Feo didn’t move at first. His breathing was still uneven, his wings trembling slightly from the sheer effort of keeping still despite the pain screaming through his body. Every part of him wanted to refuse, to insist that they keep moving, that stopping would only make it worse. That if he let himself rest, even for a second, it would be even harder to get back up again.

But Lucius’s voice was firm, steady, grounding in a way that made it clear he wasn’t about to argue.

With a slow exhale, Feo finally relented, shifting his weight and lowering himself carefully to the ground. The motion alone sent a sharp jolt of pain ripping up his spine, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself through it, carefully maneuvering his wings so they wouldn’t press against anything. The last thing he needed was for them to scrape against the gravel and send another shock of agony through his nerves.

The gravel crunched beneath him as he settled, muscles still tight with tension, body wound up like a coiled spring ready to snap at any moment. His breathing was still uneven, shallow, like he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs. Rolling his shoulders slightly, he tested how much movement he could handle before the pain became unbearable. The answer? Not much.

He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t good. He’d been through plenty of injuries before, but this—this was different. He could feel it in the way his body reacted, the way his muscles stiffened every time he so much as twitched. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t something he could shake off after a few hours of rest. This was the kind of pain that settled deep, the kind that wouldn’t just fade with time.

Feo exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to shove those thoughts aside. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything. What mattered now was staying in one piece long enough to get out of here.

His gaze flicked to Lucius as he rummaged through the suitcase, pulling out food, water, and the small tins of painkillers. The sight made something in Feo’s chest twist—not quite guilt, but something close. He hated this. Hated feeling like a burden. Hated needing help. He was supposed to be stronger than this. He was stronger than this.

And yet, as much as he wanted to refuse, he knew he couldn’t. Not right now.

When Lucius held out the food, Feo hesitated for only a moment before taking it, his fingers stiff and aching as he unwrapped it. He forced himself to take slow, measured bites, even though his stomach felt twisted and unsettled. He needed the energy. They both did.

His eyes drifted to the aspirin bottle in Lucius’s hand, watching as he struggled to get it open with one hand. The sight made something in Feo’s chest clench again—an uncomfortable, foreign feeling he wasn’t sure how to place. Without a word, he reached out, carefully taking the bottle from Lucius. Even with the stiffness in his own hands, he was able to twist the cap off after a moment of effort, shaking out a couple of pills before passing it back.

As he washed them down with a swallow of water, Feo finally spoke, his voice rough, strained. “You really think we can still make it?”

His blue-green eyes flickered toward Lucius, searching his face for something—certainty, reassurance, anything that would make this feel less impossible. “After all this? You still think we can pull this off?”

It wasn’t doubt, not exactly. It was just… everything that had just happened—the earthquake, Tetra’s death, the sheer force of destruction they’d just witnessed—had changed things. It had to. There was no way they could just go back to the plan like nothing had happened.

And yet…

Feo wanted to believe. He wanted to believe they could still move forward, that this wasn’t the end of everything they’d built. That they still had a shot at making it to Florida, at figuring out their next steps, at carving out something real for themselves.

But right now, sitting on the cold ground, his back still bleeding, his wings too damaged to fold away, everything felt uncertain in a way that made his stomach churn.

“…Because I don’t know,” Feo admitted after a long pause, his voice quieter this time, almost reluctant. “I don’t know if anything we planned still matters after this. I don’t know if we’re still heading toward something—or if we’re just running from whatever the hell that was.”

He gestured vaguely toward the ruined city behind them, though he didn’t turn to look. He didn’t want to look.

His fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve, the tension in his shoulders still refusing to ease. “I just—I need to know if we’re still moving toward something. If this is still worth it.”

Because if it wasn’t…

Feo didn't really know what they'd do.

Feo didn’t want to be honest. He didn’t even want to think about how he was feeling, let alone say it out loud. The pain was unbearable, white-hot, a relentless fire licking up his spine, coiling around his ribs, settling deep in his bones like an iron weight dragging him down. His back was shredded, muscles torn open, nerves screaming, and every breath felt like it rattled against raw, exposed flesh. But the physical pain wasn’t even the worst part.

It was the exhaustion. The bone-deep, soul-crushing weariness that made him feel like his entire body was made of lead, like if he tried to move, even to lift a hand, he would sink right through the earth and keep falling forever.

He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to keep fighting, keep running, keep breathing.

He wanted to lay back on the cold steel of the train tracks and just stop.

For a second. For a minute. For forever.

It wasn’t like they needed him. Lucius was strong—stronger than Feo, in a lot of ways. He could take care of himself. And if Feo wasn’t here to drag him down, wasn’t here to ruin everything like he always did, maybe Lucius would be okay. Maybe he’d be better off.

Maybe everything would be better off.

And then, his mind seized onto a different thought—something sharper, darker, a whisper slithering up from the back of his brain, curling around him like a noose.

The gun.

His breath hitched. His pulse hammered. His fingers curled against his knees so tightly his knuckles went white.

Oh, god, the gun.

It was still there. Tucked into the waistband of his pants, digging into the small of his back like a second spine. He had forgotten about it in all the chaos, in the running, in the fighting, in the burning agony ripping through his body. But now, it was all he could think about.

The weight of it. The finality of it.

And the worst part? It was tempting.

Because it was his fault.

All of it.

Iven was dead.

Because of him.

Loki was mad.

Because of him.

Lilian was nearly emotionless.

Because of him.

The gods seemed to keep throwing death into their faces..

Because of him.

Lucius had almost been killed.

Because of him.

They were running for their lives, hunted, bleeding, broken.

Because of him.

Because he hadn’t been good enough. Because he hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough. Because he kept failing, over and over and over again, and people kept paying for it in blood.

His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat, and for one agonizing second, he thought about it.

Really, seriously thought about it.

Because he could fix it.

He could make it stop.

It would be so easy.

Just a second. A breath.

And then—

Feo inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the thought away, shoving it back down into the deep, dark pit where it belonged. No. No, he wasn’t doing that. Not now. Not here.

Not in front of Lucius.

With slow, mechanical movements, he reached back and pulled the gun from his waistband, his fingers stiff and numb against the metal. His hands shook as he gripped it, as he turned it over in his palm, as he forced himself to set it down on the ground beside him—deliberately, carefully, facing away from himself. Out of reach.

Just in case.

He stared at it for a moment too long, his breath uneven, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. He still didn’t look at Lucius. He couldn’t look at Lucius. He didn’t want to see whatever was in his expression—pity, concern, understanding.

Especially not understanding.

Instead, he forced his voice to work, forced himself to pull together the pieces of the mask he always wore, forced his lips to move around a lie.

“I can go.”

His voice was rough, hoarse, empty.

It wasn’t true. It wasn’t even close to true.

But it was what needed to be said.

He could go.

Did he want to?

Ha.

Feo flinched at the first word—No.

A single, sharp-edged syllable, spoken with such unwavering certainty that it carved through the air like a blade. It rattled through Feo’s ribs, settled deep in his gut like a stone, made his whole body tense as if bracing for impact. He wanted to argue, to push back, to tell Lucius that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

But he did.

And that was the problem.

Lucius always saw too much. His damn sapphire eyes cut through everything like a knife, sharp and unrelenting, dragging every raw, exposed part of Feo into the light where he could do nothing to hide it. Even now, when Feo kept his gaze fixed downward, when he willed himself to be unreadable, he knew it wasn’t working.

Lucius could see the way his fists curled into tight, white-knuckled grips on his knees, the way his shoulders locked up as if trying to shrink in on himself, the way his breath hitched unevenly, barely kept in check. He could see everything Feo was trying so desperately to bury.

And he wasn’t going to let him.

The hand on his knee was warm, grounding, and unbearable all at once. Feo wanted to jerk away from it, to rip himself free from that connection, but his body wouldn’t move. He felt trapped.

He didn’t want this.

He didn’t want Lucius to see him like this. Didn’t want to be perceived at all.

His nails dug into his knees, sharp enough to hurt, sharp enough that maybe, if he pressed hard enough, he could ground himself—drag himself back from the edge. But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

Because Lucius kept talking.

Kept pushing.

Every word was a hammer against his ribs. Each syllable was unbearable. Each one made him want to curl up into himself and disappear. Lucius wasn’t letting him run from it. Wasn’t letting him shove it down where it could fester in peace. Wasn’t letting him pretend that he wasn’t drowning.

Feo hated him for it.

Hated him for seeing too much. For caring too much. For saying things that Feo wanted so desperately to believe but couldn’t, no matter how many times Lucius repeated them.

His breath came out shaky, unsteady, as his eyes flickered downward—to the gun.

Only—

It wasn’t there anymore.

His heart stopped. A split second of pure, frozen stillness. Then it slammed back into rhythm, harder, faster, panic surging through his veins like ice water. He hadn’t even seen Lucius take it. Hadn’t registered it happening. And now—

Now it was gone.

A shudder ran through him, his entire body twisting up so tight it felt like his nerves might snap. His breath hitched violently, his lungs refusing to work properly, as his ribs locked up like a steel cage around his chest. He wanted to demand it back. Wanted to reach for it—because at least then he had a choice, at least then it was his choice—

But Lucius was still looking at him.

And his words—"those thoughts are not yours"—

Feo’s stomach churned violently, nausea rising so fast it nearly doubled him over. His fingers twitched against his knees, his body screaming for some kind of action, some kind of escape, but there was nowhere to go.

Lucius was wrong.

It wasn’t Loki. It wasn’t some external force planting thoughts in his head, manipulating him, twisting him up inside.

It was him.

This was him.

This was who he was.

And maybe that was the worst part.

His whole body trembled, the weight of it all pressing down on him, crushing him, suffocating him. His vision blurred, not from tears, but from the sheer, overwhelming force of everything building up inside him, twisting around his ribs, clawing at his throat.

His breath hitched again, a sharp, uneven thing that barely sounded like breathing at all. He clenched his jaw so tightly it ached, willing himself to hold it together, to shove it all back down, to keep some shred of composure—

But he couldn’t.

Because it was already shattered.

And there was nothing left to hold onto.

“Lucius,” his voice cracked, raw and strangled, barely above a whisper. His fingers curled tighter, his nails pressing so hard into his skin that they might draw blood, anything to keep himself tethered. His breath was shaky, uneven, struggling to form words that refused to come.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his lungs burning, his entire body screaming for some kind of release, some way to make it stop. But there was nothing.

There was only the weight.

And Lucius’s unwavering presence beside him.

Feo barely had time to process the first touch before it exploded through him, a jolt of pure shock that spread through every fiber of his being. His entire body was aching, not just from the physical strain, but from something deeper, something that gnawed at his insides. The sharp, biting pain coursed through him, pulling him inward, forcing him to lock up as he felt his mind trying to spiral away. His eyes shot wide open, the suddenness of it all catching him off guard, and then Lucius’s forehead was pressed against his.

The weight of it, the warmth, the simple connection—his body seized up at the vulnerability of it. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone close. Not now. His breath hitched, something tightening deep in his chest as Lucius’s presence overwhelmed him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t process fast enough. Panic set in before he even had a chance to fight it.

And then Lucius kissed him.

The sensation of it was like an electric shock that coursed through his veins, knocking the air from his lungs. It was soft—too soft—but it was a reminder of the worst possible thing: Lucius needed him. Needed him to stay. Needed him to live. Needed him to keep moving forward. And it was a constant, aching pull that Feo couldn’t escape.

But that only made the pain worse.

The kiss—so gentle, so earnest—reminded him of everything that had already been lost. The desperation in the quiet press of lips against his, the weight of Lucius’s touch—it was so much more than Feo could handle. The sudden, searing realization flooded his mind: How stupid it would be to leave now. How selfish, how unfair to take that gun and slip away, to let the pain consume him entirely. To give up when Lucius was right here, fighting for him.

The guilt wrapped around his ribs like iron, squeezing tighter with every passing second. His hand slid up to the back of Lucius’s neck, trembling violently, unable to stop it. He needed something to hold onto. He couldn’t stay in the abyss anymore. His lips shook against Lucius’s, a barely returned kiss, as if his whole being was rejecting the tenderness.

But this wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The realization didn’t help. It made everything worse, because the feeling of being broken, so utterly shattered, was pushing against the walls of his chest. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t hide from it. His body, already glitching, flickered at the edges, shifting uncontrollably. His nails extended into claws, then retracted, his form flickering and distorting more violently with each passing second. The pain in his back sharpened as his shifting body couldn’t hold itself together, everything pulling apart.

It was too much to bear. His body was betraying him in every possible way.

So, desperate, he kissed Lucius harder. He tried to drown out the overwhelming storm of everything crashing inside him. He wasn’t sure if it was for Lucius, or for himself. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was just a way to escape the gnawing emptiness.

His teeth sharpened, his fangs extending without warning, and in the chaos of the moment, his mouth pressed harder against Lucius’s, sinking his teeth into the other man’s tongue. His claws dug into the back of Lucius’s neck, digging in without meaning to, and for a second, all he could feel was the blood in his mouth—the raw, iron taste that flooded his senses.

The moment it happened, a violent shudder ripped through Feo’s body, his hands yanking away from Lucius in a rush of horror. His heart was racing, his chest tight with guilt and shock. His body was still glitching, still flickering out of control, his vision blurring and shattering around him as he stumbled back from Lucius, shaking harder now.

He couldn’t even tell if he was trembling from fear or from the physical pain, the buzzing and glitching too much to separate. The world felt as though it was warping around him, the edges of reality slipping away as his mind raced. His form wasn’t his own; it was like something was pulling him in different directions, ripping him apart at the seams.

And when he looked at Lucius, his eyes filled with guilt, they were haunted. A suffocating weight settled in his stomach as he realized what he’d just done, the blood still lingering on his tongue.

He had fucked up.

The look in his eyes was a mix of self-loathing, crushing anxiety, and terror. What had he just done? What had he turned into? He hadn’t meant to hurt Lucius, never wanted to hurt him, but the damage was done.

You’re fucked. You’ve gone too far now.

The thought slammed into his mind, harder than any of the pain he was feeling.

What was worse?

His stupid blood tasted fucking good.

Feo’s mind was spinning, a chaotic blur of thoughts and emotions, each one colliding with the next, leaving him reeling. The moment was sharp and jarring—Lucius’s laughter, his words, everything combining into a single, overwhelming sensation. He barely even noticed Lucius speaking at first, still caught in the rush of everything that had just happened. The blood still clung to his mouth, the taste of it sharp and raw, lingering on his tongue like an uninvited guest.

God, that was stupid.

He couldn’t help but feel the overwhelming tide of flustered guilt flood through him. He never meant to—never wanted to hurt Lucius. But there it was, the reality staring him in the face: fangs buried in Lucius’s tongue. He could still taste it, that metallic tang in his mouth, and with it came the terrible realization that, despite everything, it tasted good.

Feo recoiled, his hand flying to his mouth in a futile attempt to wipe away the taste. His fingers trembled, a violent wave of embarrassment rushing over him, hotter than the physical ache still twisting in his chest.

"Shut up," Feo muttered under his breath, his voice shaky as he averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at Lucius. He couldn't meet his gaze, couldn’t let him see just how much he was falling apart inside. He couldn’t deal with it. Not now. Not this moment.

But Lucius was laughing. That infuriatingly warm laugh that, despite the situation, somehow didn’t make Feo feel worse, but only heightened his discomfort by making him flustered. The fact that Lucius could laugh at all, after what he had just done, made Feo feel like his world was spinning out of control. And yet, the way Lucius apologized—soft, but still with that underlying strength—made his stomach flip uncomfortably.

He couldn’t understand it.

“Stop...” Feo whispered, his voice barely audible over the rush in his ears. The taste of blood was still there, mingling with the dizzying sensation of his own pulse. His thoughts were slipping, erratic and uncontrolled. Why did it taste good? Why did it feel like his body was so ready to give in to that hunger, that craving?

The warmth that had flooded his chest moments ago, the heat of desperation, was now replaced by something else—something more complicated, more dangerous.

"I didn’t mean—" His words faltered. His heart raced, his body a tangled mess of emotions and confusion, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it anymore. Not when Lucius was sitting there, laughing like it was just another day, when everything about him was so much more than what he had anticipated.

The blood. The way it tasted. It was all so wrong. But it was real, and in that moment, it felt like it was all Feo could hold onto. He wanted to pull away from it, from the need that gnawed at him, but it was so much harder than he could have ever imagined.

Feo ran a shaky hand through his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t keep feeling this pull toward Lucius.

"You're not supposed to be here," he murmured, more to himself than Lucius. "You're not supposed to be... this broken."

The words were soft but heavy, filled with all the things he didn’t want to face, all the fears that still clung to his chest. It wasn’t just about the blood—it wasn’t even about the kiss. It was about the overwhelming sense of needing something, someone, when everything inside of him screamed that he should push it away. That he shouldn't want this connection.

But he did.

Feo’s heart pounded as his eyes flickered to Lucius, briefly meeting his gaze before looking down his body—which he immediately flicked his eyes away from, red going to his face as he buried it into his hands.

What the actual fuck was he doing?