Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A proper flower shop should always look a little like a stage set, Lust mused as they swept into Petal Be Thy Name, arms outstretched in mock supplication to the fragrant gods. This one nailed it: windows pasted over with curling script, geraniums and snapdragons jockeying for sunlight on every conceivable surface, the air a perfume-thick syrup that clung to their bones. A bell above the door sang a sharp hello, and a woman’s voice called, “Back in a sec!” before Lust could even finish planning a dramatic entrance line.

Not a single soul visible, just orchids peeping out from behind a forest of baby’s breath and bouquets pre-wrapped in brown paper cones. Lust considered fondling a rose—crimson, ostentatiously thorned, probably the shop’s idea of a joke—but resisted. They flopped into a spindle-legged chair next to the register and crossed their legs, the motion drawing a creak from their leather pants and a whiff of ozone from their own aura. Waiting was always the hardest part.

The florist emerged, elbow-deep in a bucket of what looked like bluebells and dripping faintly on the linoleum. She sized up Lust with the world-weary suspicion reserved for regulars of the monsters of the underworlds, then dialed her face into a brisk customer-service smile. “Good morning! What can I get started for you?”

Lust beamed, giving the woman both barrels of their charm. “Actually, I’m here on the recommendation of my coworker, who claims your bouquets contain more coded messages than a Victorian courtship.” Lust uncrossed their legs and leaned forward, confiding, “Which is precisely what I’m after. I need to make a statement. Maybe several statements, if you know what I mean.”

The florist raised an eyebrow, equal parts wary and intrigued. “Floriography? I can do that. Who are we trying to impress?”

“Two someones,” Lust said, holding up two fingers as if the number itself were scandalous. “It’s our year mark. I want to say, ‘Thank you for not strangling me in my sleep, and also, I would absolutely die for you both.’ But with flowers. Ideally, nothing too obvious,” Lust winked.

“I… think I can manage that,” the florist replied, her smile quirking into genuine amusement. “Are there specific feelings you want to emphasize?”

Lust tapped their chin. “Devotion, definitely. Maybe a touch of, ‘You complete me, you beautiful disaster.’ And joy, please—no sense in celebrating if the whole thing feels like a funeral.” Lust scanned the shop, eyes flicking from lily to lisianthus. “And, I don’t know, hope? For another year. For a hundred. The longer the better.”

The florist’s hands, still wet from the bluebells, became conductor’s batons as she began assembling possibilities. “Red rose is standard for love, but you probably want something with a little more bite. Amaranth for immortality, maybe. Bluebell for constancy. Baby’s breath for the eternity-of-bond thing, but in moderation or it comes off as needy. And hope is—” She paused, looking up at Lust with a calculating glint. “Sunflower, if you’re feeling unsubtle.”

“Subtle is so overrated,” Lust shot back, delighted. “Go on, keep going.”

The florist began pulling stems from buckets, narrating as she went. “Lavender for devotion, but too much is headache-inducing. Red carnation: affection. Sweet pea: blissful pleasure.” She hesitated, then added, “And iris for hope, or to symbolize faith in the future. If I put them all together, it’s going to look like a confession of undying loyalty with a side of I’m-probably-trouble, but I assume that’s the point.”

Lust sighed, genuinely touched, and not bothering to mask it. “That’s beautiful. They’ll love it. And, uh, can you do a bouquet that’s just, like, ‘You’re my anchor in a hurricane of dumb decisions’?”

“That’s more white tulip and scabiosa, maybe a hint of rosemary for remembrance,” the florist answered without missing a beat, already gathering the flowers into neat clusters. “But it’s not exactly standard-issue romance.”

Lust barked a laugh. “Neither am I.”

As the bouquets took shape, the florist worked with a deftness that bordered on artistry, snipping and twining and occasionally explaining the significance of each choice. Lust, meanwhile, watched in rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with suggestions or anecdotes about the intended recipients (“One’s a walking set of sexiness, the other’s basically an espresso shot given form”). They fidgeted in their seat, excitement nearly visible as a heat shimmer, never once taking their eyes off the swelling bundles of color.

At last, the arrangements were ready: one riotous and bursting with conflicting color, the other stark and elegant in deep purples and whites. The florist wrapped them in tissue and ribbon, hands trembling just a bit as she passed them over. “There you go. One bouquet for a hurricane, and one for the eye of the storm.”

Lust accepted the flowers, inhaling deeply and letting the scent fill their chest cavity. “These are perfect. Thank you. Truly.”

The florist—still wary, but now visibly pleased—offered a modest shrug. “Just doing my job. That’ll be twenty-four fifty.”

Lust paid, offering an extravagant tip and a final, theatrical bow as they swept back toward the door, arrangements in hand and heart at least three sizes larger than when they’d walked in. The sun outside seemed brighter, the street more alive, and the prospect of another year tangled up with their beloved disasters suddenly felt less like a dare and more like a promise.

At the threshold, Lust paused, looking over their shoulder. “You should put up a sign,” they called. “Best bouquets for making trouble.”

The florist grinned. “Maybe I will. Good luck!”

Lust took their bouquets and stepped into the blinding morning, certain that, for today at least, happiness was something you could hold in both hands.

Walking to a safe place to port, Lust couldn’t resist peeking again at the twin bouquets, now snuggled tight under one arm and balanced like contraband on the opposite shoulder. Each step, each shake of the petals, released a puff of scent that made them shiver. They half-walked, half-floated down the sidewalk, mind replaying the florist’s running commentary with a clarity that verged on obsession.

“You know, this one is representative of you in the arrangement,” the florist had said, separating a red rose from the fray with surgical precision. “Love, obviously, but not the vanilla, greeting-card kind. The sort that gets you in trouble and makes you write bad poetry.” She added a stalk of lavender, pale and delicate. “Devotion—meant to steady the heart, maybe calm the nerves if they get jittery.” A sprig of baby’s breath, cloud-white and frilly, followed. “This is for lasting bonds. Some people think it’s filler, but that’s because they don’t get it. It’s the glue. The thing that keeps the whole mess together, even after the showier flowers are gone.”

Lust, at the time, had grinned and said, “So you’re telling me I should just hand my boyfriends a bouquet of baby’s breath and call it a day?”

“Only if you want to sleep on the couch,” the florist had shot back.

Now, with the memory still sparkling, Lust looked down at the bouquets again and tried to picture how Dance and Red would react. Dance—ever the lover, eyes always searching for meaning—would zero in on the amaranth and the bluebell, probably start rattling off etymologies before Lust could even finish presenting the thing. He’d see the hope, the promise of forever, and maybe (if Lust was lucky) forgive a few minor indiscretions from the last twelve months.

Red, on the other hand, would probably grunt, then side-eye Lust until they explained what it all meant. The scabiosa would get a snort—of course Lust picked a flower that literally means “unfortunate love”—but maybe, just maybe, the rosemary would get to him. The idea of memory, of being remembered, was the sort of thing Red would never admit to craving, but Lust knew better.

There was something about the contrast that made Lust’s heart ache. The bouquets weren’t just an apology or a celebration or even a shield against their own insecurities. They were a way of saying, “I see you. I know you. I’m staying, no matter how many times you break the vase.”

The wind picked up, threatening to tangle the tissue and whip petals loose, but Lust just hugged the flowers closer, grinning into the chaos. For once, they felt like they’d chosen the right words—even if those words were in a language only a few hopeless romantics could understand.

The world had a habit of sneaking up on Lust the moment they felt even a sliver of contentment. As if on cue, a bank of TV screens blinked at them from an electronics store across the street, their flashing blue light a warning flare in the daylight.

The local news was always a circus, but today’s main act had extra teeth. A stern-faced anchor was talking over a split-screen montage: masked protesters shaking fists at city hall, overturned trash bins in the business district, and (of course) the banner headline crawling across the bottom—MONSTER RIGHTS GROUPS UNDER FIRE.

Lust paused mid-stride, bouquets drooping in their grasp. The volume on the street was too low for real audio, but Lust didn’t need it; the footage did all the talking. The anchor’s lips moved with the smooth poison of practiced concern while video rolled: spray-painted slurs, flags torn down, a huddled trio of monsters getting pelted with eggs by a jeering crowd. The camera lingered on the anti-monster group’s logo, stylized and slick, more a brand than a cause.

A queasy chill ran up Lust’s spine, the kind that started in the marrow and worked outward. They could almost hear Red’s voice, thick with scorn: “Doesn’t matter how many bouquets you buy, babe. The world’s still a shithole.”

But Lust clung to the flowers anyway, refusing to let go of the morning’s fragile happiness. It wasn’t naive, they told themselves. It was survival. If they gave up on hope, if they let the marching boots and angry banners drown out the heartbeat of their little family, what was even the point?

A fresh wave of shouting on the screens—then the image cut to a government official, mouth twisted in a grimace, gesturing at charts and statistics that never seemed to improve. Lust’s fingers tightened on the stems, almost snapping them.

By the time the news looped back to weather, Lust had already turned away, bouquets tucked close, head down and pace brisk. The ugly thrum in their chest stayed, but so did the stubborn ember of joy, kept alive by the promise that there were still moments of beauty worth clutching tight.

Even if the rest of the world seemed determined to scorch it all to ash.

Lust stood on the corner, bouquets cradled in the crook of their arm, watching the reflected flicker of the news broadcast in a darkened window. The bitterness threatened to spoil everything, spreading a thin film of dread over even the brightest petals.

They let themselves feel it—just for a second. The ache, the anger, the pulse of fear that their best efforts at joy might be trampled underfoot by someone else’s hate. But then Lust took a breath, let the city’s haze fill their lungs, and shook it off like a wet dog.

“I refuse,” they muttered. “I absolutely, categorically refuse to let the bastards win.” The bouquets—delicate, gaudy, ridiculous—were suddenly a badge, a banner. Lust squared their shoulders and started walking, each step punctuated by the drumbeat of their own defiance. Lust was almost to the safe spot to port off the main road.

Red and Dance deserved flowers, not headlines. They deserved sweetness, not warnings. Lust rehearsed what they’d say, how they’d deliver the bouquets with a wink and a flourish, maybe even crack a bad joke about how flowers outlasted most politicians.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to turn the day around.

By the time Lust reached the next ally, the sun had wriggled free of the clouds. Their shadow stretched long ahead, arms full of color and promise, and if anyone gave them a second glance, Lust just smiled back, radiant and unbreakable.

The alley was narrow, the kind that forgot sunlight except for the briefest slice at noon, and Lust relished the privacy. It felt safer somehow—less on display, more intimate, like a secret passage to something good.

They walked with a little skip, rehearsing one last time how they’d present the bouquets, which dumb joke would land best, if Dance would pun or if Red would scoff and then pretend not to be touched. Lust barely heard the footsteps behind them, the steady, rhythmic crunch of rubber soles on dirty concrete. It registered too late, as a chill along the vertebrae, a hissing warning at the base of the skull.

A shadow detached from the wall ahead, blocking the way. Human, but only in the anatomical sense; everything else about them was sharp, blank, and ugly. The jacket said “PURITY NOW” in stenciled block letters, and the face underneath was set in the dull focus of someone about to make a point with bullets.

The flash was instantaneous, a white-out behind the eyes, and then the pain—deep, sudden, somewhere under the ribs. Flowers and tissue paper exploded, shards of red and white and blue catching in the updraft as Lust staggered back, vision narrowing to a smear of motion and color.

The assailant stepped forward, gun still raised, breath rasping. “You monsters think you’re so—” but Lust didn’t hear the rest. They were busy falling, slow and graceless, down onto their knees, bouquets crushed to their chest like a shield that never had a chance.

The flowers wilted first, crimson soaking into the petals and down Lust’s jacket, dyeing the sidewalk with streaks that looked almost festive. The world went muffled, distant; even the footsteps receding into the city’s white noise barely registered.

Lust tried to remember what flower was supposed to mean “goodbye.” Maybe it was forget-me-not.

Above them, the slice of sky was as blue as the iris in Dance’s bouquet. Lust stared up at it, eyes wide, until even that little scrap of hope went dark.

All that remained was a burst of color, smashed into the concrete, and a handful of petals clinging to a memory, in a pile of dust.

Chapter Text

Red was having a goddamn great day. Not just regular-good. Actually great. The kind of day where the students shut up and listen because you, their glorified after-school babysitter, have figured out how to game the system. Today, that meant physics, paper airplanes, and an entire box of cafeteria pudding cups appropriated under the banner of "experimental variables."

He sat behind his battered desk, the edge notched from generations of chewed pencils and panicked hand-cramp. The last period had let out hours ago, but the classroom was still three-quarters full. He handed out worksheets and detentions equally.

A paper airplane careened past his orbital socket, missing the whiteboard by a meter and detonating in the open mouth of a sleeping student. The kid jerked awake, smeared pudding across his upper lip, and tried to look like he was following along.

"Nice vector, Jeremy," Red grunted. "Next time, account for wind resistance and the mass of your own enormous head. That goes for all of you."

Red pushed up from his chair, grabbed a stack of blank printer paper, and distributed it across the room like he was dealing poker. "All right, geniuses. We're doing flight paths. Newton, Bernoulli, the works. First one to hit the fire alarm gets out of next week's quiz."

"Are you even allowed to say that?" asked one of the girls, voice full of treacherous hope.

"Who's gonna stop me? The principal? He's still hungover from Career Day," Red shot back, and the room exploded with laughter. Even the shy monster kid, the little hamster in the second row.

The students went at it with relish, folding planes, scribbling calculations, and testing every conceivable configuration. Within five minutes, the chalk dust haze was thick enough to taste. Red prowled the aisles, lobbing pointed feedback ("Try less wing, more nose. Think of it as a headbutt, not a hug," "If you draw flames on the side, it goes faster, I don't make the rules,") and ignoring the growing carnage of gliders piling up around the radiator.

Someone's plane clipped the clock, which made a sad plasticky clatter and drooped forward an hour. Red left it that way.

The best thing about these after hours sessions was the noise. Noise meant learning. Or at least, if you squinted hard enough, you could call it that and collect your paycheck with a clear conscience. Even better, noise left little room for the other thing: the stinging, skin-crawling anxiety that came with every news bulletin, every sideways glance in the hallway.

Red had learned to tune it out, mostly. He'd done worse things than teaching middle school. He'd survived a war, a genocide, a hundred tiny humiliations between the underground and this crummy city. He'd kept his promise, too: no killing, not even when the assholes made it easy.

But there were days the promise felt like an unsteady wall, one breeze away from coming down.

Today wasn't one of those days. Today was all wind tunnels and projectile trajectories and a box of pudding cups swiped. "Extra points for style," Red barked as a particularly ambitious aircraft nose-dived into a garbage can and set off a string of dominoing trash avalanches.

The bell rang, a hollow noise that barely registered with the kids, who had long ago accepted that their schedules were a suggestion, not a commandment.

"Time's up," Red called, raising his voice just enough to cut through the din. "Who can tell me why Jeremy's plane failed so miserably?"

The room went silent. Jeremy, pudding-mouthed and resigned, shrugged and muttered, "Too heavy in the back?"

Red grinned, his gold tooth catching the light. "Correct. Which is why next time, you do the math before you pack it with contraband pudding. Everyone else, write me two paragraphs on the difference between lift and drag, and you're free to go."

Papers rustled. Backpacks zipped. Kids trickled out, some pausing at the door to launch one last paper missile in Red's general direction. A girl with bright magenta hair lingered, biting her lip. Red caught her eye and nodded once, a silent "It's cool, you can talk" he'd perfected over years of dealing with nervous students.

"Mr. Red?" she said. "Is it true you used to be, like... a real fell monster?"

He looked at her, the question sparking a brief, bitter flare of amusement. "What do you mean, 'used to be'?"

She giggled, then scuffed her shoe against the linoleum. "You know. Like, before. In the other place."

Red let the question hang for a beat, then shrugged. "Yeah. It's true. Wasn't much different than this, honestly. More murder, less paperwork. But mostly, same old."

She seemed to accept that. "Do you miss it?"

He thought about it. "Nah. I like it here. The pudding's better."

She grinned and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Okay. See you, Mr. Red."

"Don't forget your homework, Mazie," he called after her, even though he knew damn well she wouldn't do it.

When the last of them had gone, Red slumped into his chair and propped his feet on the battered desk. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the pleasant afterburn of a job well done—or at least, not terribly botched.

His phone buzzed on the desk, a weirdly cheerful chime that Lust had programmed in as a joke. Red ignored it. If it was important, they'd call again. He rolled his head to the side, closed his eyes, and allowed himself exactly ten seconds of peace.

It was broken by the distant clamor of lockers slamming shut, the building's death rattle for the day.

He checked the time. He should go home. Lust was probably already waiting, Dance too if he'd managed to escape from whatever car he was under. The thought made Red smile, involuntarily. Those two were disasters, and he loved them for it.

He reached for his jacket, shrugged it over his broad shoulders, and made his way down the deserted hallway. The echo of his boots followed him, a sharp counterpoint to the silence.

He walked out into the setting sun, the city air cold and vaguely electrified, as if the atmosphere itself was waiting for something.

He made it five steps toward the parking lot before his entire body went rigid, a shock running from his cervical vertebrae straight through to his spine. It wasn't pain, exactly; more like a jolt of live wire, magic-to-magic, the kind of summons that didn't allow for hesitation.

Red went still. The world around him faded. All he could feel was Lust’s pain, somewhere far away.

He ran. He didn't even remember crossing the lot or shoving open the alley-side gate. His magic, usually so carefully leashed, flared in his chest, hot enough to taste. He felt Lust's panic, their terror, the sharp snap of agony through the soulbond. The last time he'd felt anything like it was—

No. Don't think about that. Find them. The school was gone and he was in the city.

He called their name, voice raw and shaking, not caring if anyone heard. Every nerve ending screamed for action, for violence. But all he could do was run, and run, and hope to God he got there in time.

The city blurred past. Red's legs were strong, unbreakable, but the distance between here and Lust felt endless. He shoved aside the memory of Magenta Hair, of the pudding, of his smug after-school peace. All that mattered was closing the gap, before it was too late.

He didn't notice the dust on his hands until he hit the corner near downtown, didn't realize he'd blasted through a brick wall on the way. He didn't care.

Somewhere in the city, Lust was dying, and he was the only thing standing between them and oblivion.

Red gritted his teeth, let the magic burn, and ran faster.

He sprinted down the block, barreling past a confused human family, barely missing their stroller. Someone yelled, "Watch it, asshole!" and Red barked back, "Emergency!" without slowing. He cleared a busy street in two steps, scattering a pair of teens smoking outside a bodega. The news screens above the shop were still cycling headlines: MONSTER RIGHTS CLASH TURNS VIOLENT. Red didn’t bother to read.

Halfway down the next block, his vision tunneled again. The thread of Lust’s magic flickered—dimming, fading, then blinking back to life. Red ran faster, every stride a pulse of pain through his leg bones. He could feel his own magic leaking, sparking behind him in a trail like comet debris. He didn’t care who saw. Let them see. Let them try to stop him.

An alleyway loomed ahead. He nearly missed it, backpedaled, and skidded into the opening just in time to see someone—human, jacket with a block-letter slogan, gun clutched in shaking hands—running the opposite direction. Red slammed into them, a collision of mass and intent, but the shooter was so jacked on adrenaline he barely registered. The guy bounced off Red’s chest, fell, scrambled to his feet, and kept going, the gun still hot in his hand.

Red saw none of it. He was blind to anything but Lust, who was somewhere ahead, somewhere close, somewhere—

The alley stank of trash and flowers and fresh dust, a reek so dense it made Red gag. He pounded down the passage, magic flaring in a corona around his fists. There were petals on the concrete, dark and sticky, trampled and fused with something powdery and gray. Lust’s scent was everywhere—cologne, sweat, that weird watermelon soup thing they used on their clothes, only now it was laced with the sharp metal of dying.

He screamed their name, raw and desperate. “LUST! ANSWER ME!”

Nothing. Just the empty alley, flowers crumpled and leaking dye, the dull throb of a city that didn't give a shit.

Red dropped to his knees, clawing at the ground, desperate to find something, anything. His vision warped. His hands were shaking.

He let out another scream, wordless this time, a sound that tore at the walls and set off three different car alarms nearby.

For a moment, time held still. Then, slowly, his senses started to trickle back: the smell of burning magic, the echo of his own voice, the way his collar—Lust’s dusty collar—felt in his hand.

Red hunched over, panting. He gathered the flowers—what was left of them, anyway—and pressed them to his face. It didn’t help. The memory of Lust’s laughter, their endless, annoying puns, their gentle fingers, was so loud it drowned out the rest of the world.

Red rocked back and forth, teeth clenched, eyes shut. He remembered what he'd told Mazie: "Do you miss it?" "Nah." He was such a goddamn liar.

Someone shouted in the street. Red ignored it. He stayed there, cradling the remains, until the pain became something solid, something he could almost use.

He was still there when the blue-and-red lights began to reflect off the alley walls, and the first sirens started to scream.

In his haze, he only dimly noticed the crowd forming at the mouth of the alley—phones up, recording, a chorus of gasps and shrieks whenever his magic crackled. Blue uniforms started to pepper the edges, their faces tight with panic and disgust. A cop tried to step forward, brandishing a nightstick like it meant something, and Red just growled, a low, animal noise. The officer wisely retreated.

Red pressed the phone—Lust’s collar, now—hard to his forehead. He wanted to feel their magic in it. Lust phone was laying in the dust the screen was shattered, but still flashed with an incoming call.

“Dance,” the screen read, a selfie of the idiot grinning dabbing. The photo was blurred, but the caller was persistent, the ringtone a jangle of old-timey piano and cat yowls. Lust’s doing, obviously. Red could almost hear them, somewhere, making fun of it.

He ignored the call. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Instead, he curled into himself, hunched around the dust, and let the pain eat him alive. His magic surged and dimmed, every pulse another reminder that he had failed to protect, failed to save, failed to even say goodbye.

Police were shouting now, louder, closer. A bullhorn: “Step away from the ground! Hands in the air!” The collar around Red’s neck pulsed with a warning, Dance searching for an answer as to what was wrong.

A rock hit the back of Red’s head. Someone in the crowd who knew the odds, maybe, or just liked kicking a monster when he was down. Red didn’t turn. He was busy holding onto what little he had left.

Another cop, braver or stupider than the rest, made a play for the phone. “Sir, you need to—” Red’s magic lashed out, a whipcrack of bones that sent the cop’s stumbling backwards. The crowd screamed, scattered, then reformed like a school of fish.

Red rocked back and forth, the grief coming in waves, drowning out all else. He remembered Lust’s voice, the way they said his name—teasing, loving, sometimes so soft it hurt. He remembered the first time they’d held hands, the first time Lust had trusted him with a secret, the first time they’d laughed until Red thought he’d die from joy.

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to.

The phone went quiet. Then, a beat later, it started up again. this time Red’s phone—Dance was nothing if not relentless. Red let it ring, let it buzz against his leg in his pants, let it fill the space where Lust should have been.

The alley was full now, cops and onlookers and the blare of emergency sirens. But Red didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He sat there in the dirt and dust, a relic from a lost war, a monster who couldn’t save what he loved. His magic ebbed and sparked, blue flares lighting up the gathering dusk.

In the end, it was the dust that broke him. A handful, clinging to his palm, soft as memory, delicate as hope. He pressed it to his face, smeared a bit of the dust into his bones, and howled for all the things he couldn’t fix.

The phone kept ringing.

Chapter Text

It was late. Too late, honestly, and Dance had been here so long he felt like a pit stop painting: layers of old solvent and new dust, immortalized in a haze of oil and over-caffeinated sweat.

The auto shop was silent except for the clockwork drip of transmission fluid into a chipped milk jug. The fluorescent lights flickered as if they had a beef with the darkness.

This particular car had gotten in a love bite with a parking meter and lost, but Dance wasn’t one to kink shame. He polished the metal in slow, hypnotic arcs, the same way he’d once traced the ridges of lust’s jaw with his thumb, or the long scar bisecting Red’s spine. He wondered, as he always did when the night got long and the world got quiet, if the car remembered the impact.

Probably not. That was a living thing, the remembering.

Dance liked the work. It was honest; it didn’t ask questions, and it paid enough to afford two and a half monthly dates with his boyfriends and the occasional donut run for the local dogs. He wore his blue hoodie, sleeves shoved up past bony elbows, and his shoes. He always wore the bell collar Red gave him.

He looked at the clock: 5:38. He had planned to be done by six, home soon after that, with enough time to pick up flowers or at least a six-pack for tomorrow’s disaster-versary. It wasn’t a real holiday, but Red insisted it counted (“If we all lived through the year, we get cake. Or alcohol. Or both. That’s the rule, kitten.”).

He sanded the Civic’s scrape one last time, then bent to inspect the finish. Not perfect, but passable. “You’re beautiful now, baby,” he crooned, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure the shop was still empty. It was. He wiped his hands on a rag and pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Lust’s contact.

He could text. He could port home right now and show up early, maybe even surprise them both for once. But Dance lingered, watching the black screen, waiting for the buzz of a new message that never came. For a minute, he thought about calling Red, but that was a minefield. If he called, Red would say, “What’s wrong, kitten?” and if he said “nothing,” Red would know he was lying.

Besides, Dance was fine. He really was. The shop was safe. He’d learned to keep his head down, and if that meant missing a few hours with his found family, so be it.

The radio on the wall, ancient and permanently tuned to human news, spat static between headlines. Something about the protests and violence downtown. Dance tuned it out, like always. He had enough scars. He didn’t need any new ones.

He slipped the buffer back into its drawer, ran a damp cloth over the counter, and double-checked the front door. The lock was good; the alarm was armed. He stretched, vertebrae cracking, and rolled his shoulders until his scapulae almost touched. Then, for the hell of it, he stuck a whoopee cushion under the boss’s chair and giggled like a six-year-old. Some habits die hard.

Dance sat for a moment on the office stool, legs swinging, hoodie riding up to show a sliver of the gray T-shirt underneath. He liked the way it felt — the fabric soft with age, the way it clung to his bones like a second skin. Lust had picked it out, saying it matched his “aesthetic,” whatever that meant. Dance suspected Lust just enjoyed taking clothes off him.

He wondered if Lust was home already. Maybe. Lust always claimed to be late, but the guy kept time like a Swiss watch—never a minute off schedule. It was uncanny, and a little infuriating. Dance wanted to believe Lust was on their way, but something in his gut said otherwise.

He scrolled on his phone, rereading old texts:

LUST: [If you get oil on that collar, I’ll lick it off myself. Don’t test me.]

RED: [Home by six. Don’t be late, or I’ll come and drag ya home.]

It made him smile. Dance had never thought he’d be the kind of skeleton to have a boyfriend, let alone two. But here he was: emotionally stunted, and still sending heart emojis like an idiot.

He flipped off the radio, pocketed his phone, and made his way out to the back lot. The night was bitter, the sky low and smudged with pollution, but Dance didn’t mind.

As he walked down the street, he was out of sight of the cameras. He tried to picture what Lust would look like tomorrow—would they wear the leather vest, or go soft in a sleeveless top?

He pressed his forehead to his hand, the leather cold of his gloves slightly sticky. “Don’t mess it up,” he whispered. “Just be cool, okay?”

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice the flicker of magic from the collar, or the faintest taste of ozone that came with it. He was too busy missing Lust, wishing Red would call. He had a long night ahead, and he needed to get home before the world changed again.

Dance was home with a snap of ozone. He slung his bag onto the couch, then flopped face-first onto the battered recliner Lust had rescued from a curb two months back. The upholstery smelled like home—coffee, mildew, and that sharp tang of ozone that came with monster magic. He sprawled, limbs akimbo, and let the world blur at the edges.

He was about to text Red (“Survived another shift, still hot, see you soon”) when the collar went tight around his throat.

Not literally—Dance wasn’t a rookie; he knew the difference between hardware and hex work—but the magic in the blue leather band squeezed, cold at first, then boiling. It tasted like fear, bitter and slick, and it pressed into him from the inside out.

Dance sat up, rubbing the metal bell at his neck. The feeling only got worse. His vision narrowed. The next breath came short, shallow, as if someone had swapped his lungs for balloons and let the air out.

He tried to think it through—had Red ever freaked out like this before? Sure, the guy had his moments, but this wasn’t a “someone cut me off in traffic” panic. This was full-blown terror, the kind that set fire to the nerves and melted the rational brain to goo.

Dance stood. Or tried. The room tilted, and he caught himself on the arm of the chair, fingers digging into the cheap faux-velvet. “Red?” he said out loud, just to check if his voice still worked. It came out as a croak.

He fumbled his phone from his jeans, thumbed open Lust’s number. It rang. And rang. And then, voicemail, Lust’s voice smug and lazy: “If this is you, babe, I’ll call you back. If it’s a telemarketer, get bent.” A click.

Dance exhaled, shaky. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, stabbing Red’s name. Red always answered. It was a rule, or a promise, or maybe just codependency. But this time the phone went to voicemail on the first ring, and Red’s message was blunt as a hammer: “You know what to do.”

He was out of breath. Which made no sense, given he didn’t actually need to breathe, but his body didn’t care about that right now. The collar felt like it was burning into his bones, and the panic through it was a double helix of ice and static.

He had a thought through the fog: This is what dying feels like.

He laughed, or tried to, but it turned into a cough. Then a sob. The tile floor under him was cold, but his bones were on fire. He clawed for the coffee table, reached it, and propped himself up, forehead pressed to the rough wood.

“Shit,” he said, which didn’t help, but it was all he had. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He called Lust again. Same result.

He texted:

[Where are U?]

[Getting something weird from the collar. U ok?]

RED’s not answering.

[Tell me you’re with him.]

No response.

Dance squeezed his sockets shut, focusing on the link in the collar. He wasn’t as good as Red at tracking. Dance never had any real reason to do it. He took a deep breath, focusing on the sense-memory that was Red’s magic: alcohol and smoke, that faint coldness that lingered around him like his well-used leather jacket. But what came through now was suffocating, a pressurized scream on loop. The taste of it made Dance’s teeth hurt. Made his ribs rattle.

He tried Red’s phone one last time. He didn’t even get to voicemail.

The collar went hot. Dance yelped, lost his grip, and collapsed fully onto the floor, cheek pressed against the linoleum. He rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and waited for the feeling to either kill him or pass. His empathic gift, a double-edged sword, amplified every iota of pain, rendering each breath a struggle.

It just got worse. Something was hellishly wrong.

After what felt like years, he managed to crawl upright, scrabbling for the edge of the kitchen counter. He made it barely, using his elbows and knees, dragging himself along like the world’s least dignified slug. The bell on his collar clanged against the cabinets with each desperate lurch.

Finally, he made it to the bathroom. He yanked open the medicine cabinet, not because he needed drugs—he was beyond that—but because he needed something to focus on, a ritual, a tether.

“Come on, Lust,” he whispered. “Call me back. Red needs us.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed, and for a second he thought it was a miracle. But it was just an alert, a news update.

He sagged to the bathroom floor, knees drawn to his chest, and rocked there.When the next wave of magic hit, it didn’t knock him out, but it made him want to puke. He clutched his ribs and focused on breathing, even though it was pointless.

He thought of Red, of the time they’d watched old musicals together and Red had laughed so hard he’d nearly coughed up a lung. He thought of Lust, of their wonderful, sexy, perfect smile, and the way they always knew how to fix everything.

Dance tried the phone one last time. Still nothing.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried not to scream.

He was alone. But he wasn’t going to stay that way.

He ground his teeth, forcing the pain down, lying to himself, “This is nothing compared to the underground.” Dance crawled out of the bathroom, dragged his hoodie over his head, and staggered for the door. The idea of porting made his stomach roll, but he had to find them. He had to fix it.

He squared his shoulders, took a shaky breath, porting to the city in the direction he felt the connection from.

The world did that thing when dance couldn’t be focused on a landing, right before a port—folded, squashed, then snapped back with a vengeance. Dance landed hard on his feet, but the whiplash through the collar nearly dropped him straight to his knees. The air tasted of icy violence and static; he barely had time to orient himself before a second, nastier pulse of Red’s pain extinguished his eyelights and almost knocked him flat.

There was a small dead street, lights flickering over the same cracked asphalt as always. But tonight there was something different—a sound, like the low drone of a crowd trying not to panic, punctuated by the harsh pop of radios and the shrill whine of police sirens. It wasn’t just background noise; it was a wall, pressing in from all sides, making the world too small to breathe.

Dance caught himself on a utility pole and tried to shake the overstimulation out of his skull. It didn’t work. The next step forward was like walking underwater, every bone in his body heavy with Red’s agony and the anxiety of the crowd. He gritted his teeth, forced his legs to move, if nothing else Dance was a stubborn bastard.

He rounded the corner and saw the mess: two cruisers, lights painting the alley in wild blue and red, and a knot of people pressed against a line of police tape. There were cameras too—phones and news crews, some recording the chaos, others just gawking. At the center of it all, half-shielded by the hunched backs of three officers, was a flash of black leather and a shock of red magic.

Red. He was on the ground, cradling something, magic flaring in tight, violent pulses that made the air shudder with the iciness of it. Every time it sparked, the nearest humans flinched, like they were waiting for him to snap.

Dance tried to push through the crowd. He didn’t make it far before a cop in riot gear stepped in front of him, hand out, palm flat. “Back up,” the cop said. “Scene’s closed.”

Dance’s vision tunneled, eyelights narrowed to pinpricks. “That’s my boyfriend,” he said proudly, relieved his voice didn’t break. “He needs me. What the fuck happened?”

The officer held up both hands, as if that would help. “Look, we can’t—he’s not safe right now—”

Dance squared up, bone to badge. “He’s not safe because you assholes won’t let anyone help. Move.”

A second cop, the fell monster who let Dance in, called over. “Let him try. That one is connected to him,” The cop knew what the collar meant. “We’re not getting through to him anyway.” The first cop hesitated, then stepped aside, still keeping a wary eye on the blue fire crackling around Dance’s collar.

Dance ducked under the tape, nearly tripping over a fallen tripod, and skidded into the cleared circle where Red hunkered in the dirt.

For a split second, Red didn’t register him. The guy was gone, eyelights extinguished, his mouth contorted in a grimace of raw, primal agony. Clutching onto something—a tangle of fabric and dust—and rocking like he was trying to shake the world back into place.

Dance collapsed to his knees, the impact jarring but irrelevant compared to the ache in his chest. He reached for Red, but the magic snapped at him, electric and mean.

“Red,” Dance said, gentle as he could. “It’s me. It’s Dance. I’m here.”

Red’s eyelights flickered, unfocused, but the magic softened, just a bit. He didn’t let go of the bundle in his lap.

Dance crawled closer, the ice off Red’s soul magic making the air frosty. “You've gotta let me help, big guy. Please.”

The cops started to close in, but the older one waved them off. “Let’s see what happens.”

Red shuddered, then finally looked up. His sockets were empty, hollowed out by grief, but he blinked once, twice, and some small part of him came back to life.

Dance reached for him, and this time the magic let him through. He touched Red’s shoulder, then slid down, curling up beside him, their skulls almost touching.

The rest of the world faded—the crowd, the noise, the cops. It was just them, hunched together in the debris of a disaster, neither willing to let go.

Red didn’t let go of the dust, not even when Dance curled around him and pressed their skulls together. The stuff covered Red’s hands, sifted into the cracks between his metacarpals, and clung to the battered sleeve of his jacket. It was gray, with odd flecks of color—something between bone meal and powdered heartbreak.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. The crowd and the cops and the freezing night air were far away, barely a rumor in the alley’s gloom.

Dance reached for Red’s wrist, slow and careful. The magic that had once been Red’s anger, his signature violence, guttered out as soon as Dance’s fingers touched him. Instead, there was just emptiness, a static hum like a phone with no signal. Dance understood it. He felt it.

Red’s teeth were clenched so tight the enamel had started to flake. He looked at Dance, then back down at the little heap in his lap, and shook his head like a dog trying to lose an old chain.

“Red,” Dance whispered. “Please. Talk to me. What happened?”

Red tried to answer, but the words stuck. He let out a low, animal sound—closer to a sob than anything Dance had ever heard from him—and pressed his fists into his own ribs. The dust smeared, leaving streaks across his chest.

Dance looked down, and that’s when he saw it: the strip of purple leather, stained and frayed, the jacket Lust wore. It was half-buried in the pile of ash and still warm to the touch. Next to it was a tuft of turquoise and purple fabric, and a pile of dust.

Dance’s heart stopped. He reached for the jacket, then thought better and left it where it lay.

Red was shaking. His whole body quaked, a vibration from the inside out. “They’re gone,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. “I tried. I was too late. I—” He choked, eyelights flaring and then fading to nothing.

Dance’s own lights flickered. Then, without warning, they went out entirely. He let his head drop against Red’s shoulder and just stayed there, bone to bone, a dead weight.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Some dumb pun about how Lust would haunt them for this, or how they always were the life of the party. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing funny about it.

He reached up, fingers trembling, and drew Red closer. Red stiffened for a second, then sagged, letting Dance support what little was left of him.

“L- lust,” Dance managed, and the sound of the name made him physically sick. “That’s—no. No, no, no—”

Red just shook his head, not in denial but because there was nothing else to do. He crushed the collar in his palm and brought it up to his face, breathing in like it might bring Lust back by scent alone. The motion was so desperate, so pathetic, that Dance almost started laughing. Instead, he cried.

He didn’t remember collapsing fully, but the next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the floor, Red’s arms locked around him and the two of them wrapped up in each other, shaking and ruined. The cold didn’t matter. The crowd didn’t matter. There was just this: a hole in the world, shaped like the only person who’d ever made both of them feel complete.

Dance tried to say it again—tried to speak Lust’s name—but all that came out was a sharp, broken noise.

He squeezed Red’s shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. “I’ll get them. Whoever did this—I’ll get them. I promise.”

Red’s answer was a hiss, a growl, a snarl of grief that crackled out and then died.

They stayed there, tangled and silent.

The cops came in slowly, hands out like they were trying to subdue a wild animal. The older one from before bent low, voice barely above the static of the radio chatter.

“You okay, sir?”

Red didn’t look up. He ran a thumb over the leather of Lust’s collar, the motion mechanical, like he might polish it back to life.

Dance answered for him, voice thin and far away. “We’re not okay. Is that—are you guys gonna—?”

“Ma’am—uh, sir—uh—” a human cop knelt next to the fell officer, tripping over the pronoun but not daring to correct himself. “We have to ask a few questions. Just for the record.”

Red’s head jerked up. His eyelights, which had been pinpricks, exploded into red fire. “Someone killed our Lust. Our boyfriend,” he said, the words slurred with fury. “You fuckers wanna help? Find them. Before I do.” He spat the last word like a threat, which it was.

The officer paled. “We’re, uh, we’re working on it. We just need to get some info—”

Red stood up, hauling Dance with him, both of them caked in alley grit and the scent of lost magic. The cop reached out, but Red bared his teeth, and the hand retracted like it had touched a bear trap.

“We’re done here,” Red snarled.

He grabbed Dance by the wrist, Lust’s collar still in his fist, and marched them down the alley. They didn’t look back.

At the end of the street, where the crowd thinned and the news cameras found other faces to exploit, Red stopped. His entire frame shook, the effort of holding himself together obvious in every line of his body.

Dance said nothing. He just leaned into Red’s side, letting his own weight do the talking.

Red took a long, shaky breath, then ported them both home.

The apartment was dark and empty. They landed hard, staggered, and collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor. Red dropped Lust’s collar on the table, stared at it like it might bite him.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Dance reached out, handshaking, and covered Red’s with his own.

The city outside screamed with sirens and headlines, but inside the apartment, all was silent. Red and Dance sat together in the dark, not moving, clinging to the only piece of Lust they had left.

It wasn’t enough. But it would have to do.

Chapter Text

Dance wandered the perimeter of their apartment like a wraith, barefoot, the cheap carpet grinding soft grit into his phalanges. Every other step, his bell-collar rattled—a sad cat toy for an audience of none. He kept his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed in his hoodie, not from cold, but to keep them from shaking. In the old human country, you wore white for mourning. Here, Dance wore blue, faded and pilled, like a bruise you couldn’t massage out.

He made it halfway past the TV stand before a snapshot snagged his attention. Lust, grinning hard enough to threaten their own cheekbones, with an arm around Red’s neck and a plastic tiara jammed over one eyelight. The photo was stuck in a frame shaped like a heart, an ugly garage-sale find Lust had insisted was “aesthetically wonderful.” Dance pressed his palm to the glass. It was colder than the air, colder than his bones. He imagined the memory underneath radiating warmth, and the tremor ran all the way to his fingertips. He bit back the whine that tried to escape.

The apartment was full of Lust. Not just the artfully scattered accessories—sunglasses on the cupboard, the dumb moose head on the hallway hook—but in the arrangement of the furniture, the crooked alignment of the rugs.

Red watched from the kitchen archway, as still and gray as a moonlit statue. He had two mugs in his hands—iced tea, clinking with the last of their fancy freezer cubes. The condensation slipped down the ceramic, gathering in a ring on the counter before Red moved, slow and deliberate, to set both on the coffee table. He left a trail of droplets like breadcrumbs. Dance heard the click of ceramic on wood, and the careful exhale Red used when words weren’t working.

Red cleared his throat, a sound that could have sandblasted the enamel off the teacups. “Figured you might want something cold,” he said, low and weirdly formal, like a waiter at a funeral. “Neither of us has been in the mood. I’m sorry, kitten. I’ll take care of you tonight though.”

Dance drifted to the couch and sat. The cushions let him sink deeper than physics allowed, like the whole thing had gone soft from grief. He wrapped his fingers around the mug’s rim and stared at the melting ice, letting the chill seep up his carpals. He tried to say “thanks,” but it came out a half-rattle, half-laugh, immediately devoured by the room’s hush. He tried again. “Thanks, Red.” It was the first words Dance had managed to say in days. His voice sounded like a stranger’s.

Red hovered a second, then settled next to him. The springs groaned. The tips of Red’s shoes—one untied, one double-knotted—knocked against the table leg, a sound like metronome ticks for the world’s slowest breakdown.

They sat side by side, hips nearly touching. Heat almost bellowing off Dance, but neither reached out. The only contact was Red’s knee, which, after a moment, found Dance’s slipper and rested against it, the pressure tentative as a child’s first handshake. Red looked down at the floor, teeth pressed together in a hard line, and spoke to the rug. “We don’t have to talk,” he said, voice even lower. “If you can’t.”

Dance’s foot kept tapping, a slow Morse code in the silence. The smell of herbs—sage, maybe, or something else Lust had claimed to “liberate the aura”—hung in the air, faint but everywhere. The diffuser was off, but the scent lingered, as if the air itself was stubbornly refusing to forget.

They could go days like this, Dance knew. Moving through the apartment as shadows, orbiting each other, only occasionally colliding. They’d never been good at explaining themselves. Lust had always translated for them—unpacking Dance’s emotions and silence for Red, distilling Red’s gruff actions for Dance, knowing when to push and when to leave well enough alone. Now, without Lust, the air felt crowded with unsent messages.

Dance sipped the tea. It was too cold, and he’d loved watermelon, but right now everything just tasted like ash, but he held it in his mouth anyway, just for the icy chilly feeling. “You don’t have to babysit,” he said, as softly as possible.

Red snorted. “Shut up,” but there was no bite in it. He leaned back, arms folded, gaze locked on a spot six inches above the TV. “S’my house too, and you're my pet.”

Dance, let that sit. He watched the ice bob in his mug. “You ever think Lust is watching us?” he said. “Like, literally? Just judging every single thing we do, now?”

Red’s eyelights flickered, but he didn’t look over. “Nah. Lust would haunt the strip club, not us.”

This got a ghost of a smile from Dance, just at the corner of his jaw. “Fair.”

They sat some more. The clock on the microwave glared 4:32, the digits green and unforgiving. In the old days, 4:32 to day was the plan for pre-party for their disaster-versary. Lust would be in the shower, Red would be in the kitchen prepping snacks, and Dance would be setting up the movie. It was supposed to be their disaster-versary. Instead, they were a party of two, commemorating with silence and tea.

Dance couldn’t stop replaying it—the alley, the sirens, the dust. Lust had died as they’d lived: too bright, too sudden, and with a bouquet in hand. Red had tried to save them, had nearly destroyed downtown doing it. Dance had arrived too late, and now every tick of the clock felt like a penalty.

Red finally broke the quiet. “Do you want me to call your brother?”

“No,” Dance said, too fast. He regretted it, but didn’t correct it . The last thing he wanted was pity. Or worse, company. He just wanted, Lust. Will Red and Lust.

Red nodded, like he’d expected it. He reached for his own tea, stared into it, and set it down again. It wasn’t his favorite tea. He had made it to cheer up, his kitten. Then he did something—he reached over, placed his hand on Dance’s thigh, and left it there. The chill of it shocked Dance more than any hug could have.

“You’re allowed to be fucked up, you know,” Red said, not looking at him.

Dance blinked. “You too.”

Red’s grip tightened a fraction. “...”

Dance looked down at the hand, the big clumsy bones, the way Red’s thumb flexed against his jeans. It would have been easy to make a joke—something about hands-on therapy, or how Lust would be jealous—but the words formed and dissolved like smoke. He wanted to pull away. To just wallow in his misery, yet did neither, letting the weight rest there, too exhausted to decide if the contact was comfort or intrusion.

He let his foot tap, slow and steady, until the rhythm matched the pulse of magic in Red’s wrist. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to convince him they were both still here. It helped just a bit to ease his soul.

The sun shifted outside, painting the room with pale, washed-out light. The photographs on the mantel looked back at them, endless grins and garish frames, and for a moment, Dance swore he heard Lust’s laugh in the way the pipes knocked under the floor.

He finished the tea in two long swallows. Red’s hand stayed where it was.

He squeezed Red’s hand, just once, and let his head rest against the back of the couch. The world outside was still broken, and Lust was still gone, but here, at least, there was company in the emptiness.

They stayed like that, silent and side by side, until the clock on the microwave hit 6:00 and the sun went down for real.

Red kept the house moving. He kept Dance from melting. Now Dance was living in the shower, using every towel in the house, as a coping skill, as he tried to stay cool. Red didn’t mind at all. The washing machine became his punching bag, a way for him to cope; every armful of towels heaved into the drum was a small-scale exorcism. The hallways grew humid with the scent of wet cotton and detergent, a cheap, chemical armor against the persistent sweetness of Lust’s diffusers. Red sorted the laundry without thinking, never mixing Dance’s hoodies with his own shirts, never letting Lust’s old clothes into the load. The purple vest stayed on the hook by the door, untouched and somehow heavier than everything else combined.

At 11:00 sharp, Red rapped on the bathroom door. “Lunch in fifteen.” His voice had a sadness in it, even when he tried to sand the edge down.

Dance emerged a few minutes later, hood up, jeans slouching low, a belt only half-threaded through the loops. He felt empty inside. Dance knew he shouldn’t, but he did. Every time Red took care of him, it felt like a knife. He should care. Grief was a bitch. His face was scrubbed clean, but there were ghostly streaks down the zygomatics—a trail of tears, or maybe just sleep-deprivation. He hovered in the doorway, refusing to cross into the kitchen, like there was a force field around Red’s territory.

Red was making Dance want to live. It felt like a betrayal of Lust. Even though he knew Lust would want him to live after their death.

Red filled the silence by clanging every pot in the house. He dug out a saucepan, boiled water, and spooned in the instant porridge Lust had insisted on bulk-buying, “for when i need to cook only.” This seemed Red wanted Lust here too, but Red still muttered curses at the bland, pasty slop as it burped and popped on the stove.

He split the meal between two chipped bowls—blue for Dance, white for himself. The blue one had a spiderweb crack down the side, courtesy of Lust’s attempt to teach Dance how to juggle. Red set it across from Dance’s seat, then banged his own bowl down, harder than he meant to. The sound echoed off the kitchen tile, sharp as a slap.

Dance didn’t move. He was at the windowsill, tracing infinity loops in the layer of dust that had already resettled overnight.

“Eat something,” Red said, not quite a command. “You’ll feel better.”

Dance shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Besides, I’ll just get sick again.” The depression was making it harder to keep food in Dance. His voice was threadbare, the vowels stretched out like a slow-motion car crash.

Red’s jaw flexed. He wrapped both hands around his own bowl and shoveled in a bite, chewing as if it were penance. “Suit yourself,” he managed, but he didn’t finish more than a quarter before pushing the dish away, then pulling Dance into his lap.

“What the fu-?!” Dance protest was cut off by a spoonful of goop being shoved into his mouth.

“Yah, need to eat, kitten. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of ya.” Red said.

Embarrassment painted Dance's face. “Asshole.”

Red offered anther bit, and Dance took it resentfully. Honestly, he just couldn’t bring himself to fight right now.

They spent the afternoon in separate orbits. Dance retreated to the bedroom, or the balcony, or sometimes just the floor. Red kept himself busy: folding, cleaning, stacking, resetting the same three objects on the entryway table until his fingers went numb. He fixed the broken latch on the bathroom door, using up half a tube of glue and cursing the entire time. The work helped, but not enough.

At dusk, Red found himself standing in front of the hall closet, hand on the doorknob. He debated for a long time before opening it. Lust’s shoes were lined up on the lowest shelf, four pairs—platforms, boots, scandalous heels, even a pair of sequined sneakers. None of them would ever move again. Red stood there, silent, until the chill of the hallway bit into his legs. Then he shut the door harder than necessary.

Dance was in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the rug. He was building something—a tiny tower of bottle caps and coins, balanced on a coaster. It listed to one side, but Dance’s hands were steady. Red watched him for a full minute, then walked into the entryway and yanked on his own boots.

The leather jacket went on last.

Dance didn’t look up, but his voice followed Red down the hallway. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Red grunted. “No promises, kitten.”

He stepped into the alley, the city pressing in on all sides. Rain had fallen sometime in the afternoon, and now the asphalt glistened under the streetlights, every puddle a cracked mirror. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet, considering the news cycle and the fact that monsters had a fresh bullseye painted on their backs.

Edge had told Red a monster hate group member had killed Lust. Red remembered a human with a leather jacket with writing on it. At the time, he had been too busy looking for Lust to realize what that meant.

Red stalked through the maze of back streets, ignoring the way every window seemed to squint in his direction. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, but inside, the magic prickled, eager for a fight, looking for the human protesters.

He hit the old district first, the bars and corner shops that hadn’t bothered with renovation. The monster district. Lust had liked this part of town. Red checked the alleys, the dumpsters, the shadowed doorways where scumbags liked to smoke and gloat. He moved with purpose, checking each haunt and dead end.

Nothing. No scent, no scrap of fabric, not even the adrenaline taste of violence still hanging in the air.

He pushed on, letting instinct guide him. Every so often, he’d see a spray-painted symbol on a brick wall: the “PURITY NOW” logo, sometimes X’d out with monster glyphs, or the delta ruin. Red spat at each one, just on principle.

He made it to the warehouse district as midnight rolled in. The sky was the color of old bruises. In the distance, police sirens flared, then faded. Red walked the perimeter of a storage lot, eyeing the loading bay where Lust had once talked a nicecream vender into selling him a few bars. Just by flirting and a five-dollar bribe.

He missed them so much it made his dust hurt.

He paced the block, then doubled back. He saw nobody—no stalkers, no gunmen, no ghosts. Red dug in his pocket and fingered the strip of purple leather he’d brought from home. Lust’s collar, powdery at the ends. He held it to his face, inhaled, and let the anger roll through him, raw and electric.

He’d find the bastard who did this. He’d make them regret it.

Red took the long way home, through the park where Lust had once tripped and faceplanted into a flowerbed. He paused by the playground, staring at the empty swings. The wind made them creak, an eerie, bone-on-bone music.

He imagined Lust sitting beside him, legs kicked out, head thrown back in laughter. He could almost hear them. “Stop brooding, sweetheart,” they’d say. “It’s not a good look on you.” Red smiled, then let the image dissolve.

He made it back to the apartment just before dawn. The city was waking up, or maybe it never really slept. Red slipped inside, boots silent on the mat.

Dance was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his skull, one hand cradling the remote like a security blanket. He was asleep, or as close as a grief-filled monster got to it. His face was slack, peaceful in the predawn gloom.

Red took off the jacket and dropped it over Dance. He watched Dance for a moment; the skeleton sighing and cuddling into the jacket, then Red crossed to the windowsill and wiped away the infinity loops. He drew a heart in the dust, just for the hell of it, then sat down at the table and waited for the sun.

He’d keep the house moving. He’d keep Dance safe, even if it meant burning down half the city to do it.

The rest could wait.