guitar and vocals.”

Rain raises an eyebrow.

Swiss flips his hair. “I've been an unofficial member since I got here. Today, I claim it with song.”

“Lucifer help us,” Dew mutters.

“What’s the song?” Rain asks, half-curious, half-braced for impact.

Swiss grins. “It’s a surprise.”

The room groans in unison.

“It's going to be filth,” Cumulus says.

“Possibly,” Swiss replies. “But it’s a banger. And it's gonna unlock the power of pack harmony.”

Rain’s luminescence flares slightly. Dew freezes, mid-chew.

Sunshine looks between them.

“Oh no,” she whispers. “They were touching this morning. What if they start flirting with their guitars?”

“Then we all get to watch the rehearsal room betting pool win,” Mountain shrugs.

Rain sips his tea like it’s holy water. Dew adjusts his shirt like he’s suddenly overheating.

Swiss hops off the counter, slaps Dew’s back as he walks past. “Better warm up those fingers, fireboy. I'm gonna make magic.”

Dew sputters. Rain chokes on a bite of toast.

Sunshine fans herself. “We’re absolutely making popcorn for this.”

They finish breakfast in lazy bursts - sharing stories between bites, stealing fruit from each other’s plates, letting the quiet joy of the morning settle into their bones.

Rain hums under his breath while rinsing his mug. Dew leans against the counter, sipping coffee like it might grant him mercy. Cirrus disappears and returns with clean shirts for everyone. Mountain claims dish duty without being asked.

The den doesn't empty all at once, but it spills outward. Bit by bit.

A tangle of limbs and warmth and trust that somehow remembers how to harmonize.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The rehearsal room buzzes even before anyone plays a note.

Sunlight glints off chrome hardware and half-coiled cables, and the acrid smell of burn has finally dissipated from the air.

The door creaks open.

Swiss enters first.

Not swaggering - though close. His guitar is slung high across his back like a challenge.

But there’s a tell.

He crosses the room slower than usual and sets his guitar down with unexpected care.

Then, without a word, he reaches for a box of incense tucked behind an amp cabinet - already half-used, the matches crumpled at the corners. He lights a stick, lets it smoke in his palm for a beat too long, then sets it upright in the mouth of an old glass bottle.

Sage and cedar. Something grounding.

He closes his eyes.

Breathes once, in and out. Then with two fingers, he taps the edge of the stage.

Not for show.

For luck. For meaning.

For the things he’s always chased: a place to stay, a sound to belong to, and someone to share it with.

Then he steps back and the grin returns, lazy and golden and sharp around the edges.

Like he didn’t just ask the room to be kind to him.

The rest of the pack trails in behind, brushing cinnamon crumbs off their sleeves, still drowsy from sunlight and warmth. They all settle in and the shift is instant. The air tightens - charged.

Like something is about to begin.

No costume. No smoke. Just Swiss in a tank top that’s barely hanging onto his shoulders, his black jeans ripped at the thigh, hair pushed back with reckless intent.

Mountain is quiet, watching from his place by the wall, calm and solid as the stone he was named for. His gaze doesn’t waver, like he’s watching something sacred take shape.

There’s no heat, no hunger.

Only recognition.

He knows what this means to Swiss. And he’s here for all of it.

Swiss glances up mid-tuning, fingers briefly stilling on the strings.

He catches Mountain’s eye.

Then, with a flicker of nerves, lifts a small, awkward wave.

Mountain nods once. No smile. Just steady, grounding presence. Like saying I see you. Like go ahead.

Swiss exhales, and keeps tuning.

Copia arrives last and perches on the edge of a folding chair with a clipboard and a wildly unnecessary opera cape. He doesn’t say a word - just watches, knowing full well this matters more than anyone’s letting on.

“Whenever you’re ready, my ghoul,” he says.

Swiss flashes a grin, tongue pressed between his teeth. Then strums once - low, dirty, dragging tension like smoke through the room.

Something primal shifts. Backs straighten. Spines hum.

Rain’s breath stutters.

Dew’s tail twitches.

Sunshine, sitting criss-cross on her chair, lets out a scandalized gasp and grabs Cumulus’s arm like they’re watching a soap opera.

And then Swiss sings.

His voice is gravel and gold, slinking up the lyrics like they’re secrets he was never supposed to tell. He doesn’t perform it like a cover. He sings like he owns it, sinks his teeth into it, makes it holy and profane all at once.

I was made for lovin’ you, baby…

Mountain visibly swallows.

You were made for lovin’ me…

Rain and Dew, seated beside each other on a bench, go still.

Their shoulders don’t touch.

But their tails do, just the tips, coiled like secret promises behind them.

Dew’s eyes flick to Rain’s mouth. Rain’s glow shimmers, soft and steady. They don't speak. Don't move.

But the bond sings.

Copia is openly flushed, fanning himself with the edge of his notes. “Mio Dio…”

By the second chorus, Mountain has not blinked once. Swiss throws him a wink.

“Someone get the fire extinguisher,” Sunshine mutters.

Swiss slinks through the song like he knows what he’s doing - because he absolutely does. His grin is smug. His vocals are filth. His glow ripples at the base of his throat, showmanship and delight pouring off him, spiked with just the faintest tease of come catch me.

Mountain’s hand curls tighter around a drumstick.

Not tight enough to break anything, not yet, but enough to feel the wood strain under his grip.

He’s not watching Swiss’s hands on the strings. Not really.

He’s watching his hips. The way they sway with the beat, loose and lewd and intentional. The way he mouths along to the chorus like he’s tasting every word. The way he glows with it - not elemental but electric. Soaked in attention, burning to be devoured.

Mountain sees it.

He sees everyone seeing it.

Copia, flushed and tugging at his collar.

Sunshine and Cumulus whispering behind their hands.

Rain and Dew not even pretending to look anywhere else.

Swiss finishes the song with a wink and a bow, breathless and glistening, looking like he’s not sure what all the fuss is about.

And that -

That’s when Mountain breaks.

Because he’s done.

Done watching Swiss throw sparks like candy.

Done pretending he’s unaffected.

Done being patient while Swiss kisses every goddamn cheek in this Ministry except the one he wants.

He doesn’t remember getting up or crossing the room.

He just sees Swiss, blinking up at him with that cocky little grin before he grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him in.

Swiss gasps, half laugh, and then Mountain kisses him.

No fanfare. No warning.

Just heat. Just teeth. Just finally.

Swiss melts against him like he’s been waiting this whole time. One hand tangles in Mountain’s curls, the other clutches his shoulder, dragging him closer like he wants to disappear into the shape of him.

The pack loses their collective minds.

Someone whoops.

Someone knocks over a cup.

Rain flushes pink. “Oh.”

Dew clicks his tongue. “Took him long enough.”

Mountain doesn’t hear a word.

All he hears is the way Swiss moans against his mouth - raw and open and his.

The kiss breaks, but only just.

“Fucking finally,” Swiss whispers, breath ghosting his cheek.

Mountain grins.

“You’re mine.”

Swiss bites his own lip. “I was always yours.”

Mountain kisses him again, because no one is stopping him.

When Mountain finally lets Swiss go, it’s just barely.

Their foreheads rest together, breath mingling, one of Swiss’s hands still curled tight in the collar of Mountain’s shirt like he might change his mind and go in again.

The room is buzzing. Full of laughter. Wheezing. Sunshine is clapping a little too enthusiastically, saying something that sounds like ‘one set of morons down.’

Rain is flushed to the gills. Dew is smirking. Cumulus is fanning Cirrus with a lyric sheet.

But all fun things must come to an end.

“Ahem.”

Copia clears his throat, crimson-cheeked and visibly regretting his life choices. His cravat is crooked. His clipboard lies forgotten on the floor.

“Not to, eh, interrupt your, how do you say - emotional fireworks display - but we do need to begin rehearsal.”

A collective groan ripples through the room.

Sunshine throws herself dramatically onto the couch like she’s been personally wronged. “Ugh, but we were just getting to the good part.”

Rain snorts softly. Dew just taps the tips of his fingers together, cool as sin.

Swiss blinks up at Copia, still dazed. “...Right. Rehearsal. Do I stay up here now? Did I get the part?”

Copia nods. Mountain does not let go of his waist.

Swiss lifts a shaky but triumphant thumbs up as he leans in and murmurs low enough for only Mountain to hear. “Later. Finish what you started.”

Mountain’s answering growl is very real.

They pull apart reluctantly, joining the slow shuffle toward instruments and cables and professionalism - or something close to it.

As Swiss is plugging in, Aether steps through the door, brows slightly lifted.

He looks around.

Pauses.

Looks again.

Then very carefully says, “I don’t want to know what I missed.”

Copia is still fanning himself with one hand as he climbs onto the stage. “Good. Because I also don’t know what I saw.”

Aether sighs and walks forward, nodding to Swiss.

“Congratulations,” he says.

Swiss grins. “What gave it away?”

Aether scoffs.

“The smell of incense, victory, and Mountain drooling.”

The pack howls, laughing fits renewed.

And rehearsal, somehow, blessedly, finally begins.

Copia clears his throat, still gathering the pieces of his composure after everything that just unfolded.

“Alright then. Rain, caro, how do you feel about Cirice? I feel like we all need a calm down after that performance.”

There’s a pause, not long. Enough for Rain’s eyes to flick toward Dew, who shrugs gently.

He nods. “Alright.”

“Cirice it is,” Aether says, slightly resigned, already moving toward his amp.

Sunshine wiggles her eyebrows. “This one’s definitely not a calm down.”

Rain’s glow pulses faintly. Dew snorts low and sharp, like he agrees.

Cumulus leans back with a sigh. “No, this one feels like a horny calling.”

Cirrus just hums and settles behind the keys as the rehearsal room holds its breath.

With a quick count in from Mountain, Dew starts the song.

One clean, deliberate line - low, aching, and sharp-edged. Like truth with its fangs bared.

Aether answers it. Not loud or showy, but subtle and steady. Like stone underfoot, reminding you where the ground is.

They trade again. Then again.

Call and response.

Fire and history.

When Rain joins, his bassline slips beneath them like a tide rising to meet the shore. Smooth Sure.

Dew doesn’t look at him. Not directly. But his tail flicks once.

Cirrus slides into the keys, hands gliding like invocation.

Mountain leans forward. His foot taps once. Then twice.

And Copia's voice rises with the first verse like something inevitable.Thin at first, trembling with old pain, but steady in its knowing. He doesn’t need to belt it. Doesn’t need to prove anything.

He just is.

Sunshine, Swiss, and Cumulus let their voices braid with his into the last breath of the intro; soft, smoky, full of something half-buried. Like the last memory before the storm hits.

It doesn't need to be said, but everyone feels it.

Something has begun.

Rain watches the shape of it with his fingers, adjusting the weight of his line to nestle under Copia’s tone the same way the sea cradles a body.

Dew leans into the next riff with more pressure than necessary, like he needs to feel it push back.

Aether doesn’t look at him. But his guitar finds Dew’s again, firm and unrelenting. Each echo is a challenge. A memory.

A thread that was once tied too tight.

Behind them, Cirrus and Mountain hold the spine of it; keys bright as stained glass, drums like distant thunder. The vocalists croon like shadows.

And then -

The chorus hits.

I can feel the thunder that’s breaking in your heart…

Copia’s voice doesn’t rise - it pierces. Clean. Bright. Bare. Like someone whispering your name just before a lightning strike.

Dew digs into the next riff like it owes him something. His whole body moves with it now, shoulders loose, hair falling into his eyes.

When Rain meets the weight of Dew's strumming, it’s not gentle anymore. It’s anchored. Matching him. Holding him.

Their eyes don’t meet, but they don't need to.

Because the bond sings.

Not loud. Not sweet.

Resonant… charged.

Aether’s hands tighten on his guitar. The pressure is exact, but the sound that rings from it isn’t precision.

It’s memory. Regret. Maybe warning.

Cirrus lets the keys shiver beneath her, a river of trembled light.

Mountain’s drumming deepens. Not flashy. Just steady. Like a pulse under the skin.

Swiss finds his place in the harmony with ease. Tucks into the minor thirds like he belongs there. Like he was always meant to be part of this sound.

Sunshine, radiant and grounded, wraps her voice around Cumulus’s and Swiss’s until it’s impossible to tell who began the harmony and who’s following.

The sound lifts. Builds.

No chaos, for once. Just something steady.

Copia steps forward at the bridge, voice dropping to a hush.

Can't you see that you're lost without me?

Rain’s hands are steady. But his glow flares something close to deep navy at the edges, overwhelm tinged with wanting.

Dew bites down on the next note like he means it. Lets it drag long enough that his fingers spark with friction.

It doesn’t burn. Not yet.

But it could.

And just before the final chorus hits - Rain looks at him.

Full-on.

No sidelong glances. No pretending the bond isn’t humming under his skin.

Dew feels it. The look. The pulse. The music catching between them like magic held at the edge of ignition.

And when the last chorus crests, they don’t hold back.

Not from each other.

Not from the pack.

Not from the sound.

It breaks like surf against a stone jetty.

I can feel the thunder that’s breaking in your heart…

Copia lets the line shatter open. No falsetto. No restraint. Just truth, jagged and gleaming, dragged out like a final confession.

Rain’s bassline locks in behind it. Deeper. Darker. Like pressure from the ocean floor.

Dew meets him halfway, shredding into the closing riff like it’s a dare, eyes blazing now, jaw tight, body bent over his guitar like he’s trying to burn something into the strings.

Aether doesn’t flinch, but he steps in. Answers the riff with precision and bite, each note a rebuttal. A reminder. A reckoning.

Mountain pounds the final measure like a war drum.

Cirrus hits the last chord with both hands, echoing into silence.

Swiss, Sunshine, and Cumulus lift their voices on the final phrase, harmonizing into something raw and reverent, letting the sound bloom.

And it ends.

Not with silence - but with the hum of air stilled.

Like everyone forgot to breathe.

Rain and Dew are both panting, sweat curling at their temples.

Copia wipes his forehead with his sleeve, dazed. “Unholy Prince…”

Sunshine’s mouth is open. No words come out.

Mountain just nods, slow and stunned.

“That was incredible,” Cumulus breathes.

Copia laughs, giddy and breathless, the rush of it still thrumming through him.

“The best rehearsal we’ve ever had,” he beams. “What shall we try next?”

Into the stunned quiet, Cirrus cracks her knuckles.

“Well,” she says brightly, flipping a page of sheet music. “How about Mummy Dust? I've been working on something with Zephyr and Ifrit.”

Copia tips his head. “Have you now?”

She hums and lifts a keytar from its case with reverence. It’s gleaming, bright white, tricked out with silver inlays and a glitter sticker shaped like a cloud.

“Fuck yes,” Sunshine whispers.

Cirrus settles the strap over her shoulder and slides her fingers across the keys, just once, enough to tease a shimmer of static in the air.

“Lulu is going to hold down the keyboard stack,” she smiles. “You'll see.”

Copia smiles broadly. “Well, ready when you are.”

Dew nods and shakes out his hands as Mountain counts them in.

He strums hard. Mean and dirty and full of hips and teeth. Aether matches the beat, head bopping to the rhythm.

It rolls through the room like a slow punch to the sternum, the kind of beat that drags your body into it before your mind has time to argue.

Rain answers low and guttural on bass, locking into the groove like he’s been waiting his whole life for it. He looks away from Dew again, like he can’t trust himself with the way Dew is moving.

Swiss chokes on a laugh, grabs his mic stand, and rolls his hips against it.

Mountain is already in it, finding the pocket before the first downbeat even finishes echoing. His rhythm lands like a pulse at the base of the skull, primal and filthy and so alive.

Copia clutches his mic like a lifeline, eyes wide.

Sunshine yells, “Let’s get it old man,” and doesn’t stop grinning.

Then Cirrus steps in.

Not yet soloing. Not yet shining.

But threading the air with a shimmer of dissonance. Haunting. Propulsive. Her hands flutter over the keys like she's coiling something tight around their throats and smiling while she does it.

Rain’s glow throbs that dark navy along his spine. Dew’s fire pulses behind his ribs. Swiss tosses his hair and bares his teeth.

It builds.

And builds.

And builds.

Rain is focused, possessed. Every movement clean, precise, seductive. He doesn’t look at anyone, but Dew can’t stop looking at him.

Halfway through, Dew slides in closer. It’s instinct - magnetism. Their movements sync, tails brushing, curls of smoke and salt rising where they nearly touch. When their fingers slip into harmonized rhythm, it’s no longer just music.

It’s communication. Tension.

Want.

And it’s burning.

Swiss throws his head back for the chorus. Mountain’s grinning wide enough to split.

Copia takes a deep breath and snarls into the mic.

A growl, not a lyric. Just raw intent. His voice rasps through the speakers like someone conjuring gold from ash - hungry, theatrical, and utterly unrepentant.

He doesn’t just sing it.

He demands it.

Dust… the mummy dust!

The pack yells with him. Cirrus slams both palms to the keys, sending a violent cascade of synth like glass shattering through velvet.

And then it’s her moment.

The keytar solo doesn’t just arrive, it erupts.

Cirrus steps forward, legs wide, the strap of her rig riding low on her hips. Her hands fly over the keys, peeling off lightning-fast notes that slice through the wall of sound like gilded chaos. Her glow pulses sky-blue and electric. Even Swiss stumbles back to give her room.

She’s not just playing.

She’s unleashing.

When Cirrus lands the last note of her solo - fingers flying, glow crackling - Dew leans back without missing a beat and bumps her fist.

She grins, flushed and wild, and slips right back into rhythm like the storm never stopped.

Dew finds a new mark. Shifts closer to Rain.

And leans in harder.

They lock eyes then, brief and electric.

Want thrums at the edges of every downbeat.

His playing turns sharp and deliberate, like he’s carving every note just beneath Rain’s skin.

Rain meets it - fully, fiercely. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t falter. He plays like he’s tracing heartbeats, letting the pulse rise… and rise… and rise.

The pack can barely breathe.

Copia shouts the final chorus like a sermon. Swiss howls behind him in harmony. Sunshine screams in delight. Cumulus throws her head back and wails. A raw, perfect harmony that splits the room wide open. The music grows, wide open, until it doesn’t anymore.

The final downbeat slams into silence.

Not a stumble. Not a delay.

Just stillness.

Breathless, wrecked, and holy.

Copia, red-faced and fanning himself with a lyric sheet, mumbles a little too close to his microphone.

“Well. That was… sexually threatening.”

Swiss cackles.

Cirrus is as serene as ever.

“Thank you.”

Dew’s voice is hoarse. “I need… water.”

Mountain just laughs and tosses him a towel.

As the laughter settles, Rain stays quiet. His glow holds steady - dark navy fading into a deep, iridescent teal that ripples with every breath.

Dew looks at him, then looks away - like if he stares too long, he’ll do something dangerous.

It’s Swiss, of course, that breaks the relative quiet. “We’re not just a band anymore.”

Mountain hums. “We’re a fucking invocation. That’s the first time we’ve ever locked like that.”

“Tight,” Swiss says, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Fucking elemental. And all you needed was me.”

Dew laughs, genuine and unguarded. The high of it is still in his bones.

“We sounded like a band again. But somehow, even better. More.”

Copia nods, breathless with pride. “If this is what prophecy sounds like, I say we start printing gold records now.”

He means it lightly. But the word prophecy lands like an iron bell in the middle of the room.

Cirrus hums. “Guess fate’s got taste.”

Someone chuckles. Swiss maybe. Or Sunshine, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

But Aether doesn’t laugh.

He goes still. Too still. Like the air’s gone wrong inside his lungs.

Copia doesn’t notice. He’s already flipping through his clipboard, mumbling about studio time and costume fittings.

But Rain sees it. The way Aether’s spine stiffens. The way he breathes too fast and too tight across his shoulders. Like memory. Like guilt. Like something beginning to fray.

He prepares himself, mentally. Lowers his bass. The teal glow along his cheeks fades - dimmed, soft, making room for something new to bloom. Like he can sense fallout approaching, and his body answers first, reaching for Dew in the quiet between moments, without even realizing he’s doing it.

Dew, flush-cheeked, wrecked, and radiant, offers Rain a tired smirk. Almost a question. Almost a reach.

Rain doesn’t answer it out loud.

But his glow does.

Rose-gold flashing across his cheeks like sacred lightning.

And that’s when Aether speaks, his voice cutting through the warmth like a blade dipped in ice.

“Dew. Can we talk?”

Neither loud nor unkind. But it’s also not a request.

Every head turns.

Dew stiffens, the ember at the base of his throat dimming from gold to blue. His voice cracks around the edges.

“Now?”

Aether nods once, toward the hallway. Away from the warmth. Away from the light. His jaw is set like stone. His quintessence flares and the room seems to bend at the edges, enough to make the others glance away - suddenly very interested in unplugging amps and coiling cables.

But Rain watches, his hands resting gently on the neck of his bass. The glow in his cheeks flares once as he tilts his head.

He watches Dew follow as his chest tightens.

—

The hallway is cooler. Narrow. Dim. The hum of the vending machine buzzes faintly, chairs stacked like a barricade nearby. The walls feel too close, like they’re listening.

Aether waits, leaning against the wall like it might make him seem less frayed.

Dew crosses his arms when he catches up. “So what was that? You pulling rank? Or just wanting to ruin the mood?”

Aether doesn’t bite. He studies Dew instead, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him. Like he’s trying to line him up with the ghoul he used to know.

When Aether speaks it's soft but firm. “Your bond is accelerating.”

Dew narrows his eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You’re not thinking. You’re reacting.” Aether’s voice tightens. “It’s one rehearsal, Dew -”

“No,” Dew snaps. “It’s not. It’s him. And me. And this thing between us that’s been burning since the fucking summoning.”

Aether’s jaw clenches. His glow flares, then tightens back to his collar. “Delta warned us. He’s not just a ghoul. He’s a Salt River healer. Do you even understand what that means?”

Dew stares at him for a long moment and then laughs, bitter.

“I met his mother, Aether,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “When I was a kit. She held my hand and told me I didn’t need to be healed.”

Aether blinks, silent.

Dew shakes his head, slow. “I know I told you, when I told Omega. When you were all so concerned about my voice because I was different.”

Aether exhales sharply, like he’s been struck. “I was only trying to help you.”

“By doing what, exactly?” Dew growls.

“You were hurting,” Aether says, louder now. “You didn’t sleep, you didn’t eat, you couldn’t even breathe after the summoning without your gills tearing. Forgive me, for caring.”

“And still,” Dew fumes, “you never asked what I needed. You decided. Like you always do.”

Aether shakes his head. “Don’t you see it? Your glow, your fire - it’s still not stable. You’re straining at the seams, and he - he’s pulling at them.”

“He’s not pulling,” Dew growls. “He’s holding. For once, someone’s holding me the way I need.”

“You’re so quick to trust it,” Aether says quietly. “You’re treating this like it’s the only hand that’s ever reached for you.”

Dew’s voice drops. Dangerous. “Maybe it is.”

His fire flares in his throat, sharp and defensive.

“Or maybe, I’m figuring out how to be something that doesn’t hurt.”

Aether’s quintessence surges again. Reflexive. Protective. Even the walls seem to shrink. His voice sharpens and he doesn’t mean for the words to bubble out, but they do.

“You’ve always been too much, Dew. You ran from the water your whole life. What makes you think it’ll take you back now?”

The words echo.

Dew doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The ember in the hollow of his throat pulses tight and erratic, gold flickering like it’s trying to hold the shape of a scream before it fades entirely.

And that’s when Rain steps into the hallway.

Quiet. Careful. His presence soft but his eyes sharp and wide, already reading the wreckage in the air. He sees Dew first - rigid, seething, unspeaking. Then Aether, quint pulled so close to the bone it looks like it hurts.

Rain’s own luminescence rises. Not the orange of danger, or the sickly teal of fear.

But something else. Something reverent. Protective.

Cerulean, with a soft rosey gold pulsing at the edges. It pulses in time with Rain's steady breaths.

He steps forward slowly. The silence thickens.

Copia, panting slightly from catching up, arrives just behind him and freezes mid-step.

“Oh,” he breathes, taking in the tension. “That bad?”

Neither ghoul responds.

Rain doesn’t ask what happened. He just shifts a little closer to Dew. Careful not to touch, but close enough that Dew could lean on him, if he wanted.

Dew’s jaw clenches instead.

Rain tilts his head and speaks quietly. Just for Dew.

“You are not too much.”

There’s no room to argue, because it’s a simple truth.

And it ripples.

Dew breathes out and steadies. Not calmed, but rooted. Seen.

Copia clears his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps we all need a little air,” he offers, already half-backpedaling. “Bit of, ah, post-rehearsal grounding.”

Rain doesn’t take his eyes off Dew. Doesn’t move.

Aether does.

He turns away. Not storming off, just folding inward, a quiet retreat of someone who’s said too much and doesn’t know how to fix it.

Rain stays, steady.

With Dew.

With the weight of what’s just been said.

Like maybe, just maybe, the water never turned Dew away at all.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Copia rubs at his temple. “I think I’ll… run this by Omega. Delta will just give me riddles, and I’d like to know why my band sounds like divine intervention one minute and a divorce court the next.”

Aether makes a quiet sound that might be agreement, or might be exhaustion. “It will make more sense if he hears from all of us.”

It won’t. But Copia doesn’t know that.

He gestures toward the side corridor. “Come on. Before the moment dies entirely.”

Dew shifts beside Rain, still molten, but steadier now. He doesn’t look at Rain. Doesn’t reach. His jaw works once, like he’s chewing words he can’t risk letting out.

“Go,” Rain says quietly. Not a command. A permission.

Dew hesitates. Then nods and follows Copia down the corridor.

Aether trails behind. He doesn’t say another word.

And Rain -

Rain turns the other way.

—

The trees hush around him as he walks.

The lake path is well-worn now, his feet find it by instinct, but his chest feels tight. Like something important is unraveling behind him, thread by thread.

The grass is damp with late afternoon. The air hangs thick with cedar and moss. Somewhere above, a bird calls once, then falls silent.

He exhales, slow. The bond has dulled - still warm, but distant. Like Dew is holding too much at once and doesn’t know how to reach for him without burning.

Rain closes his eyes, willing the ache to settle.

“Walking like that’ll twist your spine,” says an amused, familiar voice.

His eyes open. The startle fades almost instantly, replaced by a small loosening in his shoulders.

Mist stands beneath the curve of an alder tree, a woven basket tucked in the crook of her arm. Her glow is faint but constant, like tidewater at dusk.

Rain tips her a soft, dry smile. “I was aiming for dramatic.”

Mist snorts. “And mostly hit hunched and heartbroken. But you’re getting there.”

Something in him flickers at that, Aether’s words still too fresh in his ribs.

He straightens, just a fraction. Not to hide, but to prove, if only to himself, that he can stand without folding in.

She tilts her head toward the narrow path that curves toward somewhere new.

“Come with me.”

“I should go to the lake,” Rain says.

Mist’s smile deepens, gentle in her knowing. “You will.”

For a moment, he hesitates… then lets the moment pull him along.

—

Mist leads him through a narrow break in the trees, where moss grows thick on the stones and the air begins to shift: cooler, sharper, charged.

Rain knows this place.

He’s never walked this exact path before, but his body knows the pull of deep-running water. Of sacred currents. Of magic that hums low in the bones.

The waterfall reveals itself slowly.

Not loud, no thunder or spray. Just an endless sheet of silver-glass pouring into a black pool below. Steam rises in curling wisps where it hits stone. The air here smells different than the lake. Not salt, but mineral. Metallic. Like deep earth, pressure, and time.

Rain’s gills flutter once.

He steps to the edge and feels it - the drop. The way the pool descends farther than it should. Vents below, maybe. Pressure ridges. He can feel the trace of oxygen-rich streams pushing upward in spirals, threading through the current like breath in a glass throat.

He used to treat the dying in waters like these. He used to live and work in the sacred halls built around them.

Mist doesn’t speak. Just settles a few paces back on a flat rock, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders like she's done this a hundred times.

Rain crouches at the edge. Cups water in his hands. It smells like iron and memory.

He lets the water drop back into the pool and runs three wet fingers across his forehead. It should be grounding.

But it doesn’t take the tightness out of his ribs. Doesn’t quiet the echo of that hallway. So when he speaks, it’s not soft or reverent or careful.

No, it’s direct, a poor impression since the very beginning.

“What the fuck is Aether’s problem.”

Mist blinks, startled. Her gaze flicks over him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his glow shifts too quickly for the light here to catch.

Then, she laughs. Not unkind. But full of something that sounds like relief.

“Good gods, finally,” she says. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Rain stares for a moment, his jaw set, but his glow is still restless, flickering like a current that hasn’t found its channel.

Mist doesn’t elaborate right away. She stretches, vertebrae popping with quiet satisfaction, but her eyes don’t leave him for long. She’s measuring him. Watching how the tension in his shoulders refuses to loosen, even here.

“He’s wound tighter than the wards on my old basin,” she muses at last. “Always has been. Thinks no one notices.”

Rain’s voice is flat. “Everyone notices.”

“Exactly.”

She grows quiet again, gaze settling on the waterfall’s slow pour. The pause feels deliberate, like she’s giving him space to unclench - space he doesn’t take.

“You know,” she says after a while, gentler now, “he didn’t always have that look in his eyes. The one like he’s holding up the whole damn house, but he’s the one pulling the bricks loose.”

Rain doesn’t respond, but she can feel him listening. He doesn’t hide it well, the way his head tilts just slightly toward her, the way his tail tip curls tight in the moss.

“He’s Quintessence. Old Quintessence. They always feel the edges of things before they see the shape. He knew something about Dew didn’t fit. Didn’t settle. And he didn’t know what to do with that, except… want more for him.”

Her glance toward Rain is brief, but deliberate. Not unkind.

“But want’s dangerous when it grows bigger than the person it’s about.”

Rain’s jaw flexes, his glow dimming like he’s pulling it in against the words.

Mist exhales, her next thought coming slow, drawing water from a deep well.

“He loved Dew,” she says. “Still does, I think. But he wanted to love a version of Dew that made sense to him. One he could understand. And Dew…”

She watches Rain’s hands, the way his fingers curl against the stone at his sides.

“Dew didn’t know he was allowed to be something that didn’t make sense. He thought pain was part of love. That confusion and compromise were normal. That feeling good with someone like Mountain was just another kind of comfort, not proof he was hurting elsewhere.”

Rain closes his eyes. “He suffered,” he murmurs.

Mist nods once.

“And no one told him he didn’t have to.”

Silence pools between them, thick with gravity and grief. The waterfall keeps pouring.

She doesn’t push. Just lets him sit with it until the worst of the ache settles into something steadier.

“Aether thought he was helping. But sometimes trying to hold on just means you end up pulling someone under.”

Rain presses his palms to the stone. The chill of it grounds him.

“He should have let go.”

Mist tilts her head, studying him for a beat longer than comfort allows. “Maybe he’s trying now,” she says softly. “But it might be too late.”

Her eyes don’t move from his. “That’s the danger, little tide. Hold too tight, and you can drown someone before they ever learn they can swim. Even if all you wanted was to keep them close.”

Her words settle like silt in the water. Heavy, but clean. Rain lets them wash over him, then through.

He doesn’t reply right away.

Instead, he lifts his hands - palms together, fingers curled slightly inward like cupping a drop of tidewater. His chin bows toward his chest.

A soft glow rises from his gills. White.

“Nael-surin,” he murmurs.

Mist stills.

Then nods, slow and knowing. “Your clan carries much of the old blood. No wonder the lake listens.”

Rain doesn’t smile. But his eyes hold something steady. A choice, already forming. He will not grip so tightly that the current turns against him. If Dew comes, it will be because he chose to swim. Rain will keep the water ready. Always.

He turns toward the path again, toward the lake, but she calls after him, quiet:

“He’ll know where to find you.”

Rain doesn’t need to ask how.

He just walks, the quiet echo of Mist’s voice clinging to the air behind him.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The air in the Ministry feels different after a rehearsal like that. Thick with leftover sound, the kind that hums in the bones long after the last note falls.

Copia’s boots click a steady rhythm on the tile, though his mind is moving faster than his steps. Aether follows beside him, silent, and Dew’s glow flickers faintly ahead, muted under the strain of holding himself together.

They don’t speak in the lift. The quiet isn’t comfortable, but it’s fragile, and Copia doesn’t dare break it.

By the time the doors part onto the upper corridor, his decision is made.

Omega will hear about this - about the lockstep perfection, the crash into discord, the look in Aether’s eyes. Delta will only speak in riddles, but Omega… Omega might actually name the shape of what’s forming.

And right now, Copia needs a name.

—

The door to Omega’s office creaks open like it’s not used to visitors.

The air inside hums, Quintessence saturated. Not glowing, not loud. Just present. Like the space remembers more than it should.

Omega looks up from his notes, glasses perched low on his nose, pen stilled mid-word.

His gaze drags over each of them in turn: Copia, flushed and still carrying the buzz of stage-energy turned sour. Dew, pacing in place without moving, jaw tight, ember pulled inward like a flame snuffed out. Aether, rooted to the threshold, guilt and defiance braided so tightly together it’s hard to tell them apart.

“Ah,” he says. “Sit.”

The single word lands differently for each of them. Command for Copia, permission for Dew, warning for Aether.

Copia perches on the edge of a chair like it might burn him.

Dew doesn’t sit at all. He paces, restless, heat still clinging to his skin from the hallway. The ache of leaving Rain sits heavy behind his ribs, the bond buzzing there like a radio just out of tune.

Aether stands stiff near the door. Like he might leave. But Copia’s presence blocks the way.

Omega finally speaks.

“You want to know the truth.”

Copia’s jaw tightens. “We’re past want. Tell us what Delta knows.”

Omega exhales.

“Delta doesn’t just know. They are the knowing. The Archive isn’t just records, it’s the loom. And they’re the thread.”

Dew stops pacing.

Omega meets his eyes.

“You were never a mistake, Dew. You're the axis.”

“Axis of what?” Aether mutters.

Omega’s glow flares faintly behind his lenses. “Of the becoming.”

The silence thickens.

“Sister approved the ceremony because the clergy didn't expect you to survive,” Omega continues, voice like steady current. “But He did. Delta said it best: ‘The one who survives without belonging to one thing will be the one to call all things.’”

He glances at Aether.

“It wasn’t a failure. It was just called early.”

Copia leans forward. “And… Rain?”

Omega hums.

“Rain is the second half. The healer. The call. The voice that bridges. His presence completes a frequency that’s never existed before…” He tilts his head, as though listening to something far away. “Not in this realm. Not like this.”

Dew’s throat works. “So what are we?”

The words are quieter than he means them to be - like he’s afraid of the answer, and wants it all the same.

Omega’s gaze softens.

“You are the ritual.”

Aether blinks. “But Ghost is the ritual.”

“Ghost is the amplification,” Omega corrects. “You’re the invocation. The resonance. The harmonic convergence of bond and blood, soul and sound.”

Copia grips the chair tighter. “Lucifer’s plan?”

Omega nods. “To awaken the next age.”

Then Copia's voice cracks. “And Terzo?”

Omega doesn’t look away.

“As soon as Dew started talking about choosing fire, Papa started pulling a lot of threads together. Clergy didn't like that, because they stopped being able to control him.”

A silence falls. Dew dims.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Omega’s smile is small. Not unkind.

“As he used to say: the only bond stronger than fate is one forged in choice.”

He glances to the side, grief settling across his lips.

“Imagine getting to have both.”

Copia rises. “And Delta?”

Omega hums, sets his pen to the side.

“Watching. Waiting. Weaving.”

He exhales through his nose, almost to himself.

“And making the space He’ll need… no matter the cost.”

—

The moment Omega closes his ledger, Dew moves.

Not with panic, but with purpose.

Aether calls his name, once. Copia doesn’t. He knows better.

Dew doesn’t look back.

He barrels down the hall, boots skidding slightly on the polished stone, shoulder clipping a sconce that flares and goes dim. His ember pulses bright within him, bright gold veined with something new - a rosey tone flickering like a heartbeat just beneath the surface.

Every turn of the corridor feels like a countdown.

Every breath is heavy with the ache of almost.

What makes you think it’ll take you back now?

The words bite just as sharply in his head as they did in the hallway - sharp enough to cut, deep enough to drive him faster.

Not to argue. Not to prove Aether wrong.

To prove Rain right.

He reaches the outer stairs and takes them two at a time, leaping the last few like the fire in him can’t stand to wait another second. The air sharpens as he reaches the edge of the forest path. It smells like wet cedar, like moss, like Rain.

The bond is calling.

Still distant. Still tender. But open, enough for Dew to feel the tremble of invitation.

He runs harder.

The pack isn’t here. The world is quiet. The wind hisses through the trees like an omen, and the leaves shiver as he passes.

Let me reach him.

The thought repeats in his chest like a mantra, until it’s not a thought at all - just rhythm. Just instinct. Just truth.

By the time the lake path opens before him, Dew is glowing all over. Wild, uneven, undeniable.

And Rain is waiting.

—

Waiting.

Static. Cold. Reverent.

The first ripples reach him before the footsteps do. Small disturbances, moving out across the mirror of the lake. Somewhere along the shore, the air shifts, the bond stirs, but Rain doesn’t open his eyes.

He sits waist-deep in the water, hands open at his sides. His glow pulses slow and low beneath the surface.

He is silent, but the water sings around him as the bond hums, soft and warm.

Something in the current shifts. Draws up from the depths, not to drag, but to cradle. Magic moving through him in long, sweeping arcs, like the tide remembering the moon.

Rain is listening.

Not for words. But for the shape of them.

Not for Dew. But for the echo of his choice.

The water carries all of it. The almost-kiss, again and again. The shell. The music.

And Rain lets it hold him.

Lets it wash through the ache.

Lets it become.

Whatever it will be.

He will not reach.

Will not pull.

Will not close his hand around something that isn’t ready to be held.

If Dew comes to him, it will be by choice. Even if the lake freezes over first.

—

Rain is breathing deep when he feels a shift.

Not in the water, but a ripple across his chest. A hum behind his gills.

The bond is stirring.

Then it tightens, all gold and smoke and electricity, like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon of his mind.

He doesn’t brace.

He listens.

Steps on wet grass. Breath like it hurts to hold. A familiar, fire-stitched heartbeat drawing closer.

Rain doesn’t turn, he knows who it is.

Knows that, finally, finally, he came.

The moon is a ripple overhead, stretched thin across the lake. The water is calm, but Rain knows better. It only looks that way when it’s deep.

“You’re still here,” Dew says. His voice cracks like something split along the grain.

Rain keeps his hands in the shallows, palms open, letting the cold bite into him.

Dew hesitates at the edge.

He doesn’t look like fire right now, he'a too raw. Shirt damp at the collar. Shoulders heaving with the weight of everything thrown on top of him.

“I didn’t mean for any of this,” he says. “Not the fire. Not the summoning. Not you.”

Rain’s gaze flickers, but he stays silent.

“I wanted to be someone else. Wanted it so bad I… broke. And then you came, and I thought maybe -” He swallows. “Maybe the water could feel like home again.””

His hand presses to his chest. “You shouldn’t have been pulled into this. You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of something that started before you were even in the story.”

He breathes, unsteady.

“Except now, I know you were always part of it. And apparently, I am too. I don’t know what’s real anymore, or who I’m supposed to be in all of it.”

His voice drops, almost a whisper. “And I’m terrible for you. I'm too much and not enough, all at once. But I want you anyway. Even if fate put us here.”

Rain finally stands. The lake folds around him to the ribs, dark silk shifting with every ripple. He’s bare-chested, voice still quieted by ritual, but his eyes shine with something older than speech.

And then he does it.

Fingers to lips. A pause over his heart. Then a ripple outward.

Silae-vin.

Dew stares.

“What does that mean?”

Rain doesn’t answer. Just watches him, quiet as the lake.

Dew’s throat works. His breath is tight. But he kicks off his boots and then he’s stepping forward. Into the water. Into the silence.

He shudders as the cold hits him, then hesitates.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, coming closer. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. Fire spits me out. Water pulls me under. But when I’m near you…”

His voice drops. Breaks.

“When I’m near you, it doesn’t hurt so much.”

Rain takes a step closer.

Dew looks up.

Rain lifts one hand - just two fingers, slow and sure - and touches Dew’s jaw. Tilts it slightly, gentle as the tide. Not to pull him in. Just to hold him there. Steady.

When he speaks, it’s soft, ragged from disuse, but certain.

“Come find me then, flicker,” Rain says. “Whenever it hurts. And I’ll remind you what doesn’t.”

The words don’t just land. They undo something.

The echo of you’ve always been too much still hums somewhere under Dew’s skin, but Rain’s touch says otherwise.

Dew stares at him, wrecked and lit from within. The glow at the base of his throat brightens and then -

Then - he kisses him.

Like it’s the only way he knows how to stay.

It’s not polished. Not perfect. His mouth brushes Rain’s like a question, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to ask. It’s shaky. A little off-center. One hand cupping Rain’s face, the other clenched tight at his side like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart again.

Rain doesn’t move at first.

He just breathes into it, slowly, gently, until he kisses back.

His lips part beneath Dew’s, and the world tilts. Not in heat. Not in hunger. Just in the aching relief of contact. Of being wanted back.

Dew exhales shakily against his mouth. The sound is small. Broken. Like something inside him finally loosened its grip on pain. His glow, which had been erratic since the hallway, flashes once, then brightens at the base of his throat. Gold shot through with rose.

He doesn’t deepen the kiss. Doesn’t push.

He just stays.

Rain lifts a hand, fingers brushing the side of Dew’s wrist where his skin is warm. Their mouths linger, barely moving. Just enough to say I’m here. I want this too.

When they pull apart, it's barely.

Foreheads touch.

Breath mingles.

Neither of them speaks. The lake hushes around them, lapping at their waists. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sings low into the dark. Dew’s eyes are closed. Rain’s are half-lidded, gaze soft and distant like he’s remembering something sacred.

Then, without thinking, Dew leans in again.

The second kiss is quieter.

Not an apology. Not a question.

Just a promise.

It lands more sure, softer, mouth to mouth like they’ve kissed each other in a hundred dreams already and are only just now catching up. Dew’s breath steadies, like it’s learning the shape of safety.

Rain’s hand rises, pressing lightly to Dew’s chest, just over the place where his heart thunders, steadying him. Not guiding, just holding.

When they part this time, Dew doesn’t step away. He stays inside the gravity of it.

And laughs, just a little, a breath through his nose. His fingers tighten where they rest against Rain’s jaw. “You’re so fucking poetic.”

Rain’s luminescence pulses brightly, the rose of it a direct match to Dew. “You keep kissing me like that, and I’ll get worse.”

So Dew kisses him again.

The lake says nothing.

But it holds them both.

Dew’s fingers drift down, skimming the surface between them, before reaching blindly beneath the water.

Rain doesn’t move.

But his hand finds Dew’s, sure and steady, lacing their fingers together like he’s done it a thousand times.

And then, wordlessly, he begins to walk. Not far. Just enough to guide them deeper into the moonlit hush, until they reach a stone outcrop near the lake’s edge. A sacred place. Half-submerged. Slick with moss and memory.

Rain settles first, bare skin against ancient stone, and opens his arms.

Dew follows.

He sinks into Rain’s lap like he belongs there. Like he’s never belonged anywhere else. His knees fold to either side. His forehead tips forward until it rests against Rain’s again. And Rain’s hands slide, slow and certain, around his waist.

The kiss this time is a whisper.

A breath passed between them.

A prayer spoken in salt and stillness.

Above them, the moon watches in silence.

Beneath them, the lake holds every secret they aren’t ready to speak.

They stay like that - tangled, trembling, mouths pressed close - long past the moment’s end.

Terrified.

Uncertain.

But no longer alone.

And when Dew shivers, just once, Rain’s tail curls up to loop around his ankle.

Holds him like the sea holds her favorite wreck -

Not to break it further,

But to keep it close.

To fill every hollow.

To never let it drift again.

Whatever comes, they’ll face it like this.

Anchored not by fate, but by choice.

By breath.

By the quiet vow of staying.

Together.

Chapter Text

The lake holds them for a long while.

Dew shifts in Rain’s lap, just enough to get comfortable, when he feels him. Not sharp or jarring, just… there. Warm and present.

The realization slides in quiet, like the lake telling him a secret it’s kept all this time. It settles low in his chest and hums there, impossible to ignore now that he's noticed.

He swallows once, eyes on the slow ripple behind Rain’s shoulder. Focuses on the glow at the edge of his vision instead of the thought itself.

“You were communing with the lake, weren’t you,” Dew says finally.

Rain’s mouth curves in a small smile

“Naturally.”

“So, just to be completely clear - you're naked right now,” Dew says, like it’s an innocent observation.

Rain hums and tilts his head, thoughtful. “I’ll wear pants for the walk inside. Just for you.”

That earns him a low laugh, which Rain takes as agreement enough.

They wade back to shore, feet soft against the silt. Their glow, rose-gold braided with faint white, leaves a ghost of light dancing across the surface.

At the water’s edge, Rain bends to pull on his pants. Movements unhurried, water running down his legs in silver threads. Beside him, Dew wrings out his soaked shirt - the sound a slow twist of fabric and dripping water.

He glances once. And then again.

Watching the smooth line of motion. The way the droplets catch the light on Rain’s skin. It’s not overt hunger. Not yet. But it slides into the quiet hum the lake left in his chest.

Something to keep.

The hum stays with him as they walk, a low note resonating in his bones. By the time the pack wing comes into view, it’s settled deep. Threaded into the same place holding the memory of Rain’s luminescence reflecting across black water.

Dew slows outside his own door, shoulders tightening like he’s already bracing for the solitude waiting inside. His ember dips low, almost guttering.

Rain lingers beside him. Watches.

When his tail moves it’s steady and deliberate; a warm, slow curl around Dew’s wrist.

“If you want company tonight,” Rain says softly, “you’re welcome to stay.”

Dew’s throat works. He nods once.

And follows.

—

Rain’s quarters are dim when they enter - light blooming faintly from a salt lamp left on, shadows bending across smooth stone. The air smells of citrus and salt and river mint, threaded with something colder. Cleaner.

Last time Dew was here, his eyes were fixed on the riverbell. On Rain’s mouth. On everything in the air between them.

Now… he sees more.

Coils of rope hang neatly from a peg on the far wall. A shallow bowl on the desk holds smooth river stones. A few shells glimmer on a low shelf - the one by the window that's been left cracked open.

His eyes stop on the bedside table.

Sitting there on a delicately folded riversilk cloth is a curve of horn. Smooth at one edge, fractured at the other. Translucent blue-green, veined faintly with darker streaks. Not just broken. Changed.

Dew knows it, because it’s his.

The piece that splintered off in the chamber. The one that marked the beginning of the change. The one he thought he’d never see again.

It’s not hidden. Not stashed in a drawer like a relic too painful to name.

It’s here. In the open. In this room filled with Rain’s quietest rituals and rhythms.

Rain didn’t just keep it. He honored it.

Like something that mattered.

Like something worthy of being saved.

Dew’s chest pulls tight. His mouth opens, then closes again.

Rain doesn’t explain.

Dew doesn’t ask.

Instead Rain moves past him, pulls open a low drawer and takes out a folded set of clothes - soft and worn. The kind that carries warmth even when the room is cool.

“Here,” he says simply, holding them out.

Dew blinks at the bundle in his hands - loose pants, a shirt thin and drapey from age, both smelling faintly of lotus and mint.

“Fresh towels under the sink,” Rain says, not quite meeting his eyes as he nods towards the bathroom.

Gentle. Giving space without making it feel like distance.

“Thank you.”

Rain nods and turns toward the window to let him breathe without crowding.

Dew slips into the en suite and closes the door behind him with a gentle click.

Only then does he let himself slip, leaning against the sink.

His heart’s still beating too fast.

He reaches up, fingers brushing the place where the horn fractured. Where once it was a beautiful, shimmering green like melted sea-glass, now broken. Bleached white with heat and change.

He can’t believe that Rain -

Rain found that piece. Kept it.

Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t need it to mean anything. No ceremony. No announcement.

Just quiet reverence for what he went through.

For what he lost.

For what he might still become.

Dew watches himself in the mirror - hair damp at the ends, the ember in his throat glowing soft and uneven in the low light. He flexes his hands and realizes the hum is back.

Not fire. Not water.

Just Rain.

He sighs. Runs the towel once through his hair and lets it fall quiet over the sink’s edge.

The clothes Rain gave him are soft against his skin. Warm from Rain’s hands, from the room, from the blooming bond between them. The sleeves are a little long, brushing his knuckles.

The shirt smells faintly of lake salt and light incense. Like Rain, in fabric form.

Soft and worn-in. Comfortable. Familiar.

Like something he could let himself belong in.

He takes one last breath before opening the door.

When he does, he sees Rain is already in bed.

Curled on the far side, back toward the window. His luminescence pulses faint and steady along the line of his gills - that soft dusk-color blend of lavender and rose-gold.

He hasn’t taken over the whole space. The sheets on the near side are still folded back.

An open invitation.

Dew hesitates.

Not because he doubts it. But because something in him is still catching up to the shape of this. The way it’s not just welcome, but want.

Rain shifts slightly, enough to lift his chin to meet Dew’s eyes. His glow flutters once, warm and golden, then settles.

“Still want company?” he asks, quiet.

Dew swallows. Nods.

Steps forward.

The mattress dips under his weight. He moves carefully, unsure how close is too close, but Rain doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just lets him settle there, a breath apart, warm under the blanket. His tail brushes once against Dew’s ankle. A low, grounding note.

Dew exhales.

Lets his eyes fall closed.

Not because he’s tired, not really.

But because for the first time in longer than he wants to admit, it finally feels safe to rest.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Dew wakes slow.

It’s not the restless kind of waking he’s used to - no choke of smoke in his throat, no phantom burn along his ribs. Just… warmth. The slow shift of breath and blanket. The weight of a tail curved over his hip.

The quiet here is different. Not the hollow kind.

The kind with a pulse.

He shifts, careful not to wake Rain, and sits partway up. The movement pulls his eyes toward the small table tucked close to the bed.

He can really see it now.

The shard is… right there.

Kept close enough to touch in the middle of the night.

His chest tightens, the thought landing heavier than he expects. Rain’s had it here, next to him, this whole time.

Dew reaches without thinking. Lifts it from the riversilk nest. It’s warm from the salt lamp, edges worn smooth in places his fingers don’t remember wearing.

He turns the shard in his hand, light sliding over the pale green curve.

“You found it.”

The voice is soft, but not sleep-blurred.

Dew looks down. Rain’s eyes are open, steady on him. No startle. No hesitation. Like he’s been watching for a while.

“You kept it,” Dew says, and his voice comes out rougher than he means.

“Of course,” Rain murmurs low, but sure. “It’s part of you. The tide gives, the tide keeps. I only carried it home.”

Something twists in Dew’s chest. Too tight and too warm all at once. He sets the shard back in its place, careful, but his hand lingers like he’s not ready to let go.

Rain’s tail shifts under the blankets, curling slow around his leg. Not to pull, just to anchor.

“It’s warmer with you here,” Rain says. Soft. Like he’s telling a secret the room was always meant to hear.

The words land deep. Dew feels that too-fast beat in his ribs.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t remember leaning.

Rain doesn’t remember meeting him halfway.

It’s not like last night, not the rush of relief and want, but a slow, magnetic drift. The kind that makes you forget where you started. Only that you’re here now, tilting into warmth and salt and the quiet give of someone who isn’t pushing you away.

Their mouths meet like they’ve been heading for this all along. Not urgent. Not deep. Just the press and linger of something too new to risk breaking.

The blanket shifts with a small, shared exhale.

And for a while, that’s all they do - hover in that soft, too-close space, each watching the other in the dim light. The lake salt still clings to Dew’s hair; Rain’s tail curls a little tighter, slow as breathing.

It feels like they could stay here until the sun gives up and goes home.

No one’s in a hurry.

And it’s quiet enough to hear the shift of blankets when Rain leans in again. A soft kiss, then another - each one landing deeper, warmer - until Dew’s hand is in his curls and Rain is moving like the tide: slow at first, then certain.

The blanket slips from his shoulder.

He doesn’t notice.

Dew does, though - watches how the early light finds the damp sheen on Rain’s gills, the faint pulse of that rosey gold at his throat. The look in his eyes that isn’t just soft anymore.

When they kiss again Dew makes a sound, quiet and wanting.

Rain answers, the kiss deepening in an instant. A slow press of tongue, tasting and coaxing, the kind of kiss that sinks straight through bone.

Dew’s hand finds Rain's hip, fingers curling in the soft fabric there. He can feel the strength underneath, the way Rain’s breathing has gone slower but deeper, like he’s settling into something inevitable.

Dew’s breath catches. A soft sound escapes before he can stop it.

Rain responds by pressing even closer. His tail curls firm around Dew’s thigh, holding him in place.

When Rain finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at him. Really look.

That’s when he sees it - the ember at the base of Dew’s throat. Now shimmering the same rose-gold that threads Rain’s fingertips, his cheeks, the faint wash across his chest.

Rain’s gaze drops. His mouth follows.

The kiss he presses to the warm hollow is softer than it has any right to be. Reverent. Lingering. Like he’s memorizing the shape of the light.

The quietest growl slips out of him, low and rough against Dew’s skin

Dew’s hand flies into his hair, gripping tight. The sound he makes this time isn’t small at all - a ragged little whimper that pulls Rain even closer.

His hand slides down, thumb brushing bare skin, and he kisses like the only thing left in the world worth knowing is Rain’s pulse -

BANG BANG BANG.

“Rain!” Sunshine’s voice, too loud, too smug. “You’re about to sleep through breakfast again, Prince Tidelight!”

They freeze.

The knock comes again, sharper this time.

Sunshine doesn’t wait for an answer, of course she doesn’t. The creak of a door swinging open echoes across the hall, followed by a baffled, “Dew? You in here?”

Silence.

Then there is the unmistakable sound of Sunshine’s breath catching in real time.

“Oh my Lucifer…” The slow grin is almost audible. “…you’re not in here.”

A pause.

“Which means -”

Her voice goes up an octave, triumphant and scandalized: “They're touching again!”

Dew drops his head to Rain’s shoulder with a groan. Rain’s glow flares peach, soft and thoroughly mortified.

They can make out the sound of Sunny's wheezing laughter, retreating footsteps, and the distant promise of everyone knowing by the time they make it to breakfast.

A quiet settles between them, thick with the what-could-have-been.

Rain still hasn’t moved. His hand stays warm at Dew’s hip. His tail loops, lazy and loose, around his thigh.

Dew tips his head back against the pillow, eyes narrowing at the ceiling.

“I swear,” he mutters, “We were hexed by a sun deity with boundary issues.”

Rain hums, low and unimpressed. “She can bask for the moment. We’re busy.”

His tail shifts, curling tighter against Dew.

“Right now,” he says, quieter, “I have better things to hold.”

He pulls the blanket higher around them. Like maybe, just maybe, that will keep the rest of the Ministry out.

Just for a moment more.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

Meanwhile, in the tenth circle - known more commonly as breakfast - the room is half-full. Which means there is plenty of room for Sunshine to cause problems.

She slides in like a rockstar, literally. Socked feet squeal on the tile, hands bracing on the countertop like she’s about to deliver the word of Lucifer himself.

“You’ll never guess where Dew isn’t.”

Swiss doesn’t look up. “Please say ‘on time for breakfast.’”

“Oh, even better,” Sunshine grins. “Not in his own bed.”

Mountain blinks slow. “…So?”

Sunny’s grin widens to dangerous proportions. “So guess whose bed is warm?”

Cirrus’s head pops up, eyes wide, already half-grinning. Cumulus’s pen stills against her puzzle.

Sunshine leans in, dropping her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “They’re definitely touching again.”

Swiss howls.

—

Sunshine has made herself at home leaning across the counter, retelling the “scene of the crime” for the third time.

“I’m telling you,” she says, gesturing with a forkful of scrambled eggs like it’s a pointer stick, “his room was empty. No boots, no jacket, no Dew.”

“Maybe he went for a walk,” Mountain rumbles. But there’s no conviction in it - his eyes have already cut toward the hall.

Swiss, still grinning like a cat that’s eaten something rare and delicious, props his chin on his hands. “Or maybe,” he says sweetly, “he went for a swim.”

Sunshine slaps the table. “Exactly!”

Cumulus is pretending not to care, which only makes her voice drier when she says, “So you think they’re in there right now? Touching?”

Sunshine waggles her eyebrows. “Oh, for sure. I can feel it.”

Swiss snorts. “Yeah, in your hair or just your ego?”

The sudden creak of the kitchen door makes every head turn. Every mouth goes still.

Dew steps in first, hair ever so slightly curled at the ends, wearing the softest sage green sleep set with worn shell embroidery at the collar. Still long sleeves, but not pain-black cotton. And most certainly not his.

Rain follows a half-step behind, curls mussed, luminescence faint in the low light.

It takes exactly 1.3 seconds for Swiss to choke on his coffee, Sunshine to smirk like she’s won the lottery, and Cumulus to put her face in her hands.

No one says a word.

Yet.

They sit beside each other at the table, knees a little too close to be casual.

Rain lifts the nearby teapot, hears the last few sips sloshing in the ceramic. He tilts it toward Dew.

“You want the last of it?”

Dew just hums, low and wordless, and slides his cup a little closer.

Rain pours. Dew takes the cup with both hands, lets the warmth ground him. He doesn't meet anyone’s eyes, but he can feel them. Sunshine practically vibrating, Swiss holding back some godawful pun, Cirrus definitely mouthing something at Cumulus.

He tunes them out.

Sort of.

Because his thoughts are already drifting. Not to the night before, but to the chamber.

To Delta’s voice. The fire in his ribs. The part of himself that’s still unfinished, even now. It’s hard to pull it apart - what’s Rain, what’s their bond, what’s pack, and what’s just him, frayed and swaying in the wind.

He doesn’t realize someone’s talking until he hears his name.

“- bet he glows every time Rain says his name now,” Sunshine sing-songs, gesturing towards the hollow of her throat.

Rain’s earfins flare peach.

Dew sighs, sets his cup down. His tail squeezes Rain's once under the table, a quiet reassurance.

“Gonna stretch my legs,” he says, already pushing back his chair. “Be back in a bit.”

Swiss raises his brows, far too pleased with himself. “Need a chaperone, lover boy?”

“Need you to mind your business,” Dew mutters, already moving. Though there’s no real bite behind it.

He turns toward the door - then pauses.

Rain’s still sitting there, glow low and steady, hair falling in soft curls against his cheeks. It would be so easy to just walk away.

But Dew leans down instead.

Presses the lightest kiss to the top of Rain’s head.

It’s barely a brush, gone in a breath.

But the silence it leaves behind is instant and deafening.

Forks still. Every conversation dies mid-sentence.

Dew straightens and pretends not to notice.

“Have fun,” he says, giving Rain’s shoulder the smallest nudge. And then he’s gone - slipping out the door with a calm stride that screams I know exactly what I just did.

The quiet holds for a heartbeat longer. Just enough for Dew’s footsteps to stop echoing down the hallway.

Cumulus giggles. “You’re glowing the same color as Dew.”

Cirrus doesn’t look up.

“The threads between them are glowing too,” she says quietly. “Like they finally stopped resisting the pull.”

Mountain just takes a long, steady sip of tea.

Rain blinks at them all, tail flicking once against his chair leg. “It's not -”

“Uh-huh,” Swiss cuts in, that grin turning sharp. “Better start explaining, riverboy, ‘cause Dew is halfway down the hall and we’ve got nothing but time.”

Rain doesn’t say anything - just watches the door Dew left through, thumb still resting on the side of his cup.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The noise of the dining room fades quickly once Dew turns the corner.

Out here, the air is cooler, stone walls slick with old damp. The Ministry feels older in these halls - less polished, less meant for visitors. His footsteps echo back at him in low, uneven beats.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t have to. The pull in his ribs is steady, not urgent.

His mind should be on where he’s going - the summoning chamber, the way it looked the night Rain stepped out of the circle. The heat. The smoke. The crack in his own voice.

That's what pulled him out of breakfast.

But now, in the quiet without prying eyes, his thoughts keep snagging on the last few hours instead.

On the shard of his horn, a water ghoul's most intimate possession, cradled gently in riversilk Rain brought from home.

On the sound of Rain’s voice when he said of course, like leaving it behind was never an option.

On the way Rain’s tail curled around him in bed. How he growled against his throat.

He does not think about Sunshine.

Or how far he absolutely would have gone without a single hesitation, had she not come knocking.

It’s not like anything else in his life has ever moved this fast without crashing.

And yet here it is - the match in their glow. The quiet between breaths. The way Rain's bed doesn’t feel like a place to hide.

He turns another corner, descending the last set of stairs.

The resonance in the walls deepens - not loud, but steady. Like the dormant magic of the summoning chamber is breathing in its sleep.

By the time he reaches the door, his hand is already lifting to the latch.

Inside, the air is still. The circle is faint - chalk worn to pale traces. No ash. No fire. Just a low buzz in his bones, like the space remembers more than it should.

He steps forward - and for a moment, he’s alone.

The summoning circle looks smaller than he remembers.

Not in truth, the chalk ring still spans the same stretch of stone. But without the fire, without the smoke boiling in his lungs, it feels… contained.

The light here is strange. Thin. It filters down through narrow cuts in the stone ceiling, catching in motes of dust that drift lazy as ash. The air tastes faintly metallic, like water left too long in a copper bowl.

Every step makes the faintest scrape of boot sole over grit. The walls hold onto the sound, low and resonant, until it fades into a steady buzz.

That noise - it’s different from the rest. Not quite sound. Not quite sensation. It lives deeper, threading into the marrow.

The way Rain’s voice did when he called him flicker.

He traces the curve of the circle with his eyes. The chalk lines are faded, but the stone beneath them looks different. Smoother, almost polished by the magic’s passage. At the edge, the floor dips just enough to hold a shallow ring of shadow, like the space itself sank under the weight of what happened here.

The memory should burn. But instead, it sits quiet in his chest, like something waiting.

He wonders, just for a moment, what the summoning chambers in Rain’s part of the Pit must be like. If they’re made of coral and ash instead of smoke. If the stone stays damp underfoot. If the river sings when it opens.

The thought settles over him, heavy and strange.

And that’s when it happens.

The noise shifts. Not louder, or sharper, but... focused. Like something in the room has turned to look at him.

Dew’s eyes snap toward the center of the circle.

Nothing.

Then, after half a breath, a shimmer in the air. A blur. Like heat distortion over stone.

Dew watches the ripple as a figure emerges from the stone behind him. Not stepping through, not stepping out, but simply becoming visible. As if they were already there, just waiting to be seen.

Delta stands still as shadow and salt.

They don’t glow, don’t even take a fully solid form. More like a memory standing upright. Their edges shift faintly, like the air is trying to remember their shape and keeps getting it wrong.

They’re in the far corner now, half-lit by a stray beam of dust-heavy light. Opposite the shimmer. They haven’t moved. Haven’t even blinked.

They tilt their head slightly, like listening to something only they can hear.

“You came back.”

Dew jerks toward the voice before he can stop himself, shoulders knotting tight.

“Do you get off on being scary, or is it just a perk of the job?”

Delta’s mouth tilts - not quite a smile. Not quite anything else.

“Fear is a ripple,” they murmur. “It’s not mine to make. Only yours to feel.”

Dew huffs short and sharp, but doesn’t look away.

“Guess you’re succeeding, then.”

They step forward without breaking that strange stillness, each motion as measured as the tide.

“You came here for something.”

“I came to look.” His voice is steadier than he expects.

“And what do you see?”

Dew’s gaze sweeps the circle again - the softened chalk, the shadow ring at the edge.

“…Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”

He swallows, hard, and steps once closer.

The air tightens around him.

Not warm or cold. Just wrong, like walking into a room that should be empty and isn’t.

“I don’t even know what I am right now,” he admits. “I thought maybe… you’d know.”

Delta’s gaze drifts to his throat, to the ember burning rose-gold as its center.

“The loom is tightening,” they say softly. “Some threads burn, some are drowned. Yours might do both.”

The buzz of the chamber thickens until it’s in Dew’s teeth. He shifts, jaw tight, the sound in his bones making it harder to keep his voice casual.

“Everyone says you’re a mistake. That your… whatever-this-is, was tragic. That you died, and now you just… haunt the place.”

Delta doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“People like their stories tidy. This one is not.”

“So which is it?” Dew asks. “Are you who you were meant to be?”

A pause. Not hesitation, more like weighing whether he’s earned the answer.

“I am exactly who I needed to become,” Delta says, voice even. “And who I must be, to do what I was meant for.”

“Which is?”

“Bridge. Messenger. Witness.” Stripped of ornament. Cold as fact. “Lucifer cannot walk these halls. I can. I carry what must be carried.”

“And looking like -”

Dew gestures vaguely, taking in the pale, almost phasing edges of their form. “…that?”

“This is the shape that holds.”

For a moment, Dew can’t decide if that’s chilling or comforting. Maybe both.

“Are you… finished?”

The question lands awkward, but Delta chuckles anyway. A dry, echoing sound that doesn’t quite match the shape of their mouth.

“Are any of us?”

Any reply Dew had dies in his throat when Delta tilts their head again, sharply this time, like they’ve seen too much.

Then, slowly, they raise one hand.

It moves toward him with impossible smoothness, like water flowing in reverse. Fingers stretched, palm open.

Reaching.

Dew stumbles back before they can touch him.

He doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t think. His body just moves.

Delta’s hand lingers in the space he left behind. Fingers parted. Still waiting.

They say nothing about it.

Just lower their hand and speak like nothing happened.

“What do you think you’ll be,” they ask, voice cool now, almost distant, “when you’re whole?”

The question drops into him like a stone. No splash, just the slow, heavy pull beneath.

And before he can answer, before he can even reach for one -

Delta is gone.

No flash, no smoke, not even a whiff of brimstone to flood the air.

Just… gone, like the room forgot they were ever there.

—

The silence after is so complete it feels like the room is holding its breath.

Dew’s jaw is tight. His hands won’t stop trembling.

‘Okay,’ he thinks, ‘maybe I wasn’t ready for this.’

He laughs, once, sharp, and runs a hand through his hair like it’ll scatter the thoughts still stuck there.

It doesn’t help.

But it makes him feel like himself again. Just a little.

His hands still feel unsteady, but he doesn’t look down at them.

He turns away instead. Walks the same path in reverse.

His boots scrape over the stone in a rhythm that doesn’t match his heartbeat. Delta’s buzz in his ribs hasn’t faded but buried itself deeper, like the question’s been sewn into bone.

He touches the wall at the base of the stairs without meaning to. Just to anchor. Just for a second.

Then he exhales, and keeps walking.

The Ministry is quiet in the deeper wings. Hushed, like it knows what was said down there.

He doesn’t take the most direct path now that he's out of the lower halls. Just… lets his feet move. A long curve around the west wing, through the arch where the light filters in soft and gold.

Eventually, the air shifts.

Warmer. Brighter. Outside now.

The scent of salt and mint hits him first, followed by something even quieter: Rain’s presence.

It finds the place in Dew’s chest that’s still shaking, and rests there. The bond, still new and freshly claimed and strange, softens slightly, like it's exhaling too.

Dew keeps walking.

And then - there he is.

Rain. Barefoot in the herb garden, curls soft around his shoulders, kneeling over a pot of river mint like the world hasn’t cracked open at the edges.

Dew stops at the edge of the path and watches, just for a moment, with that soft ache that comes when you realize the fear might’ve been yours alone.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gathers a courage he shouldn’t need.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Rain doesn’t startle.

Just lifts his head, blinking once like he’s surfacing from deep water.

“Hey,” he answers, soft.

His eyes life to Dew and stay there.

Not urgent. Not alarmed. But watching.

Like he’s listening to something Dew can’t hear.

After a moment, he stands, brushing earth from his palms.

“C’mere.”

There’s no question in the word. Just space.

He nods toward the bench tucked beneath the lattice - half-shadowed, greened over with creeping ivy and the curl of afternoon light.

Dew moves without answering.

They sit.

Birdsong picks gently at the edges of the quiet between them. The breeze shifts mint through the air. The warmth of the sun cuts soft across Dew’s knuckles.

And Rain says, still watching the garden:

“You saw something.”

He says it like a simple truth, laid bare between them. There’s no pressing, no intrusion. A quiet invitation, that Dew can pick up when he’s ready.

Dew exhales slow. Looks at the ground. Then up, but not at Rain.

“You said to come find you,” he says, voice low, almost careful. “When it hurts.”

His fingers fidget with the hem of his sleeve - it was comforting before, the softness. But now it feels too soft, too not his, even if for a moment he thought it might be.

“So…” He shrugs. “Here I am.”

Rain doesn’t answer right away.

Just turns, slow and deliberate, and watches him. Eyes steady. Luminescence soft and unreadable.

Then his tail moves, a quiet loop around Dew’s ankle. A warm point of contact. A grounding note.

Something slots into place then.

The bond didn’t flare like panic. Rain didn’t run. But he felt it - Dew’s fear. The distress. He just… holds it differently.

Dew can see that now, in the steadiness of his presence, the gentle way he made space without asking questions.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. Lets the soft, drapey fabric swallow more of his frame.

“You found me,” Rain says with a soft smile. “I’ve got you.”

He sits there. Doesn’t move. Doesn't try to fill the silence with empty words or half-spun jokes.

Just waits.

And that… helps. More than Dew expects.

He stares out across the garden, letting the breeze shift over his skin. The mint brushes against the bench leg. Something buzzes softly in the distance.

His thoughts are still loud. But they’re beginning to fall into shape.

And then, without fanfare, Rain shifts just a little closer.

His hand finds Dew’s on the bench between them. He lets it rest there, warm and steady.

Another point of contact to say: I’m here. I’m still here. You’re not alone.

Dew’s throat tightens as his emberglow flickers, faint and uneven.

But he doesn’t move away.

He just breathes.

When he speaks again, it’s softer than before, but clearer.

“I want to finish it.”

Rain's hand stays steady over Dew’s. His tail curls faintly against his ankle, that ever-present quiet reminder that Rain isn’t going anywhere.

The silence stretches wide.

Dew breathes in once, slow and deep, and keeps going.

“I don’t know what that means yet. Not really.”

“I just - I keep thinking about it. The chamber. The way it felt. I stopped something that was never meant to be paused.”

“And I don’t remember why I did it. Not fully. I think I was scared. Or maybe some part of me knew it was wrong.”

His glow flashes again, more like water swirling in his throat than fire.

“But that fear… it doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Not all the way.”

“And I want to know what’s under it. What I’d be if I let the rest happen.”

When he speaks again it's so quiet it barely disturbs the air.

“If I’d still be me.”

The bond between them pulses once, low and warm and rising from somewhere deeper than sound.

Rain turns his hand, laces his fingers with Dew’s.

Dew’s voice lingers in the air like the last ripple from a stone dropped deep.

And still, Rain doesn’t rush to answer.

When he does it’s soft, quiet enough that it could almost be missed.

“You’ll still be you.”

A pause, deep in its certainty.

“You’ll always be you.”

He shifts, slow and deliberate, until they’re facing each other more fully, and leans in.

No sudden movement. No tension.

Just quiet devotion, as he lowers his forehead towards Dew's.

His glow flutters once, soft lavender and rose-gold, like the light between waves.

Their breath mingles in the space between them. No rush. No pressure.

Presence alone.

Rain closes his eyes.

His voice is almost a whisper now. “And I’ll be here. No matter what you become.”

Their foreheads touch.

Stillness wraps around them like water, full and softly held.

Dew’s breath catches and then releases, slow and uneven. A sound escapes with it, barely there. Not a sob. Not quite.

But close.

His glow flickers at his throat, pale and trembling. A tear slips loose before he can stop it.

Rain doesn’t acknowledge it out loud.

Simply lifts one hand, slow and steady, and brushes it away with the backs of his fingers, nothing but gentle reverence.

His palm lingers for a moment at Dew’s cheek before it retreats, only far enough to let the stillness breathe again.

They sit together, long enough for the garden to return around them - birdsong, breeze, the faint rustle of mint leaves in the warmth of early afternoon.

—

They part slightly as the scent of juniper and moss cuts through the air. A shadow follows down the path. Then - boots on stone.

Mountain.

He stops a few steps away. Watches for a moment with the quiet patience of someone who’s seen more than he says.

“Afternoon, firelily.”

Dew huffs softly, almost a laugh, and Rain’s smile flickers quiet and warm.

“You’re a hard one to find,” Mountain says, shifting the weight of something wrapped in cloth under one arm. “I was heading to the shed. Thought you might want to see what I found.”

His tone is casual, but the offer is there, clear and open. No pressure. Just space, if Dew wants it.

Dew looks at Rain. Not to ask, but to acknowledge.

Rain nods once, his shoulder brushing gently against Dew’s.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

Dew rises, brushing his palms over his thighs like he’s shaking something off.

He doesn’t say much. Just a soft, “Thanks,” before turning to follow Mountain down the path, their steps falling quiet in time with one another.

Rain watches them go, his luminescence still a steady wash across his chest.

Peaceful. Almost.

Until the sound of his name cuts clean through it -

“Rain!”

He blinks and turns.

Copia is absolutely not hovering awkwardly just out of sight, except that he very clearly is, one foot caught behind a potted lemon balm, clipboard clutched in both hands like a shield.

“I - good afternoon! Lovely garden. Very… herbal. So. How are you.”

Rain’s brows lift, his glow flaring just faintly amused. He tilts his head slightly and watches him. Like a slow-moving current deciding whether to drag you under or let you drift.

Copia clears his throat.

“I just happened to be nearby - well, not nearby exactly - I was passing through on a completely unrelated matter. Though of course, I did want to check in. See how everyone’s feeling after the, ah… hallway incident…”

He gestures vaguely with the clipboard. It knocks into the lemon balm.

Rain still hasn’t said a word.

His glow pulses once, slow and slate - threaded with flickering veins of silver. He leans just a little closer. Present in that way water always is, pressing in from every side before you realize you're sinking.

“You seem nervous, Cardinal.”

Copia blinks rapidly. “Me? No. Of course not. I’m always - this is just my face.”

Rain takes a slow step forward.

“Mm.”

Another step. His tail flicks once behind him like a ribbon trailing in the surf.

Another, past Copia to the watering pail. He doesn’t pick it up right away. Just stands there, letting the silence press in.

Not at Copia - through him. Like he's listening for the shape of a lie beneath the message.

“Did you want something,” he asks at last, voice sweet as seafoam, “or were you planning to hyperventilate in the basil patch, too?”

Copia draws himself up with all the dignity he can muster, squeezing his clipboard like it's a paper boat he's trying to steer through a monsoon.

“I, ah, did want to say that in light of recent developments - that is, transitions of power and form, not that I’m implying anything, of course - the Ministry is prepared to offer full backing. Financial. Medical. Magical. Emotional. Legal. Possibly… cartographic.”

Rain waters a lavender pot.

Utterly unbothered.

“The Ministry, hm? Same Ministry that agreed to a procedure they didn't understand, expecting a corpse at the end of it?”

Copia barrels on.

“What I mean is - you’re not alone in this. Any needs you or Dew have will be met. Fully. No questions asked. Except for the ones I have to put on the paperwork. But even then, I can forge around them. Efficiently.”

Rain sets the watering pail down. Turns to face him. His glow pulses again.

“So you’re here to offer your support.”

Copia nods fast, then slower, like he’s trying to look composed.

“Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you need. Whatever he needs.”

Rain’s voice stays soft.

“And this support…” His glow flares faintly at his throat, cool and unreadable.

“…isn't for performance? I won’t see it twisted in a council chamber six months from now, will I?”

Copia’s shoulders drop a little, like a sigh has been waiting there all morning.

“Of course. You tell me what’s needed, I’ll listen. And provide.”

He takes a deep breath, like making an offering to a deity he doesn't understand.

“You can trust me.”

Rain tilts his head. His glow shifts again, warmer and steady.

He turns to face him and smiles. Not wide. But deeply real. A flash of fang, a flick of tail - the kind of smile that lives only in a healer’s mouth. Steady. Knowing. Edged with the truth that no one understands where you break better than someone who’s spent centuries fixing what’s left.

“I know.”

Just for fun, he leans in a little closer, lowering his voice to something soft and surgical, the kind of softness that breaks things on purpose, just to set them right.

“You’re very sweet when you’re cornered,” Rain murmurs, and this time, there’s the faintest curve of something warmer behind it. “Thank you.”

Not for fear. For trying.

Copia visibly short-circuits. Possibly forgets his own name.

Rain turns away again, serene as a ripple, and picks up the watering can like nothing was said at all.

Like the warning was just another ripple in the current.

Like mercy, this time, is letting it pass.

“Have a good afternoon, Cardinal.”

“I - yes - right, of course - you as well - unholy shit -”

The lemon balm rustles violently as he retreats.

Rain hums quietly to himself and keeps watering - basil first, then chamomile - steady and grounded.

He lets his mind drift as the sun kisses his face, warm and fleeting, and finds himself thinking about Dew.

About the lake salt in his hair. The warmth he left behind in the sheets. The way his glow caught and held like it had always meant to settle there.

Light has never lingered in Rain’s hands the way Dew does.

And even the sun, for all its reach, has never made him feel quite so warm.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

But a river doesn’t stop, even when the light rests on it.

The garden fades behind them as they walk.

Dew doesn’t look back, because Rain’s presence still lingers.

In the warmth at his hand.

In the steadiness behind his ribs.

In the way the quiet feels less sharp than it used to.

He needs a different kind of silence now.

The kind Mountain has always offered,

deep and solid, like a canyon that lets the current pass without judgment.

Their footsteps fall in rhythm - heavy and light - and the breeze follows them down the path toward the old workshop. It’s cooler here, shaded from the slow reach of afternoon sun by thick-stemmed ivy and ancient forest.

The gravel path crunches underfoot. Dew kicks a loose stone off the path. Glances sidelong.

“So… you and Swiss?”

Mountain doesn’t blink. Doesn’t slow. Just lets out a low rumble of something that might be a laugh.

“What about us?”

Dew shrugs, just a little too casual.

“I dunno. You seem… good. Better, after yesterday.”

“We are.”

Simple. Certain.

Dew snorts. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Mountain finally turns his head, raises a brow just slightly.

“You want me to write you a poem?”

Dew huffs a short laugh.

“Just making conversation.”

“You’re deflecting,” Mountain says, not unkindly.

“Yeah, well.” Dew rubs the back of his neck. “I’m out of practice.”

Mountain doesn’t push. Just walks a few more steps, then says more quietly:

“He waits for me to be ready. And I don’t have to explain when I’m not.”

Dew’s pace falters for a breath. Then he nods.

“That’s… nice.”

“It is.”

A beat passes. Just long enough for Dew to start slipping back into his own head.

Then Mountain adds, casual as a breeze, “He looked steadier this morning.”

Dew blinks. “Who?”

Mountain gives him a long look. “Oh I don't know, maybe the one whose pajamas you’re still wearing.”

Dew chokes. “I - That wasn’t - I just -”

“You looked steadier too.”

Dew can feel his eye twitch but before any rebuttal can escape, Mountain hip-checks him. Just a touch.

“You did good.”

Dew exhales, a little unevenly. “Still don’t know how Swiss got you to kiss him with that song.”

Mountain’s mouth quirks, the barest hint of mischief under all that calm.

“I was done waiting.”

“That’s it?”

“Wasn’t complicated.”

“Yeah, well. Next thing I know, he’ll be trying to talk me into another cuddle pile.”

Mountain shrugs, deadpan. “You could do worse.”

Dew kicks another piece of gravel off the path. “You really like him, huh?”

Mountain hums, like he’s considering it.

“Yeah,” he says with the same ease he might describe a well-made blade. “And his cunt is -”

creeeeeeeeeaak

The shed door groans open.

Dew makes a noise. Somewhere between a choke and a wheeze.

Mountain doesn’t smile. Just steps inside like he didn’t nearly shatter Dew’s infernal soul.

“C’mon,” he says mildly, “let’s go to the back.”

Dew follows, slightly stunned, blinking at the back of Mountain’s head like he’s still trying to decide if that really just happened.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I did.”

Mountain holds the door open with one boot.

Inside, it’s all cedar dust and the faint metallic scent of tools left warm by the sun. Time settles into all the corners; small piles of woodshavings, a planter that cracked last summer, and an old workbench that might even be older than Mountain himself.

By the time they step through the door, Dew’s breath has evened out.

He still doesn’t know how to name everything that’s turning over in his chest. But standing next to Mountain, big and steady and quiet in the right ways, it doesn’t feel like he has to.

Mountain sets the cloth-wrapped object down on the workbench and steps back, like he's offering a gift.

“Found this tucked in the back of the storage shelves,” he says. “Wasn’t labeled. Looked like something Aether started.”

Dew tilts his head, then reaches out and unfolds the fabric.

It’s not complete, whatever it is.

A piece of wood, lovingly shaped. Sanded smooth in some places, raw in others. There are faint traces of burn scoring one edge, like someone started carving with fire and stopped halfway through. There’s a groove along one side, meant to hold something. A bass stand, he thinks.

But even unfinished, Dew would know Aether’s work anywhere.

His throat tightens.

“He was making something for you,” Mountain says, voice low.

“I know.”

They stand there for a moment, just looking.

Then Dew’s voice comes, almost too quiet to catch.

“I thought we’d fix it by now. Whatever… whatever broke.”

Mountain nods, slow. Doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“Some things take longer,” he says. “Especially when you’re both still bleeding.”

Another silence. But this one doesn’t ache. Not the same way.

Mountain picks up a chisel. Turns it once in his hand. Then holds it out.

“You want to keep going?” he asks. “You don’t have to. But you can.”

Dew looks down at the half-made thing on the table. His fingers curl slow around the chisel.

He doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

He just sets the blade against the edge of the wood - and breathes.

Maybe this is how it begins.

Chapter Text

The stone halls are quiet this morning. The kind of quiet that settles into the walls when everything is at rest. Even the torch sconces seem to burn lower, like the whole wing is still catching its breath.

Dew walks slowly, a mug in each hand. The scent of cedar soap and steeped herbs trails behind him - his own tea, sharp and spiced, and another, cooler blend he made without thinking. Mint and saltleaf. Rain’s favorite.

There’s a weight in his chest that isn’t heavy anymore. Just present. Like something still turning over, slow and soft in the light.

Last night’s mass had gone on too long, the way pre-moon sermons always do. But he hadn’t minded. Not really. Not the ritual of it all.

The words had been familiar. Grounding. The cadence of invocation, the low thrum of chant, the cool press of consecrated air against his skin. There’s always something sacred in that rhythm. Something he doesn’t have to explain.

Sometimes it helps.

Sometimes it feels like remembering.

Today, it feels like enough.

The den is golden-lit and hushed when he steps inside. A hush that only happens when everyone is too tired to cause problems.

Cirrus is snoring softly on the beanbag by the window. Cumulus, all mismatched socks and curly hair, is flopped across an armchair with her headphones sliding off one ear. The TV hums quietly with a nature documentary no one is watching - something about ocean creatures, all bioluminescence and teeth.

And there, tucked into the far corner of the couch like he was poured into it, is Rain.

His legs are folded beneath him, tail coiled loosely around a pillow. A soft knit throw is draped around his hips. He’s reading something old - Dew can tell by the way the pages are curling and the binding looks hand-stitched, like a relic from another century. His glow pulses faint and even, pale ocean blue, like light beneath moonlit water.

He looks comfortable now.

He looks like home.

Dew lets himself watch, just for a moment.

Then he pads over and sets one of the mugs, Rain’s, on the low table beside the couch like it’s no big deal.

Like he didn’t make it special.

Salted rosemary and mint, with a squeeze of lemon.

Like he didn’t carry it all the way here just for him.

Then, with zero ceremony, he flops down onto the cushions with a groan that rattles the springs.

“Mass drained even me,” he mutters, slumping slightly sideways. “If I hear ‘the weight of the moon’ one more time, I’m throwing someone in the lake.”

Rain doesn’t look up. His mouth curls faintly.

“Not very pious of you,” he murmurs, eyes still on the book.

“If Lucifer didn’t want me to be dramatic,” Dew says, already kicking his feet up like he owns the place, “he wouldn’t have made me like this.”

Rain hums, quiet but fond.

Dew lets the silence stretch a moment longer, then gestures faintly toward the mug. “In case you haven’t moved in a few hours.”

Rain closes the book around one finger like a placeholder. Glances at the tea. Then at Dew.

His mouth twitches up at the corner. “Thanks.”

He picks it up, takes a sip, and hums again, soft and satisfied.

The hush returns for a beat, companionable now. Easy.

At least until Dew turns his head, squinting with faux suspicion.

“You’re still stuck on that transition line, right?”

Rain blinks. Turns one page. Does not answer.

Dew grins. “You are.”

“No,” Rain says flatly, looking at him over the edge of the book with a look that could wither crops.

“Mmhmm. C’mon,” Dew nudges his foot. “Come play it with me.”

Rain’s tail flicks once, traitorous. He tries to hide the faint pink pulse blooming across his cheeks by sinking deeper into the blanket.

“You trying to get me alone again?”

“Yes,” Dew says brightly. “Also, I want to fix your terrible left-hand fingering before I scream.”

“You’re very rude.”

“And yet,” Dew says, already standing, “you’re going to follow me. Like the very good ghoul you are.”

He holds out a hand.

Rain stares at it for a moment.

“You brought tea.”

“So bring it with,” Dew shrugs.

Rain places the book down with deliberate care and slides his hand into Dew’s, cool fingers against warm palm.

“Fine,” Rain says, tone imperious. “Should I alert Sunny?”

Dew’s grin could melt steel as he tugs Rain toward the hallway. “Be careful saying her name out loud. You know she loves an entrance.”

Rain snorts, but doesn’t resist.

One hand holds the tea. The other holds Dew.

Rain’s not sure which feels warmer.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

The studio’s quiet - just the low hum of Rain’s amp, and the occasional twang of string correction.

Dew drops onto the low stool across from him: legs splayed, arms folded, his half-finished tea already abandoned on the floor.

He’s pretending not to watch.

He’s failing.

Rain is focused.

Worse - Rain is softly focused. Mouth slack in concentration, fingers moving through warm-up scales like water running downhill. No showboating. No theatrics. Just careful movement and the slow sway of his tail across the floor, each note unfurling wide into the air.

Dew tells himself he’s being professional. Helpful, even.

He’s not.

Rain shifts slightly, adjusting his grip. The curl of his wrist. His shirt nearly falls off one shoulder.

Dew nearly bites through his own tongue.

The scales wrap around again - root, fourth, octave, and back - each cleaner than the last.

“You’ve been practicing a lot,” Dew says, too casual, leaning against the back of his stool like he’s not two seconds from combusting.

Rain’s glow flutters faintly at his throat. “Of course. You make me want to be better.”

Dew blinks. The words hit low and honest. Like Rain didn’t mean to say them out loud, but meant every syllable.

He doesn’t know what to do with that kind of tenderness.

“I - what - that’s not… you can’t just -”

“You're allowed to take a compliment, flicker,” Rain says without looking up, utterly serene.

The nickname shouldn’t land like that.

Not when Rain says it like he sees him.

Not when the sound of it makes Dew’s throat warm, right where his ember certainly pulses rose gold.

Not when he's been aching where Rain hasn't touched him, practically undone by his own yearning - unfinished and waiting.

He clears his throat, sharp and unsteady.

Rain finishes the scale and pauses. Tilts his head just enough to catch Dew’s expression from the corner of his eye.

“What?”

Dew shakes his head like he’s shaking off heat. “Nothing. Just -”

He flicks two fingers toward the neck of the guitar. “Your thumb’s drifting. Come here.”

Rain blinks. “You want me to…?”

“C’mere,” Dew repeats, tapping the space in front of him with the toe of his boot. “I won’t bite.”

Rain’s brow arches. “I'm not confident that’s true.”

“Then don’t give me a reason,” Dew shrugs, eyes gleaming.

Rain stands. Adjusts his grip. Crosses the few steps over.

Dew spreads his knees just slightly, enough for Rain to slot between them. Rain doesn’t comment. Just shifts his weight, settles the guitar, and plants himself with quiet composure.

Like he hasn’t already started a war in Dew’s chest.

Dew exhales through his nose. Reaches out.

His fingers brush over Rain’s hand, adjusting the angle. Nudging his thumb gently into alignment.

“You keep sliding when you shift to the fifth,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s throwing off your ring finger.”

Rain nods. “I can feel that.”

“Don’t fight the neck. Let it come to you.”

“I am.”

“You’re…” Dew huffs. “You’re overthinking it again.”

Rain glances down at him with a soft hum. “I wonder where I picked that up.”

Dew makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a threat.

Then he touches Rain’s wrist again. Holds it longer this time.

Feels the cool skin. The steadiness in the pulse right there beneath his own thumb.

Unfair, the way Rain always manages to stay so composed in close quarters while Dew’s certain his own pulse is thrumming rabbit quick.

The silence stretches.

Rain doesn’t move.

Dew doesn’t let go.

The amp hum fades into the walls.

The rest of the Ministry might as well not exist.

“You’re still doing it,” Dew says, quieter now.

Rain blinks. “What?”

“Drifting.”

He means the thumb. Probably.

Definitely.

But Dew’s thumb still rests there too, pressed to Rain’s wrist like a second heartbeat.

Rain is openly watching him now, glowing faint and sure. Like he’d let Dew do anything.

Dew clears his throat like he hasn’t been standing there for a full minute with his hand on Rain’s wrist and sin in his heart.

“Alright,” he says, sliding back just enough to breathe again. “Play the line. The one you keep butchering.”

Rain laughs. “Encouraging.”

“Play.”

Rain sighs, shifts his weight, and starts the riff.

The first few notes are fine. Clean, even. But halfway through, his fingers falter. Not a full stumble, but enough to break the flow.

Dew groans, soft but unmistakable.

Rain winces. “Yes, I know -”

“Okay, switch spots.”

“What?”

“Sit. I’m gonna show you.”

Rain eyes him warily but sits on Dew’s stool once he stands. Dew slides in behind him, arms under his, warm and so close.

Rain freezes.

Because Dew is right there. Chest to back. Arm to side. Voice at his ear.

“Hands up,” Dew says, not unkindly, but with enough bite to mean now.

Rain obeys.

Dew threads one arm around, guiding Rain’s fingers to the frets. His other hand catches Rain’s wrist again, anchoring.

“There,” he murmurs. “Feel that?”

Rain tries to nod. He’s not sure he remembers how to breathe.

“Good,” Dew says, lower now. “Now play it.”

“I - I can’t move like this.”

“You can. I’m not in your way.”

“You’re in my entire space.”

Dew’s voice drops half an octave. “Play the line, Rain.”

Rain swallows hard. The bass is warm against his chest. Dew is warmer.

He exhales. Tries again.

His fingers move, slow at first, then stronger. The line hums to life between them, cleaner now.

Dew’s breath brushes his neck as he leans in, lips just shy of contact.

“There you go,” he says, and it’s a problem. “That’s the one.”

Rain makes it to the last note before he falters again, this time not from technique.

Dew’s hand slides lower on his arm. He doesn’t pull away.

Rain leans back - just slightly.

And Dew, who was already not okay, completely forgets every chord progression he’s ever learned.

Rain shifts on the stool, bass still resting in his lap, hands adjusting on the neck with deliberate care.

Dew hovers behind him.

Not quite touching, but close enough that Rain can feel the heat of him in the air.

“…You good?” Dew asks, low. “You wanna keep going?”

Rain shifts again, slow and deliberate, and lifts the strap of the bass over his head. He sets it gently on the amp beside them.

He looks up at Dew through his lashes, luminescence fluttering rose gold at his gills.

“With the song?” he asks, all soft challenge.

Dew stares and laughs, breathless.

Rain smiles faint and sharp. Lifts his hand, palm open in invitation.

Dew moves without thinking.

Like his body’s been here before, in some half-remembered dream. Lets their fingers slide together like it’s nothing.

Like it’s everything.

Rain rises slowly and Dew follows, stepping in close enough their hips brush. His free hand drifts to the small of Rain’s back like it’s instinct, not choice.

Rain turns -

walks backward.

Step by deliberate step.

And Dew lets him.

Trails after like the tide follows the moon, heat blooming under his skin with every heartbeat.

They reach the couch.

Rain’s knees touch first. He sinks into the cushions with impossible grace, tail curling soft beside him. His hand never leaves Dew’s - just gently pulls him in, between his knees now.

Dew braces one hand beside Rain’s hip.

The other still cradled in Rain’s palm.

Their foreheads almost touch.

Rain’s breath brushes his lips.

“Your move, flicker.”

Dew’s breath stutters.

Rain’s eyes are soft. Offering.

And for once, Dew doesn’t burn with doubt.

He just leans in -

and kisses him.

It starts shallow.

Like Dew doesn’t trust it to last.

But Rain’s mouth parts, just slightly, and Dew sinks in like he’s falling.

His hands brace on the cushions behind Rain - one near his shoulder, one beside his ribs - caging him in with heat and breath and trembling restraint.

Rain exhales against his mouth.

Soft and expectant, like he's been waiting - saying there you are.

Dew shudders.

His tail curls low against the floor, anchoring him as he curls his fingers into the fabric.

He’s not calculating.

He’s not trying.

He’s starving.

Rain tips his head and leans back just slightly - just enough to let Dew follow.

Their mouths meet again.

Deeper, this time.

Building. Slow and steady.

Like fire catching silk.

Rain’s tail flicks once. His luminescence pulses dusky pink.

Still, he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t push.

He just gives.

Mouth soft. Breath catching.

Fingers tightening around Dew’s shirt,

fighting to stay upright.

Dew’s breathing is ragged now.

His thigh slides between Rain’s, just shy of straddling him. One hand lifts - off the cushion, over Rain's ribs, across the line of his jaw - he presses a kiss just beneath the hinge.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough. “You’re so pretty.”

Rain’s lashes flutter. He looks wrecked in the best possible way -

Breathless. Flushed. Glow rising higher in his throat.

But his mouth curves, just a little.

He reaches up, brushing fingers over Dew’s wrist.

“Then you should see yourself,” he murmurs.

Dew makes a sound, something between a laugh and a growl, and kisses him again. Harder.

His hands tremble where they’ve landed -

one loose at the back of Rain's neck, the other curled into the back of the couch.

He’s so close he can taste Rain’s breath.

But something in him stutters. Like if he moves wrong, the moment will crack.

Rain lifts a gentle hand and finds Dew's jaw. Fingers brush the line of it like coaxing a bird to land.

Their eyes meet.

And Rain says, soft as mist over the lake,

as honest as breath, as steady as tide:

“Whatever you want.”

There's no tease there, no dare.

Just permission.

Like worship. Like truth. Like everything Dew has ever wanted but never believed he deserved, laid out in front of him.

The next kiss is less firm.

It’s something slower now. Deeper.

Rain makes a quiet sound at the back of his throat, pleased, and slides his hands around Dew’s waist, guiding him gently forward.

Dew follows, breath catching as he sinks into Rain’s lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands braced on his shoulders.

Rain sighs - it's like the lake, but the weight of Dew against him is more real now. No longer supported by will and water. Just right here. Right now.

Wanting.

Wanted.

Dew’s breathing unsteadies but he doesn’t break the kiss. Doesn’t pull back.

When his hips rock forward once, slow and instinctive, he stills immediately after. Like he’s caught himself crossing a line he didn’t ask permission to approach.

Rain notices. Of course he does.

He waits a breath.

Then exhales soft against Dew’s mouth - like surrender, like blessing, like yes.

“You can.”

The words land like a drop into deep water. Gentle. But resonant.

Dew pulls back half an inch, blinking. Pupils blown wide. Glow flickering rose-gold along his throat.

“I -” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

Rain cups his cheek with one steady hand.

“If you want to take,” he says again, low and sure, “then take.”

He keeps a strong arm around Dew as he pulls them down, laying back on the couch and leaving Dew panting in his lap. Rain gently rolls his hips up, just once.

Encouraging.

Showing.

Look how easy it is to want.

A fluttering heartbeat passes, and then Dew moves.

Not like he’s crashing down.

Not like he’s falling apart.

But like something inside him finally lets go.

His mouth finds Rain’s again - needy now. Answering. His fingers curl into Rain’s shirt and his hips roll once, then again, testing the friction. Chasing it.

Rain groans, soft and sharp.

The couch creaks beneath them. Rain slides both hands along Dew’s back - one staying low at his waist, the other rising to the base of his neck, warm and grounding.

Dew gasps when their hips catch just right.

The heat in him is unmistakable now. Thrumming in every movement. Every kiss.

But it’s not rushed.

It’s hungry. And careful.

He wants. He takes.

And he listens - for every breath Rain gives back to him.

The rest of the world fades. Bass forgotten, door unlocked, amp humming low somewhere in the room’s corner.

All that remains is the rhythm:

Mouth to mouth.

Body to body.

Permission, unfolding in layers between them.

Rain shifts slightly, deepening the kiss.

“Good,” he whispers.

His tail loops firm around Dew’s waist, anchoring him.

Dew doesn’t stop. He just breathes. He moves. He wants.

Rain lets him. Tightens his tail. Holds him close. One hand trails up the curve of Dew’s spine, fingers splaying wide across his back.

Dew shivers.

His mouth drags from Rain’s lips to his jaw, then lower, down the line of his throat. He pauses there, breathing hard, eyes half-lidded.

Rain tips his head without being asked. Exposing skin. Offering trust.

Dew leans in soft, at first. Testing. Teeth pressing lightly where Rain’s throat meets shoulder. He doesn’t bite. Just lingers.

Like he wants to learn Rain by taste alone.

Rain exhales, lets it come out unsteady in the middle.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice rough around the edges. “Go slow, flicker. Take whatever you want.”

Dew’s hands curl tighter in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric across his chest. One slides higher - then pushes, slow and deliberate, tugging the hem upward to bare the greyblue skin beneath.

Rain breathes in, steady. Doesn’t resist.

Dew’s thumb brushes gently Rain’s chest, then stills at the subtle shimmer of gill slits just beginning to part, nestled soft and delicate in the spaces between his mid ribs.

He knows what they are.

Knows what they feel like.

Knows how vulnerable they are.

Soft. Vital. Exposed.

The scent rises as Rain’s skin is bared further - clean and mineral-rich, like wet stone and deep river caves, with the faintest edge of salt and crushed mint leaf. Dew breathes it in.

It makes his throat ache.

He leans down, breath ghosting warm across the space just above the first gill.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.

Rain nods, glow flickering from soft rose to something brighter. “Yes. I trust you.”

So Dew lowers his mouth to the bare skin just shy of the slit. Kisses there, soft and reverent.

He doesn’t press harder.

Just lingers.

Listens - to the shallow catch in Rain’s breath, to the way his glow shivers like moonlight through water, to the warmth of hands tightening at Dew’s waist but never pulling.

Rain arches faintly, tail brushing along the cushions, light pulsing brighter beneath his skin.

His hand rises to cradle Dew’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek as he pulls him back in. Their mouths meet again, deep and slow and unhurried. Like they’ve got all day.

“You’re allowed to want,” Rain murmurs between kisses.

“You’re allowed to have.”

Dew makes a wrecked, open sound and rocks his hips forward again. The friction draws a gasp from both of them.

Rain’s lips brush the corner of his mouth, then lower, his breath warm at Dew’s throat.

He kisses there. Gentle. Certain.

His hands stay exactly where they are: supportive. Inviting. Never demanding.

“You’re not taking too much.”

Another kiss.

“You’re not too much.”

And then - softer, like the truest thing he’s ever said - as Dew whines into the side of his neck:

“Just… don’t stop.”

That breaks something loose.

Dew surges in - mouth hot, messy, devouring. His glow pulses deep now, rose-gold and rising, catching fire and water in equal parts. Every movement is hungry.

He wants - and he wants more.

His hips grind down, low and stuttering, chasing the friction. Rain’s hand slips under his shirt, palm cool against the heat of his side. It spreads wide there, anchoring.

The heat between them spikes.

The couch creaks dangerously.

Neither of them cares.

“Let me see you, flicker.”

Dew moans raw and unfiltered.

Because he’s being seen.

Held.

Wanted.

And that alone is almost enough to undo him.

Rain tugs at Dew’s shirt now, gets it half up and holds him steady as he rocks forward again - this time with more purpose. More heat.

Rain’s mouth parts around a sound that doesn’t quite make it out.

He’s breathless from how wanted it feels.

Dew finds his throat again, warmer now, more sure. He lingers there, tongue tracing the shape of Rain’s pulse like he wants to learn it.

Keep it.

Rain lets him.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice gone low and wrecked. “You can have all of it.”

He nips at Dew’s ear.

“All of me.”

Dew makes a sound like he’s breaking.

Like he’s about to.

His hands are mapping Rain like a prayer, each pass more certain than the last. His hips grind forward again, harder now, and Rain lets his head fall back with a breathless moan -

Just as the door bangs open.

“Yo, you left your tuner -”

Swiss freezes.

Absolutely freezes.

Rain yelps. Dew bolts upright - nearly falls off of him.

Swiss takes in everything. Rain sprawled on the couch, flushed, glowing, shirt pushed up, thighs parted. Dew straddling him, panting like a wild thing, tail flicking aggressively.

“…You know what? No you didn’t. My bad. Forget I exist.”

The door slams shut again.

Dew’s whole body locks up, breath ragged.

Rain’s glow pulses furious shades of peach and dark navy, one whole symphony of embarrassment and frustration. He stares at the ceiling.

“We really are hexed.”

Dew groans and lets his head fall into Rain’s shoulder with a thump.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

Rain breathes out a shaky laugh.

“You’ll have to wait in line.”

Rain’s chest is still heaving. His tail has slid to the floor, limp with aftershocks. Dew’s breath fans warm across his collarbone, where he’s still hunched forward, not quite recovered.

For a second, it feels like maybe the moment might return.

But then Dew turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the red numbers blinking on the clock in the corner of the room.

His groan is pure despair.

“Shit. I have chapel in -” he pulls back, blinking, “eight minutes.”

Rain, still dazed and delightfully rumpled, hums without opening his eyes. “Skip it.”

“I never skip it.”

“Skip it once.”

“Copia will have a meltdown. The blood moon is next week.”

Rain finally blinks his eyes open, still soft with arousal, and tips his head toward Dew, who is halfway to launching into a frantic scramble of guilt and self-reproach.

Before he can finish the sentence forming on his tongue, Rain leans up and kisses him.

It’s not teasing.

Not breathless or hurried like the ones before.

Just firm. Centered. Present.

Dew stills.

Rain’s hand finds his jaw, thumb brushing beneath his cheekbone. His lips part just slightly, and Dew follows him into it like a tide.

When they separate, Rain exhales slow.

“You were letting yourself want,” he says softly. “That’s sacred, too.”

Dew swallows. Doesn’t answer right away. But he nods.

Rain brushes his lips against the corner of Dew’s mouth, one more grounding kiss.

“Go on, before Sunny finds out and decides she needs to investigate.”

Dew mutters something like unholy betrayal, straightens his shirt with half-shaky hands, and stumbles toward the door.

Rain is still glowing rose-gold at the collar when he calls after him:

“Oh, hey Dew?”

Dew pauses in the doorway. Turns.

Rain’s mouth curves, wicked and golden.

“Tell Lucifer I said thanks.”

The door closes with the sound of Dew's groaning laugh echoing down the hallway.

Rain lets his head fall back and sighs, glow pulsing faint with leftover heat, his own mirth filling his cheeks.

Still glowing, still dazed, Rain reaches for his phone, tail flicking loose off the edge of the couch.

It buzzes again in his hand.

First thing he sees:

---

Lucifer’s Little Problems™

big 🧀:

⚠️ don’t go in the practice room

i repeat

DON’T go in the practice room

you will see things

sunny d:

oooooohhhhhhhhhh

did they finally snap and fuck on the floor??

big 🧀:

i’m blind

emotionally

spiritually

visually

i’ve never suffered like this

they were so CLOSE

sunny d:

like close to finishing?

or like emotionally close?

 

bc either way i’m gonna need to see it. data collection reasons and all

cici 🌬:

you broke the seal

whatever happens next is on you

big 🧀:

do not speak to me or my trauma again