Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ibrahim's gaze was glued to the window, more specifically on the raindrops that pelted against the glass screen. His eyes flitted across different beads and drops of rain, a bored expression on his face as the teacher's voice drifted in and out of one ear. The air was musty, cold, the temperature still lingering from post-winter warmth.

Outside, the bare trees stood in their full glory, towering over the building that Ibrahim was currently in. Their branches looked like claws, as if teasing him that he wouldn't be able to escape from the nightmare he was in right now. The golden-brown haired male yawned, tearing his sight away from the window and focusing on the whiteboard, which he should have done so twenty minutes ago.

He lazily picked up his pen, twirling the stationary in his fingers as his eyes glazed over in slight exhaustion. The letters on the board blurred, their sharp edges shifting into round corners the more he stared. Sighing, Ibrahim rubbed at his eyes, a small wince hanging at his mouth when he rubbed too hard, dark spots obscuring his vision as he did so.

The temperature inside the classroom was warm — too warm. Even though it was technically still winter outside, the teachers had cranked the thermostat up full blast. Ibrahim frowned at the heat that crawled up his face, the irritation of wearing a long-sleeved sweater ringing the regret in his face.

Ibrahim shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of his seat. He was not in the mood to study today. Everything just seemed too bothersome. The pen he was twirling in his fingers slipped, the metallic shell clanging in contact with his table's hard surface. Ibrahim frowned.

He disliked winters. Everything was just too cold, too numb, too soft to be considered real. He much rather preferred autumn, where the weather was perfect — not too hot, not too cold. Glancing back up at the board, Ibrahim noticed with distaste that the teacher had already covered the entire thing with lecture notes.

He squinted, trying to get a good look at the tiny words, but nothing seemed to be in his favor today. The words fell right off his sight, and nothing could make sense. With a scowl on his face, Ibrahim leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. Screw this. This was why he disliked everything to do with winter and learning. Things just didn't make sense.

"—ahim? Ibrahim Bishop?" The teacher's shrill voice cut through the silence of the room like a knife. Ibrahim straightened up, shaking off his wandering thoughts and looking up at the question displayed on the board.

"Yes?" He said shortly, trying to get a good look at the rows of text shown onscreen. His eyes quickly skimmed over the contents, brow twitching when he took a good look. The letters were still floating around on the board, but thankfully the teacher decided to speak up at that moment.

"Consider the emotional and psychological consequences of detachment and hedonism as explored in modern art and music. Using the text shown, analyze how the pursuit of pleasure and the rejection of emotional vulnerability shape the protagonist’s identity. Display themes of isolation, addiction, and self-destruction, which are central to the narrative." The teacher droned, her long ruler smacking the table with a loud bang as she glared down at him.

Ibrahim flinched unconsciously, the sound of the ruler still ringing loud in his ears. His breath caught in his throat, and all of a second he was reminded of memories he'd rather forget, of a darkened and cold day just like this.

"Are you even listening?" The teacher demanded, smacking the table with her ruler once again. Ibrahim stiffened, a numb chill prickling against his neck as dread gripped his throat. He nodded in response to the teacher's question, fist clenched, pressed against his thigh. Ibrahmin took in a deep breath, the feeling that had washed over him disappearing.

"That's it — come to my office later." The teacher glared, muttering 'stupid little brat' under her breath. Ibrahim sat still, willing himself to calm down before he did or said something he'd regret. He counted from one to ten in his mind, breathing in and out a couple of times to ensure he was completely calm.

Ibrahmin gingerly picked up the forgotten pen, writing some completely unrelated notes onto his notebook. He had to write something, at least. But he couldn't focus. Not when everything seemed too loud, too close, too...vivid.

It was exactly like that day.

The loud ring of the bell jerked Ibrahim from his memories, and he blinked, dumbfounded, up at the clock. Blaring red numbers of 15:20 stared back at him. The time registered in his mind, and Ibrahim suddenly stood up, whipping his pen and notebook back into his bag, dashing out of the door and into the hallway of the school.

The corridor was filled to the brim with students, all talking, laughing, and looking carefree. The golden-brown haired male dashed by them, his bag hanging loosely on his shoulders as he ran by, heading towards the teacher's office with time ticking on his shoulders. He was hoping to make it home before the weekly religious ceremony started.

Ibrahim made a turn near a hallway beside the stairs, his destination the teacher's office, a dreary room   where the adults normally yelled at pitiful students for not completing their homework. He had been in there a few times before, and he could safely say that it had brought him many bad experiences and memories.

Ibrahmin came to a stop outside a door, his chest heaving with the pace he used to get there. Raising his hand tentatively, he knocked three times on the wooden door, adjusting the bag strap on his shoulders as he fidgeted. A faint 'come in' echoed faintly from behind, and Ibrahmin readied himself for the 'lecture' that he would receive. He opened the door, already dreading what he would see.

A cold room, with only a desk facing the door. A single lightbulb shone down from the ceiling, making the office appear dark and dangerous. The teacher, a grown woman in her late fourties, sat behind the desk, her hands clasped beneath her chin.

Ibrahim entered the room, closing the door behind him. He stood before the desk, gently rubbing a silver ring on his ring finger that had been with him since birth. The cold metal grounded him, easing his worries at what would happen — both in the office and later, back home.

"Do you know why I called you here?" The teacher asked finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence with a heavy sigh. Ibrahim shook his head, staring down at the floor. As far as he knew, he had just spaced out during the lesson. Nothing too major. He didn't get why the teacher was making such a big deal over pointless behavior.

"Ibrahim Bishop." The teacher rose to her feet, slamming her hands down onto the table. Her voice was soft, but it rang with the undertone of something more dangerous, something unpredictable and threatening. "I've noticed you not paying attention to the lectures I give during class." Her expression twisted to one of anger.

"Do you think childish behavior like this will result in your favor? Your entertainment?" The teacher raised her voice, glaring at Ibrahim with intense emotion and anger. The golden-brown haired male kept quiet, his fingers still fiddling with the silver ring.

He was used to the yelling. He was used to the insults, the shouting, the screams, the disappointment. But that didn't mean he was immune to it. Something tugged at his heart, and Ibrahim bit his lip to stop himself from showing an useless emotion on his face. He had to be strong. He had to bear it.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?!" The teacher was full-on yelling now, her voice echoing throughout the empty room. Ibrahim kept his head down, a small frown on his face. He didn't know why he had been like this lately. He just...couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. Everything seemed too much, like he had stacked too many things on top of one another and it would all come crashing down sooner or later.

The teacher, sensing Ibrahim's silence, acknowledged it as his refusal to respond. She grew even more enraged, her hands shoving everything off her desk, stray papers and pens flying everywhere. Her breath was ragged, posture heaving with anger, but neither one of them said anything.

"Get out of my office, you worthless piece of shit." The teacher snarled in a fit of anger, collapsing back onto her chair. Ibrahmin nodded softly, turning, opening the door and stepping outside of the cold, cold room. Immediately he was covered in the warm glow of the hallway, and he felt like he could finally breathe.

The golden-brown haired male leaned against the wall, eyes gazing over the lights hung on the ceiling. The glow was warm, comforting, its embrace melting off him in relief. Somewhere, deep in his mind, Ibrahim made a promise. He would stop slacking off and pay more attention. He couldn't afford to be a disappointment to anyone else.

Underneath his shirt, a small mark pulsed, glowing bright against Ibrahim's alarmingly cold skin, right above his heart. It burned, waves of light passing through the circle-shaped mark. The whisper of a harsh wince could be seen on Ibrahim's face, but the expression quickly got masked under years and years of indifference and forced resignation.

He had to endure it. He had to get used to it. He had to.

With a small sigh, Ibrahim brushed stray hair out of his eyes and straightened up, walking along the hallway to the front gate of the school. He passed many other students who were lost in their own world, doing the things they liked and enjoyed. For a moment his heart ached to be like them, to be carefree, but the thought was quickly shoved away.

He walked quicker, the longing left far away behind him. He couldn't be happy. Not now, not forever. He couldn't. He had far more important matters to attend to, like getting home before his parents got pissed off and annoyed.

Ibrahim passed the gate of the school, following the street down to where he could see the cluster of houses clumped together. The air was cold, and Ibrahim cursed himself for not wearing gloves. His fingertips were numb, and he disliked the feeling immensely.

Winter just couldn't go right. Nothing seemed to happen in his favor during this season. Snow stuck together along the side of the road, and Ibrahim bore his glare into the innocent ice, quickly deciding that everything was all its fault. The clump of snow seemed to mock him as he passed, as if laughing at him for his struggles and misery.

Ibrahim sighed, his hand moving to massage his temples as he felt a headache coming on. The golden brown haired male couldn't seem to think straight with the cold weather, and for the first time in a while he found himself wishing for warmth, something that could easily melt away the ice and sculpture.

A certain area above his heart throbbed, and Ibrahim gritted his teeth, moving faster to get home as soon as possible. His hand clenched at the part of clothing above his heart, as if that would change the pain that he was feeling inside. The agony of helplessness and fear seemed to spear into every part of his being, reminding himself of 'who' he was and what he belonged to.

Ibrahim rounded the street and his house came into view, the pain passing and relief entering his system. He quickly walked over to the front door, reaching into his pocket to fish out the keys. Without a moment's hesitation, Ibrahim opened the door and stepped inside. Before he could open his mouth, could say a 'I'm back', could put his bag down, Ibrahim was instantly bombarded with questions and anger.

"Where have you been?!" His mother demanded from where she stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. His father was just the same, standing behind her with a disapproving look on his face. Ibrahim shrugged off his bag and tossed it somewhere in a corner, turning to his parents.

"The teacher wanted me to stay behind." He answered honestly. He couldn't lie to his parents, otherwise they'd find out and punish him harshly. He figured out that it was better to tell the truth than to intentionally punish himself.

"I don't want your pathetic excuses." His mother said, her face etched into a frown. Behind her, his father nodded, both of their hot gazes like scorches pressed against his skin.

"I'm not lying." He responded, standing his ground. His parents were always like this — jumping straight to conclusions and not hearing him out for anything. He had to actually convince them the truth more times than he could count, their suspicion never decreasing. Ibrahim let out a sigh, turning to walk upstairs into his room.

"Where are you going?!" His father spoke up, the disappointment of his gaze stopping Ibrahim in his track. The golden-brown haired male glanced at the clock, pressing his mouth into a firm line when he saw that it was almost four.

"Changing. It's nearly time for the ceremony." Ibrahim's words were clipped, short, as if they were nothing but pointless nonsense meant for him to believe in. That sentence seemed to do the trick — his parents let him go without any other questioning.

Ibrahim picked up his bag from where it laid on the ground, slinging it across his back and trudging up the stairs to his room. He hated having to explain things to his parents. They were more like wardens than anything else. They criticized him for every little thing he did, every word he said, and for every action that would embarrass them and the family name.

Ibrahim rubbed his eyes, opening the door to his room without opening his eyes. He was exhausted. But he had to go to the ceremony, otherwise he'd never be allowed to leave the house for the rest of his life. The golden-brown haired male set his bag down on a chair, immediately turning around to shrug off his shirt and to change into ceremony 'uniforms' that consisted of just a plain white button-up and dark pants.

Ibrahim stared at himself in the mirror, a routine he often did after school. He would look at his appearance, remember how he looked, memorizing every small detail about himself. His gaze drifted from the small mole beside his right eye, down to a slender neck, and finally...to the mark, where it lay above his heart.

The mark was supposed to be something beautiful, they had told him before. But now, as he stared into the mirror, the burnt circle was anything but. The lines adorning the inner side of the circle stretched across the shape, forming an 'I', which was the first letter of his name.

He could still remember the ceremony where he had got the mark. Ibrahim had been small — barely six years old, and already mature enough to be 'branded'. His parents had been ecstatic, he remembered, pulling harshly on his arm until he knelt down in the middle of the room, his shirt rolled up until his neck.

He remembers that everyone had been watching. Remembers the bright glow of a flame, how it danced through the darkness of the room. Remembers himself watching in awe and curiousity as it was brought closer, handed on a stick to the Elder standing beside him.

Ibrahim remembers the soft smile the Elder had gave him, the way she caressed his head and told him that he would now serve his purpose and their god, reminding him that their god owned him and would always keep him safe.

Remembers the pain of having his skin burnt. Remembers the raw screams that tore from his throat as he struggled against the flare of fire etched above his heart, remembers the few minutes that felt like an eternity to the six year old Ibrahim. Remembers the crying, the tears, the ceased movements of giving up. Remembers the proud, but twisted look of the Elder and his parents.

Remembers thinking, 'why? why would they do this to me?'. Remembers the world turning black, remembers passing out from pain and suffering that everyone was supposed to go through. Remembers the burn that would ignite from the mark a few days after the ceremony. Remembers the fuzzy memories of time.

Ibrahim swallowed, pressing a hand against his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were hooded and dark, the pain of the incident still fresh in his mind. He had grown used to the pain the mark brought him, of course, but he hated it. Hated the fact that he was chained to his parent's life the moment he got the mark, hated the fact that he would never be free.

The golden-brown haired male buttoned up the white shirt that had been draped over his mirror, smoothing up the creases from the previous ceremony and looking at himself in the mirror once again.

He saw someone who looked back, someone who wasn't him.

Huh?

Ibrahim shook his head, peering into the mirror to confirm. A person looked back, their face blurred, but Ibrahim could clearly see the rest of their body. He took a step back, blinking at the sudden change.

"I’ll help you remember the parts they tried to burn out.” The voice that floated from the mirror was unfamiliar, unclear, as if it were just a ripple under the pond, a sentence burnt from memory. Ibrahim was confused, his hand reaching out to touch the mirror, all the while wondering what those words meant.

Just as his hand was about to touch the mirror, a loud voice shouted from below.

"Ibrahim! When are you going to be done?! We're leaving now!" His father's voice yelled from downstairs. Like he had been burned, Ibrahim jerked back, flinging his bedroom door open and sprinting down the stairs, the scene — and words — from earlier forgotten momentarily.

Ibrahim rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over the last step and colliding with his mother, who just sent him an disappointed look. She turned on her heels and left through the front door, Ibrahim scrambling to follow behind her.

The walk to the church wasn't far — barely five minutes, yet Ibrahim couldn't stop himself from shivering. He only wore the white shirt, a thin material that provided no warmth. The golden-brown haired male began to rub at his arms, yet a look from his father stopped him, as if to remind him to not embarrass their family.

"Hey, Bishop!" A voice nearby called, and the family of three turned to look at the person who had called their last name. Ibrahmin recognized her as an old member of the church, someone who had joined at the very start. Beside him, his mother raised her hand with a polite smile, a small greeting to her...fellow devotee.

Ibrahim followed his parents into the church, the coldness of the air inside the building making him shiver and frown. His shirt clung to his skin, thin and unyielding against the harsh winter wind. The golden-brown haired male quickly sat down in a seat at the front of the church, his parents making small conversations to the people around them.

For a second, Ibrahim wondered what would happen if he ditched and left, but the burn up of his mark quickly pushed the thought away from his mind. He winced, hand automatically moving to press avainst the skin.

Ibrahim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, bowing his head when his eyes caught sight of the giant statue at the front of the church, a statue of the god they supposedly worshipped. The pain of the mark lessened when he did so, and Ibrahim made sure to remember to keep his head down for the rest of the session.

The bright glow of candles in the room dimmed, and everyone faced forward, giving their full attention to the Elder at the front of the room. She was smiling, something she did rarely, and a flicker of unease coiled up in Ibrahim's gut. Something was going to happen. He knew it.

"My fellow devotees." The Elder began her talk, her voice slow and steady. "We gather here, today, to witness the new growth of our god." Her eyes passed each and every face, finally coming to rest when she caught sight of Ibrahim. "Our children have learnt to grow. Their hardships, both large and small, are the sacrifices that we have created for our savior. And here, today, we will show our god that his blessing is not in vain."

Ibrahmin felt his eyes widen as realization began to dawn in his eyes. His hands shook, and he was sure that the disbelief was present on his face.

They were going to 'brand' the children today.

He stopped breathing. Time seemed to slow down. He was only aware of his pounding heartbeat that seemed to burst in his ears, as well as the distorted voice of the Elder. He tried to calm himself down, but it was no use. The fear and agony once again surfaced onto his mind, and he couldn't stop himself from trembling.

"You disgrace His name every time you flinch. Sit up." His mother's voice hissed quietly, her eyes never leaving the Elder. Ibrahim shrank down in himself, exhaling shakily, sitting up even though the fear was still very much present in his bones. He couldn't stop his fingers from touching the ring anxiously, the twinge of coldness in the ever present winter almost welcoming.

Ibrahim watched, the uneasiness unsure, the doubt taking over his mind as one child who looked about seven or eight walked up to the front, the child's parent holding the small hand in reassurance. Ibrahmin felt like he was going to be sick.

How could the Elder bare to crush the young, innocent souls by giving them a 'brand' that would chain them to shackles for eternity? He couldn't bring himself to look at the childish curiosity any longer. In the child, Ibrahim saw himself. He saw himself, eleven years ago, standing at the same spot, watching the Elder with the same look the child was sprouting right now.

Ibrahim found it hard to swallow. His heartbeat was still pounding in his chest, and sweat was starting to gather on his nape. The burnt smell of lit fire surrounded him, the scent like something he couldn't escape. But he couldn't tear his eyes away.

When the 'branding' part started, Ibrahim was frozen, an unfamiliar feeling present on his mind, his breath coming out in silent wheezes. The mark above his heart was beginning to throb again, but Ibrahim, who only looked at the child, was in horror.

'This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right!' The thought appeared instantly in his head, and the mark seemed to burn brighter than before. The fire touched the child's chest, and he screamed in pain and shock. Ibrahim squeezed his eyes shut, the sound resonating deep inside his mind, over and over again.

The pain of his own mark made Ibrahim gasp quietly, body jerking, leg accidentally banging against wood splinters in the process. Beside him, his father shot him a dirty look, paying no attention to the thin trail of blood seen on Ibrahim's leg.

"Maintain the family image. Don't embarrass yourself any longer." His father said sharply, turning away once he said so. Ibrahim nodded reluctantly, the phantom pain underneath his shirt making it hard to think. He had missed the majority of the 'branding' ceremony, and while he was slightly thankful, unfamiliar feelings still lingering in his mind.

After another speech from the Elder, Ibrahim's parents stood up, and the golden-brown haired male could do nothing but follow them. As they stood up, his mother rested a hand on his shoulder — a silent means for them to talk later. Ibrahim sighed, knowing that the dreaded words of his parents still needed to be said.

Ibrahim trailed behind them, his pace slow as he kept his head down. He paid no attention to the harsh climate, or his shivering frame. His eyes were fixated on his mother's steps, which seemed to move faster with every second passing.

Their house came into view, and Ibrahim had never wanted to stay outside more than he did right now. And in the freezing cold, no less! It wasn't as if he was scared of his parent's scolding, more like he was scared of the disappointment and anger that followed their harsh words.

He silently entered the front door, closing it shut with a soft click. His mother was standing by the doorway in the kitchen, and she was examining her nails, frowning down at her fingertips. She looked up once Ibrahim entered, her frown immediately intensifying as she stepped closer.

"Ibrahim." Her voice was hard and clipped, cold and sculpted like ice. The golden-haired male flinched slightly, fingers uncontrollably moving to rub at his ring. Ibrahim had a slight inkling of what would happen, but he wasn't completely sure. After all, his parents were one of the most unpredictable people ever.

Ibrahim opened his mouth to say something, anything, but suddenly a figure lunged forward and slapped his cheek. He felt his head whip to the side, continuous ringing taking place inside his mind. The sound of the slap remained in the air, echoing through the room.

With disbelief taking over his face, Ibrahim raised a hand to touch his burning cheek, not understanding just why his mother did that. She was standing right in front of him, her breathing hard and shaking. Thinly veiled anger was present in her fury-filled eyes.

"Answer when we speak to you." His father's voice floated from behind his mother, the man standing behind them with a fierce expression on his face. Ibrahmin stood, frozen, unconsciously frowning as his fingers ghosted over the slap.

"...yes." Ibrahim forced out, his hand falling back to his side. His ears were still ringing, but he knew he couldn't go against his parents' orders. They would make life more a living hell for him if he did so.

"Good, now listen to me." His father continued, walking over to stand side-by-side next to his mother. "Every single devotee gets a 'brand'. Everyone's mark hurts. You need to learn how to control yourself, Ibrahim. You are not special. Do not brazenly show weakness like that next time."

Ibrahim bowed his head, burning his gaze into the carpet. He hated how his father's words made him feel. Like he was just a...a weakling who had no knowledge of their own life. He hated the fact that those words were scarily, true.

It was no hidden knowledge that every devotee had to be 'branded' at the ages of eight to ten. Ibrahim had been a special case — one that had resulted in early 'specialty'. And like him, all marks hurt. But no one had necessarily told him why.

The golden-brown haired male had always thought that the mark flared up whenever he thought or did something that went against the church's regulations and teachings. He thought his mom was overreacting? Mark burns. He hated those church sessions? Mark burns even more. He wanted to do something reckless and stupid that might put the entire church in shambles? Mark burns so hot that it could rival even real fire.

"Sigh...just go to your room. You obviously aren't listening to your father right now." His mother sighed, making a shooing motion with her hand. Ibrahim blinked, zoning back in when his mother muttered those words. He nodded robotically, legs immediately carrying him over to the staircase.

As he walked up the stairs, faint traces of his parent's voice still carried their way over to his ear. As if they thought he wouldn't notice.

"...such a disappointment.." His mother was saying, her voice muffled by the creaking of stairs underneath his feet. Ibrahim's heart twinged, a feeling not unfamiliar to the golden-brown haired male. His heart often hurt when they said things like this, but he had already grown used to their remarks.

He just had to remind himself to not react or do anything that could make them hurt him even more.

Ibrahim entered his room, tugging his ceremony top off, discarding it somewhere on the floor. He grabbed a more casual shirt from his bed, quickly pulling it on before letting his form fall forwards, onto the bed.

The soft mattress sank under his skin, and Ibrahim sighed, letting himself relax into the sheets. It had been an awful and eventful day today, but it was over. And he could finally afford to relax.

The golden-brown haired male curled up, burying his face into his blanket as a nerve-wracking chill made its way known across his body. Ibrahim shivered, draping the heavy blanket over himself as he exhaled, the chill settling down in his bones.

His teeth chattered, curling up more in himself, trying his best to gather heat from both himself and the blanket. His room was by no means cold, but the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees the longer he stayed in.

The golden-brown haired male allowed himself to drift off into a dreamless sleep, the mark pulsing, steadying, on the skin directly above the most precious organ in a human body — the heart. Ibrahim had a hand pressed to the area as he slept, a means of warding the pain and agony off as he slept. It didn't always work, of course, but it did enough.

The mark had burned way too many times, leading Ibrahim to believe that his heart would never beat the same way again, unmoveable and chained. But little did he know, his frozen heart would later thaw out and beat like never before, a moment that would drag his happiness forever.

Chapter Text

Ibrahim slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times to wake himself up completely. He sat up slowly, inhaling a deep breath — which he immediately regretted, grimacing as soon as the harsh morning air slid down his throat. Some time during the night, his blanket had completely fallen off the bed and was now lying in a heap on the ground. And for Ibrahim? He was practically freezing.

His legs and arms had gone numb, joints refusing to move when he tried to stand up. The ice stayed, lingering on his skin, jolts of frozen blood thrumming through his body. The golden-brown haired male literally had to drag himself off his safe sanctuary, stretching and trying to ignore the numbness all over his body.

Ibrahim's eyes fell on his bag of unfinished schoolwork and froze — not because of the dreaded weather. Panic overtook the blank expression on his face.

"Shit." Ibrahim quietly cursed, dropping to his knees. He reached into the bag and pulled out a couple of papers — worksheets, if he remembered correctly. He had heaps of unfinished homework and projects just lying in his bag. And they were all due either today or tomorrow.

Ibrahim glanced up at the clock and cussed again when he realized that he only had twenty minutes left before he had to leave for school. Which meant... he had overslept. And Ibrahim never did that.

Swearing under his breath, the golden-brown haired male stuffed the papers back into his bag and stood up, pulling on a stray hoodie and leaving the room, bag in hand. He sprinted down the stairs, all the while smothering his hair down at an attempt to make himself look presentable and not like he just woke up.

His mother was sitting at the dining table, tapping away at her phone, sharp nails creating a scratching sound on the screen. Ibrahim winced at the sound, the motion putting him in a further horrible mood. The golden-brown haired male shook his head, ignoring his pounding headache. It could wait until later.

"I'm going to school early." He said quietly, not staying to check whether his parents heard him. He walked out the door, closing it softly before turning and letting out a deep sigh. He was already in a bad mood, and nothing seemed to work for him today.

Ibrahim started the walk to school slowly, deciding to say 'fuck it' instead of getting there early and finishing his homework. He didn't particularly care about his classes, but he didn't want to further disappoint his parents. Their mocking stares and disapproval just made him want to curl up and disappear. Ibrahim had promised himself that he would be better, but it was honestly just too hard to break his habits.

Ibrahim touched his neck, checking if his headphones were there. He remembered he had slung it across his neck barely five minutes ago, but truth be told, his memory was just that bad. When his fingers brushed across cool metal, the golden-brown haired male visibly relaxed, his mood improving just a bit.

At least he had his headphones. Ibrahim didn't know what he would do if he had forgotten them at home. Maybe give every person he sees a death stare. Ibrahim lifted his headphones from where it lay across his neck, adjusting it so the ear cups covered his ears. Almost at once, slow and soft music started to play — the bluetooth from his earphones and phone yesterday still not disconnected.

When Ibrahim reached the front gate of the school, he made no move to take his headphones off. Wearing them made everything quieter, softer, like he was the only one who existed. And it was also a means to not talk to anyone. It wasn't as if Ibrahim disliked the students, he just didn't feel like talking to anybody.

Ibrahim reached his classroom, entering the room silently, hoping that nobody noticed him. His classmates were all chattering loudly, their loud conversation filling the room. The golden-brown haired male slid into his seat, zipping his bag open and taking out his homework — which was still undone and blank.

Ibrahim rummaged around in his bag for a pen, brows furrowed in concentration and frustration as he looked down at the worksheet, which was something to do with math. The golden-brown haired male uncapped his pen and started writing, the annoyed expression still quite there.

Ibrahim's cold and stotic demeanor made even his classmates, who had been in classes with him for years, hesitate to approach. The people seated in the classroom all looked at each other, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of talking to the said mysterious person, Ibrahim.

Ibrahim was too immersed in his work that he didn't notice when the hush fell across the room, nor did he see the shadow that covered the light from the ceiling and his sitting form. Ibrahim was in the middle of writing an equation, wanting to get it over with when someone removed his headphones.

The golden-brown haired male looked up, irritated at the person who did so, only to stop when he realized that it was the teacher. The same teacher who yelled at him yesterday. Ibrahim adverted his eyes when he caught sight of the fire brewing in the teacher's eyes, cursing his bad luck in his head.

"What's this? Bishop didn't do his homework?" The teacher was mocking, letting go of Ibrahim's headphones, her hands now placed on her hips as she bent down and glared at him, smugness wedged in her eyes. Ibrahim let out an annoyed exhale, gripping his pen with enough force that his knuckles turned white.

"What would our dear headmaster think if he were to know about this?" The teacher was full on grinning now, a disgusting smirk on her face. "What's it, Bishop? Do you want me to —"

A loud bang from the door made the teacher stop talking. All of the people in the room looked over to the individual who had slammed the door onto the wall, the teacher's expression that of anger before it quickly melted to fake cheerfulness once she saw who the newcomer was.

The newcomer, a male who looked like the most obnoxious person on earth was smirking like he had seen something funny, an bored expression on his face. He was wearing his clothes like it was a suggestion, not a rule, sleeves rolled up and top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. He strolled in as if this wasn’t his first day, like the room already belonged to him, like everything was just a funny joke that ultimately resulted in him delivering the punchline.

"I see our new student has finally arrived." The teacher said in mock surprise as she rushed up to the dark haired male who had entered the room, the interruption making Ibrahim relax in his seat. He looked back down at his homework, deciding it would be best if he completed it before the teacher could say anything else.

"Yep." The new student said, popping the 'p' loudly. "Got a little lost on the way to hell." Immediately, the class was bombarded with loud laughter, many of Ibrahim's classmates giggling at the student's response. Ibrahim, on the other hand? He frowned.

He instantly disliked the 'new student'. The golden-brown haired male hated people who were loud and always demanded attention, the kind of loud mouths that didn't know when to shut up. Ibrahim shot the ceiling an look as if he were asking someone above, 'why me.'

The new student was scanning the room with disinterested eyes, sharp pupils drifting across every individual until they came to rest on Ibrahim. Or more specifically, Ibrahim's mess of a desk and the stray papers that littered the small space.

“Guess someone didn’t study. Or sleep. Rough morning, emo boy?” The student taunted, sticking his hands into his pockets as he said so, tilting his head to appear playful, slightly snickering at his own words. The class fell into even more laughter, albeit hushed, their eyes flickering to Ibrahim every once and then as if afraid of what he would do or say to them.

Ibrahim ignored the words of the new student, choosing to continuing scribbling down at his papers instead. The scratch of his pen was loud over the now-silent room, as if the whole class was waiting with bated breath for his reaction.

Sensing the mood of the room, Ibrahim put down his pen and stared back at the male who was still standing at the front of the room. He slowly looked the student up and down with an unimpressed expression, raised one eyebrow, as if to ask 'did you really think that was clever?', then returning to what he was doing as if nothing had happened.

“Okay, rude. But like...whatever turns you on, brooding prince.” The student laughed, looking back to the teacher with a shrug. Ibrahim didn't as much blink, finding the papers in front of him far more interesting than the dark haired...clown at the front of the room.

The teacher looked visibly displeased, yet she didn't say anything. She was definitely maintaining her reputation in front of her newest student. An evil idea suddenly struck her, and she turned in Ibrahim's direction and shot him a sweet smile.

"Now that we're all done here," The teacher motioned with her hands to emphasize 'done', still smiling with that weirdly strange look. "How about you go sit next to Bishop over there?" The teacher was clearly enjoying the moment and Ibrahim's internal struggling, crossing her arms and nodding in approval at her own 'genius' idea.

“Great. Can’t wait to spend the rest of my school year being judged in silence while Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Silent ignores my every word.” The student smiled, rolling his eyes as he made his way to the empty desk next to Ibrahim's own. The student dropped down at the chair with unnecessary force, letting out an 'oompf' that Ibrahim knew was definitely not needed.

Ibrahim kept his eyes straight ahead, not acknowledging the person — nuisance beside him. He trained his eyes strictly on the board, not even once glancing over, pen gliding over the textbook that he had taken out a few moments ago.

"Yo. What's your name?" The student whispers way too loudly, feet clanging against the desk like it were a damn toy. Ibrahim clenched his jaw, ignoring the student's words, something that went unnoticed by said student. The student let out a bright grin, tilting his head to stare at Ibrahim's profile.

"...I'm Ophira. Ophira Holloran." The student — Ophira said, still gazing at Ibrahim with that goddamn smirk, holding his hand out for a handshake or something of the sort. Ibrahim looked over, mildly irritated, glancing down at the outstretched hand like it's a curse.

"Unfortunate." Ibrahim says quietly in the flattest tone he can muster, turning back to his textbook, annoyed at just the small interaction. He cursed himself for responding to the other, eyes narrowed, a silent 'I should've kept my mouth closed' pressed firmly on his mind.

Ibrahim missed the way Ophira's smirk faltered just the tiniest bit, half a second, before the dark haired male bounded back into his previous bright energy.

"Unfortunate?" Ophira echoed back, as if the word was in another language. "Right. Cool. Wow." He rolled his eyes with excessive force, an expression of mock betrayal present in his eyes. The dark haired male slouched forward onto the desk, still glancing at Ibrahim who was actually paying attention to the board.

"Okay, you've got jokes, pretty boy. But what —" Ophira started, but he was cut off by Ibrahim slamming his pen down on the table. Instantly, Ophira got quiet, calculating, watching with silent observation.

"Don't call me that." Ibrahim gritted out, his head throbbing once again. The golden-brown haired male hated the 'label', hated the way the other church devotees his age always seemed to call him that. He hated the way it made him sound, hated the way it made him feel dirty, like a kind of stain he couldn't wash off.

"...Hey." Ophira said, visibly quieter this time. Ibrahim didn't look over, instead picking up his pen, opting to ignore the new student for the rest of class. If only it were that easy...

"You know, most people introduce themselves back. It's called being polite. Something you clearly don't do often." Ophira continued on, choosing to discard whatever he wanted to say a few seconds ago. Ibrahim sighed, the motion loud, and he glared at himself for doing so. He wanted nothing to do with the infuriating new student, but his mind and body seemed to think so otherwise.

Ophira noticed Ibrahim's inner dilemma, the look of disgust on his face as well as the clear avoidance. He let out a small chuckle, resting his head on his palm as he stared at his deskmate.

"I can't tell if you hate me because I talk too much or because I'm too hot. Or both. It's probably both." The dark haired male allowed a smug grin to resurface on his face, looking discreetly at Ibrahim's face to gauge his reaction.

But when the golden-brown haired male did nothing but write notes down in his textbook, Ophira finally let his frown appear. Who even was this silent guy who looked like he would rather jump in a pit full of fire than speak to him? The guy was practically emotionless, for heaven's sake! And Ophira still didn't know his name. Not like he wanted to know, anyways. Nope. Not interested at all.

Seeing as the emotionless person next to him wouldn't respond, Ophira turned to the female sitting in front of him, poking her shoulder with his finger. The girl immediately turned around, staring at him with a scandalous face that read 'who are you and what the hell do you want.'

"Relax. I just want to know his name." Ophira jerked his thumb at the golden-brown haired male still sitting silently next to him, writing down words like his life depended on it.

"Oh, that's Ibrahim. Ibrahim Bishop, if you want his full name." The girl responded, turning back around once Ophira's question was answered.

Ibrahim Bishop... so that was Mr. Emotionless's name. Ophira couldn't help but think it was strangely fitting for someone so interes — strange. Yes, strange was the word. Not whatever he thought a few seconds ago.

Ophira poked the girl in the shoulder again, and when she faced him, he stared to speak. "Why does he have this deadpan face," Ophira made an imitation of Ibrahim's cold expression. "And is he always like that?"

"I have been in the same class with him for about six years, and yes, that's what he looks like everyday. As for why...I don't know. Maybe you should ask him." The girl shrugged, quickly turning back once again, leaving Ophira to ponder on his own.

Ophira wonders if Ibrahim has ever smiled before, the genuine kind of smile a person only did when they were insanely happy. Surely Ibrahim did, when he was younger, or maybe when he was content or with the people he could trust. After all, everyone has worn that smile before in their lives.

Little did he know...

While Ophira was occupied, the golden-brown haired male silently reached into his bag and pulled out a black journal, brushing his hand gently across the cover like it were something precious, something sacred. On the cover of the journal, the words 'memories' were stitched on, golden embroidery small and neat.

Ibrahim flipped the journal open, worn pages scattered with his handwriting, both from the past and present. Countless of pictures were glued on, each with a small sentence and note underneath. The journal looked old, ancient even, yet Ibrahim held onto it with care and fragility.

Ibrahim flipped to the latest page, a picture of a warm candle glowing bright pasted in the center. Underneath the picture were the words: You like candles and warm light. Don't forget.

Ibrahim brushed his fingers over the words, a pained expression hidden beneath his eyes. He had no recollection of liking warm light or candles. The uncertainty washed over him, and he found himself swallowing deeply, a lump in his throat preventing him from doing so. The golden-brown haired male racked his brain for memories of light, memories of warmth, but nothing came up.

A flicker of something sad, something melancholic passed through Ibrahim's eyes, and he bent his head over the journal, his expression hidden. The mark pulsed beneath his clothes, and Ibrahim's hand drifted to rest on his chest, squeezing the area that burned with quick urgency. A whisper of a wince passed through the golden-haired male's lips, but the pain continued on, his vision blurry, as though the 'brand' were punishing him for something he couldn't remember.

The agony stretched through his body, the inescapable sensation clawing Ibrahim from the inside out. The mark throbbed like a second heartbeat under his skin, ugly and alive, each pulse a quiet scream he never let slip through his teeth. The classroom was too bright, the laughter and sounds of his classmates far too vibrant, too joyful, too happy. The overhead lights buzzed like they were laughing, the sound ringing deep into Ibrahim's soul. His pen felt heavy, the sharp edges digging into palm. His skin felt wrong, like he were someone else stuck in the body of a stranger. Like the world kept twisting and turning without asking him first.

His tightly clenched hand was pressed against his thigh, nails digging crescents into his palms under the desk. He didn’t move. He couldn't. They couldn’t know. If they knew, they’d look. If they looked, they’d see it. And if they saw it… he wasn’t sure he’d survive that. Ibrahim squeezed his eyes shut, taking in shaky breaths at an act to calm himself down.

Suddenly someone bumped his desk from the front, a rowdy classmate who was loud but meant well. A whispered apology passed through the classmate's mouth, silent and genuine, but in Ibrahim's ears, it was all pointless buzzing. The golden-brown haired male weakly nodded in return to the apology, his manner quieter and far more composed than normal. He wasn't sure if the classmate could know that he was acting calmer than normal, and he didn't want to know either.

And just when Ibrahim thought the pain was over, the mark flared again, the heat spreading like shame down his spine, the burns hot and burning against his skin, but still he sat there, pen steady, pretending everything was fine. It would be. He just had to pretend, mask everything up — everything would be okay.

No one looked over. No one glanced back. No one saw his struggles, his pain, his longing, his hurt. His classmates were all chatting away, lost in their own little world. And Ibrahim... he preferred it that way. Because if someone did see, did understand, did feel... he might start crying. And Ibrahim wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

Ibrahim forces his cold and trembling hand to take notes, each letter shakier than the last, the mess something he'd berate himself over later. The pain pulses with every heartbeat thudding in his chest, and every second felt like glass underneath his ribs. But Ibrahim didn't flinch. He never does. Flinching would mean weakness. And Ibrahim doesn’t have the luxury of being weak.

Ibrahim sits straighter in his chair, trying to shake off the pain lingering in his bones. On the outside, he looked too still, too composed. His arms were pressed against the desk, and Ibrahim willed himself to just stop shaking, posture just a little too rigid to be considered normal. He doesn’t look at anyone. His eyes focused ahead — dead center on the blackboard like it owes him an apology. Maybe it did. His face held that perfect mask of disinterest, a sharp contrast to what he felt inside.

Maybe that was what he looked like to others. Cold, sharp, and disinterested in everything. Because he was just too forced to stuff everything inside, he disregarded the fact that he didn't show a single hint of pain and emotion outside. And now, he looked like how he always did — a person with no emotion present on his face.

“Hey, teach, this class is so dry even the corpse in the back row looks more alive.” Ophira's snickering voice cut through the silence like a knife, the classmates sitting around the dark haired male instantly laughing as well. Curious glances were directed Ibrahim's way, and the golden-brown haired male wasn't sure if he was grateful or annoyed. At least Ophira's words proved as a distraction from the situation at hand.

The teacher aimed an annoyed look in Ibrahim's direction, as if insulted over the fact that he was, supposedly, more 'alive' than her dry course. She let out a sigh, adjusting her bright red glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

"Why is it always you?" The teacher asked Ibrahim, already irritated over the fact that Ophira had disrupted her class. Ibrahim blinked, staring confused at the angry teacher before slowly moving his gaze over to Ophira. The dark haired male grinned when they held eye contact, the smile just a tad bit mocking.

“Does that dead-eyed stare come with instructions or is it just pre-installed in your body?” Ophira taunted, smirking when Ibrahim sent him the flattest look he could muster, the golden-brown haired male's eyes hardening into direct displeasure.

"Do you never shut up?" The words left Ibrahim's mouth before he could even think. The genuine annoyance lacing his words left the entire class stunned. Because, Ibrahim? The silent, cold, emotionless Ibrahim actually speaking with emotion?! Even Ophira, who had only been in the class for thirty minutes, was taken aback.

“Aww… did I finally crack Mr. Emotionless?” Ophira's mouth curls up, pleased at the thought. He made a 'ding' sound, tapping his temple with a finger. “Achievement unlocked: make the Frozen Prince snarl.”

Ibrahim let out an angry exhale, clamping his mouth shut. Why did he do that?! The once time Ibrahim thought that he could control himself, his mouth just had to go ahead and ruin everything. He leveled his glare towards Ophira, pressing his lips into a firm line when the dark haired male just smiled.

Damn Ophira Holloran.

Ibrahim leaned back in his chair, pointedly telling himself to NOT look over at Ophira anymore for the rest of his life. But that was likely impossible, because of the seating chart.

Damn the seating chart.

A few students glance between the two like they’re watching a live-action reality show bloom in real-time. They whisper between themselves, eyes darting between the silent fuming Ibrahim and the clearly pleased Ophira.

One student whispers, “Dude... are they gonna kill each other? Because Ibrahim looks like he might." The other classmates respond furiously, a mixture of 'totally' and 'yeah' blending in. Meanwhile, Ophira's eyes were still fixed on Ibrahim's silent form, his smile widening the longer he looked. His eyes were gleaming, as if daring Ibrahim to snap again. The golden-brown haired male ignored him.

"This is a fucked up disaster." The teacher muttered, rolling her eyes from where she stood. When a few students turned to her with questioning eyes, she just sighed, the situation making it hard for her to control.

The bell rang, then, and everyone let out collective sounds of relief, the tension melting away as the familiar ringing sound filled the room. Ibrahim stuffed his papers inside his bag, clutching the journal in his hands, leaving the classroom as he headed towards his next class.

But what Ibrahim didn't expect was the way Ophira goddamn Holloran stuck to him like a leech. The dark haired male followed him as Ibrahim walked to his next class, and every step the golden-brown haired male took, Ophira followed.

"Stop following me." Ibrahim forced the words out, staring straight ahead, not once acknowledging the nuisance beside him. His jaw clenched, tense, but the twitch of his eye gave away his annoyance.

"I'd love to. But it looks like fate is just as obsessed with me as you are." Ophira says, grinning, poking Ibrahim in the shoulder. The golden-brown haired male's glare visibly darkened, and he stopped walking to stare Ophira incredulously in the eye.

Ophira, seeing as Ibrahim stopped, halted as well. He beams at Ibrahim's judgemental stare and slung an arm around the shorter's shoulder, pulling them together, personal space be damned. Ibrahim immediately started struggling, trying to get away from the heavy weight around his shoulder and Ophira's touch.

Ophira leaned in close, lips just beside Ibrahim's ear, and his eyes glinted dangerously. "Don't worry, I don't bite." The dark haired male murmured into Ibrahim's ear. "Unless you ask nicely."

Ibrahim's glare intensified, and Ophira removed his arm with a laugh, a smile playing at his lips, as if finding Ibrahim's reaction specifically amusing. The golden-brown haired male started walking faster to get away from Ophira, but the taller just followed him, smirking all the while, like he had no care in the world except annoying Ibrahim.

Ibrahim reached the classroom of his next class and practically flung the door open, quickening his pace to reach his seat, leaving Ophira who stood by the doorway. The teacher, a middle aged man, took one glance at Ibrahim and sighed, instead turning to look at the dark haired male who was still standing at the door.

"I see we have our new student." The teacher smiled, beckoning Ophira to come in. "Ophira Holloran, correct?" The teacher asked, and Ophira nodded, sending the teacher a distracted 'yeah', although his eyes never left Ibrahim's form.

The teacher, seeing this, clapped his hands. "Since our new student is friends with Ibrahim over there... how about you two sit together?"

Ibrahim froze, shock momentarily overtaking his indifference expression, and he swore a part of him died inside. The dread made him glare at both the teacher and Ophira, millions of thoughts entering his mind.

I will set myself on fire. I will disappear into the floor. I will become the void. I will become a tiny particle that will float away with the wind, and I will never see Ophira agin. I will set myself on fire. I will feed myself to sharks. I will set myself on fire. I will repeatedly stab this teacher again and again with a knife. I will set myself on fire.

But then Ophira was already halfway to the conjoined desk with the biggest shit-eating grin. And Ibrahim wanted nothing but to set the dark haired male on fire. Or himself. He doesn't really care. Ophira sends a two-finger salute in Ibrahim's direction and drops into the seat beside Ibrahim like he’s sitting on his throne.

"Wow. Two periods in a row? That’s practically fate, emo boy.” Ophira drawls, leaning close to the golden-brown haired male who not-so-subtly moved away. Ibrahim's jaw clenched like he’s trying not to break his own teeth, the irritation already clouding his head.

Ibrahim reaches into his bag and pulls out his notebook, deliberately trying to ignore the person next to him. The way he's avoiding Ophira is obvious, very much so, so the dark haired male leans even closer, pushing himself into Ibrahim's personal space.

“You’re not gonna stab me with your pen, are you? Or is that for later?” Ophira's eyes twinkled, his chair shuffling as he shifts next to Ibrahim. The golden-brown haired male stares at Ophira with that same deadpan glare  — the one that could freeze even frozen water. Ophira raised his hands in surrender, chuckling, still staring at Ibrahim with not-so-obvious eyes.

“Hey. Did you miss me in the two minutes we were apart?” Ophira suddenly whispers, his hand curling to poke Ibrahim in the side. The golden-brown haired male immediately tensed, his posture going rigid as his heartbeat pounded loudly in his chest. The mark had flared for a moment there, but it was gone as quickly as it had came, and Ibrahim visibly relaxed, letting out a small sigh when Ophira spoke again.

“Be honest. You were counting down the seconds.” Ophira slouches down at the table, his fingers automatically moving to toy with a pen in his hand. He waits for Ibrahim's reaction, for his answer, but none came. The dark haired male lets out a saddened noise, jutting his lower lip out to form a pout.

That’s when Ibrahim turns his head and the expression on his face was absolutely priceless when he sees what Ophira was doing. The dark haired male threw his head back and cackled quietly, his memory already saving the scandalous and slightly terrified stare that only someone like Ibrahim could express through a glare.

“Talk again, and I’ll break your pen in half and stab it through your tongue.” Ibrahim muttered, his voice low. It would probably seem threatening to anyone else, but to Ophira, it just felt like a challenge. A challenge to annoy the golden-brown haired male even further

"Aye aye, sir." Ophira said, nodding in mock approval, his hands moving to clap slowly. He made a zipper motion over his mouth, sending Ibrahim a wink, which the other angrily ignored. The smirk never disappeared from Ophira's face, and the dark haired male felt something stir in his gut. A strange feeling.

Brushing it off, Ophira leaned back in his chair with the most obnoxiously smug silence known to mankind. He tapped his pen against the desk in slow rhythms, the sound sharp and annoying, and Ibrahim could see his own patience running out every time Ophira did so.

Ibrahim exhaled slowly through his nose, silently staring at the front of the classroom. His hand clenched around his pen, having half a mind telling Ophira to knock it off, when a small folded note landed on his notebook. He stares, blinking, not touching it, before looking at his... seatmate who smiles, mouthing the words 'open it'.

Ibrahim sighs, unfolding the note with absolutely no emotion on his face. The silence that follows is deafening as the golden-brown haired male finishes reading the note and turns to Ophira with another deadpan stare.

The note says:

'Do you think if we fight hard enough they’ll cast us as rivals in a teen drama?'

Ophira looks away, laughing at his genius idea. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ibrahim grabbing his pen and writing exactly one word under it.

'No.'

Ibrahim slides the now-folded note back to Ophira, who unwraps it excitedly, like a child would do when being faced with christmas presents. He reads it, pausing, thinking of a line to further annoy his lovely seatmate.

'What about lovers?'

Ibrahim looks at the note then stares at Ophira like he were crazy. He reaches over and crushes the note into a ball, throwing it at the trash can without looking. Ophira watches it fly perfectly into the bin, whistling under his breath at the throw. Then he leans in again, his voice barely a whisper. No, it was something far more quiet.

“Damn. Even your aim is hot.”

Ibrahim doesn’t say anything. The golden-brown haired male only turns back to his notebook with quiet movements, as if every action he did were calculated beforehand. If anyone else looked at Ibrahim right now, they would just see the normal emotionless look. But Ophira was sitting right next to him.

And the look in Ibrahim's eyes could melt diamonds — or even incinerate them.

Chapter Text

"Alright, everyone. Get into pairs, we're going to start a new project now." The middle aged teacher clapped his hands, gaining the attention of both Ophira and Ibrahim. Almost immediately after hearing the teacher's instrictions, the dark haired male turned to stare at Ibrahim who looked even more dead, if that was humanly possible.

"Don't mind if I do." Ophira winked, their close proximity making their legs bump against each other. Ibrahim looked away, the inner frustration bubbling up over his mind, and the only thing he could think about was the possibility of him transferring to another school. Likely zero. Fuck.

"I didn't agree." Ibrahim bit back, his eyes narrowing when Ophira leaned too close.

"I didn't agree either." Ophira mocked, his mouth still carrying that eerie grin. At Ibrahim's confused stare, Ophira jerked his head towards the whiteboard, where the teacher had already wrote down the groups for the project — even though the man himself had said to 'get into pairs'.

On the center of the whiteboard, the teacher had wrote 'Ibrahim & Ophira' in simple, sharp strokes. Seeing this, Ibrahim slammed a resigned expression on his face and sighed.

"Well. This should be fun." Ophira leans forward on his desk, chin in palm, like he's already planning for the project in advance, without even knowing its overview and details. "You know, I always wondered if we'd get a forced marriage someday."

"I'd rather be set on fire." Ibrahim replied monotonously, without missing a beat. He slightly massaged his head, headache already incoming from his sorry excuse of a partner.

"Spicy. I like that in a lab partner." Ophira said, smirking, and Ibrahim swore he had never hated someone as much as he hated Ophira Holloran. The golden-brown haired male muttered a curse under his breath, shifting away from the devil sitting next to him.

"Alright, so this project is a presentation about chemistry we've learned since the start of the year. Your group can pick the topic, but it must fall under the category of chemistry." The teacher said, smiling widely. The smile made Ibrahim want to bash his head. Probably against the wall. Or the floor.

"Chemistry? Us?” Ophira claps dramatically, his eyes twinkling in what seemed like mischief. "Well, I always knew we had it. Explosive, beautiful and as pretty as a volcano during an eruption — textbook chemistry, really.”

Ibrahim flipped through his textbook, actively ignoring Ophira — which was hard, by the way. “The only thing we’re reacting with is mutual hatred. Which, by the way, isn’t listed on the periodic table.” The golden-brown haired male said, never once looking up from his book.

Ophira pouted, entirely unserious and unprovoked. “Aw, c’mon. That spark between us could burn down a lab. Isn’t that what love is, Bishop? Dangerous science?”

“If we were a science experiment, I’d be the cyanide. Guess what you’d be.” Ibrahim simply responded, voice low and seemingly dangerous, an unspoken warning for the dark haired male to comply.

But Ophira was giggling, unfazed by Ibrahim's murderous glare. “A willing test subject?”

Ibrahim moved his gaze towards the wall, a tired look on his face. How was he even going to survive the next couple of months being stuck next to that utterly incompetent person? Ibrahim could bet that Ophira was the kind of student who never did their homework, or turned in a completely blank page. The headache in his head throbbed even more, and Ibrahim had to physically restrain himself from groaning out loud.

“Are you made of beryllium, gold, and titanium? Because you’re Be-Au-Ti-ful." Ophira was saying, his tone even more flirtatious than before, if that was possible. Ophira was pointing finger guns at the golden-brown haired male, who pretended that he didn't see them, wishing if he just ignored it, they would go away. When the dark haired male finally, finally caught Ibrahim's exhausted gaze, Ophira just smiled innocently, as if he had done nothing wrong.

"So... should I do the research, or are you going to pretend I don't exist the whole time?" Ophira spoke up, the innocent look still on his face, complete with a pout that had Ibrahim literally cringing in disgust. Ibrahim inhaled, looking away from the disastrous sight and focused once again on his textbook.

"You existing is the problem." He said coldly, his tone bold and unwavering. He rubbed at his eyes, willing the tiredness to go away, which it didn't do. Unfair.

Ophira gasped, holding his chest in what seemed like mock offense. "Oof. So cold. Are you always like this or is it just me?"

"It's just you. You're special."

... Ibrahim hadn't meant for those words to come tumbling out of his mouth, but by then it was far too late. Grimacing, the golden-brown haired male looked up at the clock, and his posture sagged with relief when he noticed that there were only a few minutes left of class before their break.

"Aw. That almost sounded romantic." Ophira muttered under his breath. The dark haired male rolled his pen around in his fingers, ignoring the obvious way the teacher was staring at them. For what reason, nobody knows. And Ophira didn't want to find out, it seemed like too much a hassle.

Ibrahim glared at the dark haired male, Ophira's words still loud enough for the golden-brown haired male to hear. Seeing the utterly disgusted look on Ibrahim's face, Ophira kicks his foot under the table, the action immediately making him obnoxiously cheerful, starkly comparing to Ibrahim's own displeased scowl.

When the bell rang, Ibrahim quickly escaped from the classroom, the fresh air making the scowl melt off his face. The golden-brown haired male suddenly felt lighter, more free without Ophira-fucking-Holloran looming around his shoulder, making those... horrible jokes which just made Ibrahim dislike him even more.

Ibrahim walked silently to the courtyard, eyes searching for a scheduled spot in the shade, away from the rest of the students in the area. His fingers fumbled in his bag, reaching for his headphones, which the golden-brown haired male took with a barely visible smile on his lips.

Ibrahim reached into his pocket for his phone and pressed play, soft music instantly infiltrating through his ears. He leaned against the shaded wall in a corner of the courtyard, head rested back, his eyes closing in either relaxation or something entirely different. The golden-brown haired male had his hand splayed on the wall behind him, fingers tapping in time with the rhythm that was currently playing.

He was distracted, lost in the music, just existing in the moment that he didn't notice when someone stopped to stand next to him, their frame bending slightly to listen to the faint music through his headphones.

"Twenty Eight, huh? Didn't take you for an XO type." Ophira's sudden and obnoxious voice made Ibrahim crack an eye open in irritation, calm demeanor be damned. Why did Ophira follow him here? This was supposed to be a safe spot, a place where Ibrahim wouldn't have to deal with the dark haired male for at least half an hour, not some... place where he would have to actually talk to Ophira. Like, actually talk.

Ibrahim tugged his headphones off, the music pausing, the golden-brown haired male immediately replacing the expression on his face with a heated scowl, the displeasure radiating off his face as Ophira moved even closer.

"Stop stalking." Ibrahim crossed his arms, the glower on his face unwavering. His tone was quiet, almost defensive, as if daring Ophira to say anything otherwise.

“Please. If I was stalking, I’d wait until the chorus to show up. You looked like you were about to crash out even before I got here." Ophira was teasing, making a face at the thought of Ibrahim showing an emotion except the default stare. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"... It's just music." Ibrahim turned away, gritting the words out of his mouth. He clutched his headphones tighter, the song from before still stuck in his head, playing like a broken record. His heartbeat was pounding low and loud in his chest, whether from irritation or something else, the golden-brown haired male didn't know.

“It’s never just music when it’s Abel.” Ophira's voice cut through the silence like a knife. The dark haired male's voice was soft, almost real, the teasing fading into hidden truth. Ibrahim looked at Ophira, a wary look on his face as he waited for the punchline of the other's words. But Ophira kept silent, watching. And when he spoke up again —

“You ever listen to Until I Bleed Out when you're low and helpless? Or Faith when you’re doing something with someone you know you’ll regret?”

Ibrahim was cold, but he wasn't emotionless. And when he heard Ophira's words, he flinched. Only slightly, but it was enough. Ophira's lips curled into a grin, slow and hazy, as if victory had fallen upon his side, but what the dark haired male didn't expect was for Ibrahim to respond. Genuinely.

"... Tears In The Rain. Every night, on repeat." Ibrahim said quietly. And in the face of Ibrahim's honesty, Ophira stops breathing for half a second. The expression on Ibrahim's face was raw, uncut, something pure and entirely natural. Ophira's grin fell away, replaced by something unreadable — compassion? Understanding? Shock that the Ice Prince has feelings?

“That one hurts. Not just the lyrics. The way it’s sung… like Abel's bleeding in real time.” Ophira started, his voice gentle for the first time since they've met. He leans a hand against the wall, his gaze still fixed on Ibrahim, who had now stiffened, tension apparent on his shoulders.

"... I don't like most people knowing that." Ibrahim said, his eyes hardening. He sends a piercing stare in Ophira's direction, to which the dark haired male held his hands up, almost like he were surrendering.

"I'm not most people." Ophira countered with a soft smile. His voice still yet held that teasing tone, so this meant that the dark haired male was serious. Deadly serious.

Their eyes meet, stormy silver against cool darkness. And for a second, just one tiny flickering second, Ibrahim doesn’t look like he wants to rip Ophira’s throat out. Doesn't look angry. Doesn't look tired, or mad, or done. Just looks… seen. Understood. Exposed.

In a courtyard bursting with voices, Ophira swears their barely-five-minute conversation drowns out all others — like even the noise knows it isn't worthy to stand in their way. The dark haired male clears his throat, trying to clear the thought away, deeming it as something unimportant, brushing it off with another remark of his own.

“You’ve got serious Abel energy, you know. Y'know, that whole… haunted-but-hot thing.” Ophira says, visibly quieter, his voice still void of the teasing edge. The words could barely reach Ibrahim's ears, but for some reason, the golden-brown haired male could hear perfectly.

Ibrahim shot Ophira a half-hearted scowl, the expression more bark than bite.

"Don't push it." Ibrahim said flatly, already slinging his bag over one shoulder and walking away. Behind him, Ophira let out a loud laugh, scrambling to catch up to the shorter, the impish grin appearing on his face as soon as Ibrahim turned his back.

“Too late. I’ve already imagined us dancing to Call Out My Name in a thunderstorm. Tragic.” Ophira teased, his face brightening when he realized that he used one of Abel's song titles in his words unintentionally. The dark haired male let out a whoop, loud and unashamed, flinging his arm around Ibrahim's neck, nearly making them both crash into a wall.

Ibrahim doesn’t respond. But there’s the faintest — faintest — curve of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Just… less ice.

The rest of break is spent in not-so-comfortable silence, with Ophira blabbing Ibrahim's ear off, and the golden-brown haired male tries his best not to listen. It fails. But strangely, Ibrahim doesn't mind Ophira's talkativeness when the topic they're conversing about is Abel, because Ophira understands.

Ophira understands the late-night streams, the rain, the breaking apart, the putting back together, the vibing, the lost in the moment, and the pain. The raw, agonizing pain that tore from Abel's music, the kind of feeling Ibrahim didn't know could exist, could understand in anyone else's mind. But Ophira did. And Ibrahim saw the dark haired male in a new light.

But Ibrahim definitely still hated him. He hated the flirty, 'shameless' (did you see what he did there?) person who held all the arrogance in the world, hated the person who actually saw him when no one was there to do so. Ibrahim hated Ophira Holloran, the person who'd stormed into class like he owned the place. Ibrahim hated Ophira, hated the dark haired male's twinkling expression and beaming smile.

Ibrahim hated Ophira's easy going attitude, hated his spark that didn't seem to smite away no matter how much Ibrahim tried to. He hated Ophira's smirk, his childish personality, and the way he seemed to see through everyone and everything.

Ibrahim raised his head and saw that Ophira was grinning, his expression smug, eyes glued on Ibrahim like he were waiting to see the golden-brown haired male's reaction. He opened his mouth, and Ibrahim definitely didn't expect to hear those words coming from the dark haired male.

“You know... only losers go to school.” Ophira said, the edges of a smile blooming across his face. And as if on cue, the bell signaling the end of break rings, the sound blurring over Ophira's laughter.

The way Ophira said it, half-sarcasm, half-mischief — caught the golden-brown haired male off guard. Ibrahim sat still for a moment, still in the middle of adjusting his collar, when his lip twitched uncontrollably.

"Pfft." A brief, rare noise. Ibrahim's mouth curls into the smallest smile, genuine and soft. Just for a second. One heartbeat. Then it’s gone —...

... — like smoke through his fingers.

Ophira, trailing off mid-laugh, blinks.

…Oh.

For a second, he forgets how to breathe. How to keep the smirk on. How to be annoying. All his comebacks scatter like ash in the face of Ibrahim's genuine expression.

“…Was that a smile?” Ophira asks softly, his eyes wide. Then, as quickly as Ibrahim's smile had disappeared, the dark haired male leans in. “Did the Ice Prince just smile at me? Oh my God. Somebody call NASA. The laws of the universe just collapsed. Boom. Nothing."

Ibrahim, already walking away, sighs and just continues on. "You’re hallucinating."

Behind him, Ibrahim could hear Ophira scrambling, once again, to follow.

“I’m hallucinating you, baby. This whole thing’s a fever dream. Are you single in the fever dream?” Ophira's voice was loud, too loud, and the teasing edge was back again. Ibrahim scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Shut up.” He says coldly, earlier smile and softness long gone.

Ophira trailed behind him like a lost dog, the bewildered expression still lingering on his face. He's silent as he whispers, still stunned from what happened a few moments ago. "You smiled…"

The rest of the school day passed by, uneventful, with Ophira being visibly quieter. Ibrahim didn't know why. But whenever the golden-brown haired male even turns in the dark haired male's direction, Ibrahim could see Ophira stiffening up, eyes wide open in something he didn't know. Nevertheless, Ibrahim brushed it away, writing it off as Ophira just being Ophira.

For some reason though, Ophira kept staring at him. And when Ibrahim finally caught his eye, the previously starstruck expression on the dark haired male's face instantly evaporated.

"You looked at me for more than 0.2 seconds. We're basically dating now." Ophira whispered from his seat, brightening at the thought. Ibrahim, thoroughly unimpressed, just sent him a dead stare.

"I blinked." Ibrahim said, letting out an annoyed sigh.

"And my heart fluttered." Ophira winked, swooning dramatically at Ibrahim's reaction. Ophira snickered, turning back the blank worksheet on his desk, doodling a small devil next to his name.

"Holloran, are you paying attention?" The teacher asked, coming to a stop next to the dark haired male's table.

"No, but thanks for asking. That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all class." Ophira responded cheekily, the students sitting around him bursting into laughter at the teacher's disgruntled look.

The dark haired male sneakily glanced at Ibrahim, hoping to see another hint of a smile, or just a quirk of the lips, but Ibrahim was quiet, his head down and hood drawn up, his focus entirely on the worksheet. Ophira quickly squashes down the strange feeling rising up in him — disappointment, maybe? — and pouted, looking down at his own work.

Time flew past quickly, and before he knew it, Ibrahim was already walking home, the air around him cold and silent without Ophira there to annoy him. The golden-brown haired male much preferred it this way, where he could be quiet and unreachable in the corner. He didn't want to be dragged into the spotlight.

The air had grown warmer in the past few hours, to Ibrahim's delight. He no longer had to keep wrapping his arms around himself, or shiver violently whenever a gust of wind blew by. In the warmer weather, he could be himself, just Ibrahim.

Not Ibrahim Bishop, the son of two fanatic church devotees. Just Ibrahim. Ibrahim 'I love Abel more than I love myself'. Ibrahim 'Tears In The Rain is my comfort song and I'll crash out without it'. Ibrahim 'I'm actually a nice guy when you get to know me instead of sticking up to me immediately like Ophira goddamn Holloran'.

Turning into the next street, Ibrahim's eyes immediately zeroed in onto his house, a seemingly normal building that held all the pain, the anguish, and the raw emotions Ibrahim had hidden eleven years ago. The golden-brown haired male quickened his pace, reaching the door.

Ibrahim opened the door to his house and stepped inside, the house seemingly more like a prison than anything else. The air was silent, smelling like polished wood and repressed tension that made Ibrahim's stomach churn. He barely closed the door behind him before his father's voice sliced through the hallway.

“Ibrahim. Living room. Now.” His father said, sharp and controlled, just like how he always talkes. Ibrahim doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t make a sound. He just drops his bag with a soft thump and walks into the living room like he’s walking into a courtroom, the tension so thick that Ibrahim could possibly cut it with a knife. Almost immediately, a barricade of words started flowing from both his parent's mouths.

“Do you think we wouldn’t find out? Your math teacher called. Your last test score was abysmal.” His mother says, her tone disappointed and clipped.

“You’re slipping. Again. What’s wrong with you?” His father continued, his arms crossed, voice like stone as he stepped up behind Ibrahim.

There’s a flicker beneath his ribs. The quietness of the eventful day, the collision of events that made him relax, and the peaceful moment during break — it all burns out like a match.

“…I’ve been trying.” Ibrahim says, quiet. His mark burned, and the golden-brown haired male resisted the strong urge to wince.

“Trying isn’t enough. You owe us better. You're wasting your potential. What will people say? Do you want to be a failure?” His mother continues, every word jabbed towards Ibrahim like a series of knives.

Before Ibrahim could know it, something fragile fractures in his chest. The kind of invisible, silent pain that doesn’t bleed but bruises, slowly dripping over the edge until the raw pain engulfs a person whole. His mark flares up, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

Ibrahim clenches his fists at his sides, his throat aching for explanation, for something else. A dangerous storm builds at the back of his eyes, the shiver crawling up his spine — but Ibrahim doesn’t let it break. He never does.

He just stares forward. Face blank, eyes void of color, back to that emotionless stare.

"Okay.” Ibrahim replies almost silently.

“That’s all you have to say?” His father glares down at him, that look of hurting disappointment making its way to his face once again.

“I said I understand.” Ibrahim responds, visibly colder now.

They keep going, keep yelling, keep telling him that he needs to be better. But he’s not really there anymore. Their shouts and screaming make Ibrahim's head hurt, but he knew he couldn't do anything. Not when the mark, a reminder of the utter failure he was, ensured that he wouldn't go against them.

If he did, the mark would put him in even further pain. And Ibrahim doesn't want that. He blearily remembers trudging up the stairs to his room — taking the worn journal from his bag and collapsing on a chair in front of his desk, the exhaustion making him unable to think properly.

The air was heavy. Silent. He hasn't moved in hours. Night had fallen, and Ibrahim could distantly hear faint sounds of hushed talking coming from outside his door. The lamp was flickering, light barely on, and the golden-brown haired male's eyes were hollow, hollow from the earlier 'fight'. His hand hovers over a brand new page of his journal, pen already uncapped, waiting.

Then the memory of today's break comes flashing through his mind, and before Ibrahim could think, it was already written on the page, neatly, in small curved strokes.

I laughed today. Just once. It slipped out before I could bury it. Someone said something stupid, and I laughed. It’s been months. I don’t know if I want to laugh again or erase the sound from existence. It felt like betrayal. Like smiling while bleeding. He made me feel…

... I don’t want to write that part down.

Ibrahim's bedroom door slowly creaks open, and the golden-brown haired male whipped his head up, instinctively slamming his notebook shut. His breath comes out wrong, and Ibrahim was almost certain his parents could hear his heart thudding in his chest.

Then —

“We’ve made a decision.” His father said, calm. Too calm.

Ibrahim doesn’t move.

“Your attitude. Your performance. Everything. It’s slipping. You need to be reminded of who you are. What you owe us.” His mother said, her presence curling in from behind his father.

That word again. Owe. Ibrahim didn't owe them anything.

“We’re going to reinforce the mark.” His father speaks up. Instantly, Ibrahim’s spine straightens, just slightly. Only a flinch. Like a puppet whose strings just got pulled too tight.

“On your back, this time. Closer to the spine. So it sticks.” His mother says softly, like it’s a suggestion instead of an order.

Ibrahim says nothing. Nothing at all. But his hand tightens on the pen, the force making his knuckles whiten. That cold, terrifying silence falls over him like a storm cloud frozen in the sky. No expression. No breath. He just stiffens.

Inside?

He's screaming.

But outside?

He only nods once.

“When?” He asks flatly, his legs trembling, just the slightest bit. Barely visible. Barely there.

“Tomorrow. After school. Don’t be late.” His father says, turning around to slam the door shut. Ibrahim stays the same, rigid, until he hears the sound of their footsteps against the door disappear completely.

Ibrahim doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. He just sits there. Back rigid. Chest hollow. Like a mannequin carved from silence, a toy whose only purpose in life was too break, break, break.

The page in front of him stays the same. Still messy, still half-full.

Until, without thinking, he writes two words in the corner—

Save me.

If only that came true.

Ibrahim forced himself to relax, even though he couldn't shake off the fear and dread of having another mark on his body. The golden-brown haired male picking up his phone from where it laid on the nightstand, trying to distract himself, tapping on his phone screen only to be met with five notifications. From an unknown number.

Unknown Number:

[2:15 PM] heyyyyyyyy

Unknown Number:

[2:15 PM] i got ur number from a classmate U MUST BE SURPRISED TO SEE ME RIGHTTTTT

Unknown Number:

[2:16 PM] HOLY SHIT IBRAHIM ITS ABEL'S BIRTHDAY

Unknown Number:

[2:16 PM] anyways

Unknown Number:

[2:16 PM] so what time are we making out — i mean, making the slides

Ibrahim stared at the screen interface, no trace of emotion on his face. Ophira fucking Holloran. Of course. The golden-brown haired male rolled his eyes, typing in a quick response.

Ibrahim

[9:56 PM] I hope you choke on your phone and die.

Ibrahim stared at the chat, more specifically, at the three bubbles that popped up as soon as he had hit send.

Unknown Number

[9:56 PM] u were thinking abt me all afternoon werent u

Ibrahim scowled, throwing his phone on his bed, deciding to leave Ophira on read. He didn't know where the dark haired male got his number, and he didn't want to know. Tugging his knees close to his chest, Ibrahim wrapped his arms around his knees and curled up, the fear of tomorrow already making him anxious.

While it was no rare knowledge that every devotee was 'branded', cases of a second 'branding' were extremely rare. They only happened if the individual was deemed unworthy or if the individual stepped out of line, bringing the entire church shame that would haunt them forever.

Ibrahim could still hear the screams that tore from his mouth when he had been six years old, a fledgling barely out of the nest, before his parents had made him — forced him to bear the horrible responsibility of the mark.

When Ibrahim's parents had told six-year-old him about the mark, he remembers his eyes had gone wide in awe and excitement. His parents had told him that bearing the mark was a honor, something proud which he could represent with his head high. His parents had told him that bearing the mark meant that he would be a grown-up, and Ibrahim remembers that he had clearly been so excited then.

He had expected a tattoo, or a painted symbol which would wash off in a few months. He had even expected a badge that would be pinned onto his clothes.

Ibrahim didn't expect that the mark was to be burned onto bare skin. Using a ceremonial branding rod forged from blessed silver and coated in sanctified ash, which was said to have been quenched in the blood of a martyr. The tip, Ibrahim remembers, had been shaped like tne sigil of obedience — an intricate cross that resembled both wings and shackles.

The image of the rod flashed through his mind, and Ibrahim shivered, trying to press himself more against the chair to get away from the horrific instrument that was the core of all his trauma and struggles. How was he supposed to face that... thing again, when he was still so scared?

The rod was a symbol of protection, according to his parents. But it didn't protect Ibrahim. It wrecked the golden-brown haired male from the inside out, and he was still terrified of it even after many years.

His room is cold. Not in temperature — just... in essence. Normally, Ibrahim would've lit a candle or even draped a blanket over himself but... tonight, it just feels... wrong. He moves over to his bed, sitting down at the edge. He's not quite lying down, not quite sitting upright either.

His back is straight, unflinching, but his hands tremble. Ibrahim looks down with hooded eyes, pressing his hands together to will himself to stop the shaking. Perhaps he's holding something in. Or something back. But deep down, he knew. He was holding himself together.

The rod isn't here yet. It isn't. It isn't in his room, or in the house, or anywhere except the church. But he feels it. Ibrahim feels the rod like a ghost pressing against the space directly on top of his heart, the phantom heat and burns crawling up his spine.

It's been eleven years. Goddamn eleven years. Eleven years and Ibrahim's breath still falters whenever he thinks of iron and prayers in the same sentence. He wants to hurl, to sleep, to sleep and never wake up.

Somewhere outside his room, he hears his parents hum a hymn. It's supposed to be soft, gentle, a symbol of their loyalty and devotion towards God. But now, in Ibrahim's ears, it just feels twisted, evil, cruel like the very core of human nature.

Ibrahim wants to scream. Wants to yell, wants to shout, wants to complain and reject.

But instead, he counts. One breath. Two. Three.

He doesn’t make it past four.

There’s a mirror in the corner, the mirror he had looked in countless times before, the mirror he had looked in just yesterday. It was half-covered in a cloth, a white cloth which had symbolized innocence. It had symbolized innocence. He had no more innocence.

Ibrahim had covered it himself. He didn't want to see his face. Maybe that was for the best.

He didn't want to see the same expression he wore when he was six — when they first branded him and told him it was love.

Ibrahim's chest ached. Not from fear — from knowing . From knowing that it'll hurt again. That he’ll let them. That he won’t fight it.

Because the moment he does…

…he’s not their son anymore. He'll not be Ibrahim anymore. He'll be just a shell, cast out of his former self.

Ibrahim lies down eventually. Doesn’t sleep. Just stares at the ceiling.

The silence presses into him like hands.

And Ibrahim doesn't cry.

He just waits.

Waits for something that'll never come.

Underneath his clothes, the first mark burns, and Ibrahim clenches his hand hard against his chest. He doesn't want that to happen again. He doesn't want it. He curls into himself, becoming smaller, his heart still pressed tightly against his chest.

A faint memory, from a few days ago, passed through his mind.

Ibrahim had been changing, changing for the weekly ceremony. And then... the mirror had reflected back someone who wasn't him. The person's face had been blurred, but Ibrahim could still see the genuine concern radiating from the reflection.

He could still hear the reflection's words. Those words, he had thought had been useless, but now, they stuck in his mind even after the pain. Even after the silence. Even after the anguish, the truth, the desperation.

"I’ll help you remember the parts they tried to burn out.”

Chapter Text

Ibrahim woke up with a pounding headache, his hair plastered to his forehead, blanket completely on the floor. But this time, he wasn't shivering. No, it was more of the opposite. He was burning up. The golden-brown haired male dragged himself into a seating position, his hand automatically moving to touch his forehead.

He expected some heat, but... not this much. And definitely not this hot. Ibrahim stared down at his trembling hand, briefly wondering if the fever was because of stress or something else. But the ceremony wouldn't stop over something as simple as sickness, he knew.

It didn't matter if he was sick. It didn't matter if he was dying. What mattered was that he bore the mark, brought pride to the church and devotees, and was careful not to embarrass them. He had known this too long ago.

A fresh wave of nausea washed over Ibrahim, sending him spiraling into a major coughing fit, his hacks loud over the silence of his room. The golden-brown haired male's throat was practically burning, the only things coming out of his mouth were wheezes and occasional coughs that were painful to listen to.

Ibrahim automatically stood up from the bed and pulled himself over to his wardrobe, already tugging on warm clothes, trying to keep the cold air from seeping into his already cold body.

His hands shake as he buttons up his shirt, something uncontrollable and inescapable. Ibrahim's vision blurs when he blinks — like the world was trying to punish him for stepping out of line.

But the only thing louder than the pounding of Ibrahim's heart in his ears is the memory and fact of what awaited him when he got back from school.

The rod.

The mark.

The memories.

A phantom wound presses itself against his ribs, and Ibrahim flinched back, his hand splayed against his chest, ignoring the way his headache seemed to have intensified with the sudden movement. The golden-brown haired male stumbled over to the wall, holding a hand out to steady himself.

He couldn't skip. He couldn't. If he doesn't go to school, his parents'll suspect he's avoiding the ceremony. When the thought registered in Ibrahim's mind, the mark on his chest flared, silent, like a warning only he could see. And feel. Ibrahim knew it was a silent reprimand to stay in line.

Ibrahim pressed a hand to his forehead again, wincing at the same amount of heat. An icky feeling of bile rose in him, and the golden-brown haired male steadied himself to make sure he wouldn't feel nauseous when walking down the stairs.

He had to go to school. He'll never hear the end of it if he doesn't.

Ibrahim opened his bedroom door slowly, his shaky hands placed along the wall all the while. He could clearly feel his legs quivering, the pressure making his balance unstable. Ibrahim coughed weakly into his elbow, his breath tearing out of his mouth in soft pants.

He was, frankly, feeling utterly miserable.

The golden-brown haired male gripped the banister tightly as he walked down the stairs, fearing that if he let go, he would fall. His mother passed, but she barely spared him a glance before she was moving towards the kitchen, her movements calm and calculated.

Ibrahim let out a sigh when he finally reached the end of the staircase, the golden-brown haired male automatically wiping sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. But that turned out to be wrong, since Ibrahim's father was standing in front of him, a disapproving expression on his face.

"The church does not pardon weakness. Fix yourself." His father barked, not waiting to see Ibrahim's reaction before striding into the dining room. Ibrahim nodded weakly, already starting to trail after his father, his eyes half-lidded in exhaustion.

Ibrahim slumped in his seat, his eyes glazed over in what seemed like pre-fever sickness. He wanted so badly to just rest his head against the cool table, but he couldn't. They would chastise him for it. And Ibrahim didn't want to get in any more trouble.

The sounds of plates being brought over made Ibrahim straighten, yet his posture still hunched down. Ibrahim sat still, forcing himself to be quiet even when he desperately wanted to cough. He bit back the urge, his throat tingling with desperation.

His fingers twitched against the fork as a shiver ran through him, his knuckles turning white from the grip. His skin burned beneath his shirt, but the heat did nothing to thaw the cold settling in his bones. Instead, it only made him colder.

Across from him, his father chewed methodically, eyes fixed on the newspaper propped beside his plate. His mother stirred her tea, the clink of the spoon against porcelain sharp in Ibrahim’s aching head. He wished they would just be quiet.

But the thought was forgotten when his mark burned, stinging, against his chest.

“Eat,” His father said, not glancing up. “Food’s getting cold.”

Ibrahim raised his fork to his mouth, forcing a bite past his dry throat. It tasted like ash and grit.

His mother sighed, setting down her cup. “Behave yourself. The church has kindly agreed to our request, and you aren't going to mess this chance up. You’d feel better if you made yourself the least bit useful.”

Another tremor wracked Ibrahim's frame, and he violently shivered. The golden-brown haired male swallowed hard, giving a wordless nod in response to his mother's words. The food in front of him made him hungry, yes, but at the same time, he didn't want to eat anymore.

"Be at the church 4 o'clock sharp. No tardiness or excuses." His father picked up his knife, his calm voice only making Ibrahim's stomach churn in protest.

The room swayed, walls tilting and floor changing shape. Ibrahim gripped the edge of the table, trying his best to calm down when unwanted memories shackled his mind.

His reflection in his water glass looked ghostly — pale, wrong, blurred at the edges. But he picked up his fork again, not daring to go against his father's orders.

The walk to school passed in a blur, only broken in the face of buried memories and haunted screams. Ibrahim's steps were stiff, tight, mindlessly moving like a robot only the church could control.

The cold air did nothing to help Ibrahim's brewing anxiety, and the golden-brown haired male found himself feeling worse by the minute.

"Oh my god. Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating? Is that the cold prince in the flesh?" An obnoxious voice cut through the air cheerfully, and Ibrahim sighed, wondering how the hell did he recognize a person just by their voice.

"'m not in the mood." Ibrahim muttered under his breath, his vision blurring the more he walked.

"If I kissed you right now, would you melt or murder me? Both sound thrilling, not gonna lie." Ophira smirked, his arm already slinging around Ibrahim's shoulder.

Ibrahim frowned, ignoring the dark haired male. Ophira's overly loud voice only made Ibrahim's headache throb harder, and the golden-brown haired male wished that Ophira would just shut up for once.

Ibrahim shook off Ophira's arm, the motion rougher than he had intended. The dark haired male stepped backwards with two hands up in front of him, palms up, like he were surrendering.

"Relax, Ibrahim. It's not like I'm going to blow your head off — or yeah, maybe that would be exciting." Ophira whistled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looked away innocently. Ibrahim just sighed, quickening his pace, trying to get out of the cold and away from Ophira.

The golden-brown haired male pulled at his collar, trying to hide the flush along his neck and cheeks. He had no doubt that the redness came from his fever, yet something seemed off.

"... are we doing the slides today?" Ophira asked suddenly, the dark haired male bouncing up and down on his feet as they entered the school.

"No." Ibrahim said shortly, taking in a deep breath to resist the urge to cough. His legs were shaking, and the golden-brown haired male didn't even know if he was still standing.

"What's your first class, cold prince?" Ophira countered back enthusiastically, his bright eyes sparkling as he looked down at Ibrahim.

"English." Ibrahim said, grimly, as the image of the teacher popped up in his mind. The same teacher who yelled at him in her prison — office.

"Ooh, same! I'm starting to think fate has a kink... for me, of course! Not for you." Ophira purposefully bumped his shoulder against Ibrahim's, the dark haired male's laugh loud and carefree.

Ibrahim sighed, stopping at his locker to take out his books and stuff the others in. Ophira waited beside the entire time, rocking on his heels, humming Die For You under his breath.

"Go first." Ibrahim waved a hand around, annoyed, the golden-brown haired male struggling with all the books piled up in his arms. A bead of sweat slid down his neck, and he cursed silently. Curse this fever.

"And miss the opportunity to act like a good, caring husband? No thanks." Ophira stuck out his tongue childishly, leaning over to take at least half of Ibrahim's books away, into his own arms.

"Do you never shut up, Ophira?" Ibrahim said, irritated, rolling his eyes. He speed walked away from his locker, figuring it was better to give his books to Ophira than to spend half the day walking slowly with the weight.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Ophira rushed to him, the books all balanced neatly in the dark haired male's arms. "Did you just call me by my first name?" Ophira asked incredulously, his eyes wide open.

Ibrahim ignored him, walking into the English classroom and slumping down in his seat. His books were deposited on his desk a few moments later, courtesy of Ophira, who then sat down in his own seat next to the golden-brown haired male. Ophira's stare nearly burned a hole through the side of Ibrahim's head.

"So, are you this cold to everyone, or am I the exception? I bet it's the latter. I'm definitely special."

"You're not special." Ibrahim remembered saying this yesterday. Is that where the déjà vu came from?

"Liar. You memorized my name. That's basically flirting." Ophira was grinning, his teeth gleaming. Ibrahim raised an eyebrow, letting out an wheezy exhale that he hoped Ophira didn't hear.

When the class started, Ibrahim found it becoming increasingly hard to focus. His head was pounding, his forehead heating up, and the golden-brown haired male couldn't even write without his hand shaking.

"Now, this passage is written because of... " The teacher walked around, looking down at everyone's notes, but when she came to Ibrahim's, she stopped. Her expression soured. In her eyes, a fire lit, rage fueled and hatred added.

“Bishop, what is this supposed to be?” The teacher asked, her voice as sharp as a knife.

The classroom immediately goes silent, conversation ceasing instantly as the students all turn their heads towards Ibrahim.

Ibrahim doesn't reply. He clasps his trembling hands together under the desk, trying to will them to stop shaking.

“Sloppy. Illegible. Unacceptable.” The teacher mocked, holding up Ibrahim's notebook as she showed it to the other students. No one dared laugh. Ibrahim wasn't sure if it was because the notebook was his or that the teacher had too much a furious expression on her face.

“This is what happens when you don’t take your education seriously. You disappoint your teachers, your classmates… and if I recall your family’s reputation — your parents too.” The teacher's voice was flat, cold, but in her eyes sparkled cruelty and laughter.

Then she turned, looking directly at him, her eyes narrowed.

“Or are you planning to coast through life on pity alone, Ibrahim?” The teacher said, her tone suddenly suspiciously soft. It was the first time she had used Ibrahim's first name.

The room was plunged into further silence. Ibrahim couldn't lift his head. His eyes were transfixed on his trembling hands, underneath the table.

“Fix it. Or don’t bother coming back tomorrow.” The teacher said, leaning closer to him, her voice a cruel whisper that hissed in his misery. Ibrahim, his breath quickening, could only nod in defeat, his hand clenched, pressed against his thigh.

"What, dying or something?" Ophira muttered from the next table, fingers fiddling with his pen. His gaze was piercing against Ibrahim's skin, but the golden-brown haired male couldn't bring himself to care. The teacher's words still repeated in his mind, playing over and over again like a broken record.

Ophira narrowed his eyes, just the slightest bit, when he catches sight of Ibrahim's too pale skin and glazed over eyes. The dark haired male peeked over and saw the golden-brown haired male's trembling hands, and just for a moment, the smirk slips off his face.

And for just a split second, Ophira doesn't look annoyed.

He looks concerned.

The rest of the morning passes by, uneventful, with Ibrahim trying his best to calm down before anyone could further point out his mistakes and weaknesses. He walked faster, spoke calmer, and hid the tremors with a forceful smile.

Then — lunch rolled by. Ibrahim stands by himself in the middle of the hallway, students swarming their way past him and into the cafeteria. But Ibrahim couldn't walk in there.

Just the thought of food has his stomach rolling, and don't even get him started on the smell. It made him sick. Even more sick than he was now.

So he skipped.

Ibrahim made his way slowly to the bathroom on the third floor, the bathroom where nobody ever went because students rarely had classes there. But it was clean. The janitors cleaned the place every day.

Ibrahim entered the bathroom, heaving, a hand pressed against his mouth as he walked quickly to the sink, bending down to press his forehead against sink porcelain. The coolness of the marble calmed the golden-brown haired male down, but it did nothing to help the sickness in his stomach.

A fresh wave of nausea washes over him, and Ibrahim swallowed multiple times, trying to get the sickness down. He gripped the sink as he took in gulpfuls of fresh air, squeezing his eyes shut when his stomach protested at the sudden motion.

Ibrahim turned shakily, collapsing against the wall as he gasped, his hands now gripping his heart. But this time, it wasn't from the mark. His heart was beating too fast, way too fast to be even considered human.

Sounds of heavy breathing were the only sounds in the bathroom. Ibrahim was propped against the wall, his eyes half closed, with only a pounding headache and fever for company.

He was, frankly, feeling like shit.

The same wave of sickness crawled up his throat, and Ibrahim furiously pressed his hand against his mouth, breathing increasing rapidly as he did so.

He did not want to vomit, thank you very much. If he did he would have to clean up the mess, and... Ibrahim didn't know how long he had left before lunch ended.

The bell rang, then, and Ibrahim flinched, jerking back into the wall and hitting his head. The pain only combined with the ringing, and the golden-brown haired male couldn't hear anything except for the continuous rings.

Ibrahim stood up, shakily, almost stumbling when his full weight rested on his feet. He moved, slowly, to the door, fingers wrapping around the handle as he stepped out.

His vision wavered, world tilting sideways — but he didn't fall. Ibrahim stayed in his spot for a few more moments, unmoving, before deeming himself okay and walking down to his next class.

I hope this passes by quickly. Ibrahim thought, knowing that it wouldn't come true. A person could only hope.

The afternoon passed by in a blur, and in the blink of an eye, Ibrahim found himself already at the church, in a scheduled room with his parents and the Elder. His body felt like it was moving on autopilot, given Ibrahim's sickness and pounding head.

"Come on now." The Elder's tone was kind, yet Ibrahim narrowed his eyes, on edge. He glanced back at his parents — both adults bore him the same glare — so Ibrahim turned his face forward, swallowing down the last seed of doubt.

It would be over as quick as it started. Ibrahim tried to reason with himself as he walked towards the Elder, his eyes never leaving her outstretched hand. His heart was pounding louder now, the dread and fear rolling off him in anxious waves.

He quickly knelt down onto the floor, tugging his shirt off during the process. The cold air hit his skin and Ibrahim immediately coughed, to which his mother shot him a dirty look. The Elder raised her hand, moving forward to observe Ibrahim's back for the future mark.

The Elder let out a curious hum, her hands pressing against Ibrahim's feverish nape. The golden-brown haired male held in a sensitive flinch, pressing his hands together to will himself to stop shaking.

The Elder's light touch drifted from Ibrahim's neck to thumb at his shoulder blades. Her caresses left a trail of discomfort in its wake, the golden-brown haired male visibly uncomfortable the more she touched.

"Here." The Elder's voice cut through the silence, her thumb and forefinger positioning a circle on the small of Ibrahim's back. Both of Ibrahim's parents stepped forward, their speech already overflowing with fake praises and pointless applause — for the Elder. Not for him.

"We can perform the ceremony any time you want." The Elder said, her voice soft as she helped Ibrahim to his feet. The golden-brown haired male muttered out a small 'thanks', his vision already blurring. He was sure his forehead was practically steaming right now. But his parents wouldn't care. Nor would the Elder.

"Ibrahim. Do it now." His father spoke up, gaze hardened as he stared down at him. The golden-brown haired male hesitated, glancing at the Elder. Her face was smoothed into a pleasant smile, yet Ibrahim didn't trust it one bit. He had never once did.

The mark on his chest flared for a moment, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to punish him or not. Ibrahim nodded in response to his father's stare, quickly, and the pain disappeared.

"Excellent! Now then, follow me." The Elder beamed, already turning to walk through the other door, the one different to the one he had entered in. His parents followed automatically, and Ibrahim walked in behind them.

He recognized the hallway as one of the church's ceremony hallways, the one where everyone had to pay their respects in passing.

By now, Ibrahim could hear the distinct chatter of the other church devotees, already starting to sit in their pews for the ceremony. Their distorted sounds did nothing to help the slow fear and anxiety churning in his stomach, and his fever certainly didn't either.

There was a strange light blaring down from the ceiling, but Ibrahim was sure the hallway had been dark in the past. He squinted up to look up at the ceiling, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck.

"What are you looking at?" The Elder suddenly asked, appearing beside him, her tone friendly. "There's nothing there."

"The light... it's too bright." Ibrahim said after a few moments, the words muttered under his breath. But he knew the Elder would be able to hear.

"Ibrahim, there's no light." His mother said pointedly, her arms crossed with annoyance. "If this is one of your tricks again, I swear..." Her brow was pinched, irritation already seeping through her face.

Ibrahim shook his head, dazed, still looking up the alarmingly bright ceiling. The world flickered, nausea overtaking his mind like it had a life of its own. Across the hallway, his father sighed loudly.

"You're hallucinating. It's probably from the damn fever." Ibrahim's father frowned, his hands on his hips. His mother nodded, agreeing, leaving Ibrahim behind as she walked forward to the room where the ceremony was held.

Ibrahim was left helpless in his spot, the Elder still standing next to him, her eyes sharp and focused on his figure. If the golden-brown haired male wasn't feeling this sick, he could even say that she looked... suspicious of him

"Hurry along, it's best if we completed the ceremony quickly." The Elder said, her smile still soft and kind. Ibrahim nodded weakly, following behind her in slow steps. His heart was thrumming too fast, too loud, too unreal to be considered human.

His instincts screamed danger at him, but Ibrahim couldn't do anything but follow behind the Elder, something in his blood telling him that the situation was far too dangerous.

Ibrahim walked down the hallway, the painfully familiar hallway that he had passed through eleven years ago. His chest hurt — but it wasn't from the mark. The fear gripped him until he stood behind the old, wooden door, his eyes hooded and feverish.

"I'll be waiting." The Elder said her words slowly, emphasizing each word gently. Ibrahim nodded robotically, his hands clenched into fists. His fingernails dug small crescents into his palm, but the pain grounded him. At least just for a moment.

His parents walked up to him next, their footsteps sharp against the floor. Ibrahim swallowed, helpless, as his mother leveled her piercing gaze onto him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't embarrass us." She said finally, her eyes searching within his own for reassurance and answer.

"This is a great honor. For you. And for us. Don't let us down." His father added on, hesitating just the smallest moment.

"Don't keep the Elder waiting." His mother said, one last time before retreating and disappearing through the other door where the ceremony was held.

Ibrahim then focused his gaze towards his father, who lingered by the doorway. He seemed to want to say something, but was stuck.

At last, he gave Ibrahim a tight smile. Ibrahim slowly nodded, his eyes hardening as he turned back to the oak door, his breath coming out in hazy exhales as he waited for the ceremony to begin.

"...I'll see you on the other side." His father said, voice barely visible over the heat of the room. Then, as quickly as he had stayed, he was gone, leaving Ibrahim on his own.

Closing his eyes, Ibrahim leaned against the oak door, his thoughts running a million miles per second. The dread gripped at his heart lessened when he exhaled, but the rigidness in his shoulders couldn't be ignored.

He was scared. Terrified, even.

But he had to do this.

Ibrahim couldn't keep living on like this forever. He couldn't just sit there and let his parent's comments slide. He had to prove to them, prove to himself that he was worthy.

Not a disappointment. Worthy.

He had to get the mark. Even if he got hurt in the process. (Who was he kidding? He'll definitely get hurt.)

The church's bells rang then, their clanging sound startling Ibrahim out of his thoughts. He drew in a sharp breath, straightening up, walking over to stand in front of the oak door. Ibrahim's hands traced the golden metal, the coolness seeming like it were mocking him for his firey character.

"... Ibrahim Bishop." The Elder's faint voice trailed outside of the door, and Ibrahim knew. It was time

The golden-brown haired male pushed the door open and walked out, slowly, head down, his eyes steady but still defying him as his pupils shook.

Hushed whispers reached Ibrahim's ears as he walked past the rows of pews. The people speaking were quiet, faint, yet Ibrahim could hear everything perfectly.

“He looks like his father. Pity he isn’t him.” A middle aged woman whispered to her daughter, narrowing eyes glared his way. Ibrahim visibly stiffened, his steps faltering just the slightest bit.

It didn't bother him. It didn't.

"God abandoned him long ago.”

“... And yet he walks to the altar like he belongs.”

“He should bow. He should beg.”

"He should prove himself worthy."

Ibrahim reached the podium where the Elder stood, her ever-kind smile still etched onto her face. Beside her laid a basin, a white, porcelain bowl filled to the brim with holy water.

And beside the basin was the rod.

It looked exactly the same. In Ibrahim's memory. And from the ceremony a few days ago.

But he didn't see it a few days ago.

Swallowing down the nausea churning in his stomach, Ibrahim kneeled in the center of the 'stage', back against the audience, yanking off his shirt in the process. The harsh wind beated at his bare skin, but Ibrahim refused to cave. He would worry about that later.

The flush on his cheeks remained, brighter and hotter than ever. The glaring lights blared down from up above, shrouding Ibrahim's surroundings in darkness, and him in the light. His knees dug into the hard wooden floor, yet the golden-brown haired male gritted his teeth and stayed.

He wouldn't let them see past his facade. He wouldn't let them feast on his weakness.

The mark pulsed faintly against his chest, its surprisingly gentle brush a severe contrast with its harsh treatment from before. It was soft, smooth. Almost like the mark were giving Ibrahim its approval.

Approval to what? His chained freedom?

The Elder stepped forward, her heels sharp against the floor. She was speaking, her words glided and smooth, yet Ibrahim heard everything and nothing at the same time.

There was a rustle in one of the back rows. His parents were conversing quietly, their eyes never leaving Ibrahim's form. A child in one of the middle rows was chattering in excitement, and several individuals were clapping, polite, silent.

"We gather here today, my fellow devotees, to witness the new rise of a scarred child. And that is, of course... " The Elder gestured towards the still-kneeling Ibrahim, her eyes glinting in something he couldn't decipher. "The second branding ceremony."

The audience roared, several of those devotees getting to their feet. Their yells were deafening, and Ibrahim was stuck in the center of it all. His breath hitched, heart racing unusually faster, but nothing was wrong.

He was going to be 'branded', no matter if he liked it or not.

The Elder came to a stop beside his knelt form, taking out a piece of white cloth from her robe pocket. She held it up high in the air, and immediately the air quieted, the devotees silenced as they gazed up at the piece of fabric.

"Cleansing." The Elder declared, slowly dipping the cloth into the basin. "To start anew, to begin again, and to wash away all past events."

The cloth came in contact with Ibrahim's back, the place where the Elder had touched, mapped out a few ten minutes ago. The golden-brown haired male immediately flinched, although he had berated himself many times not to.

Ibrahim bit the inside of his cheek as the cloth 'washed' his back, the freezing water doing nothing to soothe his racing nerves. Ibrahim's fingers dug into the flesh on his thighs, grounding himself, preventing himself from doing any more rash motions.

Just the thought of what happened next made him sick. Like, even more sick-ish.

"Rebirth." The Elder then announced, picking up the rod from the floor and holding it up in the air. Hushed awes fell over the room, every devotee staring up at the rod like they owed it their life.

The Elder held the rod carefully and turned, moving over to the fireplace in the corner to light it up, the tip glowing bright like a second sun. Ibrahim, from his spot at the stage, shifted quietly to hide his restlessness.

He was scared.

Because the last time something like this happened to him, he had been six years old. Six years old, barely a fledgling, and yet still bearing the horrors of the church.

Ibrahim remembered that he cried a lot. Screamed, even. But now, he wouldn't do that. Not anymore.

The Elder walked back, holding the handle of the rod as she presented the lit tip to the audience. The devotees clapped, some even whistling, as their eyes all snapped onto the rod and Ibrahim's knelt form.

"Brand! Brand! Brand! Brand! Brand!" The devotees chanted, their voices like hissing snakes. Deadly and inescapable. The Elder pointed the rod down at the small of Ibrahim's back, and the golden-brown haired male squeezed his eyes shut.

He could already feel the heat from the rod, even if it wasn't against his skin. The fear clamped down, and suddenly, Ibrahim couldn't feel anything except for the heat.

But... it was happening. It was really, really happening. No matter how much Ibrahim prepared, no matter how much he tried to convince himself, this was now real.

"And now, we will begin..." The Elder said, her voice barely above a whisper. "the second branding ceremony."

Without a warning, without a sign, the Elder pressed the rod against Ibrahim's back, and the golden-brown haired male tensed, his hands curling and uncurling against his thigh. It hurt, of course, but he wouldn't do them the honors of seeing him break.

The iron sings when it touches him. A hissing, holy sound. A sound Ibrahim will hear in his nightmares, his prayers, his silence, his life.

Ibrahim's jaw clenches. His teeth nearly crack from the pressure, but still, he made no sound. The burning seared itself into his back, hot and boiling against the cold air.

Don’t scream.

Don’t move.

You’ve lived through worse, haven’t you?

Survive this, and everything would be okay.

But this one burns deeper. This one means something. Ibrahim knew, that this wasn't just a punishment. It’s a promise. A warning. A label.

The horrible smell of burned skin fills the room. Ibrahim hears someone murmur, “Finally. Maybe this time he’ll learn.”

He doesn't cry. He doesn't scream. He just… stares at the altar.

Ibrahim bites his lips hard enough that it bleeds. He tasted the blood, his mind hazy, and the only thing he could focus on was the Elder's hand against his back and the rod, pressed firmly against his skin.

The pain makes itself present in his bones, forcing itself into his memory, consciousness, huge burning sears of pain rushing through the golden-brown haired male's veins.

"I hope, this time... " The Elder murmurs, staring down at Ibrahim's too stiff form. "that you will remember, that you will honor your place."

The branding ends, and yet the phantom pains still linger on Ibrahim's skin. He rises to his feet on shaking legs, the trembling still happening no matter how much he tried to cover it.

The devotees keep silent, as if Ibrahim had done something that displeased them greatly. They wanted to see him suffer. They wanted to see him scream. Yet they only got cold silence in response.

Stand tall. Be still. They cannot see your ruin if you do not show it.

Ibrahim makes it halfway down the aisle, swaying just the slightest bit. He looked at his parents, and they stared back, hardened eyes and firm mouths waving him in the face.

And then —

The world tilts. Ibrahim's knees buckle. The new mark on his back throbs.

Everything goes dark.

The last thing Ibrahim hears is someone laughing.

The last thing Ibrahim feels is the blood cooling on his back, mocking, hot.