Chapter Text
When Lucien first slid into the seat at the bar, it wasn’t intention that guided him. It was instinct–a pull, quiet but insistent, that urged him toward the stranger with rain still clinging to his clothes.
At first, irritation met him: the elf’s jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff, as though he was swallowing curses with his drink. Lucien had expected nothing more than to annoy him, maybe draw out a bite of sharp humor to cut through his own boredom. But then the elf turned his head–
–and Lucien’s breath caught.
There was something in the lines of his face, in the way his eyes lit up almost immediately as soon as he turned towards him. Familiarity, though he couldn’t place it. Lucien didn’t know him. He told himself that. Couldn’t have known him. But still, the weight in his chest refused to ease, and his throat felt tight with a name he didn’t have.
When the music shifted in the ballroom, the pull sharpened. The crowd rose to their feet, laughter and chatter spilling into rhythm, and Lucien found himself watching the elf instead of the dance. His fingers curled against his glass, restless, as though something in him whispered that to let this moment pass would be unforgivable.
So he moved.
He never asked his name. He didn't say his own name either yet he asked him to dance–half on impulse, half on hunger for something he didn’t understand. Or remember. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the ache in his chest he needed to silence. Maybe it was the way he looked at him–the gaze of someone yearning for decades. Centuries even.
And when the elf’s hand touched his, even briefly, it felt like recognition. Not of a name, not of a past. But of something Lucien had lost long ago without ever knowing he’d had it.
Now, here he was–out in the alley behind Zealous, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles left by the rain. One hand pressed hard against his chest heaving up and down. His breath came uneven, sharp, every inhale dragging air that did nothing to steady him. His pupils throbbed, dilating and narrowing.
That elf–whoever he was–had unraveled him with a glance, with a single glance shared too close. Lucien had seen him wavered on the dance floor, seen the way his body froze in his arms. Then, he panicked. As if remembering something he shouldn't. He proceeded to turn on his heels–Lucien stayed, eyes tailing him.
Lucien should have let it go. He wanted to let it go. But the moment the music faded, another sound rose in its place.
“Lucien.”
The voice threaded sharp into his skull, too intimate, too familiar. It was the same one that had haunted him for decades, shifting sometimes into his father’s authoritative tone, sometimes into his mother’s hushed tone.
Sol.
The echo that would not die. He'd live with the voice for centuries–never once leaving him. Tormenting him in every single way it can.
Now it had shifted again.
It was someone else's voice–nobody he knew matched this voice.
Lucien’s pupils contracted, breath stuttering as he leaned harder into the wall. His hand trembled against his chest, clawing at the fabric almost ripping the buttons out of it. Through the narrow cut of the alley, he caught sight of Cassian leaving Zealous. The elf’s shoulders were hunched, his movements unsteady as he vanished into the night air.
The voice whispered again, softer now, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke.
“Lucien.”
Lucien’s lips parted, words clamping up his throat, but nothing came. He stayed frozen in the shadows, watching him go.
And he couldn’t even bring himself to follow.
Cassian barely made it up the last flight of stairs. His legs felt heavy and unsteady beneath him, his palms damp against the railing. By the time he reached the apartment door, his breath was ragged, chest tight with the aftermath of everything–the dance, the panic, the sight of Lucien’s face so close it had him overwhelmed.
He didn’t even unlock the door. Just sank down onto the floorboards beside it, knees drawn up, back pressed against the cold wall. His head tipped back, strands of white hair sticking to his damp temples. The quiet of the hallway was a very much opposite of the state in his head–the echo of music, laughter, glasses clanking, Lucien's voice drilling into his skull.
The hinges creaked. The door beside him shifted. He blinked up sluggishly as it opened, the warm glow of the apartment spilling into the dim hall.
A brown-haired man filled the frame, tall and broad-shouldered, his cheeky smile was met with Cassian's visible exhaustion.
Cassian didn’t move from where he sat, back pressed to the apartment door, white hair plastered damp against his forehead. The rain had left his clothes clinging, half-soaked down one side of his trousers, his boots leaving a dark smear of water across the floorboards.
"Thought you wouldn’t make it, dude," Gale said from above him, brown hair sticking out messily, voice light with the kind of warmth Cassian couldn't keep up with tonight.
Cassian stayed quiet, his head bowing slightly, his breathing shallow.
"Where's your umbrella?"
Before Gale could press further, another voice cut in from deeper inside the apartment–low, velvety, the kind of tone that carried without needing to be raised.
"You’re going to catch a cold if you keep sitting there–" A pause. Then, with a sharp inhale, "–oh my."
Zander appeared in the doorway beside Gale, his gaze sweeping over Cassian’s drenched form. His sigh was soft, but laced with that crisp, British accent that always made even disappointment sound refined.
"He’s soaked through. For heaven’s sake."
Gale crouched down now, resting his forearms over his knees, peering at Cassian with concern that was careful, not suffocating.
"Rough night?"
Cassian pressed the back of his head against the door and said nothing, his silence louder than any answer. His hands trembled once, and he tucked them into the folds of his coat before either of them could notice. Zander’s sigh deepened as he folded his sleeves, already moving toward the coat rack.
"Towels, Gale. And perhaps tea, if you’re capable of boiling water without setting something on fire."
Gale shot him a look but didn’t argue, disappearing toward the kitchen.
That left Zander hovering, his sharp gaze landing on Cassian again.
"You’re shaking," he said, quieter now, a hint of something gentler threading his words. Though he's a demon–incubus–his kind nature are shown during needs.
"At least get inside. Take a shower and release yourself."
Cassian let out a strained breath, not quite a laugh, not quite anything at all, and finally pushed himself halfway across the threshold.
Cassian stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him as he finally stepped past the threshold. The wooden floor was slick with the trail he’d left, and his boot slid out from under him before he could brace. He tumbled forward–
–but Gale’s arms were there, strong and steady, catching him against his chest.
"Careful," Gale said, voice lower now, stripped of its usual casualness.
His hand lingered at Cassian’s elbow longer than necessary, thumb brushing the wet fabric as if reluctant to let go. His green eyes searched Cassian’s face, wide with something that wasn’t just concern. Zander was instantly at Cassian’s other side, his composure cracking.
"Bloody hell–don’t do that!" His tone carried a note of panic, sharp and clipped, his hands half-reaching but unsure where to steady him.
"You nearly went down headfirst–"
"I’m fine," Cassian interrupted quickly, his voice thin but firm enough to make them both pause.
He straightened, tugging lightly out of Gale’s grasp though his legs still trembled beneath him. His lips curled into something that wanted to be a reassuring smile but turned into a grimace instead.
Zander frowned, still not convinced.
"You don’t look–"
"I said I’m fine," Cassian repeated, softer this time.
Before either could answer, Cassian reached for the towel Zander was holding out, his pale fingers brushing against Zander’s hand just long enough to be polite. He didn’t linger. Just took it, gave a brief nod, and slipped down the hall. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
He lowered himself to the tiled floor, back pressed against the door. His chest rose and fell unevenly, damp strands of white hair sticking to his cheek. The muffled sound of Gale and Zander’s voices carried faintly through the door, but he tuned them out.
Cassian pressed his palms to his face, the rough towel scratching against his skin. Alone again, he let the weight of it all press down–the dance, the voice, the centuries, and Lucien’s face, still carved too sharply into his memory to bear.