Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Landon wasn’t the type to celebrate occasions as frivolous as birthdays—unless, of course, they were his own. The idea of commemorating someone’s mere existence on an arbitrary date each year was absurd, especially when the universe would be vastly improved without most of them. 

And sure, the parties were tolerable—plenty of forgettable nobodies to satiate his unquenchable sex appetite and distract him from perpetual boredom—but the expectation that he wasn’t meant to be the center of attention? Utterly laughable. 

Landon had always been the sun around which everyone else orbited. Birthdays were nothing more than inconvenient detours from that natural order. Even Brandon’s birthday was only spared his disdain because he happened to share it with his other half. 

So no—he hadn’t cared about Jeremy’s birthday. Not at first. 

That wasn’t who he was. Landon didn’t do doting. He didn’t plan candlelit dinners, sunset walks on the boardwalk, or pretend to be soft just because someone happened to make his stomach flip in ways he didn’t particularly enjoy admitting. And Jeremy, for all his caveman-like charm and frustratingly warm eyes that resembled dark rain clouds like the prelude before the storm, had never asked for that kind of sentiment from him anyways. 

But somewhere along the way–between shared cigarettes on the terrace, dazed kisses in the dark, and those mornings after where Jeremy looked at him with something other than fear, like he wasn’t monstrous–Landon found himself caring. Against his better judgement. Against his will.

Oh, how he resisted, rather viciously, at first. And trust him—he fought hard. He clawed and wrestled against it like it was beneath him, because it was, because it had been. But Jeremy… Jeremy didn’t back down. No, he fought just as hard, maybe harder. Because Jeremy was persistent. Stupidly, recklessly, infuriatingly persistent. And somehow, without Landon noticing, he managed to carve out a space for himself. Small. Quiet. Unassuming. Tucked carefully behind layers of bravado and walls so high that even kindness breaks against them like waves on stone. Buried himself into a quiet devoted part of his once-dead heart, a place Landon rarely let anyone touch. 

A place that should’ve stayed locked. 

But it didn’t. 

So, this year has been different. 

Because for the first time, he cared about someone other than himself. 

Today was Jeremy’s birthday. And, coincidentally, it marked three months since they had made whatever this thing between them was official. Though ‘official’ might be too generous a word for their situation. They hadn’t told anyone. Not their families. Not the Heathens. Not the Elites. He hadn’t even told Brandon, his other half, and Landon told Brandon everything—at least, everything that didn’t make him look soft, weak, and he never really told him anything personal, not anymore. So maybe he didn’t tell Brandon everything, nothing that truly mattered, because he still couldn’t be himself around him, not in the same way he could with Jeremy. 

They kept it quiet, hidden. Shared in the stolen margins of their lives. Lingering touches passed like notes beneath desks, tender kisses given like secrets in hallways, and whispers that felt like confessions when no one else was around to intrude. Entangled in one another’s obsession, neither willing to give in, nor let go. 

They had the penthouse—a place that was entirely theirs—where they spent more nights than not. Only leaving to keep up appearances, to not be overtly suspicious, to not let anyone know what went on behind closed doors. 

And, Landon had liked it that way. Mostly. After all, secrecy meant control. It meant no one else could ruin it, name it, cheapen it. 

It was theirs.

But still… there was a part of Landon that wanted to be able to love him out loud. Love him in the light, even if he was only meant for darkness. To have what Brandon had with that mutt. Or Glyndon had with that absolute psychopath. Or what his parents had. And more than anything, he wanted what his Uncle Aiden had with Aunt Elsa, that one person who would stay despite the turbulent chaos, despite the arrogance, despite the fact that no one has ever stayed once they got too close and saw the rabbit hole that was his soul.  

Because unlike the rest of his immediate family, he knew he wasn’t a saint. He knew exactly what he was—a monster. In the same way Aiden and Eli were. Like Creighton when he wasn’t too busy sleeping or snacking to indulge in his darker instincts. And if they had all found love, despite themselves, despite the blood on their hands and the sharp edges of their souls, then, couldn’t he have that too?

Landon thought he did. 

After all, Jeremy and him were good. Uneven, chaotic, and intense, sure. But, they fit. In that brutal, inexplicable way that only people who lived too long in the shadows ever could. 

They were good. 

Jeremy loved him. And Landon found himself loving him back. Not in the soft, digestible way poets wrote verses about, but in the only way he knew how—Intimately. Profoundly. Violently. With a terrifying devotion that ached something deep in his bones. 

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t always kind. But it was real. 

So what if that love existed in silence? So what if their adoration went unspoken? He understood it, appreciated it. But, that didn’t mean he didn’t long for more. 

He had thought Jeremy would make an exception, just once. For today. 

Because, yes—today was Jeremy’s birthday. 

But it was also theirs—three months since they’d stopped dancing around each other and finally gave in to the undeniable pull. What they had wasn’t loud, not in the way he was. But it mattered to him. 

He knew Jeremy wasn’t ready though. 

And for once in his life, Landon hadn’t pushed.

Despite never giving a damn about other people’s comfort, he didn’t want to ruin what they had, he didn’t want to chase, not after spending all this time running. And that’s exactly what would happen if he tried to stake his claim in front of the whole goddamn island, in front of the heathens. In front of people who would tear them apart with just one whisper of vulnerability.  

He knew how quickly things shattered when claimed too loudly. 

So, he let it be. He stayed quiet. Bit his tongue. 

And in spite of every greater instinct that screamed at him to throw a grand celebration fit for a King, Landon decided for something smaller. 

Something private.
Something sacred.
Just them.

Which was how he found himself in a godforsaken kitchen of all places, sleeves rolled up like a common peasant, attempting to create Russian delicacies with meanings and spellings he couldn’t decipher, but that he knew Jeremy adored. Childhood comforts that his mother used to make on her good days, when she was more present, and that his father introduced to him when it was just them against the world. 

Between the two of them, Landon wasn’t the cook. Not even close. He much preferred to sit back and let Jeremy take the reins in that particular domain. Jeremy, who was akin to an artist in the kitchen. Maybe that made Landon a brat, maybe it made him spoiled, but whatever. Sue him. Jeremy liked cooking, and Landon liked watching him do it. Liked being fed. Liked being cared for without having to admit that was what he wanted. 

Jeremy was his own personal five-start gourmet chef. Never once complaining, not after Landon’s prior attempts had nearly set the fire alarm off more than once. Although if you asked Landon, he thought that it was a rather humorous albeit slightly disastrous recollection, much to Jeremy’s chagrin. 

By all means, Landon should have been better. 
But he wasn’t. 
He never had to be. 

He hadn’t grown up in a kitchen. That role had always fallen to his dad and Brandon. Landon had gravitated towards less menial tasks, preferring to not dirty his hands with domestic work. If food appeared, he’d eat it. If not, he was perfectly content to order in or make use of the King's endless stream of money by throwing it at someone else to solve the problem—problem solving via excessive wealth was his preferred language. 

But this time was different. 

Because he wanted to try. 

Not because Jeremy deserved culinary excellence, but because Jeremy deserved his effort. 

And Landon King didn’t try for just anyone. 

He wanted to create something tangible that said: 

I see you. 
I remember what you love. 
I care.  

Maybe Brandon’s unsolicited empathy lessons were finally rubbing off on him. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, like hell he’d want to give that win to his brother. They had started a few weeks into Jeremy and him becoming ‘official’, he had demanded—because Landon King didn’t do ‘asking’—help under the guise of a hypothetical. Like some sadistic psychological quiz, a way to manipulate the easily manipulatable by understanding the weak psyche of the neurotypical. 

During these sessions, Brandon didn’t pry. Just raised that irritatingly knowing brow and handed over advice like it wasn’t soaked in suspicion. 

Oh he was curious. But Landon never offered context. And Brandon never asked. 

It was their unspoken agreement. One of many. 

But the point was—he was making progress. 

He understood the basics. Didn’t cut his beloved hands. Didn’t burn their place down or set off the fire alarms. Perhaps some of the dishes were off, but he didn’t think Jeremy would mind all that much. 

It was the thought that counts… or something mushy like that. 

Tonight, Landon was trying to give him home. 

Even if he’d never say the words out loud. Because it meant making it more real than it already was. 

He spent the morning and the better half of the afternoon like this, cooking and baking and reflecting on the highs of being in a relationship with a heathen of all people. By the time he was done, he had an assortment of dishes prepared and some specifically imported. 

He’d done his research and found that in the past, high ranking members of the Bratva feasted on expensive red caviar on bread, so he had bought some a while back in preparation for today and stored it back at the Elite’s mansion so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. 

He’d cooked pilaf and pelmeni, planning to serve the dumplings with a dollop of smetana, the sour cream of Jeremy’s childhood, and set aside a charcuterie board filled with a plethora of fruits. Of course, Landon couldn’t help himself and added an abundant, bordering on egregious, amount of cherries. What? It was his day too. And after his endless suffering slaving away in domesticity, he deserved a treat for his troubles. 

For the cake he had tried his hand at baking, making a white Russian bundt cake topped with a coffee flavored glaze. He’d mainly chosen it because the vanilla cake was soaked with a significant amount of vodka and liqueur, something he learned fairly early on that Jeremy couldn’t live without. 

Finally, he had even dipped into the pool of money he had been stashing away from various art exhibitions he put on in the past to buy a bottle of Russo-Baltique Vodka, because a cake drenched in vodka simply wasn’t enough to satiate his caveman. Did it cost a small fortune of nearly a million pounds? Perhaps. But it was beautiful. The bulletproof glass encasing the vodka prevented even the clumsiest of hands from spilling a single precious drop and the diamond encrusted replica of the Russian Imperial Eagle, along with the white and yellow gold that made up the flask, made it truly exquisite.

Its purpose of creation had been to ‘woo Russian royalty, tycoons, and wealthy aficionados worldwide,’ which was fitting in its own right. Landon just knew Jeremy would savor every drop like a King claiming his throne, even if he might pretend otherwise. 

It was a symbol of status. But for Landon, it was a symbol of his devotion to Jeremy. That he was willing to invest in what they had, that he wanted to spoil him. 

He hopes Jeremy will like it. He hopes Jeremy will see it. 

His mind wandered to a few days ago, during a conversation with Brandon, when he stumbled upon a piece of information he didn’t think Jeremy wanted him to possess. 

It had been normal, or it started off that way. Casual as always, nothing too deep, just surface level talks. His latest creations. Academics. What they were up to. Landon trying to convince Brandon to finally let go of the mutt but being firmly shut down. It was typical, ordinary. But then, Brandon let something slip—something about Jeremy. Something about his plans for that day. 

Brandon had said it lightly, laughed about it, really. “So are you coming Friday? It’s going to be huge, though maybe try not to scowl at the cake. Or, I don’t know, the decorations. Or people existing.” 

The words had hit him like a brick, but he kept his mask up, forbidding himself from revealing the fractures burying themselves in his heart. 

He laughed in response, his smile automatic–a matter of principle, practiced and smooth. Controlled. Outwardly, he seemed composed, unshaken, as though he hadn’t just been left reeling and gasping for air. He pretended like he knew, like he didn’t care for an invite, because why waste effort on a man who was clearly playing a one-sided, obsessive game of chess against him? He kept quiet about the truth: he was the one obsessed, gnawing at every move, acutely aware that Jeremy wasn’t even on the board, hadn’t bothered showing up to the game at all.

Jeremy was spending his birthday and their anniversary with the heathens. The ones he called his friends, his family. Landon tried to understand. Tried to take Brandon’s advice that he couldn’t be so self-centered in his relationships if he didn’t want to be alone. Tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But—the heathens, and their partners. Landon’s own relatives, his friends, the people who had accepted Jeremy into their world so easily, but still tiptoed around him—they were the ones who would get to see Jeremy on that day.Not him. 

He had watched Jeremy carefully that night. Listening to his body language, the subtle tells in his voice. Asked him if he wanted to do anything small, maybe. Maybe just the two of them. 

Jeremy had smiled. Had lied. “Raincheck. I’ll make it up to you, Lan. Promise.” 

It was a deflection at best, and a bitter deception in truth. But Landon didn’t tell Jeremy he knew.  

Instead, he smiled. He joked. He laughed. Like he always did. Like he hadn’t already bought the ingredients. Like he hadn’t made a note on his phone. Like he hadn’t stood in line at some overrated restaurant for a recipe because Jeremy had mentioned, once, reminded him of his mother’s cooking. The kind of thing Landon normally let slide out of his memory. 

He should have this time, too. 

But he didn’t. 

Because Jeremy Volkov had been different. And maybe that was Landon’s first mistake. 

Nevertheless, he kept the hurt buried, the sting of it. Even if the pain flared like a paper cut that kept opening.

He never directly asked about it. He didn’t want to ruin Jeremy’s mood. Didn’t want to add weight to a day that should’ve been easy. And most of all, he didn’t want to be pitied. Landon King didn’t do pity. He had already given up so much of himself, softened the edges that pierced too deep. He refused to give up his dignity as well. 

During the following days, the smile never quite reached his eyes. Oh, Jeremy wasn’t any different. But Landon was. 

Jeremy was dedicated to continuing playing the part. He ‘made love’ to him every night, as if he weren’t carrying around sins during the day. He held the parts of him he hadn’t bared to anyone else, the same parts that needed to be held because of his deceit. He was still a violently possessive man when they were alone. And to everyone else? They were two leaders of rival clubs whose animosity had seemingly subsided overnight. 

He was fine. 

They were fine. 

The morning of, he had asked again. He allowed himself to foolishly hope for just a moment. But Jeremy murmured the same pretty lies. Something vague about how he’d be kept up all day, busy with meetings and deadlines and work that was too boring for Landon to be kept entertained. 

The usual lies that fall too easily from people who think charm is a substitute for honesty. And he knew those kinds of lies, because they were the same ones that he used to use on the nobodies at the clubs, on the bodies who would fall too deeply in love with him after just one taste. He just never thought he’d be so pathetic as to be on the other end. 

“Back before dinner,” he’d promised, pressing a kiss to the crown of Landon’s head with the kind of tenderness that did dangerous things to Landon’s heart. “You’ll see. I’ll make it up to you.” 

He nodded. He smiled. He kissed him back. 

He didn’t mention that the university, the studio, everything had been closed for the past two days due to the impending snow storm. Didn’t remind him that his dad hadn’t assigned him any Bratva work, wishing his son would be able to hold on to the last bit of normalcy before Jeremy took over his position of Obshchak. 

So here he was, spending the day preparing anyways for a day that was supposed to be theirs and now as he watched the minute and hour hands tick by, he waited for Jeremy to spend the last few hours with him. 

After finishing the dinner preparations, he went to an out-of-the-way flower boutique—the one he’d overheard Glyndon and the girls mention months ago—and bought a bouquet of camellias. He’d never paid attention to the language of flowers before, but lately Ava wouldn’t shut up about their significance. Supposedly, they were the ultimate sign of care from the ‘useless existences known as men’. Ava’s words, not his. So, if he chose them now as his silent declaration of love and devotion for Jeremy, well, it was a truth he intended to keep to himself. 

At six, he returned to the penthouse. He set the scene, meticulously giving attention to every detail. The table, draped in a deep orange-red cloth, sat at the center of the room, velvet runner adding richness beneath ivory napkins and polished cutlery. Tall tapered candles flickered in slender holders, their light weaving gold threads over the plates, one for each of them. Petals and tealights dotted the windowsill and lined the floors, making the shadows dance gently against the walls. 

He placed the bouquet in a marble vase he had carved and stored for a special occasion like this. Soft instrumental music played in the background, just loud enough to fill the silence, but gentle enough to let conversation linger. The meal is plated immaculately, pristine and neat, heated to perfection until you could see the steam rise into the air, filling the room with mouth-watering aromas. He paused before turning down the last lamp, taking in the tableau he’d created: warm, elegant, inviting—a haven carved out for two.

He rechecked the wine glasses, straightened the napkins folded into origami swans, and, finally, stood back. Everything felt purposeful–every candle, every flower, every note, a quiet echo of hope and care.

At seven, the food began to cool slightly, the warmth fading into the room’s steady chill. He poured himself a small glass of the vodka, trying to loosen the tight knot in his chest. It goes from half full, then full again, then empty. His eyes flicked frequently toward the door, each time met with nothing, with silence, with disappointment. The meal remained largely untouched. The empty glass felt heavier with each refill.

At eight, the candles burned low, their flames dipped and twisted like silent screams in the quiet. His stomach grumbled faintly, but the food stayed mostly cold on his plate. Landon ate slowly, absentmindedly, the flavors dulled by distraction. His body went through the motions even if his mind didn’t. Another glass emptied, the vodka burned as it slid down his throat, smooth but offering no comfort. 

At nine, the food was long forgotten, the camellias drooped slightly in the soft heat of the candlelight from where they rested in the vase. The vodka bottle was nearly empty, the table growing colder, the quiet louder. The night felt heavy, filled with absence and grief.

Landon didn’t know if he was more angry, or just tired. 

The room felt smaller, the air thick with expectations he never said allowed, but pressed against his chest, suffocating him in a way that left no room for words. 

At some point, he’d stopped waiting for a sound. Instead, he picked up the glasses and dishes, placing them gently in the sink. Only one set was used, but he still cleans and sets both in their proper places. He folded the table cloth. Wiped down the table. As if erasing something. The uneaten food, the untouched glass–he doesn’t want to keep any of it. He did all this with a terrifying amount of clinical detachment that would make his childhood therapists’ heads spin. 

He tossed everything out. The only thing that remained was the candles that hadn’t yet been extinguished, the bouquet, and a glimmer of hope that held out in Landon’s heart. 

At ten, he drained the last of the vodka, the bottle now completely empty. He took the cake from the fridge and placed it onto the now bare table, reaching for the candles and lighting them anyway, a small, stubborn act of ritual against the silence. The flames shimmered bright, casting an amber halo, mocking the empty seat across from him. Landon’s breath caught when he realized Jeremy was truly not coming. 

At eleven, he sat on the couch with his knees drawn close to his chest, the soft remnant flickers of candlelight casting long shadows on the wall as the final hour stretched thin. He blindly turned on the tv, not even bothering to switch the channels, not even when that waste-of-a-psychopath, Hannibal, popped up. He tuned it out, sitting back with his eyes glazed, watching without really seeing it. A thousand possibilities rushed through his mind. Maybe Jeremy was running late. Maybe the heathens kept him longer than expected. Maybe—no, no. Landon shook off the thoughts. 

His phone felt like a heavy presence at his side. No messages. No justifications. No excuses. No apologies. Just a silence given in absence.  

Then—

A buzz. 

The screen lights up. An Instagram notification from @brandon-king. 

He doesn’t open it right away, lets it linger. His fingers hovering over his phone but not yet descending. 

He lets it sit until that deep ache bubbles up, threatening to choke him if he continues to delay the inevitable. When he taps Brandon’s icon, it’s exactly what he expected. The story unveils. 

Loud music pulses beneath a sea of voices, some shouting, others cheering, and yet more caught mid laugh, all entwined in celebration. Flashing lights, champagne flutes raised in a chaotic toast, people pressed so close together they’d almost be mistaken for one. An obnoxious banner—scrawled in handwriting that looked suspiciously familiar to Brandon’s dog’s scribble—hangs over the mess, ‘KING OF THE NIGHT, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR OVERLORD’. 

The camera sways, momentarily unfocused before panning out and sharpening. And there he is—Jeremy Volkov. He stands at the heart of the party. Nikolai and Killian surround him, arms slung around his shoulders, each claiming half of his attention. The sight burns Landon with something close to envy, but more bitter, stained with a sense of loss. Jeremy’s grin, broad and brilliant, looks effortless, as if it always belonged there. Jeremy was never one to smile easily. Landon had to draw it out of him, had to wait patiently before he was rewarded with that soft smile, like coaxing sunlight out from behind nimbus clouds. But now, he watches Jeremy smile in real-time, as if happiness was never a struggle. Like Jeremy didn’t need Landon to fill a void in his life—the way Landon had needed Jeremy to fill his own.

Landon stares, letting the video etch itself into memory.

He replays the story twice, then once more, slower, before finally letting the phone slip from his grasp. Maybe the screen shatters; maybe it remains whole, stubborn as the heart he once believed unbreakable, the way it used to be.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, despondent, and so, so tired. 

At 11:54 pm, the candles dwindle down to one, the lone flame still shimmering as if it doesn’t know it’s alone. He lets out a soft breath, extinguishing the light as he whispers into the hollow space, “happy birthday Jeremy…” 

When midnight arrives, ushering in the start of a new day and consequently, marking the end of what they had, Landon breathes out a quiet sigh, gentle and final. There’s nothing left to do. Nothing and no one left to wait for. 

He takes the cake—the first he’s ever made—and disposes of it without ceremony, without any fanfare. It tumbles into the trash where it lays ruined with the rest of the uneaten food. 

He unlatches a window and tossed the camellias into the night, soft petals carried by the wind like secrets that would never see the light of day because they’d never been given the chance, like they’d never been a voice. He leaves the window open, letting the winter air to seep in, numbing his skin to better match the cold pulsing inside him. 

When every trace of the day is gone, he walks to their bedroom, every step exuding a calmness he doesn’t possess. The corridor mirror catches his reflection in the dark, lit by the subtle hues of moonlight cascading through the open window. And for a fraction of a second, he sees it. Sees it hidden under the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his lips are drawn tight. He looks tired. Not unkempt. Not broken. But tired in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be. A look he’s spent his whole life hiding behind sharp smiles and even colder eyes. 

He moves away before the image can settle. 

As he lies in bed, all he can think about is that he was alone, while Jeremy was surrounded by people who didn’t know him like Landon did, who weren’t supposed to have him. 

The insult burned deeper than the betrayal. 

Because it wasn’t just that Jeremy hadn’t come. It was that he hadn’t even thought Landon needed to be there. 

And that? That was unforgivable. Not when Jeremy had been the one to pursue him. The first person to look at him not as the cruel, beautiful monster the rest of the world feared or worshipped–but as something real. Something breakable. 

And Landon let him in.

Not all the way. No, never that. But enough to matter. Enough to hurt. 

Which is why the silence tonight wasn’t just an absence. It was rejection. Dressed up in lies of omission, sparkling wine, and Instagram filters. 

Jeremy had made his choice, and it hadn’t been Landon. 

Not publicly. 

Not privately. 

Not even as an afterthought. 

Landon cursed himself, because he should’ve known, should’ve expected it. 

He should’ve. 

Because people like Landon? They didn’t get chosen. They got used, admired, envied, hated, feared. But never truly loved. Not in a way that mattered. 

And now? Now Jeremy would come back, probably smelling like alcohol and other people, people who he’d let cling to him in Landon’s place, bleary-eyed and flushed from a good time, thinking a kiss and a mumbled, “sorry, got carried away” would be enough to soothe every frayed edge. 

It wasn’t. 

Not this time. 

Because Landon King had set the table. 

And Jeremy Volkov hadn’t even bothered to sit down.

Chapter Text

Landon didn’t remember when it happened. When his eyes slipped shut, when he drifted into that strange in-between of wakefulness and sleep, when he let go of reality and the desperate wanting of what could never be. All he knew was that one moment he’d been staring at the ceiling, the taste of too-expensive vodka bitter on his tongue, the hollow chill that one only felt after falling unconscious to the feeling of an empty bed pressing in after too many nights of shared heat. And the next, there was warmth.

Only it wasn’t comfort that he felt. It was invasive, searing. A brand burning into him from behind. It felt like betrayal personified.

He woke to dead weight pinning him down, fingers splayed against the soft expanse of his stomach, breath hot and steady as it fanned against the sensitive skin of his nape.

Jeremy. Motherfucking. Volkov.

For a hazy, traitorous second, Landon let himself believe. Let himself sink into the lie, into the cruel familiarity of it all. That maybe yesterday had been a fever dream. That maybe the birthday dinner, their anniversary dinner, hadn’t wasted away. Half-eaten. Half-forgotten. That maybe he hadn’t spent the day waiting to not be a last resort. That maybe the deception hadn’t come through a screen, filtered for the world to see, but never know how deep it ran. And above all, that maybe he hadn’t gone to bed alone, seething and humiliated.

If he didn’t think too hard, he could almost believe it. Almost.

But here Jeremy was with his arm wrapped around Landon’s waist, holding him close like he was something precious. Too bad no one had ever taught Jeremy how to hold on to what he claimed to hold dear when he still had the chance. And if they did? Then Jeremy had thrown it away knowingly, willingly.

Landon had suspected. He had even gone so far as to expect that Jeremy would return by morning to their bed, wearing that mask of nonchalance, feigning innocence. But hypotheticals, expectations—even grim ones—were easier than confronting this distorted reality.

Questions flooded his mind. He hadn’t heard Jeremy come back last night. When had he returned? Did he really think he could slip past undetected? As if Landon wouldn’t feel the shift the moment Jeremy crossed the threshold. As if he could blind himself to the truth. As if betrayal didn’t have its own burdensome weight.

He was brought out of his spiraling thoughts when Jeremy shifted behind him. his body slowly coming back alive, pulling him tighter into his chest like he’d done a hundred times before, like nothing at all had fractured. His voice was still thick with sleep as he murmured, “Morning.”

Just ‘morning’.
No explanation. No apology.
Just lies dressed in routine.

As if yesterday never happened. As if nothing was wrong.

But something in Landon had snapped last night. A part of him he didn’t think he’d ever get back. A part of him that refused to keep pretending.

Landon felt his body go rigid. He didn’t turn, didn’t give Jeremy the satisfaction of seeing the storm flickering behind his eyes, that mix of hurt and fury sparking in his expression. Instead, his lips curved into a smile—not the soft one that Jeremy had grown accustomed to receiving in the morning, the one that Landon had so freely given him—but the kind that bared teeth.

“Sleep well?”

Jeremy nuzzled into his hair, inhaling him like he belonged there, his breath ghosted over the back of his neck, raising goosebumps where it touched. His voice came light, oblivious to Landon’s inner turmoil, utterly discordant with the tempest in Landon’s chest.

“Best sleep I’ve had in a while.”

His lips dragged lazily across Landon’s shoulder, pressing down a kiss as if it were still welcome. Like it was muscle memory, a ritual ownership rather than affection.

What began as feather-light grazes soon deepened, Jeremy’s mouth suckling at the junction between his neck and shoulder. The same spot Jeremy had always known could unravel him. The same spot that once meant safety, belonging.

And maybe that was what enraged Landon the most. How easy this was for him. How easy it was for Jeremy to crawl his way back into their bed, to entwine himself in his arms, to worm his way back into his life as if it erased everything.

But now, it burned.

Every touch.
Every graze.
Every kiss.

Each pull of Jeremy’s mouth felt like theft, like branding. A familiar cruelty wearing a mask of intimacy and love.

Landon finally rolled over, taking his time to adjust himself until he was facing Jeremy, staring into those infuriatingly clear eyes. Eyes that betrayed nothing. Eyes void of guilt, of shame. Jeremy looked relaxed, smug even, as if his absence had been nothing more than a mere illusion. As if Landon hadn’t spent half the night drowning in vodka and silence.

So, Landon indulged him.

Indulged in Jeremy’s lies for a moment longer, not out of delusion, not out of weakness, never that, but from a place of his own deception. His index finger skimmed idle, loving circles across Jeremy’s chest. The gesture was gentle, practiced, perfectly convincing.

A cold calm settled in his heart. He leaned into it, embracing his inherent nature, the part of himself he’d once feared gone, lost, buried beneath all those pathetic, useless lessons of empathy. Domesticity had dulled his edges, lured him into believing in love, in softness, in permanence.

But this moment proved otherwise. He hadn’t lost his touch.

And, of course, Jeremy fell for it. Basking in the attention, reveling in the lie, like always. Landon's smile sharpened.

“Tell me, Volkov…” Landon drawled, moving to caress Jeremy’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his check with mock tenderness. “Do you always lie so easily, or is it a talent you save just for me?”

For a moment, nothing shifted. Jeremy blinked, his grin still anchored in place, as though his brain couldn’t—or wouldn’t—register the blade hidden in his words. He was a fool. A bloody, arrogant fool to think he would be able to hold onto this secret.

The only sound that could be heard was Jeremy’s sharp inhale. And Landon watched with a grim fascination as the words began to cut through Jeremy’s facade, bleeding the color from his expression bit by bit.

Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, but Landon cut him off with a single finger pressed to his lips.

“Save it,” he murmured, soft and unwavering, “I don’t want excuses. I don’t want pretty words you’ll never mean. You weren’t here. And I…” His throat tightened—just barely—but his voice never cracked. He wouldn’t let it. Jeremy didn’t deserve to watch him break. “I was.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Heavy enough to choke on, sharp enough to carve.

Jeremy’s arm tightened on Landon’s waist, possessive, like he truly believed he could tether him with touch alone. As if bruising fingers could replace the trust lost. As if the feel of his skin on Landon’s could substitute honesty.

Landon only smiled darker, more feral than fond, twisting away just enough to create distance. Not enough to break the touch, but enough to make the space between them ache like the dull throb of a gunshot wound.

“Happy belated birthday, darling,” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of Jeremy’s ear, tone dripping with cold mockery, before sliding out of bed, leaving Jeremy sprawled in the crumpled silk sheets, while he made to leave their the room.

“Don’t you dare turn away from me.” Jeremy growled, it wasn’t pleading, it wasn’t guilty. No, it was steely, low and threaded with a warning, it curled down Landon’s spine like a whip. But not in the way it should have, not in fear, but in anger. “Landon. Don’t walk away from me.”

Jeremy’s hand darted out, fingers snatching for him, but Landon wrenched free from his grip with ease.

Landon turned to face him, his own grin lethal. “Walk away? Sweetheart, I did that hours before you stumbled in, smelling like champagne and other people. Heathens.” His gaze dropped, deliberately slow, until he was looking down his nose at Jeremy still lounging in his sheets like this was any other relaxed morning. “You must’ve thought you were so clever. Sliding back into my—”

“Our.” Jeremy cut in.

Landon continued on as if Jeremy hadn’t spoken to begin with, because as far as he was concerned, he didn’t give a flying fuck about anything Jeremy had to say, “my bed, wrapping yourself around me. Pretending that you're innocent. Like you didn’t take me for a fool. Like you didn’t miss our anniversary, you fucking wanker.”

Jeremy’s features shifted, finally understanding this wasn’t just some small slight he could charm his way out of. He sat up, spine straightened, jaw clenched, every line of him taut with tension.

"You’re overreacting—"

“—FUCK.” Jeremy clutched his nose, blood already leaking from one nostril from the side Landon had swung from.

How the fuck did Jeremy think he would react to that. Who the fuck says that. 

‘You’re overreacting.’

It was clipped. Cutting. Dismissive in a way that belied his thoughts, betrayed his tactics: minimize it enough, and maybe it would all dissolve, maybe Landon’s wrath would devour itself into silence.

And perhaps, with anyone else, it might have worked. Might have even succeeded with flying colors. Might have been able to bend fury into hesitation, righteous anger into self-doubt.

But not tonight.

Not with him.

Because he was Landon fucking King. And if Jeremy fancied himself skilled at deceit, then he’d forgotten just who he was dealing with, just who had been a pain in his and the heathen’s overrated asses not that long ago. Landon knew how to whet lies into weapons, could manipulate with only his natural charm and an award-winning smile, could turn truth inside out in his sleep. If he wanted to, he could have been a world-renowned professor teaching a masterclass in gaslighting on any given day of the week.

So Jeremy’s attempt? Laughable. Childish. Like a toddler who didn’t get what they wanted. It only served as fuel to the fire, fuel to his fury.

A sharp, careless laugh tore through his throat, cruel and icy. “Oh? Yes, Jeremy~ please forgive me.” He said bringing his hands up in an imitation of prayer like he was a wanton girl begging her boyfriend to not cheat as if he hadn’t already done so before, as if it wasn’t a serial habit. “Forgive me for not applauding your brilliant disappearing act." Landon ground out. "Forgive me for thinking that the one person I—” His words caught in his throat for half a second, the words heavy, corrosive, before he forced it down and replaced it with vitriol. “The one person I trusted wouldn’t feed me some pathetic lie while cozying up with literally everyone else but me. On our day. On our anniversary. Did you get sudden onslaught dementia or something, was it that easy to forget me?”

Jeremy’s fists clenched until they became white, the sheets bunching up beneath him. That controlled calm of his, the one he always exuded shattered like glass. “You think you’re not in my life? You think you’re not—Christ, Landon. I came back here, to you. Doesn’t that tell you enough?”

That was most definitely the wrong fucking thing to say.

Landon’s eyes flared, callous amusement glinting under the hurt. He strolled forward until he stood at the edge of the bed, leaning down. “Back to me?” he purred, voice venom-soft. “No, Jeremy. You came back to my bed. Because it’s easy, isn’t it? Because you think I’ll still be here. Legs spread open, sheets warm, waiting like a good little secret.”

The space between them grew like a void, a suffocating abyss. Jeremy’s frame thrummed with tension, coiled tight like a cobra ready to snap at the slightest movement.

The smile plastered on Landon’s face didn’t reach the emptiness in his eyes. “Congratulations, oh great ‘King of the Night’,” he spat. The title dripping in venom, conjuring the image of Jeremy’s thinly veiled lie, the image of last night flashed in both their minds, the strobing lights, the deafening music, the cheering mob, the banner with that ridiculous moniker written in a worthless mutt's scrawl. Jeremy’s eyes gleamed—something dangerously akin to regret—edged with desperation at the reminder of the party, the one Landon hadn’t known about. “You’ve finally bored me.”

Jeremy surged forward instinctively, reaching for him, but Landon was faster. Always quicker. Always more evasive. He slipped out of his reach.

“You don’t mean that,” Jeremy snapped, practically pleaded, voice edged, raw, ragged, stripped of the usual elegance of his composure. Stripped of the usual indifference Jeremy tended to view the world. 

Landon tilted his head like a predator appraising his prey, smirk widening by several degrees until it looked wild, a twisted, darker version of the Cheshire Cat. His head canted slightly to the side, almost like a curious puppy, but there was nothing innocent or sweet about the gesture, only danger. There was no hesitation.

“Don’t I?”

The hush that fell over the room was heavier than any shouting would’ve been. Jeremy’s breath sawed in and out, harsh, uneven, rattling the fragile walls of his thinly held control. And through it all, Landon only stood taller, stronger in his restraint.

Then, without ceremony, without pause or apology or explanation, because why should he give Jeremy what Jeremy deemed him unworthy of, Landon turned on his heel. Steps echoing against the wood floors as he crossed the threshold of their room. Behind him, fabric ripped as furious hands tore at the bedding. Sheets, pillows, covers ripped free from the mattress under Jermey’s plight. His control fracturing under the chaos of it all. The air was electric with the threat of something sharp breaking loose, breaking free. Despite this, Landon never faltered.

He moved through the penthouse, making his way to the front door, never once turning back as though nothing behind him was worth the small amount of effort.

His hand was on the door, the handle barely giving way when suddenly Jeremy was on him before he could move an inch further.

The door slammed shut under the weight of Jeremy’s palm flat against it, the sound reverberating through the walls like a gunshot. His body pressed Landon forward, pinning him back until the cool wood dug into his spine. The closeness, not filled with the usual sexual tension, but reeking with panic masquerading as dominance.

Jeremy’s breaths were like those of a drowned man, his eyes wide and unseeing. “I don’t think you understand how this works, Landon,” he hisses, voice dark, fraying at the edges. “You’re fucking mine.”

“I’m not the one with comprehension issues, Jeremy.” Landon’s resulting laugh was a quiet thing, unholy in its contempt, his tone curling around Jeremy’s name like barbed wire. “I understand perfectly. You say I’m ‘yours’. But to whom?” His head tilts, smile too razor-edged to be entirely human “To your friends? To mine? None of them know. To the world, Jeremy, I’m no one. Nothing. Not to them. And certainly not to you.”

Jeremy growled, the distance between them becoming nearly invisible. “I don’t give a damn. You think I’ll fucking let you go, Landon?”

Landon’s gaze turned surgical, dissecting Jeremy’s reaction with cold precision, his smirk turned cutting, flaring like the glint of steel from one of Jeremy’s prized revolvers. His eyes were dead, unblinking, despite being wrapped in triumph. Like a corpse wearing a crown.

“You already did.”

The words landed heavier than any physical blow in the ring.

Jeremy’s hand lingered at Landon’s jaw, his grip unforgiving, firm enough to command. His voice dropped from that ruinous possessiveness into something darker, like an admission dragged from his throat against his will. Like the truth after a betrayal actually meant something.

News flash, Volkov: It didn’t.

“You think I didn’t want you there?” he muttered, tone gravelly. “Of course I did.” His gaze flicked away for half a second—a rare occurrence for Jeremy, as such it felt like an eternity—before locking back on Landon’s. “But you don’t play nice, Landon, you don’t… fit with them.”

Landon’s eyes sharpened instantly, cold amusement surged beneath his skin, hiding the hurt within. “Fit?” he echoed, laughter dry. “I was never made to fit. I belong. And if your pack of second-rate dogs can’t see that… maybe it’s because their ‘golden’ boy never gave them the chance.”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed. “You would’ve hated it anyway,” he said finally, as if that excused everything else.

“You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to decide for me. You didn’t even tell me.” Landon spat the accusations like poison, chest heaving with exertion, with anger. “You thought you’d what? Get away with it? That there wouldn’t be consequences? Fuck you, Jeremy.”

Jeremy dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel—”

“Hurt?” Landon cut in with a mocking laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s a little too late for that.”

Jeremy reached for him before he could think better of it. Fingers rough, desperate, wrapping at Landon’s throat, squeezing just beneath the line of his jaw, like he didn’t know if he meant to strangle or steady him. Not choking, but not quite gentle either. His grip dragged Landon’s chin up, forcing their eyes to lock. “I was trying to protect you,” he snapped, voice cracking with vehemence.

Landon didn’t blink. Didn’t even bother pretending to flinch.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Landon said coolly. “It doesn’t change the fact you are only lying to yourself. You’re not fooling anyone, Jeremy. Not even yourself.”

Jeremy looked like he was at war with himself, ready to shatter from the inside out, ready to come apart at the seams, held together only by sheer stubbornness and his guilty conscience. “They don’t get you the way I do. And I wasn’t—” He cut off, hunching slightly inwards like the burden of trying to convince himself of his own words proved too much to bear.

The weight of his own excuses had finally caught up with him.

The words hung there, unfinished. Shame thickened the space between them.

Ah. There it was.

Shame.

Shame that seemed to engulf him, that clung to him like his own shadow. He could practically smell the foul, acrid stench of it.

Ashamed. Jeremy was ashamed of him.

Landon tilted his head, smile brittle and glinted. Quiet. Dangerous. “Say it.”

Jeremy swore under his breath, grip tightening on Landon’s throat momentarily before softening into something almost tender, thumb brushing lightly against the quickly developing bruise as if to mend, as if to erase the damage. Like an apology that never learned to be honest.

“And I…” He faltered, mouth twisting like he swallowed a lemon, the words tasting worse going down than they did coming up, like the confession meant blood. “I wasn’t ready to deal with that.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Condemning.

No one moved. No one spoke. They just let the truth settle between them like rot. Like mold. And mold left to fester too long contaminated everything. Tainted anything good until there was nothing to salvage. Not like this.

Landon could feel every unspoken word pulsing beneath Jeremy’s explanation: Wasn’t ready to choose you. Wasn’t ready to be seen by your side. Wasn’t ready to claim you where it mattered.

The smirk slipped from Landon’s mouth like it never belonged there, replaced with something quieter, sharper, meaner. “So instead,” he whispered, “you lied to me. Left me sitting here like a discarded afterthought while you played perfect little Volkov with the people who’ll never understand you half as well as I do, who’ll never understand a fraction of what I am to you.”

Jeremy’s flushed, heat rising to his cheeks in equal parts fury and guilt, his eyes dark as his voice hardened. “I didn’t want to see you torn apart by them. You don’t know what they’d do if they knew. If they saw—”

“Saw what?” Landon snapped. “That you’re mine? Or worse—that I’m yours?”

Jeremy huffed in frustration. “They wouldn’t understand this—you. They’d ruin us. They’d never accept you the way I—”

“The way you what?” Landon sneered, leaning in. “Tolerate me in the shadows? Keep me hidden?”

Jeremy’s breath hitched.

“You think I wanted it this way? You think it’s easy for me?” His voice cracked, splintered down the middle with something too ugly to name.

"You you you, it's all you. And here I though I was the narcissist between us."

"Stop. Landon." Jeremy inhaled. “I’m scared. Scared of what it means to love you out loud. Scared of watching it all go up in flames the second they realize what you are to me.”

And just like that, the words stopped being excuses.

They fractured into something worse.

A confession. A conclusion.

Ugly. Terrified. Unmistakably real.

Landon stilled. His chest ached with something treacherous, but he buried it beneath the same old armor. “So, let me get this straight. You’re terrified to love me in the light… and in return, I get the pleasure of existing in your shadows.” He heaved. "Should I thank you? Huh?"

Jeremy flinched. Visibly, as if struck. But Landon didn’t let him speak.

“You once told me that you told Nikolai he deserved to be loved in the light. Like everyone else.” Landon’s voice dipped, quieter now, barely there. Vulnerable in a way he hadn’t meant to be. “Don’t I deserve that too?”

Jeremy froze, caught off guard by his own hypocrisy, his previous words circling around his throat like a noose.

"ANSWER ME!" 

"I can't..." Jeremy strained. "Landon please..."

Landon’s laugh came out soft, bitter, acidic. “You know what’s pathetic, Volkov?” His name coming off his tongue like a slur. “I cooked for you. I stayed. I—” changed for you. No. Never that. Not for anyone. Never again. He bit the words back before it could betray him. His body had already betrayed him enough, attracted to Volkov? What was he thinking? It’s clear now that he hadn’t been. Blinded by the illusion of love.

Fire surged behind glacier eyes. “And you’ll regret making me this person. Because me? I don’t beg. I don’t wait. And I sure as hell don’t play the other woman to boys too scared of their own goddamn hearts.”

Jeremy’s jaw locked, fury flaring behind his own stormy grey eyes. His hands bracketed Landon’s face, not gentle, just desperate. Shaking with restraint, with the weight of everything he was unable to say. Fingers buried themselves into giving, always giving, flesh. “Landon, please. You think I give a fuck about them? I only—” His voice broke, harsher now, ragged with something too wild, too untamed. “I only care about this. Us.”

Landon let out a bitter laugh. Careless. No trace of humor, just the hollow echo of it. “Us? There is no ‘us’. Not when you have to lie through your teeth to everyone else. When your precious image means more than I do.”

Jeremy’s grip became tighter, pinning him back against wood. His composure wavered. What seeped out wasn’t shame, it was obsession. Frantic. Devouring. All-consuming. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re the only thing that matters, Landon. You drive me insane. You’re the only one who—”

“Shut up,” Landon’s voice cut like broken glass. Sudden. Venomous. His hand shot up, nails sinking into Jeremy’s wrist, forcing him to feel. To listen. “If I mattered,” he growled, “you wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with me. If I mattered, I wouldn’t have spent the day on my own, while you toasted to a life you don’t want me to be a part of.”

Jeremy flinched, but anger flooded in fast. Defensive. Destructive.

“You think I’m ashamed of you?” He spat. “No. I’m terrified of what you do to me. You don’t get along with them, Landon. All you do is rip them apart. Spit in their politeness. Laugh in their faces. And I—” his voice cracked, rough. “I don’t know what would happen if I had to choose.”

Landon’s smile gave way to something deadly. Too cutthroat. Too cold.

“Ah.” He breathed, chest twisting. “There it is.”

Each word cut, landing like a blade. Merciless and beautiful in their cruelty.

“You don’t know if I’m worth it.”

Jeremy swore under his breath and slammed a fist into the door beside Landon’s head, the crack echoing like gunfire through the penthouse.

“Don’t twist this. Don’t you dare fucking twist this. You’re everything. But I can’t—” He swallowed like the words burned. “I can’t lose everything else too.”

Landon leaned in, close enough to taste the wreckage. His voice dropped, whispering turned soft and serpentine.

“Then you already have.”

His breath ghosted over Jeremy’s ear.

“Because I am not your shadow, Jeremy. I'm not your ghose, or dirty little secret. I’m a King. And Kings don’t beg. I will never beg for half of you. And if you’re too much of a coward to give me the rest… then congratulations. You’ve lost me.”

The words hit harder than any injury he’d received in the past. Being pinned under the table when the mansion went up in flames hurt less than whatever this was.

They landed like a cleaver to his heart. Clean. Unforgiving. Final.

Jeremy’s breath turned jagged, but he didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, it tightened, trembling with the war raging under his skin. His forehead crashed against Landon’s, like violence and intimacy were indistinguishable—the only language he had left.

“You don’t get to decide this ends.” His voice quivered in pain, futility.

Landon didn’t soften in the face of it. Unwavering in his resolve.

“I think that you ended us the moment you chose your audience over me.”

“You don’t get to leave me,” he snarled. The words shook as they left him, wrecked, unpredictable like he was a cornered wild animal.

Landon smiled.

Soft. Cruel. Devastating.

Fingers dragging teasingly down Jeremy’s shirt. Deliberate, mocking, the ghost of past intimacy weaponized. “That’s the difference between us, darling.” He murmured. “You take what’s handed to you.”

A pause. Intentional. Calculated.

“I take what I want.” And then, a breath, just long enough to sear. “And what I want—is no longer you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was a scream. A detonation on mute. Malicious. Still. Jeremy’s hands trembled where they held him—torn between dragging him closer and letting him go.

Landon leaned in one last time. His voice turned velvet. Sultry. Dangerous. The kind Jeremy got off on.

“Happy birthday,” he purred, brushing his lips just shy of his. “I hope you got your fucking wish.”

Then he shoved him. Hard. Breaking free from Jeremy’s vice-like hold.

Jeremy was startled enough that he lost his footing, stumbling back. Just long enough for Landon to slip past him in one fluid, lethal motion—soft-footed and quiet.

He shut the door softly, no dramatics, no theatrics. Nothing. He wouldn’t give Jeremy any more of himself to take.

“LANDON!”

Jeremy’s exclamation came out muffled through by the barrier of the door.

Landon didn’t look back. He didn’t stop.

Because he wasn’t going to wait up for whatever Jeremy decided to do next.

He was done being second choice.

The sky outside was somber, draped in thick grey like mourning. It wept in slow, pitiful drops, almost like it was shedding the tears Landon might have been able to if he was more susceptible to fits of sorrow, if he were the type to break cleanly.

But he didn’t.

He calcified. Hardened. Cracked in places no one could see.

And right now? He felt hollow.
Empty.
Alone.

Fuck, he hadn’t felt this alone in a while. Hadn’t realized he could even feel like this. Get like this. Undone. Off-center. Stripped bare without the constructed armor of defiance or sex or his trademark smirk to cover the bleeding.

The void that Jeremy had temporarily filled was closing in his peripheral, clawing its way back in. Quietly at first, then louder, more violent, until it’s now consuming the edges of his vision, his heart.

He didn’t know how long he spent walking. Didn’t care.

The streets blurred together. Buildings bleeding into one another like wet ink, signs unreadable, lights meaningless. He didn’t know what direction he was headed—north, south, west, east—it was all the same.

He just moved.
He needed to get away.
So, he walked.

Walked until his feet felt like they’d fall off, until the pain bloomed in the soles of his shoes as if bleeding under the strain of having to carry the mess that was himself. Walked until the chill rain seeped beneath his clothes, promising a terrible cold in the upcoming days. The same clothes he’d worn yesterday, but was too drained to change out of.

His feet took him to the boardwalk, to a bench overlooking the expanse of the Atlantic’s frigid waters before him.

They say that people calmed by water are born of fire. And those who are soothed by flame? Were inherently made of water.

But that never made sense to Landon.

The opposite couldn’t be more true.

He was fire, through and through. Unapologetically, catastrophically so. But the ocean didn’t calm him. It mocked him. All that depth and quiet. Still and deep like it had something to hide.

Like Jeremy.

No, what calmed Landon was chaos. Destruction. Screams over stillness. Passion over peace.

And yet, here he was, empty, washed up on metaphorical shorelines he’d spent his whole life avoiding.

Perhaps the gentle waves of the ocean had swayed him once, but he wouldn’t let it again.

He waited for his heart to stop trembling with anything. Waited for the numbness of his exterior to flood his interior. His fingers were steady when he finally pulled out his phone.

Scrolling past names he couldn’t stand and those who didn’t matter, one-night stands, half-friends who were wary, family who tolerated him because of blood, people who looked good beside him at a party but disappeared the second things got inconvenient.

He only stopped when his eyes landed on the only name that made sense. The only person who’d never turned away when Landon’s head got too noisy, too ugly. When he was cruel. When he was real.

The one person who understood him, the one person who would be able to untangle the turbulent chaos in his head. The person who wouldn’t ask too many questions or push buttons he didn’t want pressed.

Aiden King.

His uncle.

The only person who intimately knew what it meant to feel too little and too much at the same time.

He clicked on the contact.

Waited

One ring. Two.

It was answered on the third.

Chapter Text

Levi could count on one hand the number of times he’d been able to catch a decent break from the continuous stress of leading King Enterprises in the past ten years. Not just a vacation with a phone still glued to his ear, or a quiet evening ruined by another red stamped crisis that read ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ on his desk, or an afternoon spent training a newly hired employee who’d get lost trying to tell apart their left hand from their right, but a real break. A moment where no one needed him. Where he could just be.

Spoiler: it hadn’t happened yet.

King Enterprises didn’t sleep, and neither did the Kings who ruled it. His uncle had made sure of that, working them to the ground since Aiden and him were old enough to understand what holding their last name meant in this world. Power. Deceit. Manipulation. Cunning.

Weakness was never an option. For Aiden. For Levi. For anyone who dared carry their legacy. You didn’t rest when the kingdom needed ruling. You didn’t slow down simply because you wanted to, because your body begged you to.

The King family outlasted. They endured.

So no, rest wasn’t part of the plan—not when there were corporations to dismantle, not when there were new heights to reach, and certainly not when there was paperwork to be done, and there was always work to be done—Levi had stopped pretending it was.

God—there was no god because seriously if he existed, Levi would like to file a formal complaint because what had he done to deserve this in this life or a past one (3 missed calls from Jonathan King)—he wanted to retire. Seriously, when would he be able to? Wishful thinking on his part, he knew, but all he wanted was to wake up on a remote island with his wife and without the weight of empires pressing down on him. But all that was a figment of his imagination, a dream. A dream that was buried somewhere in the ever-growing pile of someday, maybe, when Landon graduates and takes the throne he was built for alongside Eli as the next leaders of their empire.

Emphasis on the maybe.

Let it be known that Levi loved his kids. Fiercely. Viciously. He would die for them. Kill for them. But Christ, his youngest two were giving him migraines that could compete with anything Landon ever threw his way. And that was saying something.

Correction: it wasn’t his kids. It was the boys they’d fallen for. Their so-called ‘soulmates’.

Levi could feel himself recoil.

‘Soulmates’—god, what a wretched word.

He used to believe in it, once. Astrid was his one and only love, his soulmate. No doubt. No fear. Just her. But somewhere along the way, that word stopped meaning forever and started meaning mafia. Guns and blood and vicious loyalty that left no survivors. Now every time someone used it, all Levi heard was liability.

Why did his kids have to go and fall for the damned mafia? Seriously! What the hell was happening to his bloodline?!

What kind of ridiculous cosmic joke had he stumbled into that made Landon his only hope for a ‘normal’ child-in-law?

And even that was a gamble. Knowing Landon, it was a toss-up on just how ‘normal’ that person would truly be. Because face it. No sane person could survive Landon, wouldn’t be able to survive the way he lived, the way he loved. And worse? Levi knew his son. Knew what his son would do to keep the person who dared try. Knew how far he’d go. What he’d give up. Who he’d become.

And Levi didn’t want to watch that. Didn’t want to see his son fracture in real time. Didn’t want to see the lengths he’d break himself if that person left him. Most of all, he didn’t want to see himself mirrored in his son. The same mistakes he’d made but instead of being at the helm of his own poor decision making, he’d have to watch from the perspective of a father. From the perspective of someone who had nothing to gain and only something precious to lose.

His retirement, his peace, his life. Everything had become a waiting game.

Now, Aiden and Levi were in Jonathan’s manor. They had just closed a deal with a prominent emerging distributor they’d been negotiating with for weeks, and managed to find a quiet moment to themselves, managed to finally catch a break, away from all the work. A moment where they could finally allow their business personas to fall away for something more real, something more natural.

It was currently 4 am. Should they have been asleep? Probably. But long-term insomnia was a hell of a bitch and his circadian rhythm had long since been fucked up.

They sat across from one another in Jonathon’s study, the same way they had a thousand times before. The chessboard between them was worn, familiar in the way old scars were. Levi had gifted it to Aiden following his mother’s—the late Alicia King’s—death. Back when they were both young enough to think grief could be softened by something tangible.

Neither of them had been able to process grief normally. Neither of them were neurotypical in their line of thinking, both psychotic at heart. But he’d tried. And he knew what loss had felt like with his own mother’s and eventually father’s passing.

The board had been Levi’s favorite.

But Aiden seemed to need it more than him at the time.

And now they played often enough that he could always see it, always use it. The pieces still fit like old friends in his fingers. The game was familiar. Comforting, even.

Inside, the study was dimly lit, golden light casting long shadows across the floor. Outside, the rain hadn’t let up, continuing to tap insistently against the windows like it was asking to be let in.

Levi’s fingers skimmed the handle of his mug before taking a sip, the hot chocolate Astrid had prepared him was lukewarm now, probably forgotten hours ago. Across from him, Aiden studied the board like it was a living thing. The Kings had never been normal about chess. No, to them it was war, shrunken down to an eight-by-eight grid.

This particular game was a match they’d played many times before. The same board. The same opponents. Different ghosts.

“Queen’s Gambit?” Aiden's brow lifted, smirking at the tell-tale sign of the opening. “You’ve grown too predictable, Levi. Too old to learn new plays?”

Levi didn’t bother to look up. “Nothing wrong with the same techniques when they win you the game.”

“Mhm. Spoken like a man who hasn’t beaten me in three weeks.”

“Fair point.” Levi chuckled.

The pieces clicked against marble, methodical, steady. A soft tick every few seconds between them. A quiet ritual they never acknowledged out loud but both relied on more than either of them would have liked to admit.

“Queen to D4,” Levi murmured, calm, relaxed.

“An early Queen?” Aiden arched a brow, briefly looking up from the board, his fingers resting lightly against a knight. “That’s suicide.”

“Not if I want to draw you out.”

“Dangerous tactic. You truly think that’ll work?”

Levi’s lips curled. “You sound like my therapist.”

“You have a therapist?” Aiden sounded skeptical, almost amused by the notion.

“No. That’s why I sound like this.”

Aiden huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

The atmosphere was soon shattered by the shrill ring of a phone, piercing through the still peace they’d had only moments prior. The sound echoed off the walls. Too loud. Too High. Aiden didn’t move to reach for his phone at first, just stared at the screen where it was resting on the windowsill.

Of course, Levi couldn’t have one night to himself. Who the hell would call at this godforsaken hour?

Levi frowned, looking over at his cousin’s phone.

Landon.

His son.

Aiden’s expression shifted—barely—but Levi caught it. Of course he did.

There was a kind of silence between them then. Not awkward. Just understood.

Levi knew his son didn’t come to him when things were bad. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. He knew Landon went to his cousin for advice instead. Landon went to Aiden whenever he needed anything. Had for years. The result of years of trying and failing to be what Landon needed weighed heavily on them both.

And Levi had learned to live with that slow, familiar ache. The sting of knowing that someone else had become the version of father Landon could actually stand.

He didn’t blame him. Not really. He was thankful that Landon had someone at all. Someone that would stand by him no matter what, that understood him.

His and Landon’s father-son relationship was strained, nothing like what he’d hoped for, nothing like what he wanted. He still remembered the day he first held Landon in his arms, twenty-three years ago in a sterile hospital room that reeked of antiseptic and quiet panic. He still remembered that absurdly small body wrapped in a swaddle, pretty baby blue eyes staring back at him, the way his little fingers curled around his own larger one.

Even back then Levi hadn’t known what to do with Landon. He came out silent. He didn’t cry. He never cried when it really mattered.

Astrid had gripped Levi’s hand like she was bracing for a verdict. The silence was unbearable—wrong—and when the doctors rushed out of the room taking Landon from them without so much as an explanation, Astrid had started to shake. She was inconsolable thinking it was somehow her fault. That she did something wrong, that she had somehow lost her baby.

Levi could admit that it scared the hell out of him too.

For hours, all they could think about was how they’d be celebrating a funeral and a birthday for the rest of their lives. How Bran’s birthday would always be tainted by death, his twin’s death. How they might have had to deal with looking at Brandon and imagining another.

Then a nurse finally emerged again.

Holding a very much alive, very fussy little baby.

Apparently, there had been nothing wrong at all. Landon had just wanted to give his poor, poor parents the scare of their lives. Landon had always taken hostages, never handed out pity. And unfortunately, for Levi, they fell under this blanket rule as well.

Even as a baby, Landon was one for dramatics. Because everything that went down at the hospital was clearly just for show. A masterful performance on his part. As soon as they took him home, Landon never shut up.

His little lungs were heaven—no, hell—sent.

He wailed like the world owed him something. Whining and fussing and demanding attention like a tyrant. Astrid had laughed through her tears, calling him their little prince.

But even then, Levi should have known.

The kid didn’t want to be a prince. He wanted the whole damn throne.

He wore their last name like it was written in the stars. Taking to it as if the Fates themselves had carved it into his destiny. King wasn’t just a name he’d been born into. It was who he was, fundamentally, irrovocably. He didn’t just carry it, he embodied it.

If you asked Levi, he was a spoiled little prince.

Beautiful. Brilliant. Impossible.

But most definitely a spoiled little brat.

Crowned in defiance before he could speak. Armed with wit before he could walk.

But Levi wouldn’t have had it any other way. He loved him with everything he had. Even when he didn’t know how to show it. Even when he didn’t think Landon wanted it.

He’d give anything to go back in time though, to rewind the clock. He’d much rather it go back to that than what he currently had to go through. With a son too vocal, too reserved in all the wrong ways. Screams over silence. Back to a boy who was too much, not a man who hid himself behind hundreds of masks he believed fooled his own damn father.

When Landon grew up, he instantly knew that Landon was the child most like him. The same sharp tongue. The same refusal to bend. The same fire, too wild to cage. He’d hoped that recognizing it early might save him from future mistakes, future heartache. It’s why they had taken him to get diagnosed at the first sign that something was off. The diagnosis was unnecessary, Levi had already known what Landon was, who Landon was. And he hadn’t cared.

He had hoped to do it better, hoped to be more of a father to him than what he had growing up. James—his own father—had been too far gone on drugs and pipe dreams to properly care for anything outside himself. Levi learned to parent by surviving him.

And Jonathan? He tried. Admittedly tried to care for him. But love didn’t come naturally to their family, and he’d never been able to show Aiden or him the kind of love a child needed. Not the kind that was soft or forgiving. His love had been reserved, quiet, tainted by grief. It had left them tainted as well.

So, Levi had vowed to be better.

And failed.

Time and time again he failed.

He failed Glyn. He failed Bran. Let them grow up developing detrimental inferiority complexes, let them shrink beside the legacy they were supposed to inherit. But they managed to pull themselves back together, with the help of cousin heathens. He might despise them, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe his children were better off without them in their lives.

And Landon?

He’d failed him the worst, hadn’t he?

He didn’t know where to begin with the long list of fuckups he’d made along the way. He tried to be strict. But all it did was earn him that look. It had Landon looking at him like Aiden used to look at Jonathan. It had hurt, inexplicably, to see his son run behind Aiden, clutching onto his pant legs as he looked at him not quite in fear—no, his son didn’t do fear—but, rather, with more wariness than any child should at their parent.

The look that said: you don’t get to tame me.

As if Landon were a dog in need of being tamed. He wasn’t. Levi had never viewed him as such. But did Landon think he had? Think he did?

It had gutted him.

And later when he tried to switch tactics, tried to become more approachable, more like a friend to him… it was already too late. Landon saw it as permission, not love. A green light to do whatever the fuck he wanted with no regard for consequence. And Levi, terrified of losing him completely, let him.

He’d much rather accept chaos into their lives, than that look, so he and Astrid left him to his own devices.

Left him to deteriorate down a slippery slope to an endless chasm that would soon consume their son until he could feel nothing. When felony after felony would leave him unphased, bouncing off him like water off stone. No guilt, no fear, no thrill, just numbness. When it would no longer provide him with the brief respite it does now.

A boy burning himself alive to feel anything.

Like Icarus in designer clothing, destined to chase the sun, flying to new heights until he eventually fell.

And Levi? He only hoped that when the wings melted and the fall came, he and Astrid would be close enough to catch him in the aftermath.

So he called. Too often? Maybe. More than Landon would probably have liked? Definitely. But it kept him sane, left him calmer. Just hearing his son’s voice. Knowing that Landon was still alive, unharmed, safe. That his chaotic spark hadn’t dimmed. It was enough to keep the worst nightmares at bay.

They’d mended their relationship through the years. Mostly. Time and exhaustion had softened the sharp edges between them. Levi had come to cherish the rare moments when Landon let something slip, when he cracked the door open just enough to reveal how he truly felt—or rather didn’t feel. Treasured the times he would reveal parts of himself every now and then. Vaguely. In his own cryptic way. It was never direct, never easy. Not with the way Landon spoke in half-truths and ambiguous gestures, offering pieces of himself in the only way he knew how. But Levi, always waiting, always ready, would take whatever scraps Landon left behind.

None of that stopped the horrendous, humiliating urge to abandon his dignity—to drop to his knees and beg Aiden to tell him everything, anything. Just one word about what his son told him. It didn’t stop the jealousy—yes, jealousy—that curled like something sour in his throat every time he saw how easily Landon trusted his uncle, how easily Landon entrusted himself to him.

Jealous.

He was jealous.

The word grated. It sat uncomfortable within him. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once, an emotion he didn’t want to name, but couldn’t deny. But it was the most apt feeling as to what he felt. Because that was what it was, wasn’t it? That nagging, bitter feeling when he learned Landon ran to Aiden whenever he wanted advice. Wanted comfort. Wanted anything.

Aiden just knew what to say. What Landon needed. As if the boy had come with an instruction manual he’d only handed to him. As if Landon wasn’t Levi’s, but Aiden’s boy. As if Levi had just been a placeholder for someone better.

They were both teenage wrecks, both equally unprepared. But somehow, Aiden had turned out ten times the father he hoped to be to Lan.

And Levi hated it. Hated how it made him feel like he’d come out worse for wear, how it made him feel like he’d already lost.

Maybe if he’d told Lan more. About himself. About the things he’d done. His own foolish youthful endeavours. The mistakes he’d made. The messes. The regrets. All of it. Maybe if he’d been the one to break the silence first, maybe things would have been different.

So perhaps when he snatched his cousin’s phone and put it on speaker, it came from a selfish place. A place of wanting to hear what his son sounded like when he opened up. Not completely. Never completely.

After all, Landon was a King man.

And King men didn’t do that. They didn’t bare their souls, never truly let anyone in.

Aiden gave him a look. Quiet. Knowing. And let him do as he pleased.

Levi, with all his stubbornness and pride, would never say it aloud, but he was grateful.

On the third ring, Aiden answered.

“Landon?” Aiden’s tone was light, teasing. A greeting he’d made a hundred times before. “Finally decided to grace me with a call?”

The only thing that filtered through the other end was the low crackle of static. A shifting noise. The faint sound of shuffling. Someone moving—maybe breathing—but no voice.

Aiden straightened, shoulders locking into place with thinly veiled tension, on edge.

Levi leaned forward, he could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears, alarm bells being set off in his head.

Between them, the chessboard lay forgotten, the game abandoned.

“Landon?” Aiden tried again, slightly louder now. Clearer. Controlled. Alert. His voice dropped low with something that edged on concern.

More static.

Then finally—

“...Uncle?”

Landon.

his voice crackled through, a little broken up and warbled, but unmistakably Landon.

The connection at last evened out.

And Levi could breathe again.

Though the relief was short-lived.

The sound of rain bled through the speaker. Distant thunder. Ocean waves crashing violently against the shore. Wind howling in a scream. The unmistakable ambiance of the outdoors.

The world was mourning, and Landon was out there with it. Just where was his son?

Aiden’s tone shifted. Subtle, but immediate.

“Where are you?”

A pause. Then Landon, clipped and casually detached, replied. “Out.”

Levi’s stomach turned. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Out? His son was supposed to be back at the mansion, safe and sound and asleep. Sleeping off whatever chaos he’d stirred up during the week. He enjoyed his slow, lazy mornings. In his words he needed his ‘beauty sleep’ after what Levi liked to call a week’s worth of menacing. So no, Landon wasn’t a morning person, never was, never would be. Not like Brandon, who wore his 5 am runs like a badge of honor. No, Landon treated mornings like an insult to his very existence.

He needed sleep. He demanded it. Like it owed him rest after the exhausting act of simply existing.

So why the fuck was he wandering around in the rain? In a storm, no less.

Especially considering that his son’s views on rain were rather similar to his own when he was younger. Levi had never been one to take to the rain, not until Astrid helped him heal, helped show him it was okay after his father’s death.

“Out where?” Aiden’s tone remained even, but the words coiled tighter. “You’re clearly not at the mansion, what are you planning this time, dear nephew of mine?”

Silence followed. The question went unanswered.

Just the hum of rain pitter-pattering against concrete. The occasional zip of a car speeding past. The low roar of the ocean.

Levi’s eyes narrowed.

For the third time, he wondered where the hell was his son?

Then, Landon spoke.

“Hey, Uncle.”

Dodging the question in its entirety. No attempt at subtlety. No mask. No sarcasm. Just raw, aching, stripped-down weariness.

Levi’s chest ached.

Something had left him like this. Disheveled. Vulnerable. Maskless.

Just what, or who, did this?

“You told me that it was okay that I was… different,” Landon continued, voice softer now. “That it made me special.”

Levi stilled. He didn’t like where this was going. Landon wasn’t self-conscious. Landon didn’t do doubt. Didn’t wade in pools of vulnerability.

He wrecked.
Destroyed.
Ruined.

But this… this was different.

It wasn’t some episode or foiled plan. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t any of his baser narcissistic or psychotic tendencies.

It was grief.

Just what the bloody hell happened?

“Yes, that’s true,” Aiden replied evenly.

Was this a conversation Aiden and his son had had before? It seemed like it. But why was this the first time hearing about it? His cousin spoke as if this wasn’t new to him.

Of course, Levi thought bitterly, of course they had.

And suddenly, it was unbearable.

The jealousy—the useless, ugly jealousy—hit again, harder than any tackle he’d received on the field. Not because Landon confided in Aiden on this matter. But because he didn’t confide in him.

Aiden hadn’t expanded. Three words. That was all.

Levi’s nerves were alight with fire, pulsing with tension.

Damn his cousin. He wanted answers. He knew Landon would only ever willingly give information else he’d shut down, but that didn’t stop the urge of wanting to shake that boy upside down until he revealed a glimpse of what he was thinking. A glimpse into that mind of his.

“You said that not everyone would see it,” Landon went on. “That if I wanted to keep him, I’d have to learn empathy before he left me sooner or later.”

Him?

Levi blinked. The word echoed in his head.

He. Him.

He had never been so fixated, as he was now, on a pronoun before.

Landon was talking about a… a boy?

His son liked… what? dick? Levi was in disbelief. His son—the son that was most like him—liked dick. The son that only ever bragged about his nights fraternizing with random women, women who clung to him like some sort of messiah. That son. Preferred hard edges over soft curves. The revelation knocked the wind out of him, leaving him reeling.

This was a mistake. It had to be.

Why did his son have to be condemned to like a useless race made up of flesh and a dick. Never mind the fact that Levi and Lan both belonged to said useless race. They were exceptions. Not the rule.

His son was… what? Gay? Bi? Questioning? Levi didn’t know—he was just not straight?

More importantly, was he the top or…?

Levi dissociated for a moment, prepared to be sick.

No. Wait.

Levi didn’t care about labels.

Why hadn’t he known? It was obvious looking back now, his son didn’t care what parts a body had, so long as it was warm—at least Levi hoped he cared about sleeping with only warm bodies, and not cold ones.

Landon had always been unapologetically himself. He’d never hidden his sexual escapades before and Levi had even encouraged him growing up. The idea that he’d hide something out of fear was unthinkable. People could call him every slur in the world and he’d dance on their graves the next day.

No. This wasn’t about shame.

This was about care.

Landon cared. That much was evident.

And that meant this boy—whoever he was—mattered.

More than just a fling. More than just a warm body, an ill-remembered name in Landon’s bed for a night.

Landon had found someone. Someone he cared for. Someone that had gotten past the walls. One that had made it inside.

Did Aiden know who it was? Levi wanted to know. It was his son. His oldest baby. This… this character would be forever entangled in Levi’s life, not Aiden’s. For the millionth time he cursed his cousin for not spilling everything.

Levi’s jaw clenched.

Aiden stayed maddeningly calm.

“Yes, that’s true,” Aiden repeated.

Levi was going to murder his cousin. He wanted to throttle him. Plain and simple.

He could imagine his hands wrapping themselves around Aiden’s throat and squeezing. But that wouldn’t win him any favors with his son, and he’d have to deal with the entire scandal that mess would undoubtedly cause. Not to mention having to deal with an additional body, as if Eli and Landon didn’t already have enough skeletons in their closet. Literally.

The point was he was getting on Levi’s last bloody nerve. Levi didn’t need vague affirmations, he needed answers.

He was about to break his silence, about to speak, when Landon’s voice dropped lower.

“I took your advice. I went to Bran and did those ridiculous empathy lessons—”

Levi’s heart jumped a beat. A million thoughts swirled in his head.

Bran?

His twins spoke?

Landon’s pride had always been his armor. And Bran’s silence had always been his punishment. The rift between them had been carved deep, silent, sacred in the way only they understood. It appeared one night, seemingly out of nowhere. No one but them knew what truly happened.

And now Landon had gone to him? At Aiden’s behest?

It almost undid Levi. For one brief moment, his chest was full of something that felt like hope, like joy. His eldest two were mending parts of them that should never have been broken.

But his happiness soon came crashing down because why.

Why had Landon taken empathy lessons? Was he that serious about this boy? Levi feared the worst in exactly what that meant. In Landon’s next words.

“—so why didn’t he stay?”

Silence.

Thick. Crushing. Inescapable.

“Who?” Levi’s voice broke through. Pinched. Sharp with righteous anger. Not calm. Not collected. Just angry.

Protective.

Who fucking dared. Because whoever this boy was—whoever dared to burrow into his son’s heart and then rip himself free, whoever dared to find himself in Lan’s good graces and then somehow manage to fuck up—Levi was going to end him.

They’d signed their own death warrant.

“Dad?” Surprise flickered through the speaker, clearly not having expected Levi to be listening in to what should have been a private conversation.

Too bad.

“I asked you a question,” Levi repeated, impatient, but slower this time. “Who?”

Landon paused. Hesitant. It was telling.

“Jeremy Volkov.”

The name landed like an arrow. The target? His heart.

Aiden’s face shuttered, but Levi saw it. The flicker of calculation behind his cousin’s eyes, the subtle tell of someone already planning for war. Another Volkov. After the whole Creighton ordeal, after all the dust hadn’t even fully settled. Aiden was undoubtedly grieving the future headache that came with having to interact with mafia executive Adrian Volkov—Jeremy’s father—as much as he was looking forward to the newly presented opportunity to twist the knife.

He always did revel in a good rematch—round two of Aiden vs. Adrian.

Levi, meanwhile, was already mourning his fate.

A VOLKOV.
A GODDAMN VOLKOV?!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.

DAMMIT LANDON.

Aiden was supposed to keep that one. His cousin was just as psychotic as he was, if not worse. Levi was sure the fates hated him.

He was only supposed to be burdened by Carsons and Sokolovs, but here he was with a bloody Volkov to add in the mix. As if the Sokolov heir wasn’t enough of a disaster. As if his daughter hadn’t already dragged the youngest Carson boy—mind you, the same boy Aiden had to drag his own psycho son from before they figured out how to burn the world to the ground—into their orbit.

His most troublesome child had managed to outdo his siblings once more.

He’s three for three now.

No. Wait. Back to the fact his children all liked men. Where did he go wrong? Where the bloody hell had his genes gone?! This is all his wife’s fault—no, bad Levi, this isn’t your princess’ fault—but if Astrid had just been attracted to women too… then maybe—no, blame your useless fucking sperm, Levi.

What was that he remembered reading about stress killing off the Y chromosome-bearing sperm when men got too stressed? Was it possible it killed off some straight gene? You’re telling him that not one of his children exclusively liked women? Fucking blasphemy.

He was going to kill his uncle for working him to the ground. Somehow, this was definitely his fault.

But anyways.

Now was not the time for Levi to lament, to breakdown and weep his misfortune as much as he very well would like to.

“Volkov?” Levi hissed, voice low and dangerous, every syllable brittle with disbelief. His eye twitched, the vein in his temple visibly throbbing, already predicting that he’d never have a dull moment in his life again. “What the bloody hell have you been doing behind my back?”

“Loving him,” he said quietly, and Levi’s heart broke, “quietly. So he could hold onto what he holds most important. His reputation. His friends. His family. His image.”

“Everything but you.” Aiden’s voice was cold, clinical, cutting through like a scalpel. He was furious.

“What did that lizard do?” Levi demanded, nails biting into his thighs, uncaring of the pain, only needing a direction to throw his ire.

“He forgot me,” Landon said distantly. “He chose everyone else. It was his birthday. Our three-month anniversary. I made him dinner and he… he never came.”

Levi saw red.

“I’ll kill him.” Levi roared, his chair scraped hard against the wood as he stood abruptly. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with unrivaled fury, breath heavy through flared nostrils, and eyes wild with a rage that could almost pierce through the barrier between him and his son. He was ready for a bloodbath.

“No.” Landon’s voice was steel. Unmoving.

“No?! he d—” Levi’s jaw ticked, torn between the madness of Landon’s words, the haunting truth buried beneath it, and his own indignation. His outrage was cut short by none other than Landon.

“He is mine.” Landon growled, every syllable measured, slow, deliberate—like a warning carved with blood. “No one touches him, no one hurts him but me.”

A stifling silence descended. The only sounds that could be heard were the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock, Levi’s harsh breath scraping through clenched teeth, and Aiden’s restless foot tapping against cold wood. Ah, there it was—that damnable, cursed possession—the dark plague that haunted all the men in the King bloodline. Rooted deep in the marrow of their bones, an inheritance soaked in obsession and cruelty. A legacy of men never loved softly, never did anything halfway—they fixated, they obsessed, they destroyed. They claimed what they wanted, no matter the cost.

Fuck.

This was about more than just vengeance. It was about possession. Ownership. Control.

“YOURS?! He’s yours, but you’re not hi—” He was cut off once more by Aiden’s rough hand shoving him firmly back, forcing him into his seat. Levi turned on him, seething, eyes burning with venom. Prepared to fight his own damn cousin, prepared to rip apart his own blood if it came down to it. From where had his cousin gained the sheer audacity to try and ‘calm’ him. It clearly lacked any forethought. 

Aiden’s eyes were steady, unflinching in the face of his wrath. He remained cold and unreadable, only giving the smallest shake of his head, silently conveying the words Lan’s words—or lack thereof—couldn’t. Let him speak.

“You love him,” Aiden said, voice flat.

“Yes.”

Levi’s heart stuttered, sharp and unnatural.

No, no—this wasn’t supposed to happen. His son was supposed to be the one doing the ruining, not the other way around, not the one who got ruined. Not by someone he loved, truly, genuinely loved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Levi asked, quieter now, barely above a whisper.

“Because I knew you’d react like this. And I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“I understand one thing.” Levi hissed, fury crawling back into his tone. “That bastard humiliated you. And no one humiliates a King. No one humiliates you.”

Aiden's voice dropped to something lethal. “He never told anyone about you.”

Landon didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
His silence was answer enough.

An answer darker than any words could ever be.

“He made you his shame,” Aiden said coldly, flat and merciless. “That’s not love, Landon. That’s convenience.”

The line went quiet. The room, the entire world seemed to shrink to that small screen. The weight of Aiden’s words pressing down like the suffocating grip of a coffin, like being buried alive. Silence, once more, filled the space, only this time it thrummed with something darker, dreary, an impending storm that promised to drown everything in its path, only with raging flames and soiled blood.

Then, beneath the deafening rumble of thunder, so faint and soft it nearly dissolved into the night’s chaos, lost to the downpour, Landon’s voice broke through, a whisper of something far graver, far more ominous.

“I want him to pay.”

Levi stilled, frozen between shock and a sick, twisted sense of relief. The words were quiet, barely there. But they were him. They were unmistakably Landon. This was the Landon that Levi was familiar with. The one he knew how to deal with. Not a broken, fragile mess, but the fire Levi remembered. Captivating and deadly in its beauty.

Levi latched onto those words. They resonated in him in a way nothing else had tonight, igniting a spark that had long since been buried behind years of maturing, behind years of necessity for the stability that being a husband and father required. But now? Now all he wanted to do was burn. There had been no comfort, no lifeline in Landon’s pain, in the sea of madness he’d been thrown into—but in his wrath? There was clarity in that. Purpose. A direction Levi could follow, even if it led him down a detour straight to hell.

He nodded once, resolute, despite Landon not being able to see him. The choice had already been made, carved into stone long before the conversation began.

“He’ll burn.”

With that, the call disconnected.

The emptiness it left behind was louder than anything that had been said. It lingered like the thrum of something violent that hadn’t yet happened.

Aiden didn’t move.

Neither did Levi.

The room felt still in a way that didn’t invite peace, only calculation, rage, barely held together restraint.

And then—
a shift.
Movement from across the study.

Levi’s eyes drifted from the blank phone screen to the quiet figure leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t said a word throughout the call. She hadn’t needed to. Her presence filled the space more than any voice could, heavy and absolute.

Astrid.

His wife.

The person Levi couldn’t function without, whose existence grounded him even now.

She looked as she always did. Composed, regal, beautiful. But her hands were clenched white around the folds of her night robe, a chisel in one of her hands that threatened to slip from her grasp. A frown marring her delicate features, cracking some of the ice that had encased his heart.

He moved toward her without thinking. Like it was second nature.

She was staring into the distance, into nothing. Her mind in some distant place only she knew.

He looked down into misty green eyes. Soft with grief, sharp with understanding. There was heartbreak there, for her eldest. The kind only a mother could carry. The kind only a father could echo.

“He hurt him,” she said quietly.
Not a question. Not a plea. Just the truth.
Spoken aloud as if it could no longer be avoided.

“I know.” Levi murmured, voice dipping into sorrow, brushing his hand through the soft brown strands of her hair, then down to cradle her cheek.

She leaned into it. Allowed herself a moment—a fraction of a second—to fall into the comfort it offered.

But when it was over, she pulled away, not physically, but in spirit. Her gaze, fixated on the floor, lifted gradually to meet Levi’s. Her eyes were different now, none of the warmth and loving embrace they usually offered, the lush forests he'd grown to associate them with had vanished. They looked like they came straight from the tundra, they were harder, icy.

In them, Levi saw a reflection. A mirror of not just himself, but of his own inner turmoil, his own chaotic thoughts still not settled. A mirror of what Levi had always known lived beneath her calm, a quiet intensity that existed solely for her loved ones, for her children.

“He’ll bleed.”

There was no tremor in her voice.
No room for kindness.
Only violence.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Chapter Text

The call disconnected.

And only then, only in the soft lull that followed, did Landon remember how to breathe. Not just the shallow, obligatory inhales that had kept him upright for—he didn’t actually know how long—though he’d been performing the mechanical movements since he’d left the penthouse. But actual, real breathing. As if his lungs hadn’t felt like they were being compressed from the inside, collapsing from under an invisible weight. As if air were no longer some foreign substance his body had forgotten how to process.

His chest rose, slow and unsteady. The first breath came in so sharp it physically burned. Too jagged. Too deep. The cold air rushed in, sudden and unfamiliar, like it was unsure if it was welcome. It felt like he’d just been doused in ice water. It felt wrong. Violent. Like resuscitation rather than relief. His body shuddered from the shock, from the chill that tore through his system.

It was like a hit to his soul. A wake up call. Reminding him that he was still alive. Unfortunately.

Any of the fatigue he felt from lack of sleep was gone.

And he was left, once more, to contend with this cold, bleak reality.
Alone.
He was completely, utterly alone.

Despite the much needed oxygen rejuvenating him, coursing through his body like the elixir of life that it was, he still felt numb. Vacant. Dull. The kind of hollow left behind when a person who’d once filled a space that was empty for so long finally ripped away, ripped free.

And yet, for a brief moment, a calm had settled over him in the wake of the call. In the aftermath. A few seconds of respite after confiding in his uncle and… and his dad… his dad, who he hadn’t expected to be on the other end. He still didn’t know what to make of it. The relief had been subtle, fleeting. Already beginning to slowly fade as he slipped back into the dark abyss.

Because, the weight was still ever present. That unseen pressure pressing down on him, compressing a heart that wasn’t supposed to exist—at least not anymore, remained. And it ached like that was its purpose. Like the pain was there to stay. Plaguing him from within, pulsing venom straight to his heart. A heart that was now bereft of what had kept it beating, what had given it life. A heart bereft of Jeremy. It was painful, torturous, mind-numbing.

He hadn’t thought he’d have to fill his darkness with something else.

Something that wasn’t him.
Jeremy Volkov.
His monster.

Landon let out a drawn out sigh, the kind that pulled from somewhere buried deep inside. A place where words no longer worked, only the weight of breath and silence could speak. It ghosted into the damp air, curling in front of him like smoke in the dim light provided by a nearby street lamp.

His fingers were cold, sharp pinpricks of pain shooting through them, tell-tale signs of the coming numbness brought on by the wintry night air. Even so, he pushed through, ignoring his trembling fingers as he slid out his phone from the soaked cashmere of his pants. Yet another thing that would be invariably ruined by Jeremy’s callousness.

The pants had been one part of a three-piece suit. The fabric was luxurious, made exclusively for him. He’d spent a small fortune on it, but it was worth it to feel the divine softness with which it caressed his skin, the way it draped so elegantly along his figure accentuating his natural physique. Jeremy had loved it, loved the way it looked on him, loved the way he looked in it.

Jeremy had initially remarked that it was disturbing. He wasn’t used to seeing Landon in pure white. To see such sin wrapped in the color of innocence, of purity. To see him look like an angel, a devil untainted. Everything which Landon was certifiably not.

But even so, Jeremy only had to take one look at the suit before he declared it off-limits to public, prying, undeserving eyes. That it was just for him. He said he knew the effect it would have on people, and Landon hadn’t denied it then either. He had feigned obliviousness at the time, but it was nothing more than a facade. He wasn’t one to miss much, and certainly not the way people fawned over him, basking in his godlike presence. He knew the effect he already had on everyone. And he knew that this suit would only aid in taking it further, would have people envisioning doves singing and the pearly gates of heaven enticing them. It had already sent Jeremy into a vivid daydream: Landon dressed in white, dressed for their wedding, the sound of church bells echoing in the confines of his mind.

He was temptation itself.

A fact Landon had been all too willing to exploit yesterday, as he got dressed for the occasion.

For Jeremy.
For his birthday.
For their anniversary.

So he’d decided to surprise him with that.

He hadn’t wanted it to be too formal—Jeremy hated that, or at least claimed to. So, Landon had opted to leave the rest of the suit untouched in its velvet garment bag. Instead, he’d pulled on a loose navy blue turtleneck, made of the same breathable, high-quality fabric, soft as petals against his skin. It mirrored the more casual sweaters he wore while sculpting, the ones worn threadbare at the elbows and always dusted with powdered stone. Something that was so intrinsically him.

Jeremy had constantly said he found peace in that version of Landon—an artist in his element—chaotic, tempered, and honest in his movements. There was a tranquility there that no penthouse or private airplane or tailor-made suit could replicate. He had preferred it over all of the elitist clothes that money could afford.

But none of that was enough to keep Jeremy from wrapping calloused fingers around the delicate skin of his throat. It wasn’t enough to protect him from Jeremy’s wrath, from sporting a ring of purple blotches artfully around his otherwise pristine neck. It was enough, however, for the shadows cast by the high neckline to barely conceal such flaws, such imperfections, such ugliness.

A particularly strong gust of wind pulled him out of remembrance, making him flinch and regret ever wasting such strenuous amounts of care on a man who hadn’t been worth it.

Another regret.

Quickly piling on to his growing list from the past twenty-four hours…

Regrets…

Landon King didn’t do regrets.

He was regret.
Vengeance dressed in finery.
The poison you willingly ingested, only to—

The biting cold interrupted the thought, slicing through soaked fabric and straight into skin.

While normally, the cashmere would have fended off most of the moisture from his person, bearing the weight of water, this wasn’t normal rain. It was abysmal. Too heavy. The downpour was relentless in its pursuit, drowning even the most decadent of fabrics. Sinking its sorrows into every thread, until the sweater sagged heavy with water, drowning it. And drowning him in them.

He looked down at his phone as the screen flickered to life beneath the thin sheen of water that had already begun to collect. A scattered constellation of droplets distorted the display, light refracting across the curved surfaces of the raindrops like reflections in a cracked mirror. Crooked. Disjointed.

4:32 am.

It was too wrong. Too late to be the dead of night, too late for any of the nightclubs he used to usually frequented to be open. Too early to be morning, too early to even dare be considered the next day. It was the strange stale hour where even the sky wouldn’t know what it was supposed to be had it not been for the perpetual rain and nimbus clouds.

Landon stared at the time, as if it might shift into something more meaningful. As if it could tell him what he should do next, or where he should go. But it only glowed back at him dimly, uncaring, the blue-lit screen slowly shifting to the warm orange glow of night mode.

Jeremy’s name still echoed in his head, like an aftershock that refused to fade, created by something horrid and larger than life, larger than him. It wasn’t just a person anymore. Nor was it just a memory.

It was him—and not.

Something worse.
Something living.
Something dying.

Something he had let in.

And now, neither the silence nor the rain could drown it out.

He was pulled back to the present, out of his current state of mental unrest, as his eyes caught his phone screen dimming from disuse, before he tapped the screen reflexively, wiping away the new wave of water that had populated the surface. The movement didn’t manage to get rid of the drops, it only served to spread it thinner in dotted trails. He probably should have cared that his phone would end up with water damage, but he didn’t. There was no one he wanted to talk to, no one he wanted prying into his affairs. And maybe… if he got a new phone, he could get a new line, one that he didn’t have access to. But as he looked down, his phone was still serviceable. Regrettably.

4:33 am.

A minute had gone by since he’d last checked. A minute that simultaneously felt like an eternity and like barely any time had passed. Time was a concept he’d clearly forgotten to renew his subscription to, slipping from his grasp like sand between his fingers. Nothing made sense. Everything was happening too quickly, too slowly. All at once.

Somehow, it had been only thirty minutes since he first made the call. Since he’d done something wildly out of character—reached out. Let himself be heard. Be known. Be seen. Since he’d cracked open a part of himself that he’d kept sealed away, reserved only for Jeremy. A part of him that had been locked for years, maybe even forever… or at least since childhood when joy still found him in fleeting moments…

Only thirty minutes since he’d gutted himself open to his dad, who probably never even thought him capable of something as normal as love, and his uncle, who was the only person who understood the depth of his brand of damage without flinching, without needing the ugly parts translated or softened. It was enough for them both to be able to tell just how far he’d fallen.

Only thirty minutes since Landon had upended what could have been.

A love like no other.

Ever since he left the penthouse—maybe even before that—he’d been unraveling, slowly, piece by piece. And now, a quiet thought passed through him, bitter and soft all at once: should he have stayed silent? should he have pretended that day hadn’t happened at all, like it hadn’t left his heart bruised and bleeding?

And maybe that was the mistake. Maybe the moment he acknowledged the weight of it, it became too real to ignore. He could have ghosted it—he should have—like he ghosted most things that mattered. Like birthdays. Like anniversaries. Like feelings. Like Jeremy.

But he hadn’t—something in him had rebelled against the silence tonight.
He’d spoken.
He’d chosen to care.

Foolishly.

Naively.

Like a man who still believed that love—real love—could overwrite destruction. Overwrite chaos. Overwrite him.

Lesson learned: it couldn’t.

Landon was too self-destructive. He was too too much. Too Landon. Everything he ever touched became a ticking time bomb, always destined to explode—it was just a matter of when. His family had been the only ones to ever stay, and even then, he doubted Bran or the rest would have if they weren’t bound by blood.

But this time… this time, the bomb hadn’t gone off right away. No. It simmered. Took its time. And when it finally detonated, it took Landon out with it.

Jeremy had stayed longer than anyone else had, Jeremy—who didn’t have to stay, who shared no blood, no obligation—chose to stay.

Until he didn’t.

And, in the end, Landon had refused to play the fool.
Had chosen himself.
Had chosen pride.

He’d chosen to leave, to walk away before Jeremy could.

He didn’t consider that—
maybe he already had.
maybe Jeremy had been gone long before Landon touched the door.

And Landon? He would have to live with that.

He wouldn’t bend, or cave, or change himself any more than he already had. Wouldn’t keep reshaping himself into someone he wasn’t meant to be. Not anymore. This time, he would be the one to walk away—the one not left begging, not left to grovel.

He’d stick by his decision. He had to.
It was no longer a matter of simply not displaying any form of weakness, that was a given.
No—it was a matter of survival.

Now he was left sitting, facing an ocean that had gone still again, tumultuous waters calmed once more beneath the thunderous night. Just a sky that hadn’t stopped weeping to keep him company. He hadn’t brought his keys. Hadn’t planned to leave the penthouse. Hadn’t meant to walk out with rain crawling down his back like penance. Hadn’t planned to rid himself of Jeremy. But Landon never meant to feel anything, not really, and yet feelings had a habit of blooming in him like rot. Silent. Festering. Impossible to ignore once you noticed the decay.

There were still hours to go before anyone in the Elites would be up—or hungover enough—to unlock the doors and let him back in without asking a hundred questions he wouldn’t answer. Back into a stone fortress, a mansion he’d no longer considered home. Not since him. Not anymore. And even then, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them. Especially not Brandon. Not when Brandon could read him too easily. Not when one look would send him spiraling, unraveling thread by thread. Because just like Landon knew when something was wrong with Brandon, the same could be said about Brandon knowing when something was off about him. And Landon had run out of clever lies to dress up as the truth.

Landon let out a humorless laugh, the morbid hilarity of his situation settling in. Him. The Landon King. Questioning everything. Ruined. Over a motherfucking Volkov. Never in his wildest nightmares could he possibly have imagined this. He burrowed his head in his hands, elbows digging painfully into his thighs as he furiously rubbed his eyes until they hurt. He felt, and probably looked, disgusting—it didn’t matter if his ‘disgusting’ looked like a goddamn masterpiece compared to the peasants he hung out with on the daily—the rain had soaked his person, clinging to him, like regret, like grief, like consequence. Droplets clung to his lashes, sliding down the curve of his jaw and into the minimal space between his neck and the cashmere. He didn’t bother to prevent it, didn’t bother to wipe it away. There was no point.

He was drenched, exhausted, and far too aware of how still the world had become. All that he was left with was his phone and the clothes on his back. Clothes that clung to his skin in all the wrong ways, every shift peeling away the cold, wet fabric only to reattach itself to a different part of him, refreshing the uncomfortable chill they brought.

He needed somewhere to go.
Anywhere.
A place that would harbor him in the storm.

Landon stood up, bidding a silent goodbye to the scene. He shoved his numb hands into his pockets and stood up, movements stiff and unnatural, like he’d forgotten how to function. Forgotten something as simple as standing on his own two feet. As simple as moving on, as walking away.

The island around him was sleeping. It was dark, a sky that should have been pitch black was thick with light pollution, wearing a dull grey cast. The clouds hung low, bloated with more rain, swallowing the city’s few scattered lights. And with it, his only source of illuminance. It made the streets blur into a watercolor of shadows and yellow lamps. The haze made it near impossible to see more than thirty feet in front of him.

But that was fine.
He wasn’t walking toward anything.
Just… away.

Landon hadn’t thought himself to be the type to wander the city in the dead of night like some lost, brooding, pathetic protagonist in a Hollywood film. That sort of melodrama was so beneath him. He much preferred to be the cause of such brooding, the villainous antagonist that pushed the protagonist right to the brink before drawing back, only for the cycle to repeat until they were left hollowed out, forlorn and desolate.

He didn’t do long walks to clear his head. He didn’t do pointless reflections or poetic melancholy.

Or, at least, it used to be that way, he used to be that way.

He hadn’t felt like the villain in everyone’s story for a while now. No. He’d started to feel like the love interest. One who was finally recognized as more than just comedic relief or spare parts.

But apparently, heartbreak made fools of everyone. Even him.

He kept walking. Each step was waterlogged and uneven, but he pressed on. He didn’t want to stop. Not yet. If he did, the thoughts would catch up. And Jeremy’s voice… would follow.

So he kept moving.

The first cafe he stumbled upon was one of the many Caffè Neros littered around the UK. The kind of place Jeremy wouldn’t have been caught dead with him in. It was too open, too social. Too easy to be discovered, to have their secret torn apart, revealed to everyone. Looking into the large glass panes of the window, he could make out a couple inside—a sickeningly lovey-dovey couple—with their hands intertwined and foreheads pressed together like they were one, like they belonged to the same soul.

He used to think that he and Jeremy shared a soul, that they belonged to each other, that they were made for each other. Or that they were, at the very least, balances to one another. Not in the way Bran balanced out Lan. But in the way only Jeremy could. He’d been the wind that fanned his fire, never letting that spark that made Landon Landon die out. The gasoline to his flames. Dangerous. Explosive. All-consuming and impossible to ignore. But brilliant. Illuminating even Landon’s darkest nights, when everything else was too mundane, too bleak, Jeremy was there. It’s too bad that Jeremy blew anything good that could have come out of it.

Landon didn’t even make it to the door.

The second cafe had the nerve to smell like him. All bergamot and wood, the citrus tones wafting past the confines of the building and drifting to him, the cedar complementing the scent. It was cozy, homely even, but it reminded Landon of him. The way Jeremy had made their penthouse feel like home, forsaking his usual minimalist lifestyle to accommodate Landon’s maximalist one, hanging his paintings and setting his sculptures into all the open spaces in every room. A home he couldn’t return to, one that lost the right to be called as such.

Landon refused to even cross the street.

He tried a few more cafes. Big names. Small establishments. Places Jeremy used to drag him into because he insisted that seeing him enjoy the small gifts of life made him only fall even deeper in love. Whatever the fuck that meant. But—it was all too much. Too him.

So, he kept walking. Kept dodging the ghosts that followed him.

Then, finally, tucked inside a small indie bookstore, he saw it. The sign was tattered; parts of its letters were missing here and there. It was the kind of place that received hardly any customers, the kind of place that left you wondering how they managed to stay afloat, but that you knew served the best coffee. The bitter kind. The sweet kind. The kind that jarred you awake.

It was perfect.

Nothing to remind him of the nuisance that was Jeremy Volkov.

Nothing but the fact that Jeremy was a nerd at heart, just like his father, he loved to hack, he loved to read, he’d have loved this place. Nothing but the fact that Jeremy would have loved to hide him away here, camouflaging control under the guise of a private night out.

But that was neither here nor there.

He pushed the door open; the jingle of the small bell overhead chimed like it was working overtime. Loud. Rattling. Far too enthusiastic for this hour. He wiped his drenched shoes on the fraying welcome rug, water dripping steadily from his clothes onto the worn wooden floor below. There was nothing he could do to clean up the mess. Not that he actually cared to.

He stepped further inside, taking everything in.

The space was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of burnt coffee grounds and freshly laid out books. The place was separated into two main sections: the front, a cramped mini cafe with a food bar, and the back, lined with endless rows of bookshelves. The books were wild, unorderly, crammed tightly within the shelves, spilling over the tops in precarious stacks. Even the walls were swallowed by them. Little reading nooks dotted the area, with loveseats and beanbags nestled in corners. The type of place Cecily would’ve adored, gushing about to Ava only to drag her there later, probably to spend hours curled up reading her manga, completely in her element. It was a bookish girl’s daydream.

None of that appealed to him.

Because the best part?

No one looked up.
No one paid him any mind.
No one cared about his presence.

There was no one to bother him.

Not the barista, who barely blinked when he shuffled his soaked self to the counter and ordered the most caffeinated, bitter coffee available.

Black. No sugar. No cream.
Nothing.
Just Black.

His order.

No irritating, over used, over heard questions of ‘are you sure?’, only a ‘your order will be ready soon’. No smile. No comment about his appearance, or how wet he was. No judgment about looking like he hopped out of a soap opera at this godforsaken hour. Nothing. Only a brief nod. Just how he liked it.

Not the only other customer, who was asleep face-down on top of a crinkled page of a book he’d been in the middle of reading. The saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth was without a doubt creating a wet stain in the pages. And not the cashier who was scrolling mindlessly on her phone while she questioned why she was here on shift when nobody was going to buy any books so early? late?—at this hour—because they never did.

It was precisely what Landon needed.

The unremarkable. The mundane.

Something to get him through the day, or at the very least, the morning. Until sunrise, when he could decide how he wanted to piece himself back together, forging himself anew from the ashes. He knew he wanted him to burn, to feel the loss that Landon had felt. But how do you make someone feel loss when they don’t care enough about whether they lose them to begin with? When they didn’t care about the object, the person, in question?

How do you force someone to care? How do you force someone to love?

He didn’t know.

Because—

He’d never experienced such a thing.
Love.
No one loved him. Not truly.

His parents, his siblings, hell, even his cousins cared what happened to him. Would probably claim to ‘love’ him if they were held at gunpoint, if he weren’t the one asking. Would make light-hearted jabs about how they loved him when he wasn’t being chaotic, wasn’t being himself. But those attempts at humor were more than just ill-thought out jokes, they were rooted in truth. Because they claimed ‘love’ like ownership. Because they had to, with it written into their blood. Because ‘love’ meant sacrificing who you were. It meant loving someone not for who they are, but for what they could do for you. And Landon could never conform to that mold of love.

And loving Landon? It was a cruelty they would never choose. Not willingly.

As for Jeremy… Jeremy had been in love with the idea of loving him… not the act itself.

Being loved and being liked were two entirely different concepts. He had no doubt Jeremy loved him—but he didn’t like him. Love could fade, as it so often does. Attraction dulls with time, with age. But liking someone—liking who they were at their core—that’s what lasts. That’s what stays.

And Jeremy loved him.

But he clearly didn’t like him.
Not enough to matter.
Not enough to stay.

And certainly not enough for him to openly admit his love. This sinful, shameful love.

Landon made his way over to a small round table that sat right next to the window. There was a single wooden chair that he easily slid into, one of the legs was slightly shorter than the other, but where Landon would have usually been aggrieved by this fact, he now let slide. Too drained to be disgruntled by something seemingly inconsequential.

He looked outside, gazing distantly into the horizon. Not that the view offered much—just a broken streetlamp and the vague outline of rain soaked pavement—but it provided him an out. Away from people. Away from memory.

He waited for his order. He hadn’t been hungry, hadn’t been thirsty even. He just needed a reason to sit. A reason to just be.

And for a moment—for a single, breathless moment—Landon let himself just exist.

Not perform.
Not burn.
Not fight.

Just sit there with his chin in his hand, other hand curled around the crook of his elbow, almost against his bicep, and stare out the fogged window at an island that was still weeping, still grieving, but one that didn’t care if he broke down or stayed standing himself.

For the first time since he’d left, maybe even since that fateful conversation with Brandon, the noise in his head quieted. Not gone. No. Never completely. That thing in his head never fully quietened. Just… muffled. Like someone had turned the volume down on his misery.

He let himself sink into the silence. Didn’t fight it for once. Didn’t try to fill it with something.

His phone lay face down, flat against the table. Within reach, but turned away. Muted. He didn’t check it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Because if Jeremy had messaged him? He didn’t trust himself not to respond. Not right now. Not while the betrayal was still fresh.

And if he hadn’t? Well, that would just confirm what he already knew but wasn’t ready to admit.

That he didn’t matter.
That he wasn’t worth it.
That he’d lost him.

That he had pushed and prodded for something, something Jeremy hadn’t been ready, hadn’t been willing, to give him. Armoring himself in so much indifference that someone as maddeningly persistent as Jeremy had finally stopped trying.

He refused to acknowledge that maybe Jeremy hadn’t been trying long before tonight. Ever since they’d become ‘official’. But only official in a way that meant cold, distant possession, not open, unadulterated love.

Landon hated that thought more than he hated Jeremy, more than he hated himself for being so weak. Foolish. Pathetic.

The thoughts were rampant in his head. Thoughts of vengeance. Thoughts of revenge. Thoughts of grief, of loss. And thoughts of love.

He imagined a world where things had gone differently.

Where Jeremy had chased him.
Where the fight hadn’t ended in silence, in distance.
Where caring didn’t come with a price tag soaked in blood, unshed tears, regret.

But that wasn’t reality. It wasn’t his reality.

Landon shut his eyes. Swore to himself that it would be for only a moment. Just long enough to catch his breath. To recoup the energy lost on Jeremy. Energy he’d given willingly—until it wasn’t, until it was burned to ash. Who knew yelling at the one you loved tore you apart quicker than anything else did? Certainly not Landon.

The chair beneath him was hard, slightly uncomfortable. The cafe was overly warmed, but it perfectly contrasted what he had just been through. The smell of scorched espresso still lingered like a shadow. And somewhere in the background, a blender whirred to life, the bell rang, and a muffled conversation was whispered in the quiet.

The world didn’t stop for Landon.
No—it kept going.
And he drifted off, despite himself.

When he woke, it was to the soft nudge of a hand on his arm. It was the same barista from earlier, a look of quiet understanding on her face. She hadn’t said anything at first, just offering a small knowing smile like she’d seen this a hundred times before. Like she knew not to ask questions.

“I didn’t want to wake you up, you looked like you needed the rest,” her voice was kind, but not overly so, not the grating kindness that you grew accustomed to from interacting with thousands of nobodies who all are trained to be ‘nice’ because society demands it, but the genuine kind. “Here, I made you a fresh cup. Black. No sugar. No cream.” She listed off his order before placing down the steaming cup of coffee and turning around to go on about her day. She settled behind the counter, picking up various glasses and wiping them down with a cloth.

Landon took a sip, the bitter liquid slid down his throat, sharp and punishing. The coffee was far too hot, freshly brewed and angry. He’d mourn the loss of his taste as his tastebuds later, what with them being burned in the process. Maybe. If he could find it in himself to care. He couldn’t. Not now.

He looked around the area, the only other occupant had disappeared. The table was clean, the surface still damp, and smelling distinctly of bleach. He’d slept long enough for the early morning crowd to come and go. The once empty establishment was now partially filled. There were a few individuals who were scattered deeper in the building, half-asleep grad students or recluses, tucked between tall bookshelves, flipping through paperbacks, reading to themselves quietly. Some reading filth. Others reading things they’d forget in an hour.

Still no one bothered him. No stares. No recognition. No one of importance.

Landon stared at the coffee resting between his fingers, the heat from the drink seeping into them, revitalizing them with warmth lost from the winter weather, but doing little to soothe the cold that had settled into his bones. His reflection was blurred and distorted on the surface, rippling every time he shifted his grip, as if even his likeness couldn’t be trusted.

The man that was reflected back at him wasn’t who he’d known all his life. This one was fragile in a way he hadn’t been. Detached in a way that was peculiar, didn’t sit right on his features. It wasn’t the normal detachment that came with being one step ahead of everyone and thus in a morbid cycle of boredom, but the kind where he felt like he was set free. No one to keep him grounded to reality, no worldly possession or person who could prevent him from disappearing.

He wanted to do it. He wanted to run free. To cut himself loose and leave everything behind.

Landon opened his phone and pulled up flight options. He had no destination in mind. Just away. Southern France. Tokyo. Milan. Anywhere that wasn’t him. Where Landon wouldn’t be reminded of his existence, his scent, his ventures, none of it. Anywhere his name wouldn’t echo off wooden floors and empty bedrooms. He hadn’t gotten as far as booking, but his thumb hovered over the button longer than it should have.

Just one press. That’s all it would take. One press and he could vanish.

He had the means. The money. The lack of attachment.

It wasn’t just a fantasy anymore; it was a viable plan.

No messages. No explanations. No apologies.

Just gone.

And for a long, deprecating moment, it was so tempting.

To leave behind the wreckage, the carnage, everything he was. To disappear before anyone could ask him what hurt. Before he had to look Jeremy in those infuriatingly emotionless eyes again. Eyes that looked at him like he was the most captivating portrait brought to life. Before his brother could find him and offer his empty words of condolences. As if sympathy—pity—could patch betrayal. Before Brandon would eventually pry, voice trembling as he asked if Landon loved him more than anyone else. If Landon loved Jeremy enough to leave him behind. Landon feared his own answer.

To leave before he had to see himself in the mirror and face the fact that this time—this one time—he’d actually let himself believe in something, in someone.

He hadn’t even packed a bag. Hadn’t called the driver. But his hand curled around his phone like it was a trigger. Like it could end all his pain if he pulled hard enough.

But he didn’t pull.

Not because he didn’t want to. He did.

But because he had a niggling feeling in the back of his mind, something in him said: wait.

Landon sighed, taking one last sip, before he stood up. Stiff. Aching. Exhaustion dragging behind him like unwanted baggage. He made his way to the door, pausing at the small coffee station on the way out to grab one of those cheap mass produced plastic lids for his cup, one with a warped edge and a faintly raised white crack along the rim. It was fitting. He snapped it on anyway.

As he pushed the door open, the bell above chimed, the distinct high, metallic ring marking his departure the same way it had his arrival hours earlier. The outside air met him like an old grudge—it kind of reminded him of Eli… fuck, he was getting sentimental—sharp, but slightly warmer than before, when he last weathered the elements. The rain had stopped, but the chill of winter nipped at him in that deep, biting way that seemed to press into his skin without moving. Still. Everything was still. As if the mourning itself had paused mid-inhale. Not a branch stirred. Not a tree dared sway. The only movement came from the slow drift of vapor rising off his breath, vanishing quickly into the pale ether. The ground was still slick, puddles glittering under the hazy wash of the streetlights.

Above, the sky stretched wide, an unbroken canvas of bright white, not grey, not overcast, but glowing softly, like light diffused through snow-laden windows. It was still early, though time felt irrelevant. The sun was hidden somewhere behind the white sheen. The cold, clear light drained color from the world and casted it in a silver hush.

It felt as if the world had slipped into a quiet dream and hadn’t noticed Landon was still awake, still alive.

There were a few people wandering about, elderly folk appreciating the new day as they went for a stroll, young couples who wanted to enjoy each other’s company in the open air before they would be holed up from the coming snow storm.

And that’s when he saw them.
He didn’t flinch.
Of course he didn’t.

Because of course they were there. Standing just off to the side, shadows stretched long behind them in the early morning half-light.

Aiden King. Levi King.

His uncle. His father.

His vengeance.