[ Sorry for the delay, there is a lot going on >.> ]

~

Feo felt Lucius shift against him, felt the way his body tensed with something unspoken, something unsettled. It was different from before. The teasing, the breathy words, the weight of heat and longing—those were gone now, replaced by something colder, something that gnawed at the edges of the moment like a slow decay.

Lucius wasn’t still. Not in the way Feo was. His stillness was different—forced, like a caged bird trying not to show how much it wanted to spread its wings.

Feo knew what that felt like.

Lucius thrived in motion, in chaos, in the thrill of always having something to do, something to chase. His restless energy crackled under his skin, an undeniable force that made his stillness now feel unnatural. Feo could feel it pressing into him, a silent scream wrapped in the quiet shift of Lucius’s breathing.

But Feo didn’t let go.

He should have. He knew that. Holding onto him like this wasn’t what Lucius needed, not right now. It was selfish—maybe even cruel—to keep him here, trapped in a moment that wasn’t meant for him. Lucius wasn’t made for moments like this. He was made for movement, for action, for the kind of reckless, stupid courage that made Feo’s chest ache.

Still, his arms didn’t move.

He kept Lucius close, listening to the sound of his breath, the faint, restless tap of his fingers against the fabric of Feo’s shirt. He could feel the tension rolling off him, barely restrained, like a horse fighting against the bit. Feo should have let him go.

But he couldn’t.

Because if he let go now, if he let Lucius up and gave him the space to move, then Feo would have to face the fact that he was still drowning.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it—not yet. Not now.

Because if Lucius ever figured out just how deep the water had gotten, how far Feo had already let himself sink, then Feo knew exactly what would happen.

Lucius would try to pull him up.

And Feo didn’t know if he had the heart to tell him that it was already too late.

His fingers twitched slightly, flexing against Lucius’s back before finally, finally, he let his arms loosen—just a little. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Feo didn’t want to let go.

But Lucius needed air.

So Feo exhaled, long and slow, before murmuring, “Go ahead.”

His voice was soft, rough at the edges from exhaustion, but there was no anger, no frustration—just quiet resignation.

He didn’t want to let Lucius go.

But he wanted to see him breathe.