Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    There was no one else in the inn room, with Alfyn gone to study the stars, but only tonight would Therion wish for company. Steaming tea brewed with milk and honey warmed his hands, but its calming aura couldn’t pierce his thoughts. Even as he took a sip a more melancholy attitude curled around his neck, suffocating him, batting the usual facade of apathy away without second thought. No matter what, his thoughts always trailed back toward soft brown locks of hair framing a pale face dotted with bright brown eyes, pointless clasps and accents and nimble, smooth fingers. He wanted to laugh at how hopeless it was, and cry at his own misery. So he settled for a night to himself, sipping tea, wishing the whims of Balogar would whisk him away into distraction like everyone else's’ new deities seemed to do.

    He knew what was going on right now. He could hear Cyrus’s footsteps as he exited his room, going downstairs to meet with two young students, one needing the tutoring, the other happy to have an excuse to see her favorite professor. Therion could sit on the table in front of him and Cyrus wouldn’t notice a thing, just keep flipping as though the thief was some art installation, a statue of a weeping angel with blackened wings nothing but painted marble. This place was suffocating, but just nodding to him in the hallway would leave him dead. He wanted to run, run away from here and from everyone else, use Aeber as an excuse, use Balogar as an excuse, hell, use Primrose as an excuse and sit in the forest and sip his tea to himself.

    But of course he couldn’t, so he just sat there, sipping his tea and regretting everything.

    If he could, he might run up to Cyrus and throw their lips together, if that would fix everything. But that wouldn’t help a thing, that would only hurt everything. Or maybe Cyrus wouldn’t even react, just act like he was some ghost and wonder what that sudden gust of cold air was. If only Therese was the ghost, white hair not dissimilar to his and yet so much more real to the man in the black coat. Always holding a book and quill, Therion thought, every time he saw him; not a word or a glance his way if it could be helped, a simple, almost nonexistent conversation, even forgetting he was a scholar, even forgetting how much he pried into the others; how much he pried into Primrose’s obviously sore history; how much he pried into a normally unapproachable H’aanit; how much he pressed Olberic for details on Erhardt.

    For the thief, whose tales grew more by the day, yet none with any more embellishment than his experiences? No questions, professor, can we move on to the next lesson already? I’m not sure this person you’re telling us about actually exists.

    But Therion knew better than to hate his heart, because doing that just made everything no longer worth it; if he couldn’t muster excitement for stealing jewels from decorative manses, his life was over. Excitement brings fear, and fear brings caution. Without that caution, he would get caught; and if he let himself hate his heart, he might just start wanting to be caught. But instead he’d be content to watch from afar, like a ghost haunting a man but being too shy to say a word.

Chapter Text

    “You know, you’d make a pretty girl~.”

    These antics always started with Primrose, didn’t they? When she dragged him to her mansion and threw him in corsets, washed his hair with girl’s sensitive shampoo and threw lipstick on him, made him parade around her lobby for her entertainment under the guise of “I’ll pay you~”

    “I’m not a whore.”

    “And I’m not paying you to be!”

    “Ugh, fine.”

    He was extremely- let the record show, extremely - extremely adverse to wearing dresses at first. Then he ended up in one, and he hated the corset very much, but for all his aversion he couldn’t say he hated wearing the dress. It was a bit freeing, especially since Prim, in all her infinite wisdom, put him in a simple sundress.

    They got a lot more complex once she realized he was fine with it, and that’s why there’s still a little fight every time.

    With Primrose, things were a bit less embarrassing. For one, they were the closest of friends; best friends, if you asked the dancer. For a second, Prim was always in almost nothing, so he had no “it’s revealing!” excuses to throw her way. Soon, he was used to being ushered into a dress whenever he went to Prim’s.

    Then came the point where she started making him take some dresses home, half because he looked oh so good in them, half because she didn’t fit them quite right anymore (“Ugh, does my chest have to be THIS big!?” “Because most girls wouldn’t kill for it.”).

    Finally, the culmination of this insanity. The first time he wore a dress, dolled himself up and acted the part of his own accord, outside twirling in front of his own mirror. It wasn’t his intention, if you ever asked him; it was definitely his intention. 

    A man, holding supposedly limitless riches. A fun target, for sure, though he wouldn’t rob him blind- that’d be boring, and you’re supposed to leave meat you don’t need on carcasses, right? The first rumor he heard was that the wall to his riches had been breached once, and another good charge would blow it up and leave everything for the taking. That should have been all he needed to hear, considering he knew where to get the charges.

    Then he heard the man was also a fan of pretty girls dolled up in frilly outfits, and, well, that lead was just begging to be followed, wasn’t it? It just so happened that that man, being a socialite, was hosting a party very, very  soon, and if he happened to encounter a pretty girl wandering about with just a hint of forwardness- well, he’d surely invite her, right?

    So he got himself invited to this party. The largest manse in Atlasdam- couldn’t miss it.

    Maybe he should have thought about the fact that this was Atlasdam before he did that.

    To his credit, he was unrecognizable to anyone who hadn’t travelled with him for a crucial part of their lives. He was talk of the party- hair white with its usual purple tint was complimented by lovely violet accents, highlighted by the deep purples of the rest of the dress. His lips were a very luscious red, and his pale skin made him look exactly like a porcelain doll.

    Immediately he found the owner and chatted him up, like filling up a quota for his invitation. Once that was over, he scanned the area. He found his way out- the library, open to guests but surely uninhabited. What bookworm would go to a luxury party?

    Cyrus. Cyrus Albright would go to a luxury party and go straight to the library.

    Thank Aeber no one else was around.

    “Therion!?”

    He turned to face the man, face surely blushing a fierce red. There was Cyrus, dressed in his usual scholar’s robe and whatever accessories he’d ended up with from admirers over the years. Surely the white frills drawing a line from shoulder to shoulder made the blush on his porcelain skin all the worse.

    There was a blush on Cyrus’s skin, too, but he was probably just warm in here. Or maybe he felt second-hand embarrassment.

    Therion wanted to run, get his prize, and never see Cyrus again.

    “Beautiful.” Came from the scholar’s lips, barely more than a whisper, as the blush on his skin seemed superfluous; his focus was on Therion, and as he approached, the thief could only wonder what he thought as he ran his hands over the dress, over Therion’s figure in the dress. 

    He tilted the boy’s head up. Therion looked to the entrance. No one, of course- who but Cyrus Albright would be here during a luxury party?

    “Naughty, professor. Having a tryst with a young girl in some man’s party?”

    “Naughty yourself. You came for treasure, I’m sure- and who said you could look so good in a dress?”

    Since when had Cyrus been so direct- never mind, he always had been, hadn’t he? Just never in this area, always in the dumber places that made everyone go quiet and had him uttering a quiet apology staring down at his lap.

    “You, apparently. Care for a taste of my lipstick?”

    Without warning they both pulled each other into a kiss, passionately making out with rows of books as their cover. Therion stopped looking at the entrance; this is what he had been invited for, hadn’t it? And it just so happened to be Cyrus making out with him, so just so happened to know who he was- not Alice, the angelic little doll, but Therion, the tricky little trap, tonight.

    Finally, they pulled away, softly gasping for air.

    “What’s your name tonight?”

    “Alice.”

    “Very well. I’ll say I never saw her.”

    “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going for the treasure any more.”

    “Disinterested?”

    “Already got it, dear jewel.”