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.

((It's so short but I am so tired. I'm so sorry >.>))

Feo stayed still.

A run.

Lucius wanted him to go for a run.

Like moving would make this better. Like that would change the way his thoughts circled like starving vultures, waiting for him to collapse so they could pick him apart.

It was a logical suggestion. A normal suggestion.

And Feo wanted to hate it.

Because if he got up—if he went outside—if he ran until his legs burned and his chest ached—what then?

What was stopping him from just keeping going?

From running until the hotel was nothing but a distant memory?

Until Lucius was nothing but a regret in the back of his mind?

Until he didn’t have to feel this anymore?

His heartbeat picked up, thrumming hard against his ribs.

Lucius had already drifted off, his breath settling into the steady rhythm of sleep. If Feo left now—if he really left—Lucius wouldn’t know until it was too late.

That thought sent a different kind of nausea twisting through his gut.

Lucius wanted him to come back.

He’d asked him to come back.

And gods, that shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

But it did.

Lucius could’ve just told him to go. Could’ve let him run himself into the ground without a second thought. Could’ve taken the easy way out and let Feo slip away into the night, let things be easier for both of them.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he’d asked Feo to return.

The weight of that settled somewhere deep in his chest, unfamiliar and warm and horrible all at once.

Feo pressed his hands against his face, palms dragging down over his eyes as he exhaled slowly.

Running wouldn’t help.

Moving wouldn’t help.

But staying here—doing nothing—that wasn’t an option, either.

His nails scratched against his scalp as he let his hands drop, as he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, as he stared down at the floor and tried to piece himself back together.

Lucius was sleeping.

Lucius had asked him to leave—temporarily.

And Feo…

Feo had no idea what to do with himself.

He stood, dragging his hands down the front of his pants, pressing against the fabric like that would ground him somehow, like it would make his body feel like his again.

Maybe he would go outside.

Maybe he would run, but only to the end of the street and back.

Maybe he would just step out into the night air and breathe, count his breaths, let the cold settle into his bones until he could think straight again.

And maybe when he came back, he wouldn’t feel like he was losing his mind.

Feo’s feet carried him to the door before he had fully decided to leave. His fingers brushed over the lock, hesitating just for a moment. If he stepped out now, it would be too easy not to come back.

He could just keep walking. Let the night swallow him whole. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before.

But Lucius had asked him to come back.

Feo clenched his jaw, fingers tightening on the doorknob. He turned it. Slipped out into the cold.

The air hit him like a slap, a crisp reminder of the world beyond that cramped room. His breath curled in the night air, and the dim glow of streetlights cast long, stretching shadows across the pavement. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

His boots hit the sidewalk with sharp, clipped steps as he walked. Then walked faster. Then ran.

He ran like he could outrun the gnawing pit in his stomach. Like he could leave behind the feeling of Lucius’s irritation, the disappointment in his voice.

He didn’t get far.

His lungs burned, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he slowed, finally stopping in a dark alley between two buildings.

His hands found his knees, shoulders rising and falling with each sharp inhale. His head spun. He hadn’t even run *that* far, but it felt like he’d been at it for hours. Maybe that was just the exhaustion.

Maybe it was everything else weighing him down.

His back hit the brick wall as he slid down to sit, legs sprawled out, head tilting up toward the sky.

Maybe he should stay here.

Maybe he deserved to stay here, just like last time.

He’d slept in worse places. The alley wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it felt right. Like a punishment he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud.

Lucius was warm, safe, wrapped up in blankets with a soft bed beneath him. That was good. That was what Lucius deserved.

Feo didn’t.

Feo deserved the cold seeping into his bones, the distant smell of garbage, the ache in his chest. Again. He'd done it before, and he hadn't died. Feo would have been selfish not to stay out here, not to try to fix his head and leave Lucius alone.

His fingers curled into fists for—what, the seventh time that evening? Feo had lost count already—, nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to put them to use—on the pavement, on his arms, on something.

If he stayed out here long enough, maybe he’d get sick. Maybe that would even things out.

Maybe—

A sharp gust of wind cut through him, and instinctively, his arms wrapped around himself.

Lucius had asked him to come back.

And Feo—stupid, selfish Feo—wanted to.

His throat felt tight as he forced himself to his feet, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

He couldn’t stay out here.

He didn’t deserve warmth, but Lucius had asked.

And Feo wanted to listen.