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The storm outside was loud—louder than it had any right to be. It wasn't just rain and thunder. It was relentless, like the sky had cracked open in fury and was determined to claw the world to pieces. Wind howled through the trees like something alive, battering the old boards of the cabin until they groaned in protest. The rain came in sideways, sharp and slanted, slamming the windowpanes hard enough to rattle them in their frames. The glass shivered beneath each impact, as though just one more gust might send shards spraying across the room.
Then came the thunder—again and again, raw and vicious. It cracked like the universe itself was tearing, jagged and sudden and wrong. Each boom rolled over the hills like the toll of a death bell, deep and ancient, echoing through a world already half-decayed. It didn’t feel natural. It felt like a warning.
Two Time sat curled on the warped floorboards, their body drawn in tight just outside the reach of the flickering candlelight. They didn’t want to be seen—not in the way they were right now.
Their hair clung damp to their face, still wet from when they made the mistake of peeking outside earlier, just to check. They thought they could handle it. Thought a quick glance would prove it was all just a sound and that the Spectre was trying to scare them, but the moment they opened the door, the storm had roared at them like a living thing. The wind had clawed through the crack, rain slicing sideways into their face, and the sky had split with light—and for a second, just one second, they felt like they weren’t in the cabin anymore. Like the storm was reaching for them—hunting them.
Now, even with the door firmly closed, even with the small flame in the candle burning steadily on the table, it didn’t feel safe—not really. The shadows flickered too much. The walls creaked too loud. The air was too thin.
Their hands twitched in their lap like dying spiders, curling and uncurling with nervous energy they couldn’t release. They kept touching the center of their chest, fingers brushing over their ribs like they could feel it shake underneath, unsettled by the noise. Like they were shifting uneasily inside them—on edge, jittery, ready to flee even if there was nowhere to go.
Across the room, Dusekkar sat in one of the heavy wooden chairs, unmoving. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked away. Just watched. His presence was still, solid—like a wall that wouldn’t bend or break no matter how hard the storm tried. Otherwise, he was part of the dark: broad-shouldered, quiet, and unreadable. He didn’t flinch at the thunder, he didn’t tense at the shaking windowpanes, he didn’t seem fazed at all.
Two Time shifted. Their shoulder brushed against a cold patch of wall. They hated how loud their breathing sounded. How obvious the tension in their spine must’ve been—how exposed they were at this moment. They stared down at their hands—they couldn’t stop moving.
Then, like they couldn’t hold it in anymore—the silence had become too much. They finally spoke. “…It’s loud,” they said, and their voice came out thinner than they wanted. Strained and small. Like a wire pulled too tight and ready to snap. It didn’t carry far. Just enough to break the stillness.
Dusekkar didn’t move. Not at first. His eyes stayed on them—steady, unblinking—but his voice came a moment later. Calm and low, like the rumble of earth beneath the storm. “It is.”
Two Time twitched at another thunderclap. They hissed under their breath, fingers clawing at the fabric over their ribs. They tried to play it off, but another rumble hit, low and long, and they tensed again, hands curling. Dusekkar finally moved. He crossed the room, knelt beside them without a word, and offered a hand.
Two Time stared at the offered hand for a long time. It was just a hand. Flesh, bone, callouses. No tricks and no traps, but they still looked at it like it might snap shut around them, like the gesture was a lie waiting to spring. Their eyes darted up to Dusekkar’s face, then back down, searching for something hidden in the stillness.
Their own fingers flexed uselessly in their lap. They twitched, skittering across their thighs like frightened insects. Their chest felt tight again, like their insides were shifting—uneasy in their cradle, whispering that they were at risk. That everything was always at risk. Their hands didn’t fit perfectly. Dusekkar’s was solid, heavy. Two Time’s was cold and jittery, constantly twitching.
Dusekkar held it gently. Not squeezing. Not forcing stillness onto them. Just offering something solid to hold onto. Something that wouldn't flinch or disappear when the next boom tore through the night. “…You’re scared of thunder,” Dusekkar said, not mocking, just quietly observant. “No,” Two Time replied almost immediately. Instinctively. The word jumped out before they could catch it, sharp with denial. “Just startled. That’s all. Just… surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it. That’s all it is. Not scared. Just—”
A white flash lit up the cabin, stark and cold. The thunder followed right after, loud and violent—an immediate, concussive crack that sounded like the earth itself splitting open. Two Time flinched again, violently this time. Their body jerked, shoulders curling in like they could make themself smaller. Their fingers dug into Dusekkar’s hand.
They hated this.
Hated the reaction.
Hated that it showed.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “It’s alright to be scared.” Two Time looked up at him, eyes wide. “…I don’t like it,” they whispered, voice small. The honesty tasted foreign, bitter. “It feels like something’s coming. Like something’s hunting. I don’t know why. I just… I don’t like it.”
“I know.” He stood, not letting go of Two Time’s hand, and guided them slowly across the room. Step by step. The thunder rumbled again, distant this time, as if moved a little further away by the quiet gravity of Dusekkar’s presence.
They reached the old couch—faded fabric stretched thin over worn-down cushions. Dusekkar sank into it first, then gently pulled Two Time down beside him, keeping their hands linked. “Come sit with me. It’ll pass.”
Then, with a sigh too soft to be called surrender, they sat. Dusekkar pulled a blanket over both of them. It smelled like old dust and cedar, but it was warm. Safe. Two Time curled into his side like a creature that hadn’t had warmth in days. Weeks. Lifetimes. Their shoulder pressed under Dusekkar’s arm. Their knees tucked in. Small, compact, like they were trying to disappear.
The storm kept rolling. The wind howled outside like it had something to prove, but it felt different now. Still loud—but muffled. Blunted. As if Dusekkar’s body blocked not just the sound, but the way it reached Two Time’s bones.
They closed their eyes, just for a moment. Letting their head rest against Dusekkar’s side, their breath finally slowing. The thunder still rolled outside—it hadn’t let up—but it no longer pierced straight through them. It was just noise now. Background to the warmth wrapped around them.
They listened to it, this time, instead of bracing for it. Each rumble a little less sharp, a little less like a warning and more like the world simply existing beyond the walls of the cabin. It hadn’t changed—but they had. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.
“…You ever get scared?” they asked suddenly, voice barely audible, muffled into the heavy fabric of Dusekkar’s robes. There was a short pause—not because Dusekkar didn’t have an answer, just because he never rushed one. “Sometimes,” he said, without a hint of doubt or shame.
Two Time blinked, tilting their head up slightly to squint at him. Their expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and cautious curiosity. “You don’t seem like you do,” they said. Not accusing, just surprised. “You always look like you’re… above it. Like nothing ever touches you.”
Dusekkar’s gaze didn’t waver. “Doesn’t mean I don’t,” he said simply. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to admit. “I just don’t let it rule me.” Two Time was quiet for a long moment, processing that. Turning it over. Like they weren’t sure what to do with a version of Dusekkar that had fear in him, too—but somehow, that made them feel less childish, less like a problem that needed hiding.
The hand that was still wrapped in Dusekkar’s gave a soft, almost imperceptible squeeze. This time not out of panic. Not out of desperation. Just… gratitude. Recognition. A thank-you they didn’t quite have the words for. “…Thanks,” they mumbled at last. The word barely left their lips, but it meant everything.
Then, after a beat, a quiet huff of a laugh escaped them—short and wry. “Just don’t tell the others,” they added, a weak grin curling one side of their mouth. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” Dusekkar’s brow lifted slightly, the ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Secret’s safe.” he said.
“Good.” They shifted again, settling deeper into the warmth at Dusekkar’s side, the blanket pulled tight around them both. Thunder cracked faintly in the distance—but it was nothing now. A tired, faraway echo. For the first time that night, Two Time let themself believe it might pass.
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By now, the storm had dulled to a distant murmur—only the occasional low rumble trailing across the hills like an afterthought. The rain had softened too, tapping against the windows instead of hurling itself like a threat. Inside, the candle had nearly burned out, leaving the room dim and golden, its light just enough to catch the edges of soft movement.
Two Time was curled against his side, their breathing finally slow, steady. Not asleep, not yet, but quiet in a way he didn’t often get to see. Their eyes were half-lidded, lashes brushing their cheeks, one hand still tangled gently in the edge of his sleeve like they hadn’t realized they were doing it. The sharp edges that usually clung to them—jittering tension, half-coiled bravado, that desperate need to seem like they didn’t care—had all softened, just a little. Just for now.
He looked down at them. He’d seen people wear masks before—dozens of them, hundreds. With Two Time though, it wasn’t just a mask. It was armour welded from whatever they had experienced in the past. Every wide grin, every too-loud laugh, every eerie and offhand comment—they were all shields. Distractions, warding signs to keep people from looking too close, from seeing how tightly they were always holding themselves together.
He’d seen it in their eyes sometimes. That glint of awareness—of fear and yet, they still tried so hard to seem untouchable. He thought about the way they’d flinched earlier. The way their hands had curled so tight it looked painful. How they’d lied with a trembling voice—“Not scared. Just startled.”—as if fear was something shameful. As if it were weakness. As if they were still waiting for someone to punish them for having it.
Even then, after all that, they still reached for him. Slowly and carefully. Like a creature not used to being offered safety, unsure if the hand would stay open or close into a fist. They let themself be held. Trusted him, even if it was just a little.
That meant something, and he won’t take it lightly. Dusekkar let out a slow breath, barely audible. His free hand shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around them both, tucking it closer around their shoulders. Two Time let out a small, content noise—not quite a purr, not quite a sigh—and leaned in more.
He didn’t say anything aloud. He never did, not unless it mattered, but his thoughts settled quietly in the dark: They were resilient. Tense, tired, and burning at the edges, yes—but resilient and even if they couldn’t see it in themself, he would.
He would keep seeing it for them for as long as it took.