Archive of Our Own ^beta

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FEBRUARY EIGTH, 2023

7:39 PM

Hey Dearest,

I don’t even know why I’m writing this down. Feels stupid, like some diary shit I would’ve made fun of people for years ago. But you’re asleep right now, and I don’t think I’d get the words right if I tried to say them to your face. You’d just laugh, or brush it off, or worse—you’d look at me like I was making a big deal out of nothing. And, sure, maybe I am. Maybe I’m just overthinking again.

But things feel…different. You feel different. Like, not the same.

It’s not like you don’t love me—well, at least, I think you do. You smile when I put my arm around you, you let me kiss you in front of everyone, you hold my hand like you always have. But there’s something behind it now, like you’re somewhere else when I’m touching you. Sometimes when I talk, I see your eyes glaze over, like your mind’s a million miles away. And it just kills me, because I don’t know if I did something wrong. I can’t think of what, but maybe I just missed it. Maybe I said something careless, or maybe I’m not giving you enough, or too much. I don’t know. You’d tell me if it mattered, right?

It’s just. Ever since we became official, you’ve been acting so much more distant than usual. You weren’t like this when we were just dating. Did I do something wrong, my love? I just hope I didn’t hurt you.

To cope with it, I just tell myself you’re tired. That all this—the house, the vows, the rings—it’s a lot. Hell, I’m still getting used to it too. But then there are nights where you sit so still beside me I swear you’re made of glass, like if I breathe too hard you’ll shatter. And I don’t know how to hold you without cutting myself open.

I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this instead of saying it—I’m scared you’ll tell me what I already suspect. That I’m not enough to keep you here. That your silence isn’t just silence, it’s a wall, and I’ve been too blind to see it going up brick by brick. I’ve been told that a lot, so, I wouldn’t be surprised. Sorry, I don’t mean to push this onto you or anything.

Still, I’m holding onto hope. Because when you laugh, when you forget yourself for a second and lean into me without thinking—I swear it feels real. And that’s enough for me, ████████. Even if it’s just scraps, I’ll take them.

You’re mine. I meant that when I said it at the altar, and I’ll keep meaning it no matter what. Please don’t make me doubt that it meant anything to you too.

Forever yours, ██████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

FEBRUARY TWENTY-FIRST, 2023

3:14 PM

Dear ██████,

You’re ridiculous.

I hope you’re aware of that. Well, this must be serious—calling me by my username instead of that stupid nickname for once. That’s not the point, though. Here you are, writing me letters like I’m going anywhere, like I could ever want anything else. Do you hear yourself? Acting like you’re not enough—oh Telamon, if only you could see yourself the way I do.

You’re strong, you’re mine, you’re everything. My everything. That’s the truth. That’s all that matters, don’t you think? I don’t care what your head tells you when it gets too loud—I chose you. Out of everyone, you. Do you really think I’d waste my time on someone I didn’t love? Do you think I’d put on this ring, move into this house, let you hold me the way you do, if it didn’t mean something? Come on. Don’t insult me like that. Don’t insult us like that.

I get quiet sometimes. And what? That’s just me. You know I’ve always been like that—thinking, drifting, getting stuck in my head. It’s not about you. You don’t need to twist it into something it’s not. If I wanted distance, I’d take it. If I wanted out, I’d be gone. But I’m still here. I always will be. That should be enough for you, or do you want something else like always?

That’s the problem. You don’t trust what’s right in front of you. You keep looking for cracks, for something broken that isn’t there. But if you keep doing that, if you keep doubting me, then maybe you’ll end up breaking it yourself.

So stop. Just stop. Stop worrying, stop digging, stop writing me letters like you’re begging me to prove something I’ve already proved a hundred times over. Let yourself believe it. Let yourself breathe.

I love you, ██████. More than anyone else ever could. More than anyone else ever will. I don’t need to say it in ink to make it true.

Seriously. Making me write all this, and for what…

Don’t cry reading this,

████████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

JULY FOURTEENTH, 2023

7:48 AM

Hi Lovely,

You’re right. I am ridiculous.

You didn’t even have to say it, I know it already. Always poking holes where there aren’t any, always second-guessing the one thing I should never second-guess, you. I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. You deserve better than me treating your silence like it’s some kind of threat. It isn’t fair to you.

I read your words, and I keep going back to them, over and over. It’s just. They sound so certain. So final. Like if you wrote them in stone they’d last forever, and maybe that should be enough for me. And don’t get me wrong, most of the time, it is. But sometimes my head gets loud, like you said. I look at you, and you’re far away in some place I can’t reach, and I wonder what’s in there. I wonder if I’m supposed to ask.

You tell me not to dig, but I don’t think I can help it. Not when I love you like this. Not when I want to know every corner of you, even the dark ones you think don’t matter. I don’t care if they’re ugly. I’d take them all if you let me.

But I won’t push. You don’t have to explain yourself. If being here is enough for you, then I’ll believe it, like you asked me to. I’ll hold onto that until it feels real in my bones again. Because you’re right—I should trust what’s in front of me. And that’s you, always you.

Still, I hope someday you’ll let me in a little further. Not because I doubt you, or because I don’t trust you. Just because I love you. And because I want to be someone you don’t have to drift away from.

Actually, I think about that sometimes, you know. About loyalty. What it means, how rare it is.

People talk about it like it’s simple, like it’s just about sticking around when things are hard, but I don’t think that’s all of it. Loyalty is about faith. It’s about knowing that even when I can’t see the whole of you, even when you go quiet, I can still trust the silence to be yours. That’s what I feel with you.

It doesn’t matter if you keep secrets, love. I’m not asking you to spill them into my hands. We both carry things no one else could understand—things that’re heavier than they look. But, look, I know, deep down, whatever you hold back isn’t meant to hurt me. That’s enough. That’s everything to me.

I still remember, back then—maybe around ‘16–you mentioned you were going through something. It may be wrong for me to push, but even now, you never told me what it was. Is it still ongoing? Are you still hurt? Are you alright?

I think about that night sometimes, when I found you in the dark. You didn’t see me at first—I hadn’t meant to walk in. But there you were, sitting on the edge of the bed, head in your hands, and your shoulders shaking like the weight of the whole world was resting there. And then, just as quickly, you straightened, wiped your face, and pulled me close like nothing had happened. I didn’t say a word. I should have, maybe, but I couldn’t. You looked so fragile then, like if I touched that moment the wrong way, it would splinter into something I couldn’t put back together.

There were little things after that too. Quiet absences, your voice trailing off when I asked where you’d been, the way your smile sometimes faltered like it wasn’t made to last. I guess that’s what I was just originally trying to ask you. What happened?

Well, all those moments—I caught them all. You might think I didn’t, but I did. And yet, I never pressed you. Because if you wanted me to know, you would have told me.

Maybe that’s selfish, to want to be the one you turn to. But isn’t that what marriage is? Choosing someone to hand the worst parts of yourself to, and trusting them not to run? I can take it, ████████. Whatever it is, I can take it.

But if you never tell me, I’ll still stay. I’ll still love you, even in the shadows I’ll never understand. Because I don’t need to know everything to believe in you.

Sorry I got carried away. As I was saying, it’s foolish to put this much faith in someone. Maybe people would call me blind for it. But if that’s blindness, then I’ll take it. I’ll choose it again and again, because it’s you. If there’s anyone in this world I’d let myself fall into with my eyes closed, it’s you.

I know you’d never turn against me. I know you’d never take the ground from under my feet. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention—the softness in your eyes, the small smile you try to swallow before it shows. Don’t deny it. Those moments are the truest thing I’ve ever known. They’re proof enough for me.

Even if sometimes you seem far away, even if I can’t follow you wherever your mind drifts, I don’t need to. I’ll be here, waiting for when you come back down. And when you do, I’ll hold you steady. That’s what love is, isn’t it? Meeting each other where we are, even when it’s messy, even when it’s unfair.

So if you ever feel the urge to run, I hope you’ll remember that. Remember me, here, choosing you every time. I won’t waver. I won’t break. And I’ll keep believing in you, even in the spaces where you can’t believe in yourself.

That’s why I don’t worry, not really. Not in the deepest part of me. Because the ████████ I love—the one who says nothing and still says everything—he could never betray me.

See? Ridiculous. I’ll leave it there. You’ve probably rolled your eyes at me twice already. But I love you, ████████. Enough to write it down, even if you think I don’t need to.

Forever yours, ██████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

DECEMBER FIFTH, 2023

12:31 AM

Dear ██████,

I’m sorry.

I don’t know when the thought first crawled into my head. Maybe it was there from the beginning, like a seed that knew it would one day break open. You laughed like the world wasn’t ending, like we weren’t already doomed. I envied you for that. Hated you for it, even. How dare you carry sunlight when all I had was smoke.

It should have been simple. Just another task. I’m used to this sort of thing. You know that. I told myself I’d done worse, and I told myself it wouldn’t matter. But you were never just another. You were the one who reached for me, even when I kept my hands hidden. You said my name like it wasn’t a weapon. You made me think, for a moment, that I was more than what I’d built myself to be.

Do you know how dangerous that is? To make someone like me believe in softness? It’s crueler than any knife. The moment I felt it, I knew I’d have to destroy it.

I rehearsed it, over and over. Not the act—unfortunately, that came easy. But, the silence after. I imagined the air without your voice in it, the rooms without your chaos filling them. I tried to picture the emptiness, tried to swallow it whole before it could swallow me. But the truth is, I never could.

And yet, I still did it. My hands didn’t shake. My voice didn’t crack. If you’d seen me then, you would’ve thought I was stone. But inside, I was nothing but glass, splintering in a thousand directions at once.

I want to believe it meant something. That you meant something. That I wasn’t just another butcher writing poems over the grave I dug. Because if I let myself believe it was all hollow, then what am I but the hollow itself?

I think of your smile more than I should. The way it wasn’t clean or sharp like mine, but crooked, full of flaws, and so full of life. I hated that about you. I loved that about you. I don’t know where the line ends. Maybe it never did.

They’ll say it was betrayal. They’ll say I turned on someone who trusted—no— loved me. Maybe they’re right. But I’ve always thought betrayal is just another name for love that went too far. I’ve never truly believed in love, actually.

Ah, well, I’ll put it simply. Not the kind people talk about in books, or in films, where it’s gentle, unshakable, and most significantly—eternal. That kind of love is a lie people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. The only kind of love I’ve ever known is the kind that rots from the inside. The kind that claws at you until you can’t breathe without it, until you’d rather ruin everything just to keep it close.

Do you remember what I’d said to you in our final moments together? About devotion, and how it felt so similar to delusion? I do have more to add, if you’d care to listen.

What is love, if not obsession dressed up to look beautiful? What is loyalty, if not a knife waiting to be turned? I think maybe I loved you in the only way I could. By destroying you, by taking you with me when I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving first. If I couldn’t keep you, then at least I could ensure no one else would. That sounds monstrous, doesn’t it? But isn’t that all love really is? Wanting, hoarding, bleeding for someone until it’s impossible to draw the line between devotion and cruelty?

I’ve never believed in a love that makes you whole. Love doesn’t heal, instead, I believe it it festers. It infects. It makes you claw at your own skin, digging for answers you’ll never find. And yet, even knowing that, I let it consume me. I let it convince me you were mine, that I had the right to hold you, to hurt you, to hollow you out until the only thing left in you was my reflection.

Maybe that’s the only way I’ll ever love anyone. With teeth bared. With blood on my hands. With the knowledge that I’ll destroy them and myself in the process. And maybe that’s why you’ll never forgive me—because you deserved more than a love built out of ruin.

But it’s all I had to give.

Sometimes I hear you in my sleep, echoes of a laugh that doesn’t exist anymore. I wake up reaching for a body that isn’t there. My fingers close on air, and I remember what I’ve done all over again.

I tell myself I did it for mercy. That’s the story I cling to when the silence is too much. Mercy. As if there’s any mercy in tearing something beautiful apart because you’re afraid it might leave you first.

I ask myself, are you proud of me? I know you. That you’d still love me even after everything, because this is the one thing I’ve accomplished. You’d still find a way to celebrate your own death, wouldn’t you?

██████, this is my idea of an apology. I regret everything. At the same time, though—I don’t. I knew it had to happen. You caught on eventually, I noticed. You thought I didn’t. I carry that grief with me. You see the real me, beyond any pretense. I assume that’s what eventually made me fall for you. Though, my feelings caught on too late, didn’t they?

I wish I hadn’t done it. But, well, I’m known for messing up everything. Is it really that surprising? I wouldn’t believe so.

I can still picture your face when you looked at me, that mix of suspicion and love. How cruel it is, that you managed both so effortlessly. That was your strength, wasn’t it? To give yourself away even when you doubted me. To trust me with a heart I had no right to hold.

I replay it in my head—your laughter in the quiet, your hand resting against mine as though you believed I’d never drop it. Maybe, in some parallel place, I never did. Maybe you’re still there, somewhere, wearing the ring I slipped onto your finger with shaking hands, not knowing it would weigh heavier on me than it ever could on you. Wherever that place is, I wish the other me would’ve treated you better. In another life, we wouldn’t have ended like this. In another life, I’ll love you the same way you loved me.

I think of the way your voice cracked when you said my name. How you always said it like it mattered. No one ever has, not really. And, I guess that’s why it killed me—for once, I believed it. For once, I was more than the mask.

So why did I still do it? Why couldn’t I stop myself, even when every part of me screamed not to? Can you answer that for me?

No?

That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I wanted you to save me. And when you couldn’t, I made sure neither of us would walk away whole.

██████, I honestly don’t think I deserve forgiveness. Not yours, or anyone’s for that matter. I’ve messed up far too many times in life. But if there’s anything left of you listening, and, if ghosts can cling to paper and ink—then know this. I loved you. Belated, broken, poisoned as it was, I loved you.

And if you hate me, I’ll carry that too.

I’ll keep telling myself, once I’m done with this, once I’ve freed them, you’ll come back to me. You have to. It’s the only promise I can still believe in, even if it’s one I invented. Maybe that’s insane, even so what else do I have? I see your face in every pause between my thoughts, hear your voice in the silence after the swing. You’ve stitched yourself into me, and whether you’re gone or not doesn’t matter. You’ll answer me eventually, won’t you?

You always did.

I’ve built this idea in my head—that if I make things right, if I tear open the Banlands and rip them out of the jaws that tried to swallow them whole, then it’ll balance something. That you’ll meet me at the end of it, standing in the ruins with that tired, patient smile, and you’ll say, ‘You did it, ████████. You came through after all.’ And I’ll believe it, even if it’s just the echo of my own guilt wearing your voice.

I want to think you’re waiting, not gone. That maybe you’ve only stepped into another room, and once I’ve paid the price, I’ll be allowed in too. That the punishment ends, and I’ll find you on the other side with arms open, no matter what I’ve done.

It’s delusion, isn’t it? But it’s the only way I can keep going. If I let myself believe you’re really dead, then I’d have to admit I’m just a murderer writing love letters to a grave. I don’t think I’d survive that. I don’t have enough faith in me to believe that.

So I’ll tell myself you’ll come back when this is over. I’ll tear down the walls of the Banlands, and then I’ll wait. And I’ll keep waiting. Because you’re the only thing in this world I’ve ever wanted to wait for.

No one will ever read this. No one will ever know how heavy it feels, how light it was in the moment, how it both ruined and relieved me in the same breath. But I have to write it, because if I don’t, then it’s only in my head, and I don’t trust my head anymore.

Maybe this is my punishment—to keep talking to you in words you’ll never hear. To keep loving you in a way that only feels like grief.

Maybe this is all I was ever good at.

Sincerely, and—forever yours,

████████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The Darkheart slipped heavy from iTrapped’s fingers.

It cluttered uselessly onto the snow. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They wouldn’t stop. He pressed them down, hard, against the wound blooming across Chance’s chest, but the blood kept spilling between his fingers, soaking into the frost until the white was gone.

The snow had swallowed everything. His footsteps, his breath, the last scraps of warmth that clung to the air. The silence of it was suffocating. It pressed against iTrapped’s chest harder than the cold ever could. He could barely feel the sting of winter anymore; the only thing he felt was the handle of the Darkheart slick against his palm, trembling, slicked with blood that wasn’t his. He felt sick. His chest rose and fell in fragile jerks, his lips already paling, for a moment iTrapped almost let himself believe it wasn’t yet happening—that maybe this was another fever dream, another night where he could wake up and laugh at how absurd it was.

But then Chance coughed, the sound wet and thin, and the snow kissed the red from his mouth. It sent him straight back to reality. iTrapped’s grip tightened on the sword until his knuckles ached.

Chance’s breath came shallow, but steady. His lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “…Trapsy,” he rasped, low but uneven, “you’re trembling.”

iTrapped didn’t respond.

“Sit with me,” said Chance.

His knees hit the ground before he even realized he’d fallen. The weight of Chance’s body against the white earth left a cruel stain, crimson unfurling across the snow like spilled ink. He sank down beside him, knees digging into ice. His hands hovered, useless now, soaked red. He didn’t know where to put them—on the wound, on the snow, on him—so he just clutched at Chance’s arm, as though his grip could anchor him to the world.

“I didn’t think I’d do it.” iTrapped admitted, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “I never thought I genuinely had it in me.”

Chance’s laugh was barely there, a whisper through cracked lips. “Always planning… always calculatin’…” his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes catching snowflakes that melted into tears iTrapped hadn’t noticed were falling. “But, mm, not this, right?”

iTrapped turned his head to meet that golden gaze. But instead of shining, it looked dull. Dead. For a long moment, there was only the sound of snow falling, muffled and soft. Then Chance shifted, just barely, until his hand brushed iTrapped’s. His fingers were cold, weaker than iTrapped had ever known them, but steady enough to curl around his trembling knuckles.

“…I jus’want t’know one thing, before y’kill me,” Chance murmured. The silence lingered. The question hung in the icy air, and for a moment, iTrapped didn’t answer. He tilted his head, letting the snow fall on his lashes, watching how it melted into the faint crimson stains. Then he spoke, calm, eerily so, each word deliberate, measured. “Is it true—that—“ he coughed blood, “—it was all fake? Did y’truly not…love’m all this time?”

“I did.”

Chance’s eyes flickered, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite everything. “Y’did?”

iTrapped watched his blade for a moment, not because he needed to, but because looking at it let him keep from looking at Chance. Looking at Chance felt like standing too close to a cliff and pretending the drop didn’t exist.

Chance’s breath came slow enough to be counted. It left traces of mist over the pale planes of his face. The snow stuck to his lashes and didn’t melt. He looked absurdly peaceful, as if the weather itself had decided to grant him a small, ridiculous mercy. It was stupid—iTrapped thought. For the person Chance was, he’d never assumed he, of all people—would cherish someone else’s life over his own.

His fingers found Chance’s—cold, clutching—and he let them rest there while his other hand curled into the snow until the crystals bit his palm.

Chance’s eyes met his. Patient, but not perfectly; they still had limited time.

He could answer with a lie that would be clean and easy. He could answer with silence that would be cowardly and therefore functional. Instead he chose to be true in the only way he knew how, with a truth that hurt.

“Yes,” he finally said, and his voice was not the voice of the man who had plotted and bargained and used another’s life as a means to an end. It was quieter.

Natural, and not so plastic anymore.

“I loved you the way an ache loves the night—intimate, and hungry. I loved you as one loves an obsession. By disguising it as nobility.”

He watched Chance with the odd detachment of one watching film. Every flinch, every tilt of the mouth catalogued, preserved. Up close, the breath at Chance’s throat was a faint little thing. The blood that had warmed his hand minutes ago cooled quickly in the air, and it painted small, honest blooms across the snow. iTrapped’s mind kept returning to details—Chance’s half-smile when he thought iTrapped wasn’t watching, the small scar at his temple, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. Love, iTrapped thought, was a ledger that would not balance.

“What is love,” he went on, and the words sounded to him like an accusation more than an explanation, “if not desire braided into duty? What is loyalty, if not a blade kept sharp until it is aimed?” He let the questions hang, as if they might be answered by the wind. “I think I loved you in the only register I knew. I loved you by possession—by wanting you so completely that reason rearranged itself to suit that wanting.”

Chance’s hand tightened at that. “That sounds—mh—monstrous,” he muttered, and there was no anger in it—only the straightforward observation of a Robloxian coming to acceptance of his own end.

iTrapped’s laugh was nothing but a dry thing that cracked at the edges. “It is monstrous. My dear, monstrous is just another name for honest.” He kissed Chance’s knuckles carefully, as if physical gentleness could atone for everything. “I told myself I was saving you. I told myself I was preventing worse. The truth, however, is uglier. I could not have you whole and alive, I believed—so foolishly, pathetically—that I could at least keep you from being taken by someone else who did not deserve you. That I could carve you into a thing of me.”

There was a pause long enough for both of them to feel the length of it.

“It is easier,” said iTrapped in a tone that was almost casual, “to romance destruction than to admit the smallness of need. It’s easier to claim fate than to own hunger,” he watched a flake land on Chance’s temple and dissolve. “love, in my experience, does not heal. It corrodes. It convinces you to pry open places you shouldn’t and then lies about why you did it. You asked if I loved you. I loved you with teeth, with theft, with the certainty that I could not, in truth, be loved back in any decent way. I loved you by making the hunger more important than your life.”

Chance’s reply was a whisper, a small, human thing, followed by the softest of smiles. “Then y’loved badly.”

“Yes.” iTrapped didn’t blink. His face was composed. Inside, a current pulled at him. “Badly. With hoarding and fever. I loved you until I could not see anything else. I loved you until I turned the instrument of your taking into the instrument of your end.”

He felt the tremor then—not in his hands, which he managed to keep steady, but in his ribs, where something was unfastening. He acknowledged that too. The way his pulse thrummed against his neck; the way the Darkheart’s shadow lay angled across the snow like a question. This was the lifecycle of his love. Beautiful thought, obsessive practice, and, eventual ruin.

“Trapsy, promiss—eugh—promise’m one thing,” Chance mumbled, tightening his grip on the other’s hand.

iTrapped’s shoulders twitched. He didn’t have the strength to respond.

The faintest of smiles touched Chance’s face—the kind of smile someone gives when they finally understand a terrible thing fully. “Will I be your forever, always?”

For a moment, it was like the world paused around them. The only sound was the shallow, rattling breath between Chance’s words. iTrapped blinked, staring down at him—like if he looked away, Chance would disappear entirely. And, to be fair, soon enough, he would.

His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out, quiet but steady. “Of course. You already are.”

Chance’s chest rose shakily, then stuttered, a laugh breaking through, weak and broken. “Luh—Liar…”

iTrapped’s eyes burned. He shook his head, strands of blond falling into his face as he leaned closer. “I’m not a liar, Chance.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t pull away. “I—I…you’ll always be mine. And, I’ll always be yours. I’m forever yours, my Chancellor. Always.”

Chance’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something back—but the breath caught, shaky and uneven. His grip trembled in iTrapped’s hand, then loosened just slightly.

“Always,” iTrapped repeated, firmer this time, as if trying to tether him there with the word alone.

Honesty felt like an instrument pressed too close to the bone. iTrapped let his head bow, so near to Chance that he could feel the last shallow lift of his chest. He had rehearsed confessions in his mind like prayers—tidy, barbed sentences that would absolve and damn in equal measure. Now, stripped of performance, his confession was messier.

“I loved you,” he said again, not because he had to convince Chance but because he had to convince himself that the shape of that love was not a lie. “I loved you. I wouldn’t ask for your pardon. I do not deserve that mercy. I only…I—I only want you to understand.”

Chance closed his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw relaxed as if in relief. The answer lay somewhere between pain and comprehension. He knew the contours of things ruined by affection. He had loved, perhaps, in the ways iTrapped had not recognized. They had been two people using the same word for different violences.

The breath that left Chance then was longer than the rest, a small exhale like a last concession. “Then sit with me,” he murmured. “Sit, and be still. Let the cold be honest.”

So iTrapped sat. He let the world reduce to the weight of a body beside him, the dull companion of the Darkheart at his hip, the soft, relentless fall of snow. He held Chance close enough to remember the cadence of his heartbeat until that cadence stuttered and went still.

Chance’s fingers uncurled, slack with the surrender of veins emptied of warmth.

iTrapped stayed there for a long time after the last breath, while the Darkheart gathered a collar of frost and the snow blurred his footprints. He watched the moon etch pale lines across Chance’s face and tried to memorize the way his mouth had said simple things. He let the confession pulse through him until it thickened into something like a vow.

His throat closed up, words suffocating in the wreckage of his grief.

Tears blurred his vision until all he could see of Chance was a smear of color. He pressed his forehead against Chance’s, desperate, rocking ever so slightly as if movement could summon him back. The tears came in torrents, dripping into Chance’s still hair, his still cheeks, like maybe the salt of him could spark a miracle.

He had told himself for years he wasn’t capable of love, not really. That obsession was as close as he’d ever come. That ruin was his language of intimacy. But right here—holding the corpse of the only man who had ever dared to look at him like he was worth saving—he finally understood what love was. It was this pain. This unbearable, splitting ache. This sick, hollow pit opening inside him where Chance had lived.

Every memory stabbed. Every memory rewrote itself in blood.

“You said forever,” he sobbed, clutching Chance’s limp hand to his chest, pressing it against the frantic pounding of his heart. “You fucking said forever—didn’t you? You promised. You promised.” His voice broke so hard it was nearly a scream, but the cold didn’t echo back. The silence was merciless.

He kissed Chance’s knuckles, trembling lips dragging across skin that was already cooling. He didn’t even realize his tears were wetting them until he tasted the salt. His whole body shook, shoulders caving in on themselves, as if grief alone could collapse him into nothing.

“You idiot,” he whispered, brokenly, words splintering. “You stupid, fucking idiot. Why’d y’leave me? Why’d you—” His voice cracked again, dissolving into jagged sobs. He couldn’t finish.

He wanted to scream, to tear the walls down, to rip the world apart for daring to take his Chance away. But all he could do was clutch tighter, like a child clutching a toy they’d broken, unable to comprehend why it wouldn’t go back together.

For the first time in years, iTrapped wept without restraint. Not the silent kind, but, guttural, shaking sobs that scraped his throat raw. The kind of crying that ripped pieces of himself out with every breath. He buried his face into Chance’s chest, inhaling the fading scent of him like he could trap it inside his lungs forever.

He thought of every word he had ever said to Chance—every cruel, sharp one, every tender, fleeting one—and wanted to claw himself open. To give them back. To rewrite it all. To keep him.

But all that was left was silence.

Outside, the world continued with its indifferent rhythms. Inside him, the ruins were loud.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The bathroom mirror reflected a man Ellernate could hardly claim as himself.

He gripped the porcelain sink with both hands, knuckles white against it, as if letting go would send him plummeting through the tiled floor. His reflection looked wrong—eyes too wide, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t look like someone who could hold his own in a mission. He didn’t look like someone who could hold anything at all.

Chance’s name still echoed inside him, syllables carved into bone. Dead. That word had no edges, no blood, no scene to place it in. Just a hollow, irreversible fact. The absence of him loomed larger than any memory.

And iTrapped—oh Telamon, iTrapped—he still lingered like smoke. Ellernate couldn’t scrub the field from behind his eyes, the phantom of blossoms brushing his legs, the desperate clutch of fingers he had sworn never to let go of. iTrapped’s voice had wrapped around him like silk, tender and devastating.

But you know who did?

You.

He wasn’t sure if it was comfort or curse. Maybe both. Maybe that was the point.

The vibration of his phone shattered the fragile quiet. He jolted, breath hitching.

Ellernate stared at the message until the words blurred, until his reflection behind them doubled and warped. In all honesty, he’d lost track of time entirely. His chest caved with guilt so immediate it almost burned. Caleb was out there waiting, already calibrating contingencies in his head, already silently furious.

And Ellernate—he was here, sweating over ghosts in a stranger’s bathroom.

He felt like a jerk.

But, regardless, his thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

im sorry

Delete.

got delayed

Erased that too.

Everything felt flimsy, pathetic. Caleb would see straight through him, would taste the lie before it finished leaving his mouth.

Finally, he settled on the simplest string of words.

𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞

𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜

𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

Send.

The screen dimmed for half a breath before the reply came.

𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎???

𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎

𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍

𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚘

His stomach hollowed. He leaned back against the sink, palms braced against cold porcelain, eyes slipping shut. Caleb’s words weren’t angry—well, not in the obvious way. They didn’t need to be. That clipped brevity carried enough weight to crush.

He forced his eyes open again, met his own gaze in the mirror. The reflection that looked back wasn’t steady, wasn’t the Ellernate everyone counted on. He splashed cold water across his face, droplets streaking down his cheeks like a poor imitation of tears.

His phone buzzed again.

𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢

𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔

𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐

𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜

Ellernate’s throat closed. He raked his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots, trying to ground himself. It didn’t work. All he saw was iTrapped’s silhouette folding into the field. All he heard was Tree’s voice. He’s gone, Nate. Chance is gone.

What did it mean? What was the point of dragging himself through these revelations if they only left him emptier? If Chance was dead, then what thread was left to follow? Who was he fighting for now—himself, or a ghost he couldn’t even properly mourn?

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye until color bloomed red and purple behind his lids. His chest felt too small for all of it.

Finally, he gained the courage to type back.

𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎

𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎

The second the message sent, he knew he didn’t really have a minute. Caleb didn’t wait—he endured, silently, begrudgingly, but always with the weight of expectation pressing down. And Ellernate was about to walk back into that weight half-broken.

He pocketed his phone, straightened, and forced himself to breathe. He didn’t look back at the mirror. He didn’t need to. He already knew the reflection wasn’t one he could carry with him.

The silence pressed in too tightly, every drop of water from the faucet echoing like a clock ticking down. Ellernate leaned against the wall, fingertips digging into the tile. He should move—should already be gone—but his thoughts tangled, refusing to loosen their grip.

How long until iTrapped found out? Until he twisted it into something sharp and unrecognizable, made it another one of his games? He could already hear it—soft laughter that didn’t belong in the moment, words wrapped in silk but barbed underneath.

It was always like that. Even in the past, back when things were clearer—or at least when he thought they were—iTrapped had this way of filling in Ellernate’s silence with his own narratives. He’d smile and speak as if he already knew the truth, as if Ellernate was nothing but a shadow caught between his hands. And the worst part wasn’t that he was wrong. It was that sometimes, he wasn’t. What would he do if he realized Ellernate had gone to Tree? What would that expression look like—hurt, fake-hurt, or worse, genuine? Ellernate couldn’t decide which he dreaded more. He’d seen the first crack before, that night in the Banlands when his temper had finally snapped. The memory of iTrapped’s silence then—cutting, heavy, something close to human—still burned him raw. If it happened again… he wasn’t sure he could stomach it.

The thought unsettled him more than the idea of blades drawn or blood spilled. Weapons he could handle. But iTrapped’s eyes, shifting from amusement to something else—something unreadable—that was a battlefield he never won on.

And, well, it hurt. Knowing he couldn’t do anything about the situation. Well, he could. But he’d gone out of his way to do all this, to trespass those boundaries, and Ellernate is aware enough to acknowledge that soon enough he’ll be begging for forgiveness.

He pressed his palms hard against the sink, forcing his thoughts to scatter.

The bathroom door creaked when he finally pushed it open, with the familiar warm scent of tea drifting faintly from the kitchen. For a moment, Ellernate lingered in the hallway, guilt and dread locked in his ribs.

The floorboards were uneven under his feet, groaning faintly with each step as though the house itself could sense his intrusion. He let his fingers trail along the wall, grounding himself in the texture of faded paint and the faint warmth of morning sun filtering through half-drawn blinds. The air carried that fragile quiet of a home not yet fully awake—spoons clinking gently against porcelain, the soft hiss of boiling water.

He swallowed hard. This was what normalcy sounded like, what it smelled like. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked into someone’s kitchen without bracing for something worse. And yet, the mundanity of it felt heavier than gunfire. Every second stretched, every step forward pulling at the question that had been rotting in his chest since the Banlands. What was he really chasing here?

He paused at the doorway, his reflection caught faintly in the glass of a framed picture hung on the wall—a blur of himself, crooked, almost unrecognizable. He turned away before the sight could root him in place.

LonelyTree’s voice drifted faintly from the kitchen, humming something tuneless, low and absentminded. That sound alone nearly unraveled him. It was so unlike iTrapped’s laughter, so unlike Caleb’s sharp instructions, so unlike the silence of the Banlands. It was… safe.

And that, more than anything, made Ellernate’s stomach twist.

Tree approached his way earnestly, moving with his usual ease despite the early hour—setting cups on the counter, steam curling up from a kettle. His hair was a little mussed, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his entire manner radiated that patient calm Ellernate always remembered from before. It was grounding in a way that almost made him ache.

“You’re okay?” Tree asked without looking up, as though he could sense the storm Ellernate had carried with him.

Ellernate hesitated, then forced a nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His voice cracked on fine.

Tree turned then, studying him with quiet eyes. Not interrogating or demanding—just watching. That was somehow worse. Ellernate’s throat tightened. He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I should…get going. Can’t keep them waiting.”

For a second, Tree looked like he might press, ask the obvious are you sure? that hovered unspoken between them. But instead, he just nodded once and reached for one of the mugs. “At least take something with you.”

Before Ellernate could argue, Tree pressed the warm porcelain into his hands. Chamomile again, by the smell of it. Too gentle for the knot in his stomach, but he accepted it anyway. The heat burned his palms, a reminder that he was still here, still solid.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Tree only offered a small smile, one that didn’t reach his tired eyes. “You don’t have to thank me.” Then, quieter, “Be careful, Nate.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Ellernate tightened his grip around the mug, as though bracing himself. He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he just dipped his head in a stiff nod.

When he turned toward the door, Tree followed him, not hovering, just keeping pace. At the threshold, Ellernate paused—half out, half in. The air outside was cool and damp, brushing against his face like a dare.

Tree leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms loosely. “You know where I am,” he said simply. “If you need more answers. But I hope you got what you were looking for.”

Ellernate almost laughed at that—sharp, bitter. Answers felt like a cruel word. But he bit it back, swallowing the edge and forcing something gentler.

“Yeah. I know.”

Their eyes met for one last moment—Tree steady, and Ellernate fractured. Then Ellernate stepped out fully, letting the door close softly behind him.

The morning air was damp and sharp against his face. He let it fill his lungs, heavier than it should have been. The sky was still as gray as before, with the world too quiet for what churned inside him.

His phone buzzed once more in his pocket as he stepped off the porch.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The penthouse lights were dim, most of the overheads switched off, leaving the place washed in the glow of the city skyline pressing in through the windows. It gave everything a hollow kind of feel, like walking into a stage after the performance was over.

Ellernate stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The silence pressed in heavy. He almost thought the place was empty until a voice broke through the stillness.

“Look who finally decided to show up.”

Jonathan was stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other lazily holding a glass. The smell of whiskey clung to the air around him, though the way he lounged there felt more like a man killing time than drowning sorrows. He tipped his glass toward Ellernate in a mock salute.

“Long mornin’?” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Ellernate’s throat tightened. Long night didn’t begin to cover it. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, forcing himself to cross the room instead of just standing there. “Something like that.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed just slightly, scanning him like he was cataloguing every detail. He didn’t push though—he never did, not unless he needed to. Instead, he gestured toward the chair opposite him with his glass. “Well, take a seat. You look like you’ve been walking through ghosts.”

Ellernate sank down, the leather chair stiff beneath him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the glint of whiskey in Jonathan’s glass instead of his face. His chest felt too tight, every breath dragging.

Jonathan raised a brow, sipping his drink. “You’re wound up. Caleb texted you?”

“Yeah.” Ellernate’s tone was low, flat.

“And?”

“And,” muttered Ellernate, dragging a hand through his hair, “we’re still on for later.”

Jonathan smirked faintly, setting his glass on the table with a soft clink. “Of course we are. Man could be dead in the street and Caleb would still be telling us to gear up. Well, he seemed annoyed though. Y’better get ready soon, or he’ll be yellin’ at all of us.”

The words cut sharper than Jonathan intended. Ellernate flinched, fingers curling into fists before he could stop himself. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, just leaned back again, looking maddeningly casual.

“You prepped yet?” he asked.

Ellernate shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Well, get to it then.”

Ellernate shot him a look. For a brief second, the exchange almost felt normal. Almost. He pushed himself up to his feet, his movements stiff, mechanical. He gave Jonathan the barest nod, then turned toward the hallway.

He closes the door like a confession.

The room swallows sound—the hush of the penthouse bones, the distant thrum of traffic, the quiet that comes after somebody has cut the music out of the world.

Ellernate sits on the edge of his bed for a breath, palms flat against the duvet as if he can steady himself by touching something real. His throat is raw from the words he didn’t speak in the living room. Dead. Chance is dead. The syllables keep folding into themselves, impossible to smooth out. He’s probably thought about this a hundred times already.

He moves almost automatically, unzips his duffel, fingers working a bit too fast. He packs deliberately, not with the jitter of a man fleeing but with the brittle efficiency of someone making plans he wishes were unnecessary. Boots first. Ammo. A knife—and finally, his Illumina. Caleb’s checklist runs through his head like a metronome and drills him into something resembling purpose. Preparation tends to calm him in the way grief cannot.

He pulls on a shirt and it adheres to his skin with the small, obscene intimacy of mundane tasks. He shrugs into his vest, the fabric creaking familiar, then pauses. For a second he stares at his reflection in the dark window—a face him and the city both know too well at this point.

The thought that Chance is gone is absurdly clinical in contrast to the memories. He assumes that’s just why he cannot get it out of his head, no matter what he does.

Nothing in the flatness of the information had prepared him for the particular ache of later. The way things keep meaning what they once did even when the person who gave them meaning is gone. His fingers find the letter from that rainy night—Chance’s handwriting inside, a mess of crooked letters. He traces the scrawl with his thumb until it smudges.

He doesn’t really know how Chance died. There are no images for him to fix onto, no narrative knots he can pull to make sense of this loss. The circumstances Tree gave were…well. Vague.

The circumstances are unknown.

Really?

That blankness felt worse than gore.

iTrapped comes to his attention. He is a widower now, Ellernate thinks, and the word feels raw and foreign on his tongue as if it were someone else’s wound. Married—really—and of all people, it’s iTrapped.

What do you do with a man who is a widow but not here when his husband dies? The question is a splinter beneath Ellernate’s skin. He’s known iTrapped long enough to understand theatrical grief when he sees it, the way some people perform devastation because it’s a currency, or it buys you pity or absolution. But he has also seen quieter things.  The way iTrapped can fold small moments into himself and never let them unfold for anyone else. Ellernate can’t tell which wreath iTrapped is wearing.

There are moments—irrational—when he wonders whether, if he had been with Chance that night, things would have been different. Survivor’s bargaining blooms vulgarly, vivid and useless. He shoves it down. The past is a country you cannot return to, anyway.

He pauses in front of his dresser. On the top lies a single photograph, face down. He flips it over with a reverent sort of impatience. Chance’s grin is captured mid-ideal. A flash of irreverence, eyes crinkled, hair bothering him. Ellernate holds the corner between thumb and forefinger like a relic.

But, he nearly slams it down when he hears a voice beside him.

“You were with LonelyTree earlier,” said Caleb, casual, but with the weight of someone laying a card on the table. “What’d he tell you that was so important over the mission?”

Ellernate glanced up, caught mid-motion, his pulse jumping in his throat. “What’s it to you?”

Caleb gave a low, humorless chuckle. “Everything, depending on the answer.” He tucked his phone into his pocket, stepping further inside. “Jonathan said you looked like you’d swallowed a funeral notice when you walked in. Tree said something, didn’t he?”

Ellernate’s jaw tensed. He forced his eyes away, fumbling again with the photo like it was suddenly crucial it lined up perfectly. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Cut the shit,” Caleb crossed the room slowly, not menacing, but careful , the way he always was when he smelled something buried. “You and Tree don’t exactly do small talk. If he told you something about…” he hesitated, just a bit, “…about Chance, then you should tell me.”

The name hit like a gunshot, sharper than Ellernate expected, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Everyone seemed to know, one way or another, but how much they knew—that was the dangerous question.

Ellernate finally looked up, searching Caleb’s face. The man looked calm enough, but there was a restless edge in his eyes, like he was trying not to pace.

“Why do you think it’s about Chance?”

“Because he’s the person you’ve been spiraling over for the past week.”

Ellernate doesn’t respond. His jaw brushed the night. He could have said nothing. He could have lied smoothly, said Tree was drunk or some bullshit—said he’d read too much into things. Instead, he let himself do something worse. Play clean with the surface and rot underneath.

“People get strange when they hear bad news,” said Ellernate. “Leaves them…distracted.” He fastened the last belt loop. “If you’re asking if I know…how—how he went, I don’t. That’s all Tree said. Dead. That’s it.”

It took a bit for Caleb to process the information. He seemed equally as shocked as Ellernate was—but, unlike Ellernate, he brushed it aside.

Caleb stared, then nodded once, not the nod of acceptance but the nod of someone filing a loose end away. “You sure there’s nothing else? Tree can paint a pretty picture if he wants to.”

Ellernate forced a laugh. “I’m sure. Tree’s dramatic. He likes drama.” He put on the mask of irritation, casual annoyance. “If you’re asking because you want to throw yourself into the plan, do it. Get the map, check the perimeter. I’ll be ready.”

Caleb’s mouth flattened. He did not look convinced. He pushed off the dresser and came closer, quiet and careful. “Well—I—alright. But, you sure y’okay, Ellernate? You seem… off. Like, uh, I dunno, you’re carrying something with your pockets turned inside out.”

That, of all things, made something inside Ellernate lurch. He heard Chance in the half-memory of a laugh; he felt the awful, private weight of a hand turned cold. He could say nothing, let the image burn, or he could pour a little colored water over the fire and pretend everything matched the floor.

“I’m fine,” he said, and, well, the words were precise enough. True at the surface.

Caleb’s eyes softened for a second, then hardened as if something inside him closed. “You sure?” he pressed, not pushing publicly, only here. “Because if you want to talk—if Tree said anything that’s bothering you—”

Ellernate cut him off with a small, sharp smile. “Caleb, I don’t need someone to psychoanalyze me. I can handle a simple conversation.” He was brittle enough that his sarcasm scraped. “Don’t build a ritual over this. We have a mission.”

Caleb’s jaw ticked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and instead just sighed.

“Fine then, but—“ he turned, though not fully before he shot Ellernate a warning glance, “—if you let this get in the way of the mission again, I’ll kick your ass.”

Ellernate, for once, let a real laugh slip—short, raking. “Noted,” he said. It was the banter they knew, the banter that held off the soft places. Caleb left with a steady step, and the door clicked.

When the sound cut off, Ellernate’s composure unpeeled like old paint.

He folded against the mirror and let the mirror hold his face—eyes glossing, breath shallow. He didn’t tell Caleb the details because what could he say? That Tree had given him the bluntness of a stranger stumbling over someone else’s grave? That the word dead had arrived like bad weather? That he’d turned away because he couldn’t—because the idea of seeing further would rewrite him? He knew there was more to the picture. But, he’s too cowardly to uncover it.

He thought about iTrapped, too. His husband was dead. Widower. How that title sounded like a label in his mouth—neat, manageable, sellable. How absence often tells you more than presence does. There was a small, pulsing anger in him for that absence, stupid and immediate. But anger didn’t help the shape of his grief; it only made the edges sharper.

Is that why he’d been acting so different? Perhaps it was because he was dealing with the loss of his husband, right? But—still—something screamed inside him that…that wasn’t quite it.

Ellernate sighed, breathing in, slow, and steady. When he finally left the room, he kept his face neutral for once.

He could have told Caleb everything on his mind. He offered, after all. He could have let the words fracture him in front of someone. But the truth was messy; it would ask for explanations he didn’t have, for names and scenes and motives.

Either way, he thinks, the world will not stop for his grief. So he moves.