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A warning: ”The overreaction of a non-related story to the canon story was only for overdramatic plot and storytelling. Enjoy~”
In the glowing realms of the NijiEnchanted Server, where bioluminescent trees float in the skies and rivers whisper enchantments as they flow, there is one name known to all who dabble in arcane arts—Vetruvius Orthanc Xarppit the Great. Arch Wizard, Flame-Warden of the Southern Peaks, Conjuror of Infinite Light, and self-declared founder of at least seven schools of magic (most of which only exist in his mind). He is regal, extravagant, and deeply committed to the belief that magic is not just a tool, but a calling.
And then there’s Zealliam—a curious traveler from distant biomes where alchemy is forbidden, taboo even. A place where fire and frost were seen only as natural phenomena, never to be touched or tamed. In that world, he was but a humble mixologist, crafting drinks that healed or energized, secretly peddling potions under the cover of darkness. But here? In NijiEnchanted, where the stars dance and spells sing? Zealliam felt awakened.
He never expected to fall in love with magic.
At first, few paid him any mind. The server’s residents were far too enchanted by the longstanding magical beings: Uki the Witch, elusive and ever-stylish, and Vetruvius, whose dramatic spellcasting came with glowing sigils, soaring monologues, and enough fireworks to cause server lag.
But Vetruvius noticed. He always did. Especially when a newcomer displayed curiosity... and potential.
Their first encounter had been a Cook-Off Competition hosted by Shy Girl and Finana (Definietly not accurate and dramatic storytelling for the plot)—everyone brought their best magical meals, from amazing food related to some god of lady gaga to two maids nyan-ing for the judges. Zealliam? He submitted a deceptively simple drink, a shimmering bloody Mary drink that caused temporary levitation, with the great help from the great wizards, Vetruvius, with dragon meat as the main dish. Vetruvius had dramatically floated upward, robes billowing, and declared it divine, especially that their mind are one and the same. From that moment, the great wizard made a note in his enchanted grimoire: Zealliam, potential student of magic. Likes collecting things. Wears too much green, it seems.
They began to cross paths more often. Vetruvius would lecture loudly about spellcasting theory atop his spire, and Zealliam, pretending to be passing by, would stay to listen, always with that amused smile, that glint of curiosity, beside not many see those with magic as kind.
“Alchemy is a sibling of magic,” Zealliam mused one evening, crouched beside a bubbling cauldron. “It bends laws. But it never asks why the laws exist in the first place. Magic does.”
That night, Vetruvius didn’t sleep. He had never heard such words from someone who wasn't already wearing ten rings and a floating crown.
Weeks passed. Their bond deepened. Zealliam would show off his newest concoctions, potions that whispered names or shimmered with tiny galaxies inside—and Vetruvius, in turn, would casually cast spells that rewrote gravity, or summoned miniature thunderstorms indoors just to stir his tea.
Then came the invitation.
“Come to my tower, dear Zealliam,” Vetruvius had said one day, eyes glowing with pride. “I would show you the real heart of my research. The experiments, the failures, the grandeur.” He sounded nonchalant, but even Zealliam noticed how his robe had been freshly pressed and that he was wearing his shiny rings.
Zealliam arrived late that evening, under a lavender sky, stepping into the towering spiraling manor of the Arch Wizard himself. The air inside smelled of old paper, herbs, and thunder. The bookshelves towered like trees. Strange items glowed on floating pedestals. A phoenix blinked at him from its perch. A plant in the corner sneezed.
“Woah…” Zealliam breathed, awed despite himself.
Vetruvius, preening but trying not to, swept a hand across the room. “A,h, yes. Nothing, truly. Mere scraps of invention. Should you require any of these... trivial artifacts, do take them. It would bring me delight.”
Zealliam chuckled. “You’re generous, Vetruvius. I know I can always count on you. But I… I think I’ll wander a little longer. I want to see the world—study the wonders for myself.”
Vetruvius paused. Something in him shifted. “Then let me be part of that journey.”
Zealliam blinked. “Hm?”
“I’ve traveled far too long alone, Zealliam,” Vetruvius said softly. “A great wizard learns from those around him, you know. And you… You are not just a student anymore. You’re something far more interesting.”
There was a flicker of something between them, curiosity, warmth, maybe more. The night stretched, stars blinking gently beyond the tower’s windows.
From then on, they were rarely apart.
When Zealliam wanted to understand teleportation runes, Vetruvius guided his hand with surprising patience. When Vetruvius hit a block in his research into elemental fusion, Zealliam offered an alchemical theory that, though unorthodox, worked.
They were chaos and precision. Fire and glass. Shiny and silent. They complemented, challenged, and quietly adored.
Sometimes, the others teased. “Oh, so you two are inseparable now?” Uki smirked during a moonlit fishing contest.
Vetruvius sniffed. “As the stars orbit the sky, so too do we align.”
Zealliam just laughed, sipping from a glowing flask. “He means yes.”
In truth, Vetruvius had never intended to grow so fond. But now, when he caught Zealliam muttering little spells to his potions or asking questions that even he hadn’t considered... he didn’t just see a traveler. He saw a future. A legacy. A companion.
And as Zealliam continued to grow in his magic, not merely learning, but creating, the server began to notice. Rumors stirred: that the Arch Wizard and the Rogue Alchemist had formed a bond that could shake the town.
Vetruvius didn’t care about the gossip or maybe a little, but he didn’t care...
Because for the first time in his long, enchanted life, he had someone to share his magic with. Someone who didn't just admire power...
...but made it beautiful.
…
As the sun dipped behind the blocky horizon, casting long shadows across enchanted treetops and crystalline lakes, Vetruvius Orthanc Xarppit the Great found himself once again walking beside Zealliam, the alchemist-turned-mage who had, quite unexpectedly, begun to fill his days with warmth beyond that of even the fiercest fire spell.
What began as tutelage had blossomed into companionship, then camaraderie, then something... deeper. Something unspoken. Something that lived in the quiet glances shared over runic books and alchemical flasks, in the soft smiles traded during long evenings studying the stars together atop tower roofs.
Vetruvius was not unaccustomed to admiration. He was, after all, a renowned arch wizard of supreme power and theatrical flair. He expected awe. What he did not expect was to feel it himself, for someone who dared meet his brilliance with effortless grace.
And so, on one of their now-frequent twilight strolls beyond the server’s bustling spawn area, Vetruvius let his feelings crack the surface.
“I will teach you anything,” he said quietly, voice barely above the breeze. “Anything your mind seeks, I shall offer. But may I...” He hesitated. “May I take one step further… in this thing we’re having?”
Zealliam, of course, was no fool. The man had eyes sharper than enchanted daggers and a wit to match.
He burst into laughter, musical and warm. “Vetruvius, the great wizard... if you wish to confess your feelings, you might as well say it plainly. But now that you’ve said this... How about you come to my humble home? Far from the noise. I think the stars shine better there.”
Zealliam’s home was nothing short of a sanctuary. Nestled in a quiet valley surrounded by green cliffs and swaying cherrywood trees, the large manor radiated warmth, not from magic, but from the soul. The garden was a living thing: berries that glittered like gemstones, fruit trees heavy with harvest, and patches of crops that seemed to sing with vitality. A fire dragon snoozed atop the stables, tail curling lazily. Two fire foxes darted through the paths like living flames.
Vetruvius was taken aback.
“This place… It’s peaceful,” he murmured. “Like you.”
Zealliam smiled, brushing his fingers along a flowering vine. “Is that so?”
Vetruvius studied the summons nearby, noting how all of them shared a common thread, fire. Not destruction, but warmth. Loyalty. Power. He arched a brow.
“You attract many fire spirits,” he observed. “Curious. Such brave, fierce creatures—drawn to a soul so calm.”
Zealliam turned his head, grin slow and deliberate. “Just like you, Vetruvius. I suppose I’m simply blessed with the power to attract brave, strong auras.” He winked. “Even dramatic ones.”
Vetruvius’ heart stuttered. For all his grandeur, he had no defense for that smile.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Zealliam,” he said, tone still teasing but throat suddenly dry. “You’re driving me to the edge of madness.”
“And yet you followed me here willingly,” Zealliam replied, already turning toward a side corridor. “Come. I’ll show you my private room. It’s where I keep my rarest potions... and quietest truths.”
Vetruvius followed.
The private room was smaller, quieter. The walls were lined with dried herbs, enchanted scrolls, and tucked-away vials glowing with inner light. A single bed rested at the back—simple, yet inviting, covered in deep forest-green quilts. It smelled of citrus and woodsmoke.
Zealliam turned to him, leaning casually against the wall, eyes lidded in a way that made Vetruvius' stomach flip.
“Well then,” Zealliam drawled. “Will you put a spell on me to make me yours, oh great wizard Vetruvius?”
Time paused.
Something in Vetruvius' composure wavered, his pride, his restraint, his well-rehearsed lectures on magical ethics.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on Zealliam. “You don’t need magic for that,” he said, voice low. “You’ve already enchanted me.”
And with that, he placed a hand on Zealliam’s chest, firm but gentle, guiding him back toward the bed. Zealliam went willingly, a laugh dancing on his lips. Vetruvius hovered above him, robes rustling like pages turning in a forbidden grimoire.
“You shouldn’t toy with ancient forces,” he murmured, eyes glowing softly.
“I don’t toy,” Zealliam whispered back. “I trust.”
And Vetruvius, for all his fire and pride, surrendered to the quiet gravity of the moment—to the magnetic pull of a soul that met his power with laughter, warmth, and no fear.
It wasn’t a spell that bound them.
It was the mutual understanding that whatever this was, this shared madness, this burning closeness, they both wanted it.
And tonight, that was enough.
…
Vetruvius pulled off his wizard’s hat, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, the silver threads glimmering briefly in the candlelight before settling. His heavy robes followed, layer by layer, the folds unraveling like silk curtains revealing his lean, powerful form beneath. His hands, elegant and trembling with desire, reached for Zealliam, already lying beneath him, radiating that impossible mix of calm and heat, serenity and temptation.
He leaned down, catching Zealliam’s lips in a deep, searing kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was ravenous, as if Vetruvius had been starved of him for years. He kissed him like he needed to breathe through him—mouth open, tongue curling in search, not once relenting. Zealliam didn’t struggle, didn’t flinch, even as Vetruvius stole every breath. Instead, he responded with a measured exhale through his nose, hands sliding up Vetruvius’ arms, nails gently raking skin, provoking.
It only made Vetruvius hungrier.
He undid Zealliam’s robes one by one, slow at first, then feverishly, peeling them away like wrapping from a divine offering. Every exposed inch of Zealliam’s pale, glowing skin stole his breath. Zealliam lay there, flushed but composed, lips parted slightly, eyes lidded but sharp. Beautiful. So beautiful it almost made Vetruvius angry. How could anyone look this perfect while being kissed breathless?
Once every last fabric was off, they lay against each other, skin to skin, warm and bare in the soft light of the mansion. Vetruvius pressed their bodies together, hips aligning, their hard cocks trapped between them, rubbing against one another as they both groaned into another breathless kiss.
Zealliam smiled up at him, sly and teasing, brushing a stray strand of red hair from Vetruvius’ cheek. "Oh, great wizard,” he murmured, voice a silken blade, “don’t tell me you’re the needy one tonight.”
Vetruvius let out a low, strained groan. “How can I not be?” he whispered against Zealliam’s lips, forehead touching his. “You... you're unreal. Every time I look at you, I wonder if I’ve conjured you out of my dreams.”
And then he brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on his fingers, one by one, coating them slowly. His eyes never left Zealliam’s. With reverence and hunger, he reached down and parted Zealliam’s thighs, his fingers finding the heat between them.
When he found the entrance, he didn’t rush.
He circled it first, teasing with slow, maddening patience before sliding one finger in, then two. Zealliam exhaled shakily, gripping the bedsheets, his smirk flickering as the stretch deepened. Vetruvius kept going, adding a third, then a fourth finger. Zealliam's breath came ragged, and by the time the fifth pressed in, his body was arching into Vetruvius’ hand.
“You’re preparing me like a ritual,” Zealliam murmured, voice breathless and tinged with awe. “You going to summon the gods with that monster cock?”
Vetruvius chuckled, dark and low, voice a growl in his throat. “No gods. Just your pleasure.”
Zealliam leaned up, kissed him again, slower this time, more tender, as his hand reached up to stroke Vetruvius’ cheek. “You’re going to destroy my guts,” he whispered, heat dancing in his gaze, “but I want it. All of it.”
Vetruvius melted under that look. He kissed Zealliam’s hand with devotion, like it were the relic of some divine being. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, pressing their foreheads together once more. “I’ll make you feel less pain… and only pleasure.”
And then, softly, reverently, Vetruvius spoke the spell, not with his staff, not in ancient tongues, but with kisses, with slow rolls of his hips, with the warmth of his breath against Zealliam’s neck. His magic wasn't light or fire tonight. It was flesh. It was worship. It was the way he sank into Zealliam’s body with care, stretching him further, inch by inch, until they were one.
Zealliam gasped softly, nails digging into Vetruvius’ back, his smirk now replaced by something vulnerable, overwhelmed. Vetruvius held him, whispering a chant of love and want, over and over again, as he moved within him with maddening grace. Not like a storm, but like a tide. Steady. Inevitable and eternal.
Slowly, achingly, Vetruvius sank himself into Zealliam’s stretched entrance, inch by inch of his thick cock being welcomed by the heat and grip of the man beneath him. A deep moan spilled from Zealliam’s lips—rich, melodic, utterly intoxicating. His fingers clenched against Vetruvius' back, nails leaving gentle crescents in the wizard’s skin. Their bodies pressed close, the missionary position intimate and grounding.
Vetruvius wanted this to be more than lust. He wanted Zealliam to feel—to know this wasn’t just about pleasure, but possession, devotion, worship. He wanted to mark this night into the spellbook of their shared life.
With each thrust, slow and deliberate, he angled perfectly. Vetruvius was no stranger to anatomy, or magic—and he found the spot that made Zealliam cry out, breath catching in beautiful, broken moans. The way Zealliam’s body arched, slick with sweat, was its enchantment. The bed creaked softly beneath them, the sheets twisted between tangled legs and fevered fingers, but neither noticed. All they knew was each other.
Vetruvius leaned down, lips brushing Zealliam’s ear, and began to whisper.
Words not fit for daylight.
Words of praise, filth, and craving.
“Such a perfect body, made for me. You feel too good, fuck, you’re unreal. My beautiful morning star… mine, mine, mine.”
Zealliam only moaned in answer, back arching, fingers digging in deeper. That quiet composure he always wore—gone. His body trembled as Vetruvius shifted his angle slightly, knowing exactly where to strike, exactly how to draw out that breathless sound again.
And gods, did he want that sound. He whispered again, this time filthier, velvet-soft words meant only for Zealliam’s ears. Promises. Praises. Dirty poetry, laced with adoration and hunger. Zealliam shivered at the low timbre of his voice, at the contrast between filthy phrases and the way Vetruvius pressed kisses into his skin like he was something sacred.
And then the bites began. Zealliam laughed once, breathless, and buried his mouth in Vetruvius' shoulder, leaving a mark there, one of many.
Vetruvius couldn’t stop himself; he nipped Zealliam’s neck, then kissed the sting away. He marked his collarbone, his shoulders, the swell of his chest. His tongue teased a nipple before his teeth followed, eliciting a moan that turned into a sharp gasp. Zealliam writhed beneath him, lips parted, gasping out his name like a chant. By the time Vetruvius moved to the other nipple, then down to the edge of his ribs, Zealliam’s body was already covered in love bites—soft bruises blooming like a galaxy across his pale skin.
“Look at you,” Vetruvius whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Covered in me.”
The pleasure spell he’d cast earlier was working in tandem with his touch, enhancing every sensation, every brush of skin, every shiver of nerve endings. Zealliam’s moans turned desperate, his thighs trembling as Vetruvius began to pick up pace, grinding deeper, each thrust sharper and more intense than the last.
It wasn’t long before Zealliam cried out, loud, uncontrolled, as his orgasm tore through him, painting their stomachs and chests with white heat. But Vetruvius wasn’t done. He held Zealliam tightly as he buried himself deep, cock throbbing inside him, and finally released—filling him with warmth as he groaned into Zealliam’s neck.
But there was no pause.
No letting up.
Vetruvius didn't let go.
His body still moved, slower now, but still purposeful. His hands caressed Zealliam’s thighs, his waist, holding him steady. “Again,” he murmured into the curve of Zealliam’s neck, licking over the pulse there. “Don’t rest yet. I want to see how many times I can make you fall apart.”
Zealliam, flushed and dazed, gave a half-laugh, half-moan. “You’re insatiable.”
Vetruvius smiled, breath hot against his ear. “Only for you.” Vetruvius was insatiable.
He held Zealliam close, murmuring praises and filth against his lips, already rocking his hips again, cock still hard inside him. “Don’t you dare rest,” he growled with a half-smile, “Not yet. I want to feel you to come again. Again and again.”
Zealliam whimpered, but there was no resistance in his voice. Just breathless anticipation.
Vetruvius moved again, slower but deeper, his hands roaming over Zealliam’s body like he was rediscovering every inch anew. He kissed the fresh bruises, worshipped the sweat-slick skin, and angled every thrust for maximum devastation. Zealliam came again, legs shaking, eyes glassy, and Vetruvius kissed away his tears and picked up pace once more.
The night stretched endlessly. Time became meaningless. There was only the rhythm of bodies, the sound of gasps and moans echoing through the tower chamber, the scent of sweat, sex, and old spellwork lingering in the air. The candles melted low, flickering shadows against stone walls. And still, they moved together, breath for breath, soul to soul.
Vetruvius made sure Zealliam would never forget this night. He’d cast no memory charm, but etched every moment into Zealliam’s bones with the power of touch, devotion, and love-driven desire.
…
Morning came slowly, casting warm, golden light through the tall, arched windows of Zealliam’s manor. The soft hum of wind against stone, the occasional chirp of distant birds, everything felt quiet, suspended in a gentle kind of magic.
In the grand bed nestled within the private chambers, two bodies lay entangled beneath silken sheets. Naked, warm, and pressed close in sleep, Vetruvius and Zealliam shared the kind of closeness that no spell could replicate. Their legs had knotted together sometime in the night, and their arms draped over each other like ivy clinging to a home.
Vetruvius stirred first.
His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and lazy. The morning light greeted him not with brightness but with the vision of the man curled into his chest—Zealliam, beautiful and bare. His silvery lashes kissed the tops of his cheeks, and the soft rise and fall of his chest was calm, peaceful. His lips, parted ever so slightly, invited temptation. The tiny mole beneath his bottom lip was still there, untouched by time, perfectly kissable, drawing Vetruvius’ eyes like a charm he couldn’t look away from. His hair, now mussed from hours of intimacy and dreams, was still impossibly soft under Vetruvius' fingers. He brushed it back tenderly. Just to see him better.
Vetruvius exhaled slowly, almost reverently. “Still breathtaking,” he murmured under his breath, voice hoarse with sleep. Vetruvius whispered, though no one was awake to hear it. And he meant it in the truest, fullest way, not just lust or magic or obsession, but that quiet awe that struck when something finally felt real.
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the slumbering figure beside him. One hand reached up, brushing Zealliam’s soft hair away from his brow, fingers weaving through those silken strands like one might stroke a precious relic. Then, unable to resist, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on Zealliam’s temple, his nose brushing lightly across his skin.
Zealliam murmured something incomprehensible in his sleep, unconsciously curling closer.
And gods, it did something to him.
Vetruvius’ other hand, the one resting low around Zealliam’s waist, flexed. His body pressed forward, hips brushing softly against Zealliam’s backside, Vetruvius felt it stir—his body responding before his mind could catch up. A slow, lazy arousal that crept in like the sunlight. Of course, he thought, suppressing a smirk. For a great wizard, I’m terribly weak to temptation…
“Great wizard of the realm, conqueror of dimensions and weaver of stars,” he muttered to himself, “undone by a pretty face in the morning light.” A breath of laughter followed. “I’m hopeless.”
Still... he made no move to fight the urge. Instead, he welcomed it. He pulled Zealliam closer with slow, careful strength, pressing a trail of kisses from his shoulder up to the nape of his neck. When Zealliam didn’t stir beyond a sleepy sigh, Vetruvius let himself shift his hips, cock sliding softly against the curve of Zealliam’s ass.
He could speak. Wake him with words.
But that didn’t feel right.
Instead, Vetruvius leaned in and kissed Zealliam again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hand drifted along Zealliam’s waist, caressing, teasing.
Then, with reverence and a hint of mischief, he nudged forward.
The head of his cock pressed gently against Zealliam’s entrance, already familiar and pliant from their long night. He didn’t speak. Didn’t whisper a word. Just let his body say everything.
Slowly, inch by inch, he slid in. And to his surprise… Zealliam moaned softly.
Zealliam let out the softest moan in his sleep, his brows twitching ever so slightly. But he didn’t wake. Not yet. Still not fully awake, but already reacting, his body recognizing the presence, the rhythm, the way Vetruvius moved like he belonged there. He swallowed hard, suppressing a noise of his own. The feeling was too good, too intimate, too perfect.
Vetruvius bit down on his lip, stifling his own groan. The heat, the tightness, the sheer intimacy of it—it was maddening. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside, holding Zealliam to his chest and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.
And then he began to move.
Not rough. Not frantic.
Just slow, rhythmic, and deep.
He let the motion rock them gently, like waves. His hand slid up Zealliam’s chest, fingertips grazing his nipples, then returned to stroke down his sides. With every thrust, he whispered a silent confession into Zealliam’s skin. Love. Desire. Worship. He kept it slow. Gentle. His hips rolled with a steady grace, each thrust just deep enough to draw another unconscious moan, another hitch of breath.
Eventually, Zealliam stirred, sleepy eyes fluttering open, lips parting with another moan as the haze of dreams gave way to the awareness of being filled, of being loved into wakefulness.
“Mm... V-Vetruvius?” he murmured, voice groggy but warm.
Vetruvius kissed the side of his neck, smiling into his skin. He leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, smiling with heat in his eyes. “Good morning, my morning star” he murmured. “I thought I’d let my body do the talking today.”
Zealliam let out a breathy, amused sound that turned into a gasp as Vetruvius adjusted, pushing in deeper, slower, hitting that same spot that made Zealliam whimper the night before.
“Couldn’t wait?” Zealliam asked, still breathless, but a lazy smile curled his lips.
“Not when you look like this,” Vetruvius replied softly, now guiding Zealliam gently onto his back, never pulling out. Now facing each other again, Vetruvius gazed down at him. Zealliam’s flushed face, his messy hair, the sleepy adoration in his eyes—it was enough to make any man fall all over again.
Zealliam chuckled weakly, wrapping his arms around Vetruvius’ back. “You’re such a menace,” he breathed, but his legs pulled Vetruvius in closer. “Don’t stop.”
Vetruvius began to thrust deeper, angling his hips just right to make Zealliam’s breath catch, his hands finding purchase on Vetruvius’ shoulders.
“I want you like this,” Vetruvius whispered, “Soft. Open. Mine.” Zealliam gasped, back arching, hands clawing gently down Vetruvius’ arms.
“I’m yours,” he whispered back. “Again. Always.”
Vetruvius adjusted, pushing Zealliam gently beneath him, hands bracing on either side of the bed. Their eyes met for just a moment, no magic, no flare, just two men connected by something stronger than spells.
And then he moved again, this time deeper, fuller, every roll of his hips designed not to take, but to give—to pleasure, to worship, to remind Zealliam of just how loved he was. Their breath filled the room like a soft chant.
The bed shifted quietly with their movements. Outside, one of Zealliam’s fire foxes peeked into the window and promptly turned away with a flick of its tail.
…
After the heat of their morning love cooled to something softer, more tender, the two lay entwined for a while, wrapped in sweat and warmth and the silence that only comes when two souls feel no need to speak. Eventually, Vetruvius pressed a final kiss to Zealliam’s damp temple and murmured, “Come. Let’s wash away the night together.”
The bath chamber was carved from pale stone veined with silver, shaped by ancient magic into curves and alcoves. A gentle cascade of water fell from a floating ring of runes above, forming a shower that sparkled like dew in morning light. The scent of wildflowers drifted in from the open windows, mingling with the faint earthy undertone of the woods surrounding the tower. Birds sang in the trees beyond, as if they too knew what had bloomed here.
Vetruvius slipped his arms around Zealliam from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. Their skin pressed together with no urgency, only quiet devotion. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Zealliam’s hair, earthy with a hint of something citrus and spiced, like the herbs the alchemist worked with. The soft patter of water filled the silence.
Vetruvius held him there. Held him like something precious. Vetruvius had never known peace like this.
“Do you ever think,” Vetruvius whispered, lips brushing Zealliam’s ear, “that something like this... shouldn’t be possible for men like us?”
It stunned him, how the simple feeling of Zealliam’s body against his, the curve of his back beneath his palms, the easy rise and fall of breath, could soothe him more than a hundred years of arcane study ever had.
“I never thought I’d live a morning like this,” Vetruvius whispered, lips brushing Zealliam’s cheek. “No theatrics. No spells. Just you. And me. And the water.”
Zealliam didn’t answer right away. He simply reached back, covering Vetruvius’ hand with his own. Their fingers laced slowly, skin damp and warm.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Inside, the shower whispered over them like rain from the heavens. “I thought I’d die with no one ever knowing me,” Vetruvius said, quieter now. “Only the title. The robes. The power. Never the man.”
Zealliam turned in his arms, lifting a hand to touch Vetruvius’ face, water dripping down both their cheeks like tears. Their foreheads met beneath the falling water, soft and reverent. The connection didn’t need words. The gesture was enough.
“I could get used to this,” Zealliam murmured, voice barely audible over the stream. “Though it’s still strange... being seen this way.”
Vetruvius’ hand found Zealliam’s and intertwined their fingers, holding them against his chest.
“You deserve to be seen,” he said, gently. “Not just for your talent or your clever tongue... but for everything else too. Even the parts you hide.” Zealliam blushed faintly. His eyes fluttered closed.
Vetruvius exhaled. Something in his chest unclenched. Zealliam smiled faintly, a little shy now under the attention, his cheeks pink not just from the warmth of the water but from being looked at like that, like he was everything.
Vetruvius leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and gentle, as though worshipping a relic. “You are... the best kind of spell,” he whispered. “A miracle I never dared to try casting.”
Zealliam gave a quiet, flustered little hum and leaned into the touch. For a moment, they simply swayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, water cascading down their bodies. It felt like dancing, not with steps, but with fingers brushing hips, palms against spines, the soft gliding of slick skin against skin.
Time moved gently. Nothing rushed. Nothing urgent. Just love. When the water had cooled and their hearts calmed to a matching rhythm, they stepped out, toweling off side by side with shared smiles and wordless touches, fingers brushing over shoulders, knuckles down spines, affectionate nuzzles that said I’m still here. Still yours.
By the time they left the shower, toweling each other off with lazy affection, the morning sun had risen fully over the treetops, painting the forest canopy in gold.
…
In the kitchen, Zealliam wrapped himself in a loose linen robe, still damp around the collar. He moved with quiet purpose, hands slicing fruit with practiced ease while a pan sizzled nearby. Magic danced softly in the air, gentle housekeeping spirits fluttered like butterflies around the room, stirring tea, opening cabinets, and flicking stray droplets of water off the floor.
Vetruvius, meanwhile, sat at the edge of a cushioned window seat, wrapped in a charcoal-gray robe that shimmered faintly with residual magic. One leg crossed over the other, a tea spirit floating near his hand like a sleepy firefly. He was speaking to a familiar, an impish wisp of smoke shaped like a small imp, curled in the air beside him.
“I’m telling you, kindred,” Vetruvius said, amused, “He cast a charm on me with no incantation at all. If that’s not sorcery, I don’t know what is.” The spirit purred, as if in agreement.
Zealliam approached a moment later, a steaming cup in one hand and a plate in the other.
“For the great wizard,” he said playfully, offering the tea with a kiss to Vetruvius’ cheek. “Careful, I added honey. Your theatrics might get sweeter.”
Vetruvius huffed fondly, accepting the cup. “I’ll allow it. If only because you kiss like a blessing.” And with a fond hum, he whispered. “You spoil me.”
“You spoil me first,” Zealliam said, nuzzling briefly into his temple before pulling back, cheeks warm but eyes lit with affection.
They sat together at the wooden table carved from a fallen world tree, two chairs pulled close, the morning sun painting gold across their plates and cups, shoulder to shoulder, the sun pouring in around them, the house alive with warmth and floating magic. Outside, the sounds of the forest began to stir, the world waking up, but for once, they didn’t have to rush off to meet it, but it wasn’t empty.
It was peaceful. Sacred.
They simply sipped tea. Ate warm food. Existed. Together.
And in the quiet between them, not a silence born of distance, but one forged by comfort, Vetruvius reached out, lacing their fingers again. And maybe, just maybe... a future written not in stars, but in tea and kisses, skin and spellwork, laughter and long mornings. He didn’t need to speak another spell.
The enchantment was already there.