Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was raining in Primaterra again.

The neon lights bleeding down the wet street didn’t bother Cassian. The elf liked how the water blurred everything. Elves had always been drawn to places between things, and this bar, half hidden in an alley, half alive at all hours felt exactly that. In-between. Afterall, his kin were known for being mysterious and alluring.

Zealous is a perfect place for that.

Hidden into a narrow, unmarked alley in older part of the city, Zealous doesn’t advertise its existence. You don’t find it unless you’re meant to. By day, it looks closed; windows darkened, sign half-rusted, the word Z and S gave up their flicker a long time ago. But at night, the place comes alive; music pulses through the walls, and warm golden light spills through the cracks in the wood-paneled door, inviting and strange.

"He’s here again,"

Kaelix muttered, arms crossed, standing near the brick wall under the awning. The bouncer's sharp eyes followed every passerby, but he nodded to Cassian like an old friend. Cassian lowered his gaze noticing the lower part of Kaelix's pants was soaked clinging to his skin a very much opposite of the upper part of his body.

"You really do show up only when it rains."

Cassian hummed, closing his umbrella. He ran his hand through his fringe–white as winter ash.

"That’s because people are less honest when it’s dry."

Kaelix scoffed. "That’s the elf in you talking."

Cassian shrugged.

"That’s the only part left worth listening to."

Kaelix let him through without another word, and Cassian ducked inside the bar, letting the warmth and low music wrap around him. The rain noise came into a halt as soon as the door closed behind him, replaced with a low hum of jazz wrapped with the crowd's laughter and chatters. The scent; a mixture of smoke, whiskey, and cologne in the air. One would complain on how suffocating the smell was but Cassian didn't mind-it gave him a sense of familiarity.

"Cass," Zeal greeted, calm and amused, the bartender already sliding a glass toward him before he even asked. "The usual?"

"Something stronger," Cassian murmured, pulling his gloves off as he settled himself on the chair.

"Tonight’s... heavier."

Inside, the bar stretches long and low, carved from black stone veined with glowore. The ceiling glows soft amber, like candlelight caught in a jar, and shifting crystal fixtures hover above tables, illuminating patrons in flattering shadows. The bar was lively, like it always had. Seible was working the floor, weaving through booths like he belonged in all of them, all charm and smile while Freodore sat behind the small elevated stage sketching lighting changes for a weekend show. The rain hadn’t let up all night. It thudded against the windows like impatient fingers. Cassian sat at the far end of the bar, elbow propped against the dark wood, nursing his second glass of Zeal’s 'nothing too strong, but just enough.'

He didn’t know why he kept coming back here. 

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was how Zealous smelled like memory–a tavern he used to go to centuries ago. Or maybe it was that damned dream again. The dance. The voice. The name he never said out loud. Cassian stared into his drink, stirring it with his finger. Suddenly, the empty stool beside him was dragged against the floor, screeching as someone sat on it. Cassian felt a lump in his throat. The air felt heavier than when he first came in.

Close.

Too close.

Cassian swore if he moved even just a little, their shoulders would brush against each other. He could feel the stranger's gaze fell upon him–the elf didn't look right away. Not looking was a safer option.

"You look like you’re about to fight the glass."

The words flew into his ears, an intrusion he wasn't ready for. The voice was smooth, a little hoarse, but mocking in a casual, uninterested kind of way. Like someone trying to spark a reaction just to feel something back. He kept speaking, fingers drumming lightly on the counter. Cassian didn’t turn his head. He wasn’t in the mood.

"Seriously," the stranger went on, "what’d it do to you?"

Cassian's jaw ticked, curling the edge of his mouth–a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A string of curses played in his head which he didn't dare to slip aloud. Cassian exhaled slowly, dragging his hand over his face.

"Look, I’m not in the mood for-"

He turned.

The words died in his throat.

His heart stopped.

Why is he here?

He was right there.

The man's hair was just as Cassian remembered–midnight black hair with white streaks, falling in soft layered bangs which framed his face. Same crimson eyes. He looked untouched even after all these years. A little older maybe.. Or colder. Wearing a dark jacket, rings on his fingers, posture relaxed like he owned his shadows. He looked back at Cassian with casual detachment, raising one of his eyebrows flashing a polite smile like he was just some stranger at the bar. Suddenly his clothes felt too tight, the sweat in his palms doubled, as his feet vigorously shake taping against the floor.

Cassian swallowed hard.

Lucien.

He wanted to call out, but instead, "do you… always talk to strangers like this?"

Lucien gave a faint shrug.

"Only the ones who look like they’re trying not to cry."

That stung.

Cassian looked away, fingers curling tight around the base of his glass. The room blurred at the edges. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the lighting, or the sudden pressure behind his eyes.

He had imagined this moment a hundred ways.

None of them like this.

Chapter Text

There was a pulsing behind his skull. The kind that would not go away for a while. Cassian cradled his glass closer to his chest–breath uneven.

Why now? Why here?

All scenarios he'd imagine leading up to this day were crushed–buried beneath the earth. At that moment, Seible's voice echoed into the microphone. Cassian ignored. He didn't hear. He didn't care.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing.

He stiffened in place. Cassian turned–not away but at him. At Lucien. He opened his mouth, trails of questions in his head but none of them were muttered out loud as he turned away once again. Lucien tilted his head–confusion reeling in him. Then, the lights dimmed in Zealous. Like they always did before Seible announced a dance set. Warm amber bulbs glowed low-casting honeyed halos onto polished tables while the jazz shifted from playful to slow and smoky. Patrons laughed, some swaying toward the dance floor, others clinking glasses–chattering and watching.

Cassian barely noticed all of those. His gaze stayed fixated at the untouched drink in his hand. At the bar, Zeal glanced at him with that low unreadable expression. The kind that almost looked like concern, but never to be called that out loud. Cassian felt the weight of that look. He knew. Knew nothing could be done.

The same voice then spoke again, "would you care to dance?"

Cassian clenched his jaw. That same voice unsettled him minutes ago–calm, silky, laced with centuries of memories. It wasn't the voice that made him tensed. It was the shape of it. He turned, irritation still tightening his expression, ready to defuse–

And their eyes met.

Once again, Cassian froze in place. His throat swelled. His chest tightened as if someone had driven a dagger between his ribs. On the other hand, Lucien waited patiently. One of his hand extended forward–an invitation he himself wasn't sure if the other would accept it or not. Cassian gulped, drilling holes at Lucien's hand inches away for him to take. He didn't speak. He couldn't.

But his body moved.

He took Lucien's hand.

They moved to the center of the bar with ease. Zeal didn't interrupt nor that he wanted to. Somehow, Cassian felt his gaze following them across the room. The music played-low brass, a piano chord, a brush of cymbals like breath. And just like that, they were dancing. Slowly. Elegantly. Like the centuries hadn't torn them apart.

Cassian's breath shallowed. His shoulders trembled. His fingers were icy cold in Lucien's grip. It was all too much, their closeness–bodies colliding against each other, feet moving in rhythm syncing as if they had done this before.

He couldn't breath.

The music muffled in his ears.

Eyes searching for Zeal or maybe Seible. Anyone.

Anyone other than Lucien's face.

Maybe this was a bad idea maybe this was a bad idea maybe–

Lucien leaned in, voice lowered.

"Are you alright?"

Cassian nodded. A lie.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," another lie.

"Do you know me?"

He flinched.

Lucien's brow furrowed-not recognition, just mild curiosity. Maybe pity.

Unbeknownst to Lucien, Cassian felt the whole world tilt. The music warped. His chest hitched, air catching his throat, his heart pounding too fast for his magic to steady as memories crashed into him like a tidal wave: the first meeting, the wound, the silence, the dance, the abandonment.

He had survived thousand of lonely nights.

But not this one.

His knees weakened. His magic uncontrolled beneath his skin.

Seible had been mid-step going through the crowd with a practiced ease, when his gaze caught on Cassian. Something was off. The brunette moved, instinct over thoughts. But he didn't cross the floor. Not with Cassian dancing. Not when Lucien holding him like this.

The raven-haired man's hand had found Cassian’s back, steadying, grounding. His other hand hovered near Cassian’s arm–gentle, not gripping, just enough to anchor. There was a softness to the man's expression that Seible had never seen before, something quiet and unreadable.

Cassian, for all his trembling, didn’t pull away.

So Seible didn’t approach. He backed off. Walking away after knowing Cassian was in good hands–watching them from the side.

Lucien's held him tight, "hey-"

Cassian jerked his face away.

"Stop," he whispered, voice broken "let's just stop."

Lucien blinked, his grip loosened instantly, but not before Cassian stepped back, untangling himself as if the touch burned.

Cassian turned on his heels.

He didn't look back.

He pushed through the crowds, shoulder brushing some strangers' coats without apology. The lights in Zealous pulsed too warmly, the jazz too loud, the scent of bodies and perfume and cologne swarming him like plague. He shoved the bathroom door opened and barely made it to one of the stalls.

He fell on his knees.

His stomach churned before he could catch up.

He puked–hard.

The world blurred around him. All that remained was the sick echo of his own breath, the cold porcelain, and the awful, acidic heat crawling up his throat. He gripped the toilet bowl like it was the only thing that kept him tethered.

Not again.

Not after centuries.

Not after he had buried that version of himself and danced on its grave.

But everything was the same, his touch, his voice. And Cassian wasn't ready for that kind of haunting.

Not again.

Cassian wasn't sure how long he stayed inside the bathroom–back leaned against the cold wall a reminder of his own misery. The sharp taste of bitterness clung to his tongue, hair clinging to his face with sweat prickling down his face.

He heard the door creaked opened.

Not heavy footsteps–lighter, deliberate ones. Polished shoes. The faint scent of bergamot and ink. As Cassian looked up, dark turquoise hair came to view.

"Cass?"

Freodore's voice was calm, unobtrusive.

Cassian inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhale a shaky breath, "I'm fine."

It came out as a statement than reassurance. Freodore didn't respond immediately. He simply kneeled in front of him, and gave him space like he wasn't there to intrude.

"Seible saw you rush off," he said after a pause. "Said you looked like you've seen a ghost."

Cassian's grip on his pants tightened–knuckles white.

Freodore waited. Not pressing. Not prying.

After a few minutes of silence, Cassian wiped his face using the edge of his sleeve.

"Tell him not to worry. I'm not about to die on his dance floor."

"Didn't say you were."

Freodore tilted his head, eyes meeting Cassian's.

"Just said you looked like shit."

Cassian stifled a laugh, coughing as he wheezed. Freodore glanced toward the door.

"One of the VIP rooms is empty. Come on. You don't look like you're ready to go back out there."

"I don't need-"

"You don't have to explain." Freodore stood up, extending a hand.

This scene somehow looked familiar.

"Just come. No noise, no lights. You can breath."

Cassian hesitated, but the pulsing in his head wouldn't stop, and something about the softness in Freodore's voice comforted him even just a tad bit. And so, he took his hand, straightening himself into position.

He followed Freodore.

The hallway above the main lounge was quieter, less saturated with jazz and chatter. Freodore pushed open a dark-glass door near the end, letting Cassian slip inside. The room was dim, lit only by soft strips of amber light lining the ceiling. A low cough sat beneath a window, cushions untouched. A small table rested nearby with a jug of water and two glasses.

Cassian sat slowly, one hand bracing his forehead.

Freodore poured a glass of water, set it in front of Cassian and sat on a nearby armchair.

Silence stretched.

But it wasn't heavy. It was space. Space to rest. Space to collect whatever pieces had broken inside of him. Cassian reached out for the glass, instead of drinking, he stared at it like it held answers.

After several long minutes, he muttered, "You.." he paused, "you ever looked at someone and feel like time just.. folds?"

Freodore leaned back, eyes still unreadable.

"Once or twice."

Cassian gave a quiet humorless laugh.

"It shouldn't matter anymore."

"But it does?"

He didn't answer

Freodore didn't push, he just sat there, one leg crossed over the other, arms crossed. Cassian finally drank the water. Cool. Clean. Washing off the bitter taste in his mouth.

"You don't have to talk," Freodore said after a while.

"I'm not going to ask."

Cassian glanced over at him, "Why not?"

"Some people are like old scars. Talking doesn't change the way they ache."

Cassian swallowed hard. The quiet understanding–felt more comforting than any empty reassurance.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Freodore gave him a simple nod, then looked away.

"Stay here for a while, I'm gonna keep everyone else out. You know where to find me or the others if you need anything."

And with that, he stood and exited the room–leaving Cassian alone with the dim light, the silence, and the pieces of a past he wasn't ready to name.

Chapter Text

Cassian dreamed again.

The same scene that had been haunting him for centuries–a ballroom looked like something from an old painting, wide and grand, its white pillars lined in gold that glimmered under the chandeliers. A staircase curved down into the hall, its steps draped in a deep red carpet that spilled across the floor below. The same crimson covered the ballroom. Violins painted the air with music soft enough to serenade its listeners.

Cassian remembered the swirl of gowns and coats, the shimmer of laughter and clinking glasses. He wasn't thrilled when he got the invitations–being around humans throw him off.

He took a sip of the wine in his glass. It tasted sweet, almost too sweet. Then, the bitterness followed, curling the back of his throat. Cassian tipped his glass back, the last drop of wine embracing his throat, as it burned its way into his chest. He lowered the goblet, shallow breath–almost unsteady. Right then, he felt it–before he truly saw it. The weight of a gaze pressing against him.

Lifting his eyes–a pair of sharp familiar crimson ones were staring at him back.

Cassian huffed, he swayed–the world tilting slightly as the wine started to take hold. His vision was blurred but somehow he caught Lucien’s features, shadow and pale, his black hair tipped with white streaks falling into his face. His eyes, sharp yet softened by something unspoken, locked onto Cassian’s.

Lucien had crossed the floor towards Cassian before he could know it. Hand extended, lips curved into that smile Cassian once thought was meant only for him.

Maybe he was delusional.

"Dance with me," Lucien said, and though it was phrased as a question, it never felt like one.

It felt like an invitation.

Cassian took his hand. The music grew louder, and they moved. Step for step, in sync, as if their bodies had been created to do it together. Lucien’s palm pressed firm at Cassian’s back, his other hand warm in Cassian’s own, guiding him. Cassian remembered smiling, breathless with the ease of it, laughing under his breath as though they were children running away from their parents chasing after them.

The crowd faded. The ballroom opened to a balcony, and before Cassian knew it, they were slipping past its archway into cool night air.

They danced, bathed in the moonlight. Red flowers–Cassian couldn't make up what flowers they were–born–wound along the pathways. The petals glowed like spilled wine against the pale stone, much of a contrast of his attire and his hair–white as snow at first glance, but black locks not quite hidden at the left side. Gathered low at the nape, his hair fell in a smooth ponytail, restrained and deliberate threaded with a single braid.

They didn’t stop dancing. Not at once. Their bodies collided, radiating warmth–sweat prickling down his face. Maybe he was drunk but maybe he wasn't. The violins carried faintly from inside, but their steps slowed, changing from something structured to a more intimate one.

Lucien’s smile softened, his hand never leaving Cassian’s. He leaned close, brushing his temple against Cassian’s. It all felt too familiar.

"Stay," Lucien whispered. Not a command. Not quite a plea. Just a word that clung to the air, heavy with meaning.

Cassian remembered the way his heart was thumping against is chest–remembered smiling back, his throat aching with everything he never said. He had wanted to believe it was forever, in that moment. That the night, the flowers, the music, the warmth in Lucien’s eyes.

But dreams were cruel things.

The violins faltered. The flowers began to wilt, the balcony darkened, moonlight guttering like a dying flame. And then Lucien’s hand slipped from his, vanishing into shadows no matter how tightly Cassian tried to hold on.

He tried reaching. Running towards him with all his might but he never reached.

Never.

Not once.

Not twice.

Never.

He jolted awake, chest heaving, sweat dampening his temple. His breath came ragged, pulling sharp and uneven through his teeth as though he had run for miles. For a moment he swore he could still feel Lucien’s touch ghosting his skin. The VIP room around him was silent, draped in shadows, the sheets damp against his skin.

Cassian dragged a hand through his bangs and pressed his palm against his eyes. His pulse slowly calming down.

The door clicked open. Freodore stepped in, one arm carrying a clean shirt. His eyes, calm but quietly observant, took in Cassian’s state without a word.

"You should change."

Freodore gently placed the shirt beside Cassian, the tremor in the elf's hands didn't go unnoticed by the designer.

He continued, "yours is… well. You’ve been through enough tonight without sitting in it."

Cassian pushed himself upright.

"Thanks."

His voice came out rough, but Freodore didn’t comment. He passed the shirt, Cassian pulling it on with clumsy movements–changing with his back turned. When he was done, he didn’t move to lie down again. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Freodore lingered as if waiting to be dismissed but not quite. 

It was Cassian who broke the silence, voice low and cracked with exhaustion:

"You ever look someone in the face and feel like time just… folds?"

Freodore tilted his head, studying him. For a long beat, he didn’t answer. Then, slowly:

"No, but sounds like you did."

It could've been Cassian was still foggy after just waking up but Freodore remembered him asking this exact question earlier–same tone, same way he said it. He stayed still, not prying, just changing his answer from the first time. It sounds cheating but its one of the ways to make Cassian open up to him. Maybe even just a bit.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. His first instinct was to retreat, to snap that it was nothing. He almost did–his mouth even started to shape the words. But something inside him faltered, and what came out instead was quieter, rawer:

"It’s like…"

He took a deep breath before exhaling it.

"...everything you swore you buried just clawing its way back. And you can’t breathe right, can’t think."

The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did Freodore. He gave a sharp, humorless laugh and shook his head, trying to pull the words back into himself.

"Forget it. Just tired. That’s all."

Freodore didn’t push. His voice was steady, calm.

"Tired or not, you look like you’re carrying more than you should."

Cassian looked at him then, a flicker of gratitude buried under the exhaustion. Still, he turned his face away, refusing to let it slip further. Afraid he'd say more than intended to.

Silence stretched, heavy but not suffocating. Freodore leaned against the wall, arms folded, and after a pause, added lightly:

"Sounds like someone you’ve danced with before."

The words hit harder than they should have. Cassian’s breath caught-fingers curled into the fabric of the borrowed shirt. The smallest twitch betrayed him–the memory of Lucien’s hand on his waist, the rhythm of a dance they should have never repeated.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, he let his eyes close, shoulders sinking under the weight of silence. And Freodore, asked no further questions nor did he say anything more. He announced his leave and Cassian was once again engulfed in the deafening silence of the room.

Cassian, unable to bear the uneasiness, left. He walked downstairs with the hum of the bar folding over him again. He slipped a hand into his coat pocket, pulled out a few folded notes, and left them on the polished counter in front of Zeal. A silent gesture of gratitude. The bartender caught it, eyes flicking up in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

Near the door, Kaelix leaned against the wall, arms crossed, posture loose. His grin was easy, unbothered, carrying the kind of warmth Cassian couldn’t match right now.

"Take care, yeah? See you around."

Cassian tipped his chin in a small nod, his lips twitching like he might’ve returned the smile if he weren’t so tired. Then he stepped out into the night, the weight of music, memory, and silence trailing close behind him.

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.

Chapter Text

Lucien woke drenched in sweat, heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest. The rain outside hammered against the window, a dull mirror of the pounding in his head. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, only that the ballroom waited in his mind.

The music played–violins, soft but insistent, stretching over polished marble floors that glinted under chandeliers. He remembered the wide hall, the glimmering golden pillars, the deep red carpet flowing down the staircase like spilled wine. And he remembered him–the elf.

Lucien’s chest tightened.

The elf’s hair, white as winter ash, his eyes... gold. Pairs that even Lucien could never miss amidst the crowd. But every time he tried to focus on the face, to see the features in full, it blurred–like a memory refusing to be fully recalled.

Lucien knew the elf’s name, or at least he thought he did. He’d felt it before, somewhere in the folds of lost centuries, in the silent echoes of a past life. But it lingered just out of reach, and never reaching.

The music shifted, softening, and Lucien felt himself move–almost instinctively, almost without thought. The elf was there, Lucien reached for his hand, and the moment their fingers brushed, the world sharpened for a heartbeat. The warmth of the touch... it should have been enough. But the elf’s features began to dissolve again. Lucien tried to pull closer, tried to remember every line, every curve, every shade of expression.

He remembered the dance.

Step for step, their bodies had moved together, perfectly, like they were made to do it together. The music carried them effortlessly, guiding, coaxing.

Suddenly, the crowd dissolved into nothing, leaving only the ballroom and the soft moonlight spilling onto the balcony. Lucien had followed instinct, had pulled the elf into the open night air. He felt the flowers brushing against their ankles, red petals glowing faintly, vibrant against the pale stone and the black-and-white strands of hair that clung stubbornly to the elf’s neck.

Lucien’s hand stayed firm around the elf’s, he remembered the closeness, the quiet pulse of shared breath, the subtle brush of their temples. And then–the elf slipped away.

The gold eyes, the white hair, the warmth of touch–all gone just like that. Lucien tried to call, to run after him, but the balcony expanded impossibly, the night stretching into shadows that swallowed him whole.

Lucien’s throat burned, a scream caught in his chest. The echo of the elf’s vanished presence reverberated through him, leaving only emptiness and the faintest trace of something long-lost.

He jolted awake, knuckles white against the sheets, sweat clinging to his damp hair. The echo of the music, of the ballroom, of gold eyes and white hair, lingered in his mind. Lucien’s hands gripped the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as if he could anchor himself to reality. The image of the elf—so close, so blurred, so impossibly real–haunted him even as the morning light crept through the curtains.

He swallowed hard, breath trembling, and muttered to no one, "What the fuck..."

Lucien swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to chase away the blur, but the image of gold eyes and white hair clung stubbornly to his vision. Groggy, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up his face with harsh, sterile brightness. Messages. Missed calls. Notifications stacking like a physical weight pressing against his chest. He squinted at them, thumb hovering over the screen as if touching it could steady him.

And then it came–a voice. Not real. Not here. Not human, but unmistakably there, threading through the haze of his mind:

"Lucien.."

He flinched. It wasn't the familiar voices he's used to. This voice was softer, warped, laced with something foreign. Unfamiliar yet intimate, carrying centuries of messages. His stomach clenched, heart lurching as though recognizing the sound before his mind could place it.

Lucien froze, the phone almost slipping from his fingers.

"Sol?" His voice cracked, low, hesitant.

The voice shifted again, a shade lighter, playful almost, like it was teasing the edges of him, curling around the recesses of memory he didn’t know he still had.

"Not quite," it murmured, and the vibration through his skull made him shiver.

"But close enough."

There was pulsing in his skull. He swallowed hard, eyes darting around the room. The moon peeking slightly from the curtains.

"...Who are you?" His tone sharpened despite the tremor, a blade against the fog.

A soft, almost amused sigh answered him, threading around the edges of his thoughts.

"You’ll know soon enough," it said, voice low, coaxing, just enough to make him tense, "it's best if you remember first."

Lucien’s grip on the phone tightened. He wanted to resist, to shut it all down, but the echo had already burrowed beneath his skin. Something was calling him—something he couldn’t name, but that refused to let go.

The bed creaked as he stood, shaking off the lingering tendrils of sleep. And Lucien knew, deep down, that the night ahead would not let him forget it.

The rain didn’t really bother him. Not really. It had been drumming against his coat for as long as he could remember, and yet there was something oddly grounding about it. Neon reflections warped around the puddles when stepped on.

He should have walked past the alley, ignored the faint glow spilling from behind the old wooden door. And yet, some instinct–long buried, faintly familiar–made him pause. A hum under his ribs, a pull. He hadn’t followed it in years, but tonight… it was relentless.

Sliding into Zealous was effortless. The warmth of the bar washed over him, scents of smoke, whiskey, and perfume tangling with the lingering storm outside. He didn’t need to look around to know who would be here. There was always a thread of inevitability in certain encounters.

He saw him immediately.

Sitting at the far end of the bar, the elf with white hair and golden eyes. The way he held his drink, the subtle tremor of his hand, the weight behind the line of his jaw–it drew Lucien in, though he had no right to be pulled. Years, decades, nothing seemed to dull the magnetism of that glance.

Lucien hesitated, a flicker of doubt stirring in his chest. This wasn’t about him. Not tonight. But the pull persisted, a quiet insistence that made him take the step forward.

He slid the stool out silently, seating himself beside the elf, close enough that the warmth radiating off him brushed against Lucien’s sleeve. The elf didn’t turn at first, didn’t acknowledge him. That only drew Lucien in further, curiosity threading with something sharper—something like recognition.

"You look like you’re about to fight the glass," Lucien murmured, testing, light, a trace of something he didn’t dare name in his voice.

The elf stiffened. Lucien didn’t move. He waited, letting the pause stretch, letting the tension fold around them like smoke.

"Seriously-what'd it do to you?"

Finally, the elf’s eyes flicked up.

"Look, I'm not in the mood for-"

A flicker of color rose to the latter's cheeks—or maybe that was just the lighting and for a split second his eyes widen at the sight of Lucien.

"—do you always talk to strangers like this?" the elf continued, voice clipped, cautious.

Lucien offered a faint shrug, a smirk tugging at his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

"Only the ones who look like they're trying not to cry."

The elf’s gaze sharpened, the slightest hitch in his breath betraying the control he tried to hold. Lucien leaned back slightly, letting the silence speak. The other looked restless. It was clear that the elf's face was tense. Lucien didn't bring it up, he just.. stared.

The crowd shifted. Jazz smoldered low, the bar pulsing around them. Patrons laughed, moved, clinked glasses—but he didn’t notice. His attention was fixed entirely on the elf. The subtle tension in his shoulders, the curve of his fingers around the glass, the tremor that ran too deep to be just nerves.

Lucien didn’t ask a name. He didn’t introduce his own. There was no need. Some connections predated words. They only needed a glance, and it was enough.

The pull was undeniable. And when he reached out to invite the elf to dance, he knew it wasn’t mere chance. It had never been chance.

The music shifted. The brass and brush of cymbals underpinned the low hum of the bar, and yet everything else disappeared. He watched the elf at the far end of the bar, the way his shoulders stiffened, the faint tremor in his fingers. He shouldn’t care. He told himself that. And yet, his own chest throbbed, almost painfully, at the sight.

Lucien moved toward him on instinct, letting his hand hover just inches away when he spoke.

"Would you care to dance?"

The elf froze. That familiar tension, that weight pressing into his spine—it was almost too easy to read. Lucien didn’t flinch, didn’t let hesitation creep in. He extended his hand fully, watching as the elf’s gaze darted downward, then up, then back to him.

And finally, he took it.

Lucien guided him across the floor, their steps were hesitant at first, unpracticed, but instinctively in sync, as if bodies remembered what minds had long forgotten. Lucien felt the warmth radiating off him, the subtle tremor in his wrist. He tightened his grip, just enough to ground the elf without frightening him further.

"Are you alright?" Lucien whispered, voice low leaning in.

The elf nodded, a stiff, unconvincing motion.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Lucien let it drop, though he doubt the other was okay. When the elf abruptly pulled away, stepping back as if his touch burned him, Lucien froze. He wanted to follow, to reach out, but instinct held him still.

From across the floor, the promoter's presence hovered. Lucien caught the flick of his eyes, the tension in his posture, but he didn’t approach. He understood—some things needed to fall apart and settle on their own before they could be tended.

Lucien stayed where he was, watching as the elf disappeared into the bathroom, shoulders hunched. His own hands curled loosely at his sides, the music carrying on, meaningless now, while the elf grappled with echoes he couldn’t yet name.

He would wait. He always waited.

Yet he never remembered what he waited for.

Chapter Text

Cassian’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by all the fiasco happened that single night. The steam from the tea still curled faintly into the air, its warmth barely reaching him as his head drooped forward. The hum of rain outside became a lullaby, soft and constant, and the ache behind his eyes blurred into nothing.

He didn’t remember moving. Didn’t remember climbing the bed or lying down. He only felt the steady, careful weight of warmth pressing against his shoulders, a blanket tugged up to cover him. His limbs were tucked gently under the soft sheets, his head resting against a pillow that wasn’t the cold, hard floor. Somewhere in the haze of sleep, a voice whispered in a familiar cadence, patient, gentle, almost teasing—but it slipped away before he could grasp it.

The world dissolved.

When Cassian woke, sunlight—poking through the blinds, slicing across the room in harsh lines. He blinked rapidly, trying to register where he was. The bed beneath him was soft, warm, unfamiliar in a way that somehow didn’t unsettle him. His hair stuck to his damp forehead, and the corners of his mouth ached from the ghost of last night’s tension.

He reached blindly for his phone, tapping the screen awake.

Red notifications screamed back at him. Dozens.

Missed calls. Messages. All from Claude.

Cassian groaned, facepalming into the pillows before looking at the screen again. His fingers hovered over the first message—heart thundering at the thought of replying. Maybe it was time to answer, maybe it wasn’t. He took a slow breath, trying to steady the chaos in his chest.

Then came the sound: a sharp, insistent knock at the apartment door.

Three beats. Pause. Three beats again.

Cassian froze, hand still hovering over the screen. His pulse spiked, a jittering drum against his ribs. He wasn’t ready. Not for voices. Not for questions. Not for them—whoever "they" might be.

The knocking grew more urgent, more impatient. His teeth clenched, fingers tightening around the phone as if it were a lifeline.

"Cass?"

The voice was faint through the door. Hesitant. Familiar.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. Everything from last night—the dance, the rain, Lucien’s gaze—surged back, raw and unyielding.

Cassian’s breath hitched. His hand shook as he lowered the phone. He didn’t know what to do first: face the messages from Claude, or the pounding at the door. The weight of all of it pressed down like an anchor.

And yet… he couldn’t move.

Not yet.

The knocking stopped.

Then started again, more insistent than before.

Cassian stood up walking to the front door, fingers hovering above the door knob. Heart hammering. Mind screaming..

Another knock. This one sharp, insistent, and impossibly familiar.

He finally pushed the door open—just a crack—and froze.

Claude stood there, coat slightly rumpled, satchel slung over one shoulder, a staff clutched loosely in his other hand. His expression was a mixture of frustration, relief, and… something softer, almost like worry tempered by patience.

"Cass," Claude said, voice calm but firm, like he had done a thousand times before when tending to him.

"What the fuck is your problem? You’ve been ignoring everything for hours."

Cassian blinked at him. Words stuck somewhere behind his throat. He hadn’t expected… this. Not the stern tilt of Claude’s jaw, not the way his purplish-green eyes scanned him like he was both fragile and stubbornly unbreakable at the same time.

"I... I-" Cassian started, then faltered.

Claude sighed, stepping inside before Cassian could protest. The staff tapped lightly against the floor, a subtle hum of magic resonating from it.

"No arguments. You’re not managing yourself again"

Cassian swallowed, suddenly aware of how drained he still was. His limbs felt heavy, and the remnants of last night’s panic lingered like fog around his chest. His magic, usually a quiet hum beneath his skin, throbbed unpredictably, flaring in small, erratic bursts as if it had been disturbed and left unattended.

Claude knelt beside the sofa, settling the satchel on the floor and pulling out a small vial.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t asleep. I would’ve come anyway the moment your wards started flaring. Again."

Cassian flinched at the words.

"I... didn’t..."

"You didn’t call," Claude interrupted gently.

"I know. I know you didn’t. But magic doesn’t care for pride or exhaustion. You’ve been overextending yourself, Cassian. I’ve been tending to your... fluctuations for years, and I know what happens when you push too far."

Cassian’s throat tightened. Years. Not decades, not centuries—years. A shorter span than his memory-laden life, but still enough for trust to form quietly, carefully. Claude had been there, through the small tremors, the misfires, the rare but dangerous flares. He had been a constant in a life full of chaos.

"I’m fine," Cassian whispered, though the words had lost any conviction.

Claude didn’t answer. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, hands hovering just above Cassian’s skin. A faint glow pulsed from his staff, gentle, warm, a quiet counterpoint to the wildness inside Cassian.

"Cass" Claude murmured, softer now.

"I’m not here to scold. I’m here because you need help. Whether you admit it or not, your magic is unruly. You’ve been carrying it alone, and it’s... not meant to be carried alone."

Cassian finally looked up at him. The words scraped against something deep inside, a mix of shame and relief. His hand twitched toward Claude, almost unconsciously.

Claude leaned closer, the glow from his staff dimming to a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat matching Cassian’s own. "Let me help you. Just... let me."

Cassian’s lips parted, something raw and fragile stirring in his chest. He wanted to refuse. Wanted to retreat. But the pull—the steady, familiar warmth—made him pause. His chest rose and fell unevenly. His hands shook slightly as he tried to pull away from Claude’s steadying presence.

"I said I’m fine!" he snapped, voice louder than he meant, echoing off the walls. His white hair clung damp against his forehead as he pushed himself back, away from Claude’s hands.

Claude’s jaw tightened, greenish-purple eyes flashing.

"No, you’re not! And you know it! Stop pretending—your wards are unstable, your energy’s surging, and you’re going to collapse if you don’t let me-"

"I don’t need your help!"

Cassian shot back, voice cracking. Claude’s expression darkened, patience fraying like a snapped rope.

"I’ve been tending to you for years, Cassian! Years! And you-"

"I said leave me alone!"

Cassian roared, shoving Claude’s hands away so hard that a cup of tea wobbled dangerously on the table. The shouting collided, walls vibrating with frustration, anger, and the residue of last night’s panic.

"Stop resisting!" Claude yelled, his voice sharp enough to cut through Cassian’s stubborn veil.

"I’m not resisting, I just... I can handle it myself!" Cassian fired back, almost growling, teeth bared in raw exhaustion and pride.

The argument escalated, voices bouncing off the walls, echoing down the hall:

"You can’t handle this alone!"

"I can! I’ve done it before!"

"And nearly killed yourself! That’s enough!"

"Shut up!"

The commotion was sudden and violent enough that it jolted Gale awake. He bolted upright on the couch, hair sticking to his forehead, green eyes wide in panic.

"What the hell—?!"

Zander’s door creaked open moments later, his blonde hair falling into his face, sharp brows furrowed, as he looked toward the living room.

"Cass?"

His voice was calm but alarmed, and it barely cut through the continuing shouting.

"You heard me, Gale!" Claude’s voice thundered from the bathroom. "He is dangerously unstable! He refuses to let me help him!"

Cassian’s shout cracked again, raw and high: "I don’t care! I can—"

"ENOUGH!"

The room went silent at Claude’s roar, heavy and authoritative. Cassian’s chest heaved, fingers digging into his palms as if trying to anchor himself. His magic pulsed beneath his skin in irregular beats, like a caged animal.

Claude exhaled sharply, voice dropping to a low growl.

"Cassian. Sit still. Now."

Gale rubbed his eyes, sitting up straighter.

"Is he… dying?!"

"No," Claude snapped, not even glancing at him.

"Not yet. But he will be, if he keeps flailing like this."

Zander finally stepped into the room fully, crossing his arms.

"He’s not flailing to annoy you, Claude. He’s scared."

"And I’m trying to keep him alive!" Claude shot back, eyes blazing. "Fear doesn’t stop magic from burning him from the inside out!"

Cassian’s legs shook. His voice came out small, hoarse, but defiant: "I... I’m not—"

"You are!" Claude yelled back.

"And stop saying you’re fine. You’re not!"

The room felt impossibly tight, tense with every heartbeat. Gale and Zander glanced at each other, unsure whether to intervene or wait it out. Cassian’s magic throbbed beneath his skin like a storm, Claude’s aura pushing against it, trying to bind it before it could spiral.

Cassian dug his teeth into his lower lips. "I… I can handle it myself!"

Claude stepped closer, staff lowering, voice dangerously low, almost a growl: "No. You cannot. You’ve never handled it alone. And I will not let you collapse here, not on my watch."

Cassian’s lips trembled, his defiance cracking under the pressure of Claude’s proximity, the raw intensity in his voice, and the years of trust behind it.

"Then… then leave me alone!"

Claude froze, his eyes flicked between Cassian’s trembling hands and the pulse of unstable magic beneath his skin. His jaw tightened; every instinct screamed at him to act, to force control. But the stubborn gleam in Cassian’s golden-tinged gaze—raw, unyielding—made him hesitate.

For the first time in hours, Claude exhaled through his nose, a sharp, controlled hiss. He took a slow step back, raising a hand to signal temporary surrender. “Fine,” he muttered, voice tight with frustration.

"Then… this is on you. Drink it."

He extended a small, slender tube, filled with a swirling, pale liquid that glimmered faintly.

"This will stabilize your energy long enough to... not kill yourself."

Cassian’s fingers hovered over it, eyes narrowing. He stared at Claude for a moment, then slowly grabbed the tube—but not to drink it. Instead, he spun on his heel and yanked Claude toward the kitchen.

"Cass—what are you—" Claude started, surprise flashing across his features, but the motion was too quick for words.

Cassian slammed the kitchen door shut behind them, leaning against it and pressing his forehead against the smooth wood. The faint sound of Gale’s and Zander’s voices calling from the living room barely registered in his mind.

"I said I’ll handle it myself, Cassian hissed, fingers tightening around the tube. His breathing was harsh, shallow. “I don’t need you hovering over me like—like some… some healer priest every time I even blink wrong!"

Claude’s eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. "I am not your enemy, Cassian," he said, tone low, clipped, but threading with patience that had clearly been fraying for weeks. “I’ve been tending your magic for years. You know how fast it spirals when left unchecked.”

Cassian’s grip on the tube faltered, just slightly. He pressed it to his lips, hand shaking, then pulled it back again

"Years," he echoed, almost bitterly. "Years, and you still don’t get it. I don’t want... I don’t want to be fixed. Not by anyone."

Claude stepped closer, greenish-purple eyes flashing with quiet intensity. "I don’t want to fix you. I want you to survive," he snapped, voice rising enough that it echoed off the tile walls. "You’re on the edge, Cassian! This—this stubborn pride of yours won’t protect you from yourself!"

Cassian flinched at the sharpness, jaw tightening.

"I said… I don’t need you!”"

Claude pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply, frustration crackling around him like static. "Fine," he muttered under his breath, lowering his voice so only Cassian could hear.

"Then do it yourself. Drink it. Now."

Cassian’s golden eyes glimmered with defiance. He looked down at the tube, then at Claude. For a long moment, the silence hung like a tangible weight between them. Then, finally, he uncapped the tube, hesitated, and took a slow sip.

Claude stepped back, arms crossed, watching every trembling movement with barely restrained impatience. Cassian dragged a hand down his face, swallowed hard, then leaned against the counter. His gaze flicked up to Claude, a mix of defiance, exhaustion, and grudging trust buried in the crimson depths.

"Better?" Claude asked, voice tense.

Cassian let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I… guess."

Claude’s lips pressed together, eyes softening ever so slightly.

"Guess. Not good. Not stable. Just... less likely to explode. Barely counts as success."

Cassian smirked faintly, one corner of his mouth twitching. "I’ll take it."

Claude exhaled sharply, stepping back, rubbing his temple. "You’re impossible," he muttered, voice low, almost a growl of exasperation.

"But... at least you’re drinking it. For now."

Cassian leaned against the counter, tube in hand, eyes closing briefly. "For now," he repeated, voice quieter, almost to himself.

Outside the kitchen door, Gale and Zander were restlessly pacing back and forth.

Cassian had barely set the tube down when Claude’s sharp green eyes flicked up, narrowing ever so slightly.

"Tell me," Claude began, voice low but deliberate.

"Was it him? Lucien?"

Cassian jerked his head up so fast, it made Claude blink.

"W-what?!"

Claude rolled his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh, come on. Don’t act like I don’t know the glazed ‘I just met a ghost from your past and want to rip my hair out’ look. That’s Lucien, isn’t it?"

Cassian’s face burned crimson, and his hands clenched the counter edge.

"I-how-how do you even know-?"

Claude leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with the faintest mischief.

"I’ve been tending your magic for years, Cassian. I can read you. Plus, the way your magic went haywire last night? That’s a Lucien Lunaris-class catastrophe."

Cassian groaned, leaning into the counter, and muttered, "You’re fucking impossible."

Claude shrugged, feigning innocence.

"True. And listen-if your magic goes unstable like that again, I will kidnap you. Drag you into my office, chain you to a chair if I have to. Not even joking. Consider it a… precautionary measure."

Cassian blinked at him, incredulous.

"What.”

Claude gave a mock-salute.

"Kidnap you. Yes. Totally a threat."

From the living room, the sound of the door slowly creaking open drew their attention. Gale’s head peeked in first, hair mussed, eyes half-asleep.

"What the-why are you on the counter?!" Gale exclaimed, voice cracking in disbelief.

Cassian froze, perched precariously atop the kitchen counter like some soggy, defeated cat.

Claude’s hands shot out, grabbing Cassian’s ankles.

"Because this one refuses to sit on a chair like a normal person, apparently," he muttered. Then, with a grunt, he started dragging Cassian down from the counter.

Cassian flailed, arms flailing like a fish out of water.

"Hey! Put me down! I’m not—!"

"-stable enough to fall off and break yourself!" Claude finished for him, tugging him toward the kitchen floor.

Gale’s jaw dropped.

"I... I don’t even- ARE YOU DRAGGING HIM BY THE FEET?!"

Cassian let out a strangled yelp, legs flailing.

"Gale! Help! Claude’s trying to-"

Zander’s head appeared behind Gale’s shoulder, unamused.

"I think he’s enjoying it," Zander muttered dryly, though there was a faint twitch of a smirk on his lips.

Claude finally plopped Cassian onto a chair, sitting him down like a parent trying to tame a particularly ornery child. Cassian’s hair was half-mussed, shirt wrinkled, and pride bruised.

"See? Much safer," Claude said, brushing off his hands.

"Also-next time your magic spikes like that, you’re drinking the tube or else I'mma chain you in my office. Understood?"

Cassian scowled, glaring daggers at him.

"Next time I don’t get to throw you across the room?"

Claude quirked an eyebrow.

"I earnestly suggest you don’t test that."

Gale scratched the back of his head, trying not to laugh.

"I- okay... am I the only one imagining Cassian flying across the kitchen right now?"

Zander sighed, muttering,

"You might be the only sane one here."

Cassian groaned, resting his forehead against the table.

"I hate everyone," he muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Claude leaned back, arms crossed, smirk deepening.

Gale rolled his eyes, snickering.  "And here I thought I had a complicated morning."

Zander pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

"Oh, you have no idea.."

Gale and Zander silently vowed never to underestimate a morning in this apartment again.