Summer Month: 3 
Night 
Clear Moon: 
Feo kept his breathing even. Inhale, exhale. A steady rhythm, counting the seconds between each breath, like maybe if he focused hard enough on the act of breathing, he could keep his thoughts from spiraling. But it wasn’t working.
Lucius was mad at him.
That single thought pulsed like a fresh wound, raw and aching. It echoed in his skull, over and over again, until it became the only thing he could hear.
Lucius was mad.
And he deserved it.
His fingers twitched against his arms where he had them crossed too tightly over his chest. His nails bit into the fabric of his sleeves, and he wished they were digging into his skin instead. Anything to pull his focus away from the storm inside his head, the way it churned and cracked, lightning-sharp and searing hot. He sat on the other bed to dull the vertigo.
He shouldn’t have snapped. Shouldn’t have raised his voice. Shouldn’t have opened his stupid mouth.
If he had just kept quiet, just nodded and let Lucius say whatever he wanted, then maybe—maybe—Lucius wouldn’t have looked at him like that.
But instead, Feo had let his frustration slip through the cracks. Had let himself get angry. Had let Lucius see.
And now Lucius was mad.
Now Lucius had said his name.
The moment played again in his mind, every repeat of Iven hitting like a blade to the ribs, twisting in deeper each time he heard it in his own head.
Lucius didn’t know.
Lucius couldn’t know.
If he had known, he wouldn’t have said it, right? Wouldn’t have let it slip so easily? Wouldn’t have dropped that name into the conversation like it was just another word, another point to prove, another piece of his argument?
It made Feo feel sick.
His stomach lurched, his throat burned, and he clenched his jaw so tight he could hear his teeth grind together.
No. No, he wasn’t going to break. He wasn’t going to let this shake him. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, shoved down the emotion clawing at the back of his mind, and forced himself to sit still.
The bed beneath him felt wrong. Too soft, too unfamiliar. He felt like he was floating above it, like his body wasn’t really here, wasn’t really his. His arms tightened further across his ribs, like he could somehow anchor himself, like he could hold himself together just long enough to keep from unraveling completely.
Lucius had made himself clear.
He didn’t want to be smothered. Didn’t want to be caged.
And Feo—Feo had been trying to help.
But he wasn’t helping.
He was making things worse.
He always made things worse.
His head pounded, a dull, throbbing pressure behind his eyes, like his own body was punishing him for being like this, for thinking like this, for feeling like this.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the pressure only got worse. He wanted to dig his fingers into his scalp, scrape out the thoughts with his nails, crack his skull open and let them spill onto the floor where he wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore.
If he was quiet, would Lucius forgive him?
If he just stopped talking, stopped pushing, stopped being, would Lucius stop looking at him like that?
Lucius would be happier if he wasn’t here.
The thought landed in his gut like a stone, solid and unmovable.
Not dead. No, no, Lucius would hate that. But gone. Away. Out of sight, out of mind.
If he left, Lucius wouldn’t have to fight him on this anymore. Wouldn’t have to be mad. Wouldn’t have to deal with Feo at all.
Maybe if he just disappeared for a little while—just long enough for Lucius to stop looking at him with that sharp frustration, that tired, bitter anger—things would be better.
Wouldn’t they?
Wouldn’t Lucius feel lighter without him dragging everything down?
Wouldn’t Lucius finally be able to breathe without Feo standing too close, worrying too much, caring too wrong?
His hands curled into fists, nails pressing half-moons into his palms. He wanted to move. Wanted to run. Wanted to do something to get rid of the weight pressing down on his chest like a stone slab.
Maybe if he walked out right now, Lucius wouldn’t even notice.
Maybe he’d fall back asleep, and Feo could just go.
Where? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
But he wouldn’t have to sit here, drowning in the thick, suffocating air of Lucius doesn’t want you here anymore.
And yet…
His feet stayed planted on the floor.
His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move.
Because what if Lucius did wake up?
What if Lucius did notice?
What if Lucius was angrier at him for leaving than he was for staying?
The thought sent another sharp bolt of nausea through him, and his breath stuttered for a second before he forced it back into its rhythm.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Stay still.
Be quiet.
Be less.
And maybe Lucius wouldn’t hate him.
