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It starts, like most good things in Hunter’s life, with a profound sense of guilt, and like the catalyst of half of said good things in his life, with a stitch sewed with such uneven hands that not even Flapjack would be able to convince him that he did a good job.
He holds his breath, his hands frozen over the fabric as Darius examines his handiwork with a thoughtful hum. Technically he isn’t looking at him but Hunter stays as still as stone regardless, lest the twitch of one of his fingers give his nerves away.
If there’s one thing he has learned is that the last thing you ought to let go of is your false bravado. At the very least, that can buy you time to brace for whatever is coming.
When Darius turns his eyes from the stitches to him, Hunter still doesn’t move a finger, but he does sit upright on the bed, doing his best effort to take on the role of the dutiful soldier that has always been like his second skin, a task that’s not made any easier by how soft and springy the mattress has turned out to be. He has been tempted to lay down on it for the past half an hour, but he’s not sure he would be able to open his eyes again if he did. Flapjack certainly seems to have fallen deeply asleep right there.
It would be incredibly disrespectful if he did the same, however.
So he stays still, letting Darius make a couple of more rumanting sounds before he breaks the silence.
“I don’t think the stitches are gonna bite you, little prince.”
Hunter turns to look at him so fast that his head spins. Or perhaps that’s the lack of sleep.
“What?”
Darius clicks his tongue.
“You’re gonna pull a muscle if you sit any straighter than that,” He chastises him, tone surprisingly gentle for what Hunter would have assumed from him a couple of months ago. Nowadays it’s not nearly as unexpected. “You don’t need to stand on guard. It’s just me.”
Hunter resists the urge to scoff. Just him, he says. As if he weren’t one of the main Coven Heads, not to mention one of the most respected ones even amongst the most inveterate officials.
And the person Hunter owes Flapjack’s and his own safety to, having kept his secrets since that night at the beach. It’s hard to understand why he still offered him more help after promising to carry a weight that was never supposed to be his in the first place, and yet here he is, extending his kindness as if Hunter had done anything to deserve it.
Just him, right…
Despite the lack of apparent reaction, some of his thoughts must be filtering onto his face, because Darius presses his lips together in what Hunter assumes must be distaste before he sees them trembling slightly. Is he… laughing?
The rise of his eyebrows seems to be the other’s breaking point, because a chuckle escapes him.
“What I mean,” Darius says, amusement dripping into his words with enough casualness that Hunter sighs, his shoulders relaxing against his will, “is that we are not in official business, I know that I have told you that already. You ought to listen sometime.”
The words are scolding, but the expression on the man’s face is not. It’s strange. Every time Hunter thinks he’s about to figure out what’s going on through the older witch’s head, something else seems to sweep the floor from under his feet and give him more to ruminate about during his long hours patrolling.
The one thing he knows for sure is that Darius has to be the closest thing to a friend he’s ever had in here. Other than Flapjack, that is –he’s not sure what’s sadder; declaring a bird or his superior as the first friend he’s ever made. Perhaps the fact that those are his options is the saddest part of it, though he hardly feels unlucky for having somehow earned their company and patience.
“I am listening,” He grumbles, looking back down at the fabric over his lap. “You didn’t tell me what you think. I ruined it, didn’t it?”
“The lesson? Hardly, I’m just saying you don’t have to stress so much, you can just sit and-”
“The stitch,” Hunter interrupts impatiently, unable to imprint the same respect on his mouth that he has on the rest of his body. That has always been one of his biggest flaws. “It’s too loose, I’m going to have to start over.”
It’s not Darius’ fault, and it’s not his intention to make it sound like he’s blaming him, not when the man has been patiently showing how to sew every single new stitch they have practiced over the past couple of weeks, his hands even encompassing his in a gentle hold when he considers that a more hands on approach is necessary.
But his intentions are irrelevant, he knows well that he has to make himself responsible for his actions and failures, isn’t that what Belos always says? It doesn’t matter that he didn’t mean to fail a mission, he still has to stay at the castle and take on double the turns to make up for it; it doesn’t matter that he didn’t mean to bleed on his cloak, he still has to wake up early to wash the cloth until the fabric of it shines as much as the pride he’s supposed to bring his uncle; it doesn’t matter that he was trying to do the right thing by letting the human escape with all the palismen, he still damned his uncle to agony without relief.
A hand settles on his head, and Hunter holds his breath, bracing for the consequences of his unintended mistake.
It doesn’t come.
“Do you want to know a secret, Hunter?”
’Would you like to see how it works, Hunter?’
A beat of silence.
Reluctantly, he nods. It’s not a question, not really, is it? There’s no way in hell he can look at a Coven Head in the eye and deny him anything. Not when he owes him. Besides, it’s only fair that he should carry along some of Darius’ burdens along with his own, since he’s forcing the man into that position as well, right?
“You don’t have to start over,” Darius whispers, lowering his head as if he feared the walls would come to life and bring his senseless advice to ears that could find the way to misuse it. “You just have to figure out how to make it right from here.”
Hunter worries his lip between his teeth. How is that a secret?
“That… doesn’t make sense,” He takes a peek at Darius’ handiwork, his own stitches so clean and perfect that Hunter is sure he could be working with the most delicate fabric in the world and still manage to make the seams not pull one single thread in the wrong direction. It just makes him feel more disappointed. “It’ll just look uneven.”
The man shrugs.
“If it does, it’ll just mean you are refining the technique.”
“Yours are perfect though.” Which is definitely not something he should need to point out. Hunter is not the one trying to serve the role of a mentor here.
Even so, Darius doesn’t call him out, simply smiling as if Hunter wasn’t acting like the ungrateful brat everyone always accuses him of being.
“And do you think this is my first time doing this?” The man shakes his head. “You know, I used to make a lot of mistakes when I was younger. Even with my magic.”
Hunter has to suppress another scoff. It might not be public knowledge that his predecessor used to mentor Darius, but it doesn’t take any amount of digging to figure out how he ended up being one of the most respected Coven Heads at the castle at a relatively young age compared to Osran, or Terra. The little Abomination prodigy, picked from a hundred of hopeful aspirants to be tutored by no one else but the emperor’s right hand man.
You do not get that far by ‘making a lot of mistakes’. That too would be impolite to say, however.
“Your expressions are far too transparent,” He’s teasing, once again, but there’s a weird note of concern on his voice that’s hard to make sense of. It’s not like most people ever see him without his mask, aside from Belos himself and some higher rank officials, and he hardly lowers his guard for most of them. “I know you don’t believe me.”
He grabs Hunter’s project–gently, as if it mattered if he messes it up when nobody on their right mind would worry about such sloppy work–and his own, and sets them aside, close to his sleeping palisman, before grabbing a bowl of fruit that Hunter is embarrassed to admit he eyed when he first set foot into the room, wordlessly offering it to him.
“We should take a break, your hands are shaking.”
“I’m fine,” He mutters, but he grabs a wrathberry anyway, popping it in his mouth and trying not to think about the last time he even ate something. There was just no time if he wanted to be on time for their lesson.
Darius hums, grabbing a couple of grapes from the bowl and chewing on them with such a nonchalant air that somehow manages to show his incredulity.
He supposes neither of them are doing a very good job at convincing each other of anything today.
“When I was at Hexside, I punched Professor Hermonculus on the face,” Darius says casually, just as Hunter takes a bite of a crab apple. “Once,” He adds, as if that could diminish the effect of his words.
The choked up sound that Hunter makes isn’t for show; it takes him a couple of coughs under the other’s concerned eyes to keep his chewed up fruit from getting into his throat and effectively giving him the most pathetic death that the Emperor’s Coven has known in its 50 years of history.
“Hermonculus?! The tiny one that gets carried by his abomination everywhere? That Hermonculus?”
Darius’ lips curl into a pleased grin once again, easy to see even through the tears at the corners of his eyes.
“I see you’ve met him.”
“I- yes, he was in charge of approving or rejecting the Flyer Derby team, but, Darius, what?”
“Well, in that case you’re aware of how unpleasant he can be,” Darius shrugs, lazily chewing through another grape. “Although, in all fairness, it was an accident.”
“You… sound way too proud about it,” Hunter points out. It’s not an accusation. Or at least he tries not to make it sound like one.
The other lets out a short laugh.
“I can’t say I regret it,” He admits. “I never told him it was an accident either.”
Hunter looks at him, really looks at him. The underside of his eyes looks darker than it should, giving away the eyebags that the man seems to have covered up to some extent with make up, but the smile on his face is lazy, relaxed. There’s nothing to indicate that there’s anything wrong with him, not to an extent in which he could be gleefully talking about a school misdemeanor.
“You didn’t get in trouble?” He asks, incredulously.
“No,” Darius takes another grape to his mouth, slow and purposeful. It’s evident he’s enjoying making Hunter ask about his story; no wonder the rumor mill says he has a tendency to the dramatics, although this is the first time he ever sees him acting like this.
“ How? ”
What he wouldn’t give to not get in trouble every time he comes up short.
“I told him I was practicing.”
“Practicing what ? Aggravated assault?”
“Coven training, of course,” Darius’ eyes wrinkle, and even Hunter can figure out, with the faraway look on his eyes, that he’s not finding joy in the telling of the story alone, but in the memories it brings him. “He wasn’t exactly a fan of my approach to abominations, but he could hardly complain when I had a spot promised at the Coven. I think he was hoping I would mention that he had been my teacher and get him a better position.”
It’s obvious that that didn’t happen, if Hermonculus still terrorizing students at Hexside is anything to go by.
“But… why did you actually punch him?”
“Like I said, it was an accident,” Darius winces, but the lightness of his posture doesn’t fade away. “I had been experimenting the night before and… well, let’s just say turning your arm into abomination goo isn’t as easy as you would think.”
Hunter stares at him. He never actually thought what Darius did was easy, he earned his spot as the most powerful Abomination Witch on the Isles for a reason, after all. But he had no idea that he had been trying to perfect that technique since he was a teenager himself, he can barely imagine it.
“I couldn’t turn my arm back, so I just put a glove over it and called it a night. The formula I was using wasn’t as stable as the final one I came up with, so it reacted when it came into contact with Hermonculus’ abomination and what do you know? Abomination matter is still quite sturdy even when at its most pliable.”
Darius smiles at him, pulling Hunter out of his awe if only because of the slight shock it brings him.
It’s not like the older man hasn’t been talking to him this entire time, but he’s not used to feeling part of someone else’s remembered joy like this, rather than being a silent witness, too afraid to disturb the peace that he cannot bring.
“The excuse worked better than I hoped. I think I could have gotten away with punching him again if I wanted to.”
Hunter chuckles, the tip of his ears turning red at the oddly fond look Darius gives him for that.
“Did you want to?”
“Oh, very much so. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal more with him, little prince.”
Right. Lucky. Hunter swallows through the lump on his throat, surely formed from his earlier incident with the crab apple. Not at all by the irrational desire to walk through the bright hallways of a school, rather than in between the oppressive walls of the castle. This is where he belongs, what he’s meant to be.
So yes, of course he’s lucky.
Even if that means he has to stand more scrutinizing looks from Darius.
“I suppose.”
Darius clears his throat. “I did end up figuring out what not to do for next time. I worked on top of what I already had and…”
With his gloves already off, he doesn’t have to do anything for his demonstration, though Hunter knows well that the man has such control over his magic that whatever he might be wearing or doing is irrelevant; he will transform seamlessly every single time, as if it were as easy for him as breathing, as unconscious as the beats of his heart. Seeing the skin merge effortlessly into goo is a privilege, and despite the commonality of it, with Darius walking the halls of the castle every single day, Hunter isn’t any less mesmerized by the sight.
“Eventually I managed to perfect it.”
“That’s… incredible, Darius.”
“I know,” Darius grins. “But do you see what I mean now? You don’t have to do anything perfectly on the first try. I know most of the captains say you should, but as long as you have the means to try again, there’s no flaws that can’t help you achieve your goal.”
His gaze softens, his hand finding his way to Hunter’s head once again. It’s warm.
“Trust me when I tell you I know what I’m talking about, little prince. There’s no mistake bad enough that you can’t come back from it. You just have to keep moving forward.”
He waits until Hunter nods slowly, and after some more fruit and some more idle chatter, they go back to their respective projects, with Hunter taking on the stitches with a fresh perspective and a stomach full enough to allow him to put more of his focus into it.
It’s only later at night that he lets himself think about it, about the secret Darius entrusted him with, a piece of his past that has made him the person he is now.
Somehow, Hunter has the feeling that Darius wasn’t talking only about sewing.
Hunter’s skin tingles where the ill-fitting improvised clothes he found at the Lost and Found of Hexside stick to it, the impulse to scratch on those spots until they peel and bring him some kind of reprieve growing stronger by the minute, but he has enough self control to merely clench his hands into a fist and grit his teeth. The cold sweat over his body makes him want to shiver, and there’s a heaviness pulling from his back and neck that make it difficult for him to raise his head, perhaps from when Graye stepped on him, or when he was being dragged around unconscious.
All in all, he’s extremely uncomfortable.
But he’s had worse. And he’s not sure he even wants to look up anyway, the sight of usually pristine white boots stained by mud enough to make him wonder if perhaps he was too quick to dismiss the idea of judgment coming upon him when he got a message from Darius asking to meet.
Darius so hates getting dirty.
“Would you look at me, little prince?” The man asks, gentle, soft, even more than he heard him being back at the castle, and that already seemed like such an improbability that Hunter sometimes wondered if there was something he wasn’t seeing, some secret requirement he had to fulfill in order to receive such kindness.
Darius has assured him repeatedly for the last fifteen minutes that he had no ulterior motives. Despite being a rebel, despite how much of a burden Hunter surely was on him when he was already working with such limited time and resources, despite the advantage that sure would have been having the Emperor’s nephew on his side. Or the Emperor’s toy, more like, not that Hunter is planning to tell him about that any time soon, not when the green eyes he looks up to are filled with concern and tenderness that he has done nothing to deserve.
The last thing he wants is for that look to turn into one of scorn and disgust.
“I…” He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, but his mouth feels painfully dry. “I don’t know what to say.”
Darius’ eyes get impossibly softer. It’s the opposite reaction to what he usually gets to any signs of weakness or uncertainty.
“You don’t have to say anything,” He reassures him, stepping forward and slowly reaching out with a hand. Hunter doesn’t move away, so he settles it on his shoulder, gently, nothing like the ironclad touch of B- someone else ’s hand. “But I need you to trust me. Please, Hunter.”
Hunter . Witch Hunter.
“Not ‘little prince’?” He blurts out.
Darius’ hand tightens slightly on his shoulder. It would be imperceptible if Hunter wasn’t used to being alert whenever someone grabs him there.
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate the association,” He admits, sounding genuinely apologetic.
Because he only knows about who he’s supposed to be, not about what he is. Whatever it is that means for him. Hunter’s not sure that he wants to know the answer.
“That’s…” There’s a distinct croak in his voice now, and he sees Darius pat at the cloak covering his usually colorful garments until he finds a water pouch for him. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t mean only for the water, but clarifying would take more energy than he has in him at the moment.
The silence in the spare classroom they agreed to meet in is only broken by the sounds of the drinking. Hunter would be ashamed of how loud it sounds with nothing else to mute it, but if Darius hasn’t recoiled in disgust at the sight of him just yet, it’s unlikely something as mundane as that will put him off now.
The older witch–the only witch in this room–pockets the pouch as soon as Hunter gives it back, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of him, a calculative quality in his gaze that Hunter has come to associate with spontaneous, unexpected questions, rather than an actual condemnation.
“Can I tell you a secret, little gremlin?”
Despite himself, Hunter feels a smile forming on his lips.
“Gremlin?”
“Fitting, isn’t it?” Darius shrugs. If Hunter was less observant, he would think he’s as nonchalant as ever, but there’s an undercurrent of nerves in his tone that betrays him. “You already behave like one.”
Well, that’s better than what he has been hearing about himself for the past week, both outloud and in his mind.
Still. “What’s the secret?”
There’s no guilt anymore. There’s nobody he has to hide his secrets and others’ from this time, and while there’s still the sensation of a hole in his stomach whenever he thinks for more than five seconds about that, it’s bearable enough now that he has a familiar reprieve from it.
Darius smiles.
“I always feel way better after a shower,” He seems to take on Hunter’s current outfit once again, scrunching his nose ever so slightly –Hunter feels the tip of his ears getting red, and he almost opens his mouth to defend his choices… but even he can admit he’s not in his best moment. “And a change of clothes,” He adds. “How about it?”
Hunter lets himself slump over the nearest chair, no longer holding the tension of all the recent revelations over his shoulders. Darius seems to have a talent for that, for making the situation feel simpler than it is. And it helps that he’s not about to sell him out back to the Emperor’s Coven.
“I don’t… I didn’t really bring a change of clothes with me, you know?”
There’s a creak by his side, where Darius sits primly on the chair right beside Hunter’s. He looks out of place, the furniture not designed with grown adults in mind, and the absurdity of the sight makes Hunter bite his lip to avoid letting out a chuckle.
“I would be concerned if you had,” Darius scoffs, the bubbling of abomination matter calling for attention as he catches a bag that he just summoned from… somewhere. “These are your size. I doubt Bump will have objections to you using the showers in the gym.”
Hunter blinks, slowly.
“Have you had those all this time?”
Darius’ smile turns sheepish.
The only sound in the basement is the steady stitches from the sewing machine.
The burning smell coming from the sleeve of his shirt does ruin the calm ambience a little bit, but it’s not even half as nauseating as the time Kikimora’s spell reached his hair and burned off the tips. If he tries really hard, he can imagine that the smell comes from upstairs, where Gus is trying with all his might to follow Vee’s instructions and prepare a dinner that the Nocedas will never forget.
He has been improving, but Hunter wouldn’t blame him if he burned something again. Human ingredients are quite confusing to work with, after all.
But as much as the thought of trying another one of his friend’s culinary exploits makes him smile, grasping onto the fabric to keep it steady as the needle pierces through it doesn’t keep his fingers from shaking ever so slightly with frustration.
They were so close. Or at least they all wanted to believe that they were.
In reality, they are no closer to rebuilding a functional portal than Hunter is from recreating stitches as perfect as the ones the machine is doing in his stead. Not even Darius can. At least as far as he showed him, though Hunter can admit that it’s also perfectly possible that the man kept more secrets than he was ever aware of close to his chest –being far more proficient at sewing than he was willing to show for, perhaps, the sake of Hunter’s ego would hardly be the most dangerous one.
He kept a lot of secrets. They both did, he supposes, though not for lack of trust, more so the circumstances… at least he thinks that’s what did it. He can’t exactly ask Darius about that, can he?
Not when he might be wasting away on the spell platform even now. Or serving as a toy for a child of the stars.
The machine whirs into a stop as the fabric catches on the needle. Hunter curses under his breath, already starting the motions to de-entangle the mess he created.
It’s fine. His shirt smells like failure and his hands are holding one too, but he remembers Darius’ words, he remembers the secrets he trusted him with.
He made a mistake. Or a million. But so what? He can start over. It’s not like he can do anything else at this point, and the thought of giving up and just lying down on the floor waiting until Mrs. Noceda grows tired of taking care of them and they have to figure it all out on their own to take action feels disrespectful somehow.
To Darius. To himself, he supposes. To what he promised the man when he entrusted him with taking care of Luz. To his secrets that were poorly veiled advice for him. Advice that he treasured anyway because what is a secret anyway if not something that you don’t want others to know?
Darius didn’t have to tell him about his childhood or his mischief, he didn’t have to share about the little things he did to feel better after a day filled with tension and uneasiness.
He, most definitely, did not have to share his Penstagram handle with him, let him see a deceivingly cheerful side of him that Hunter didn’t even know existed until he first let one of the videos play, with the certainty that he was intruding despite the insane amount of likes and comments that Darius’ online presence seemed to gather.
It was as if he had the entire Isles mesmerized.
And Hunter couldn’t blame them, fascinated by the layers he kept finding of his mentor, his… friend. Because they were friends, weren’t they? Or something like that, at least, something that warranted the closeness that made Darius roll his eyes and softly confess that he recorded whenever he felt like he needed to distract himself, to find control somewhere after having failed at something he wanted to do.
It had sounded so made up, back when he had told him, flawless magic working from the top of his head to grab a basket filled with sugary treats to offer one to Hunter, the picture of perfection if there ever was one as he undoubtedly noticed how hungry Hunter had grown just watching a video about food. It had been embarrassing, but the openness between them had allowed Hunter to accept the offer with his dignity majorly intact.
In hindsight, he has a better idea of all the things that made Darius anxious.
But it’s just as he told him, isn’t it? What else could he do but keep going?
Hunter perks up an ear. There’s no screaming coming from upstairs, nor frantic steps down the stairs followed by a plea for him to grab the fire extinguisher, only the comfortable mumble of his friends’ voices, interrupted occasionally with Flapjack’s soft chirps. His palisman has really taken a liking to human food, and Hunter would hate to keep that from him.
With a deep breath, he takes a hold again of the thread, now fully untangled, and decides to try again.
“There’s a secret behind this, you know?”
By now, Hunter expects it.
Though that doesn’t mean he isn’t slightly irritated by Darius’ dramatics, wanting nothing else but to keep lying down right where he is and wait for the Titan to take him back to where he belongs.
Darius snorts, pushing the warm mug into his hands more insistently, the exasperation a stark contrast with the gentleness of his hand rubbing his back.
“I take it you don’t want to hear about it?”
“Why would I?” Hunter groans into his mug, smelling it with a suspicious frown. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course, but his eyes are inflamed enough for them to burn just with the effort of keeping them open, his nose is stuffy–although he can admit the steam coming from his drink is sure helping with that–and practically all of his energy is going into holding the offending item that has the nerve to smell surprisingly appetizing. “What’s in this?”
The man smiles as if Hunter had just given him a gift he had been craving since he had been a little witchlet.
“Well, that was the secret” His smile only grows when Hunter pouts. “But since you don’t want to hear about it…”
He looks at Hunter in anticipation, and only breaks character to nod encouragingly towards him when he brings the mug to his lips, taking a small sip. Despite Darius’ best intentions, Hunter isn’t sure he hasn’t just been handled something absolutely foul on the guise of a delicious beverage.
His pout grows bigger when not only it tastes amazing , but it makes his throat feel a little less sore. Darius lets out a laugh.
“How is it, sweetheart?” His voice quietens to that gentle tone he always takes with him these days. It makes his ears burn with… not embarrassment, no, but a certain kind of raw vulnerability that he shouldn’t feel when he’s not the one grabbing his heart from ITS comfortable haven in his chest and offering it on the palms of his hands. “Do you want me to add more fire honey?”
“There’s honey in this?” He takes another sip. He can taste it, if he makes an effort, but he’s not sure what it’s even accompanying.
Darius’ mischief makes a swift comeback.
“Is there? I believe that was classified information,” He says, straightening his back gracefully. At least for someone who’s sitting on the edge of a bed holding a sweaty hand.
Hunter rolls his eyes.
“Alright, I’ll bite. What secret is there in this?”
The corners of Darius’ eyes crinkle. “It’s made with love.”
He wants to be annoyed, he really does. But there’s enough sincerity in Darius’ voice for him to melt like the honey in his mug. He blinks rapidly and takes another sip to cover for the sudden pressure on his throat. “Okay.”
The following silence speaks loud enough for both of them. There’s a shared understanding that wasn’t there before, and after having spent three months living in the same house, Hunter thinks that it’s only fair, right?
Once he’s sure that his voice won’t break as soon as he opens his mouth and that he won’t break into tears and immediately get snot all over Darius’ fluffy sweater, he speaks again.
“Just love?”
Darius hums softly. “It always seemed that way to me. My moms used to make it for me, back when I was about your age.”
“You were ever my age?” Hunter is proud by how genuine his feigned surprise comes across.
“You’re not getting away with that just because you’re sick.”
He shrugs. “I like my chances,” He says, right as Darius puts a hand on his head and starts ruffling his hair, not even with enough strength to make him fear that he’ll drop his drink. Painfully considerate even now.
“I’ll teach you, when you feel better,” Darius says once the light scuffle stops and his own hand has stopped the ruffles to settle for gentle pets that make Hunter want to fall right back asleep.
“The ingredients?”
The other nods.
“The recipe, more like. You should know it.”
Hunter raises his eyebrows. “So I can repay the favor?”
“So you know what to do next time you feel sick and I’m not available to make it for you,” Darius makes a pause. “Although I don’t anticipate that ever happening.”
“Right, I forgot you were the Head of the Oracle Coven.”
That earns him another short ruffle.
“I could pull off that old, raggedy robe better than Osran anyway,” Darius retorts. “Besides, it’s a family recipe.”
“The robe is a family recipe?”
“I think you need sleep, little rebel, you’re mouthing off more than usual.”
“You encouraged me to do that,” Hunter accuses him, giving him back the empty mug with a nice warmth in his belly. He’s feeling a lot better than ten minutes ago, which certainly isn’t helping to acquiesce his energy to bicker about meaningless things. One of the perks of being someone’s kid, he has learned.
“Oh, I’m not complaining, it’s merely an observation,” Hunter doesn’t doubt it, not with the tenderness with which he helps him settle under the covers and push aside the strands of hair sticking to his forehead to place a soft kiss there. “But I meant the recipe, of course. You’re part of the family now, so you’re entitled to the Deamonnes’ generous list of homemade remedies.”
Darius is still speaking with that playfully dramatic tone of his, as if he had spent decades waiting for the curtains on the stage to pull back to make his brilliant entrance, instead of the cold hallways of a castle in which warmth was quickly smothered and stomped over. His sincerity, however, is impossible to doubt. He continues being as contradictory as ever, but Hunter has learned to read him well enough that just those words make the tears in his eyes threaten to drop and exacerbate his already swollen eyes.
Going by the look on his dad’s face, he understands just fine what Hunter is feeling.
So instead of saying that, Hunter gulps and closes his eyes, letting his head fall comfortably on the pillow while Darius continues petting his hair.
“Can I show Eber too, then?” He asks with the last of his grasp on consciousness.
He feels Darius’ snort as if it were his own.
“If you think you can get him to stop trying to put worms in it, sure.”
First there were books. Then there was a palisman. And a scroll. And a series of meetings he wouldn’t change for the world. All of them joyful. All of them making him feel like the worst person in the world.
Secrets aren’t meant to be happy.
Or they weren’t, anyway.
These days, Darius finds the way to make the silliest of things into secrets he can whisper to him with a mischievous smile and a kiss on his forehead. What’s for dinner tonight, what vase did he accidentally break when he was a child and lied to his moms about, what treat will he bring Hunter today for his study session.
It’s an elaborate game that started ever since the first time in which carrying a secret didn’t make Hunter shake with guilt and lower his eyes with the certainty that he was committing a sin against the Titan.
Now there’s an extra skip on his step as he approaches Darius from behind the couch and rests his chin on his shoulder. Not the most comfortable position in the world, but it’ll do.
“Do you want to know a secret, dad?”
He feels Darius smile against the skin of his cheek, as he delicately puts a bookmark in the middle of his book and closes it.
“Is there a cost to this secret of yours?”
Hunter hums, pretending to think long and hard about it. In truth, he already knows his answer, but it doesn’t make his heart pound with any less nerves.
“Only that you love me,” He finally says. He makes himself no illusions that his nonchalance fools Darius.
The utter sincerity of the man’s response is enough to confirm that.
“Always,” Darius raises one hand to caress Hunter’s cheek with, without changing his position on the couch, allowing Hunter his vulnerability without making him feel exposed for it. Ironically, it’s as if he knew all of his secrets sometimes, but there’s nobody he would trust more with them.
“That’ll do,” He says, taking a moment to steel himself. Darius allows it. “So, do you want to know it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Right. He clears his throat.
“I love you,” He blurts out. And before Darius can say anything, he adds: “That’s my secret.”
He half expects Darius to snort, to tell him he already knows, because of course, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re a family, they have been for a while now, and they always will be.
But he doesn’t. Because he’s always doing the opposite to what it might seem obvious, but somehow always what Hunter needs.
“I love you too, Hunter.”
Simple. Matter of factly even. Not a single note of irony or even fond exasperation. Just pure honesty.
Hunter buries his face on his shoulder, letting the kiss Darius sets on his hair wash over him as if he could physically feel a spell being casted all over him, one that promises that things will always be like this, that he will always feel this happy and safe, as if every secret carries with it a promise, rather than a threat.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
This time Hunter knows Darius is definitely not talking about this secret.
But he needs no words. Darius understands.