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As if it were a cliché in a mediocre novel, their assigned mission could not be easy. Well, in a world full of gods, magic, and cults, expecting a simple unfolding of events could be considered utter stupidity, but Klein Moretti believed that being pessimistic would get him nowhere. Of course, he was cautious—he inquired about the danger of the mission above the gray fog—and took sufficient precautions for something “slightly dangerous” by the standards of a Sequence 8, Clown, like himself. However, and although rare, his prediction had been wrong: he knew it the moment he entered the target location with his green-eyed colleague Beyonder.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the surroundings. Long vines stretched across the ruins of an ancient watchtower, roots protruding from the surface and buds of countless flowers bathing in the crimson moonlight. There was no immediate danger at first glance, but Klein's spiritual perception remained alert, in limbo between suspicion and discomfort. His fingertips were cold, almost numb. His chest, on the other hand, radiated excessive heat as if he were standing in full sunlight in summer. There was also a slight discomfort just above the back of his neck, pricking his head and eyes.
Beyonders don't get sick. He remembered. Klein was fully aware of even the tiniest, most insignificant of his muscles, so all these symptoms only increased his suspicion. Some power from a Sequence capable of transmitting diseases to other Beyonders? If that were the case... His brown orbs drifted to his dear poet, Leonard Mitchell. Unlike him, he seemed perfectly fine, even carefree, with his hands in his pockets and a seemingly relaxed posture. It could be the case that the Midnight Poet was feigning his well-being, but Klein didn't find that very plausible. Determined to avoid complications due to a lack of information, the Clown shared his thoughts. “There's something strange here.”
Leonard, who was a little ahead of him, turned around with both hands behind his neck. “That's why we're here. Do we have anything to worry about?” Beneath the surface of that question, his colleague was telling him that if there really was something to be alert about, it was manageable. After all, the mission consisted only of an exploration of a location suspected of being an abandoned base for black magic rituals. They hadn't even seen it necessary to obtain a Sealed Artifact from Chanis Gate, assuming that the skill and dexterity of two Sequence 8s would be sufficient.
Klein dropped his pendant from his wrist and recited in his mind. Whatever we find inside the tower will pose a danger to me. After seven repetitions, the pendant spun clockwise at a fairly slow frequency and amplitude. It means there will be a slight danger, but nothing we can't handle... Despite the divination's response, he still felt unsatisfied, which was both logical and illogical at the same time. His divination told him he would be fine, but his spiritual perception clearly wanted to warn him about something!
Suddenly and without warning, a stranger's arm rested casually on his shoulders. Klein tensed instantly, still not quite used to Leonard's sudden acts of physical contact. With a carefree smile, the poet spoke. “Don't worry so much. Even in the cruelest challenges, those of us who are protagonists will always emerge victorious.”
Is that supposed to reassure me? It seems you never got over your eighth-grade syndrome. The seer rolled his eyes at his comment. “Let's get this over with quickly.”
Leonard chuckled. “As you say.”
His symptoms worsened once they entered the tower. What had started as chills running down his spine and an uncomfortable warmth in his chest quickly turned into cramps in his stomach and blurred vision. The more time passed, the less control he felt over himself, and for a Beyonder with a sequence based on the harmonious maneuvering of his body, this could only mean one thing: a possible loss of control. And meanwhile, Leonard was still fine! Well, maybe a little quieter, observing his surroundings for any trace of spiritual energy, but at least he looked healthy.
Klein grumbled to himself, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Something is wrong. It says in his head. Still, he keeps going. It was a mixture of stubbornness and a sense of duty. If he had wanted to leave, he should have done so before even departing from the Blackthorn Security Company. Besides, he couldn't afford to leave Leonard alone either. Although there was a clear difference in experience and skill, the lack of reinforcements could mean life or death, and after Old Neil's death, the thought of losing more people was much worse than he would like to admit.
For the next twenty minutes, they searched every accessible corner of the tower, a few rooms, and the top. Beyond lush vegetation—much more exaggerated than that outside and in the surrounding area—there was nothing. Taking a branch from his coat that he had picked up before entering the tower, Klein used dowsing to search for a hidden room. Soon, the branch led both Beyers to what they believed was the kitchen, specifically to a false wall. With a single glance between the seer and the poet, the latter kicked down the stone brick wall, revealing a dark staircase leading underground. With no other options available, Klein and Leonard descended.
If it weren't for the small flame at the tips of his fingers, the absolute darkness would have prevented him from seeing the walls covered with multi-colored flower buds. Only a few bricks were visible, as most had been covered by thick vegetation.
As the number of steps increased, Klein's vision worsened. It wasn't just losing focus for brief moments, but black spots directly staining his vision. He could barely control his own body weight, and each step felt like applying pressure to fresh jelly. His spiritual perception remained active and with an intensity he was not used to at all, draining his energy even more. What's wrong with me...? His thoughts slowed down, putting too much effort into making them coherent.
Klein almost fell to his knees when he forced himself to stop his body once he found himself face to face with Leonard's back. He wants to ask him why he stopped so abruptly, but before he can even do so, his brown eyes look over him.
What should have been a stone wall was replaced by a giant flower just over a meter in diameter, with five huge red petals and a huge hole in the center. If it were compared to a plant on Earth, it would definitely be a Rafflesia arnoldii, and he would even find a resemblance to a certain fictional creature from a famous video game franchise. And just like in the reality he comes from, the flower gave off a nauseating smell, comparable to that of a corpse.
Perhaps, if Klein had been in full mental and physical health, he could have made a series of obvious deductions, such as that the flower was probably the source of the extensive vegetation in the tower, and that if there were any results of black magic activity, the flower had to be involved. At the time they were assigned the mission, there had been no fatalities and they were only acting at the request of the local police, so they didn't really expect anything that would pose a real risk to the population.
Perhaps if Klein had simply been more suspicious about the apparent simplicity of the matter, he would have requested a Sealed Artifact, just in case.
Had he done those things, had he followed with complete conviction the principles already established by his method of action, he would not be going through any of this.
A dull thud echoes right behind Leonard. Surprised, he quickly turns to look for its source: collapsed on the floor, knees and arms pressed against his chest, Klein writhes in pain.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. There is no experience within Klein's subconscious that can serve as a comparison for what he is feeling at that moment. It could be like a stab from a rusty, tarnished sword in his beating heart; it could be like a heavy, large stone falling on his head, breaking his skull and crushing his brain; it could be like the burn of boiling oil on tender, smooth skin, turning white to brown. His thoughts are not logical enough to remember his dangerous experience of observing Eternal Blazing Sun God and facing something that clearly could not be worse than that.
His organs twist in constant, sharp pains. Air does not enter his lungs because the pain prevents him from breathing; his heart beats at a frantic pace, enough to kill an ordinary human, and enough to put a low-sequence Beyonder like him in substantial danger. His body is being frozen and burned at the same time, tearing him apart inside without a single drop of blood being spilled.
Klein doesn't understand. Within the infinity of extremely painful sensations consuming every cell in his body, the source and solution to his pain seem to be there, but too blurred to comprehend. Klein cannot understand how he has not fainted yet, and he blames heaven and earth for it.
His eyes burn so much that he is not even sure if what is falling from them are tears.
Everything hurts, everything burns, everything freezes him.
Klein forces himself to breathe, and the air that should be a relief feels more like tiny glass shards piercing his organs. With a violent, barely calculated movement, he clings to whatever is next to him, even if he can't stop shaking.
Klein sobs. “Make it stop.”
His hand clutches his wrist. In a matter of milliseconds, Leonard's thoughts flow and draw quick and accurate conclusions. Since they began their exploration, Leonard had seen Klein trying to pretend to be fine, but for a Night Hawk accustomed to observation and investigation, his slight tremors and the strange stiffness in his body made him more alert to his colleague. Despite this, he didn't say anything to Klein. Firstly, because he didn't believe the seer would be honest with him right away—after all, everyone has their secrets—and secondly, because he believed that if things got bad enough, he would warn him.
However, his focus did not remain on Klein from the moment they began descending the stairs. In other words, the seer's progressive deterioration could suddenly be affected, and the most plausible source was, ultimately, the enormous flower. But even if that was the case... When Leonard saw the flower, he knew it had some spiritual energy in it, but it was nothing really alarming, let alone enough to trigger such a violent reaction in a Beyonder.
Therefore, when a certain idea crossed his mind in those fleeting moments, Leonard couldn't help but think that maybe that could be it.
But Klein wouldn't be that stupid, right? He wondered at that moment. “Old man, don't you think it's—?”
“Definitely. But you can see that later, get this brat out of here before it gets worse!”
The poet didn't need to hear it twice. With great skill, Leonard slid one arm behind the back and behind the knees of the dying seer, carrying him against his chest. The raven-haired young man looked suspiciously at the flower, promising himself that he would return to deal with it. At that moment, a trembling hand desperately clung to the edge of his unbuttoned shirt. He heard a sob. “Make it stop,” he begged.
Leonard ran. He climbed the steps at a speed befitting Paths characterized by physical development, clutching Klein's trembling, sweaty body tightly. He left the tower as soon as he reached the collapsed wall, moving as far away as possible from the lush vegetation and the strange aura that emanated from the place. As the distance increased, Klein's tremors subsided, his breathing became more audible, and he no longer seemed to be on the verge of suffocation. Still, he could also feel his heartbeat, irregular and too high.
When he thought they had gotten far enough away, the poet looked at him and saw that he was a complete mess. His clothes were torn and soaked with sweat, his complexion was pale to the point of sickness, his hair was tangled and dirty, his eyes were red, and his cheeks were flushed from tears. A sorry state indeed. He looks so fragile... “Klein?”
He doesn't respond to his call. There is no reaction at all. The brown of his eyes is glassy, the corners of his lips slightly open, his breath escaping in a whistle. Something about that stillness makes him extremely uncomfortable. “Klein.” He called out firmly, almost demanding a response. Again, there is no answer. On the contrary, it seems as if the weight on his grip increases with each passing second, as if the seer has no control over his own body. Leonard swallows hard. “Klein!” With few other options, the poet shakes him a little harder. Finally, he hears a faint whimper. “Klein, can you hear me?”
The seer wriggled in his arms, in pain. “Yes...”
“Good, good.” He repeated, almost as if he needed to convince himself of it. “I need you to be honest, because what happened there—” His words trailed off before he could finish. His mind clouded, and not very grateful for how nervous the poet sounded, Klein squeezed his shirt with what little strength he had left. Just say it, he conveyed. In a mixture of concern and embarrassment, Leonard asked. “Klein, are you in heat?”
In any other situation, Klein would probably have laughed to himself. Heat, like animals? What kind of ridiculous story did Leonard Mitchell have in his head to ask something so absurd? It had to be a joke to lighten the mood, it had to be. But those green eyes looked at him with a hurt intensity and slight hints of panic that were impossible to deny. This is stupid, he thought. Completely exhausted and still feeling some twinges of pain, Klein decided that continuing to deny that possibility did more harm than good. “Heat? I've... I've never had one...”
As he regained control of his body, memories of the original Klein Moretti filled in the gaps. As he had feared, it turned out that one of the many peculiarities that differentiated this world from his original one was the existence of secondary genders: the classic literary triad of alpha, beta, and omega. In reality, it wasn't much different from what Zhou Mingrui knew beyond a less “intense” version of some clichés typical of online writing sites. Regarding his own situation, Klein Moretti himself had seen his first heat delayed for unknown reasons, suspecting mainly two factors: his lifestyle habits—mostly dietary—and the absence of a partner. In other words, his own biology was warning him that he was not ready for whatever his secondary gender might be. And with him having ignored that particular detail—because, of course, in a world full of gods and magical organizations, his thoughts were not on his ability to have offspring—the disastrous possibility that his first heat had arrived so abruptly and ruthlessly was quite high. Looking at it in perspective, it was obvious. A seer unable to predict something so basic—who has ever heard of anything more pitiful? He scoffed inwardly and laughed half-heartedly. Of course, this caused him pain, which made him shudder.
“Shit.”
Klein heard a curse above him.
It was then, and only then, that the seer remembered that he was in a particularly vulnerable position.
Before he could say anything about it, Leonard beat him to it. “We have to get you to a safe place.”
Wait, we? "But the mission—”
At that moment, Klein swore he heard Leonard growl. Wait, we're not animals. He didn't really do that, did he? Secondary genders don't imply behaviors like those described in those... stories, right? It's just that I misheard and— Wait, Klein Moretti, no, Zhou Mingrui, control yourself for the love of the Goddess! A barrage of questions and doubts flooded the seer's mind. From an outside perspective, Klein Moretti had fallen silent without warning. Leonard looked at him for a few moments before shaking his head vehemently. “It's your first heat, do you know how dangerous it can be for an ordinary person without the proper preparations? Worse still, we are Beyonders, so one wrong step and you—” The poet clicked his tongue sharply. “The captain will understand.”
Something in Leonard Mitchell's tone prevented Klein from continuing the argument. Keeping any slightly indecent thoughts at bay, he spoke. “All right. Could you...?” He made a slight movement pointing to the ground. He wasn't used to other people's concern, let alone the source of it. So being in his partner's arms was anything but acceptable. The green-eyed young man hesitated for a brief moment, but he didn't resist for long and lowered him carefully.
A moment later, by the time his legs were forced to support themselves, and as if his body were mocking him, Klein felt all his strength drain away.
He didn't even manage to fall to his knees because, as if he had anticipated it, Leonard managed to reach him with his arm. How humiliating, he thought to himself. “Thank you.” Leonard shook his head and, without warning, bent down, turning his back to him and placing both hands just below his hips. No... He can't be serious. A mixture of nervousness and disbelief was reflected in his expression. How exactly was he supposed to accept this? It was bad enough to be experiencing his heat—if that was the case—so suddenly in front of his colleague of dubious sexuality, but to act shamelessly just because his body didn't seem to want to listen to him? Not in a million years! “No—I don't think it's necessary to resort to this.”
The poet asked, raising an eyebrow. “And let myself get scolded for not helping my colleague who obviously needs help? No way. Get in, and while you're at it, tell me who your emergency contact is.”
I can't bother Benson or Melissa with this, was the first thought that came to mind. “I just need to get some sleep and I'll be fine.”
Compared to the absolute torture his body had been subjected to inside the tower, his symptoms at the moment were much more tolerable. They weren't pleasant, and he could barely ignore them, but he didn't want to make the situation even more uncomfortable for either of them. Well, he couldn't say for sure if Leonard Mitchell was uncomfortable, but it would be basic decency on his part, wouldn't it?
He wasn't looking at him, but from the tone of his next words, Klein imagined his smile full of irony. “Spoken like an old hand.”
Klein knows he should respond, but just as he had his “decent” moments, he also had his moments of decline. His body grows heavier, his chest burns, his fingers grow cold.
For a fleeting moment, Leonard's back seems strangely comfortable.
He doesn't think about it, but his body decides to fall awkwardly against the Midnight Poet. Without many options, Klein's arms hang from Leonard's shoulders, searching for something to hold on to and be more than dead weight on his colleague. His head throbs and he can't help but curse. “This sucks.”
The young man with green eyes makes a soft sound of agreement as he tightens his grip on Klein's legs. “I know. I'll try to get us there as soon as possible.” As they begin to move, they walk at a steady pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Every so often, Leonard glances sideways at Klein, whose head alternates between staying trembling and upright or slumping directly against his neck.
It was in the latter case that Leonard felt shaky, agitated breaths against his neck and the part of his hair that covered it. Klein breathed heavily, with too much effort involved. His voice muffled by his own weakened state, the seer spoke. “It's... not so bad.”
Leonard decided to ignore the comment along with the physical reactions it provoked as a result. “As soon as we get to an inn, we can start the paperwork for your leave. We can also contact your emergency contact so they can come straight here and—”
The grip on his chest trembled with his words. “I don't want to bother Benson and Melissa. They're... very busy.”
There was no further exchange of words for a few minutes. Klein wondered if he had said something strange, while Leonard was lost in thought about what he had just heard. If he doesn't want to bother his family and is smart enough to foresee most of his inconveniences— The conclusion was the most obvious one, but somehow, there was a touch of bitterness in it just thinking about it. “Do you have an... established partner?”
It wasn't the most common behavior, but for those who hadn't introduced themselves yet, or who simply didn't give much importance to the whole issue of secondary gender bonds, they could arrange meeting partners to “lighten” that burden momentarily and casually. What for many would be a “one-night stand.” Or perhaps, the beginning of a closer bond. Either way, something inside Leonard urged him to see the positive side, even if it was false. "It's not a bad plan. Well, personally, I wouldn't opt for something as banal as that, but I guess everyone has their preferences. Can I at least know who it is? You don't have to say, of course not, it's just if you prefer. Although, I think we've made enough progress to be considered each other's friends, right?“ Despite his ramblings, Klein says nothing. Leonard isn't quite sure whether to take that as a free pass to keep talking or as a flat-out rejection of his ridiculous performance. Whatever the case, nerves get the better of his tongue before logic prevails in his mind. ”It's just that... I worry. Yeah, it may not seem like it, but I consider the Night Hawks, especially the Tingen members, my family. So if this all seems silly to you, well, that's fine, but I just needed to say it, you know? Sometimes you have to remind people that you're there for them." A soft sigh escapes his lips. “And if you'd rather punch me or whatever, I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry.”
For those brief moments, Leonard Mitchell waits for a response. The seconds tick by, the silence grows heavier, the movement ceases. Everyone beyond them—beyond him—is still.
Klein is too still.
Klein is too still.
“Klein?!”
Without hesitating for a second, the poet lowers the seer from his back, his nervousness growing as he sees him slip away from him without any resistance, as if he were a wet rag.
What's going on? What's going on?! He was fine! A voice in his head protested.
Slumped against his arms, the young seer's chest movements slowed, his breathing barely audible. His eyelashes fluttered, an excessive effort for the mere action of opening his eyes. His skin, already sickly, began to resemble that of a corpse, losing color under the crimson moon.
“No, no. The heat shouldn't be this bad!” he snapped nervously. Leonard's hands ran over Klein's torso, unsure of what to do or if he was overstepping. “Old man, what do I do?!”
Surely the old man would know what to do. He was a millennial being, with knowledge that most beings in this world would never comprehend in their ephemeral lives. It was a logical request, but much of it stemmed from a growing fear of the unknown, of seeing one of his companions—one with whom he was quite close—collapse without Leonard being able to do much about it.
A growl echoed in his head, and the serious, knowledgeable voice replied. “The boy has terrible luck. I can't say for sure, but I'd bet that plant has something to do with ‘Her.’”
“She, a Goddess? Didn't we agree that this was due to heat?” The poet's words escaped abruptly.
“Her domains are related to it, which is why I say he is unfortunate,” said the voice sternly. “His condition is worsening due to her influence.”
“Leo... nard.” Curled up against his chest, his name was uttered in a barely audible whisper.
He won't make it. That was the conclusion that emerged from the depths of his being. “W-What do I do?”
Fighting believers of Evil Gods was one thing, facing the direct influence of one of them was another. To make matters worse, the mating season in Beyonders exposed them to such a state of vulnerability that the chances of losing control increased considerably, not to mention if it was their first mating season. And if that wasn't the case, if a Beyonder managed to withstand the irregularities in their energy and powers without sparing their physical and spiritual body from damage, the result would be fatal.
To fall into madness or die to avoid it, why do they always have to go to such extremes just for being who they are?
Feeling the flow of turbulent emotions from its host, the ancient voice replied. “Mark him.”
It is common knowledge that, among all treatments for heat relief, sexual intercourse would be the most effective option. However, it was still a somewhat extreme and overly personal measure for most people. Therefore, in terms of cost-benefit, the next most viable option was to establish a mark, a “claim” on another, whether temporary or permanent. That was the logical deduction, where giving in to instinct would serve as consolation while less conventional measures—such as suppressants—were sought.
Still, whether it was the mark or the knot, it remained a two-party decision. Leonard Mitchell might seem like a cheeky and daring young man in certain ways, but that didn't mean he didn't respect the opinions and life decisions of those he cared about.
Of course, as far as possible, the Midnight Poet would do anything to help his friends—his family—but not beyond his limits.
“I—I can't do this to him.”
What would happen to his family? What would happen to the person he had in mind to spend such an intimate time with? What would happen to their strange friendship? Leonard Mitchell refused to lose someone in his life when he was just accepting that he needed them in it.
Klein Moretti was the first person who, in one way or another, made all the misfortune associated with the Beyonder world more tolerable. Rolling his eyes, enjoying desserts, reading in the living room, working hard, and becoming one of the Blackthorn Security Company.
Klein Moretti was a friend whose importance was greater than he would like to admit.
Why did he have to realize it in a situation like this?
“Don't think too much, kid.” The old man snapped impatiently. “If you don't, the boy will die!”
A broken voice spoke from below.
“Do it.”
Green eyes searched for warm brown ones, but found only a crystalline layer covering them now. Klein's left hand clutched his already wrinkled shirt, trying not to faint in the process. His head throbbed, his eyes burned, his mouth felt dry, and his skin was damp and hot and cold all at once.
Klein Moretti, in his infinite earthly wisdom, felt like he was dying. And if there was even the slightest chance of escaping it once more, he wouldn't care what it took.
He could no longer maintain control, his body felt heavier, and the heat emanating from him began to be accompanied by a scent. Sweet at first, but with hints of bitterness that became increasingly predominant. Its translation? A body succumbing to pain.
And as expected, the scent of a dying omega in his arms awakened the most primitive instincts of his partner, an alpha. The anguish inside Klein penetrated every cell of Leonard's body, piercing his psyche to the point where he could believe he was feeling the same thing.
His emerald eyes were moist. Suppressing the savage within him, he shook his head. “I don't want to force you into this, this isn't how you should—”
Klein Moretti couldn't be sure where he found the strength to wrap his arms around Leonard Mitchell's neck. Perhaps it was the influence of the gray mist, or perhaps it was simply a moment of vitality before collapsing and never waking up again. He wasn't quite sure. What he does know, however, is that this foolish poet is wasting too much time on issues that, in principle, don't really bother the seer.
If it's one or the other, then I choose him.
“Help me.”
The next thing Klein Moretti feels is his teeth piercing the skin above his collarbone. There is sharp pain, but also immediate relief. His hands, trembling and sweaty, desperately search for something to hold on to. They slide down Leonard's already ruined shirt—his fault, he reminds himself—and his nails dig into it in a messy attempt to gain a firm grip. His heart is beating fast, and his breathing is becoming agitated, but at least he can breathe. The warmth of his mouth creates a small white cloud as it hits the cold forest air, and his vision clears and blurs at times as he stares at the huge crimson moon.
“Aah~!”
The area around his scent gland is sucked hard, the intentions to claim him, to impregnate something inside him and leave it there so they know he is there, obvious. A wet, slightly rough, and very hot mass slides across his battered skin, an attempt to provide relief while the teeth remain there. Klein bites his lips and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to suppress a moan. However, his body and mind do not seem to be in full coordination, for before he knows it, his hand is already tangled in the poet's long hair, pressing him against him.
“L-Leo— Mgh!”
At some point, something seems to try to enter him. Klein squirms, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the constant struggle between pain and pleasure that runs through every limb of his weakened body. It's his scent, he thinks in a brief moment of lucidity. Should he let himself go? Is it right to force Leonard Mitchell to bond with Klein Moretti just because the latter failed to foresee an emergency? What about the poet's future plans? Will they be stalled because of this? Tears well up in the corners of his eyes without falling.
He doesn't have a moment to ask if he's okay, if he feels like what they're doing is a mistake. Leonard, his dear poet, simply carries on.
And just like him, the essence of his scent sinks beneath his skin.
It is only at that moment that Klein Moretti can no longer contain himself. His voice breaks into whimpers and gasps, his breathing ragged with pleasure that comes and goes in waves.
Klein feels a fountain break beyond his belly.
“Leonard!”
A damp warmth spreads through Klein's pants. He gasps as he still gazes at the clear sky. He is tired, but at least not in the same way as before. It is a strangely pleasant exhaustion.
His head slumped against his collarbone, Klein inhaled sharply. Without hesitation, the seer recognizes that scent as his own.
Above him, Leonard remains completely still. His arms still encircle Klein—he knows that if he lets go, his colleague will collapse like a rag doll—but he doesn't dare move. He feels the seer's breath against his neck, much heavier than it was a few moments ago. His heart is also beating hard, which brings him some relief.
From a general perspective, everything is better. Looking at it introspectively, Leonard feels that he has failed to protect his friend. He has ignored key boundaries in personal relationships, and he can't help but think that this is his responsibility. Even if Klein directly asked for his help, it is more than evident that it was the result of a state of constant agony and the influence of external energies on him. If the situation had been properly discussed, the outcome would have been very different.
He had complained to Klein Moretti when he hadn't even acknowledged whether his feelings toward him were appropriate, much less whether they were reciprocated, not to mention that all this was exacerbated because, surprise surprise, their biology complemented each other, which did not imply compatibility at first glance.
With thousands of alphas, betas, and omegas out there, Leonard Mitchell doesn't see himself as one of Klein Moretti's top choices. The seer was too good for him to dare to desire him.
If Leonard Mitchell couldn't be sure that his attraction to Klein Moretti predated his introduction as an omega, what set him apart from any other alpha?
As a result of this series of thoughts, bitterness seeps into his chest.
Just then, a sigh echoes in his ears. “I'm sorry.”
What? Did he hear wrong? Leonard lowers his head, but all he sees is Klein's tangled hair. His body looks smaller, and the poet can't decide if it's a product of his vision as an alpha who has just claimed this new omega.
Hesitant, he asks his question. “Why are you apologizing...?”
Klein sinks even further into his chest. “Do you really have to ask?” he says with a slight tone of reluctance, but Leonard says nothing. The seer sighed once more. “I forced you to bond.”
Klein's scent, the soft sweetness with slight hints of bitterness, now also reveals a hint of roses. Leonard recognizes his own scent on Klein. Before he can comment on it, the brown-eyed young man continues. “This was my responsibility, and because I wasn't careful enough, you— In the name of the Goddess, I'm so sorry, Leonard.”
No, no! On the contrary, why are you apologizing? It should be me—! Logic is not entirely present in his subsequent movements: while keeping one arm firmly behind Klein's back, the other reaches up to his head, cradling it. The seer refuses at first, but gives in when he realizes that the poet—his poet?—is treating him with a delicacy he does not deserve. When green and brown meet, both colors are hurt, with deep guilt drowning their hearts. Leonard swallowed hard. "I should be the one apologizing to you, Klein. The presentation is unpredictable, so there's no way you could have controlled that. On the other hand, because of me... because of the mark you have, you'll have problems with your future partners... I ruined part of your future because of a selfish decision."
Klein's expression changed from guilt to confusion. “It wasn't a selfish decision, I asked you to do it.”
Leonard laughed half-heartedly. “In a moment of vulnerability.”
Something in his words seems to hurt Klein. His brown eyes lose their sparkle for a moment, and the corners of his lips remain apart, but without emulating a single word.
No, no. Leonard doesn't want to keep hurting Klein, he can't ruin him any more than he already is.
The poet choked. “Klein, I—”
“Do you think I wouldn't have chosen you?”
“...”
“...”
Not knowing how to respond, Leonard only uttered a monosyllable. “What?”
“If I had been perfectly fine, without my jealousy, and in full possession of my mental faculties, do you think I wouldn't have chosen you?” He repeated more forcefully, his eyes shining with anger as the poet did not respond. However, his expression, in response to Klein's question, contorted into shame and acceptance. Yes, I don't think you would have chosen me, that's what those green eyes are telling me. Klein doesn't understand Leonard. He has seen him, he knows how aware the other man is of his physique, of his personality, an absolute treasure for any man or woman in all of Tingen. And from the care he took in marking him, he also thought he would be an excellent candidate as a partner. So where did that “I'm not good enough” attitude come from? More than an act of humility, it seemed like false modesty! Incredulous, Klein clicked his tongue. “You can't be that stupid.”
“Excuse me...?”
The seer sighed heavily before refocusing his eyes on the poet. “Listen to me carefully, Leonard. I apologized because I feared the consequences you might face for marking someone like me.”
“What do you mean by—?”
“I'm telling you to listen to me.” The seer silenced him. “As for me, and even though it wasn't part of my plan... I don't feel bad that you marked me. Yes, it's true that it could affect my future, but I've never been very interested in relationships anyway.” A mocking smile graced his lips. “Besides, among so many possibilities, you were the one who was there. I'm sure many alphas out there wouldn't be so considerate.”
“Klein...”
Why do you say that as if you were talking about the Goddess? He mocked in his mind. Carefully, his hand slid along the contours of the poet's face, caressing each feature with his fingertips until he reached his lips. His thumb remained in the air, thoughtful.
Klein smiled. “You saved me, my dear poet. So, thank you.”
When pink lips meet thinner ones, it's no big deal. It is a brief interaction, a delicate contact full of mutual consideration. They are not two animals seeking to impose dominance and be dominated, but two young men searching for answers to something that, until that night, was nothing more than a secret. They do not join together until they are breathless, but separate once the message has been conveyed.
When they meet, Klein smiles once more. Leonard, for his part, begins to tremble. He hides in the seer's collarbone and breathes heavily, holding back the lump in his throat. “I thought I would lose you.”
If Klein understood the true terror behind his words, he decided not to mention it. Instead, he carefully combed through the long jet-black strands, with an expertise gained from years of combing Melissa's hair. In one way or another, he tried to comfort him.
“I'm here, Leonard,” he whispered. “I'm here.”
In searching for his own principles of action to digest the Midnight Poet's potion, research into literature related to poets was inevitable. As such, his knowledge of the topics most praised by critics and most connected to the public was decent. That didn't mean he liked it, though. Why were the greatest hits always about misfortune in love, interrupted abruptly as if death itself were conspiring against it? Life could be cruel, of course, but that didn't mean art had to be limited to misfortune.
Besides, how could anyone be so foolish as to make their entire existence dependent on another? Betting everything on a horse without the certainty of winning is a recipe for disaster, and love was not much different.
Leonard Mitchell, before Klein Moretti, did not believe he could feel such absurdly devoted love for anyone other than himself. His heart, mind, and soul would never be willing to sacrifice themselves for a third party in that way. Leonard might be a Midnight Poet for the church and an apparent Casanova for Tingen society, but he was not a romantic.
He was wrong.
For the love of the Goddess, he was terribly wrong.
He becomes aware of his mistake when he begs him for help.
He becomes aware of his mistake when he marks him and thanks him.
He becomes aware and regrets his mistake when he sees his corpse upon waking, eyes open and cloudy, dry tears and blood dripping from his mouth. There is nothing in his chest.
Leonard Mitchell crawls through the ruins of what he once considered his home, the dust burning his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his captain, whose calm expression contrasts grotesquely with the same emptiness in his chest.
He doesn't want to ignore him, he really doesn't, but being so close to him, fragments of his scent suffocate him. The sweetness mixes with metal, penetrating his nostrils and settling in, never to leave him. Little by little, in a battle between the past and the present, Klein's blood is the only thing his senses can perceive.
Crimson stains him from head to toe, copper saturates his sense of smell, the silence around him interrupted only by his own ragged breathing.
The poet falls to his knees, catatonic. His hands do not reach out, do not touch him immediately. On the contrary, they hesitate and retreat because he knows that the moment he touches him, reality will set in.
When he finally reaches him, the obvious becomes undeniable.
The pain seeps out in the form of violent punches against the ground and animalistic growls that echo through the ruins. He hits again and again, wondering why. Why the loss, why the cruel fate, why the agony. What did they do to deserve this? What reward is there after an act of such magnitude? Was it even worth it?
Only when the knuckles of his hands are covered in blood does Leonard allow himself a break. No, that's not it. His body, inexplicably exhausted, stops him. In the process, he looks back at Klein.
His throat tightens.
He makes the selfish decision to reach for her hand before bringing it to his forehead. His voice breaks.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
But unlike that time, he gets no comfort. He doesn't have the blessing of feeling her fingers combing through his hair or allowing himself to adore her soft smiles. In front of the brittle green, there is nothing left but dead brown.
“Forgive me.”
Hurried footsteps enter the scene; reinforcements have arrived too late. The Beyonders observe the scene, but no one says anything.
In the end, the tally is simple: two fatalities. An ideal sacrifice considering that the target was the entire city. Practically, it was a cause for celebration.
However, the case records are wrong, because Leonard Mitchell, like Klein Moretti, no longer has a heart.
And yet, he doesn't know why he's still breathing.