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From the first moment Gideon Coal lifted his eyes from the rain-slick street to meet the soft, white cotton of Kremy LeCroux’s spats, he knew the Gatorfolk was something special. Something better.
Kremy LeCroux was like a fake gem; he sparkled in all the right places at the right times, but when the glitter wore off, he was just dyed quartz pretending to be amethyst. Not that Gideon knew this for the first month he followed the man around, of course. He’d been on that train a damn long time, and on a farm for a lot longer before that. Never had he quite met nobility, so the facsimile that Kremy presented was taken at face value.
Still, that hadn’t shaken Gideon’s faith in Kremy one bit. The guy walked the walk, talked the talk, and gambled like he was born with a royal flush in his sleeve, so who was he to judge?
One thing that did confuse him was that even a year and a half after meeting him, Gideon had yet to see the man wear anything less formal than a three-piece suit. He’d leave his tent in the morning wearing it, and Gideon never saw so much as a hint of wrist during their days. Kremy had the sensibilities of some hoity-toity lady, almost.
Maybe Gideon was curious. Maybe.
So when it came to them entering an inn and finding only one room was available, perhaps Gideon was a bit too relaxed about the situation.
“Now, listen,” Kremy said to the bored looking woman behind the desk, fixing his tie for what had to be the second time in the past five minutes. “I understand there’s only one room, but why is the price so high?”
“Look, sir,” she droned, twirling a ginger curl around her finger, “It’s this or the street. We stop takin’ people in like, five minutes. Do y’ want the room?”
Gideon watched her twist the thick coil of hair over her plump fingers, wondering how she got it so shiny. She was cute, too – fiery little red-head, soft in the tummy and with a great rack that she was resting on the wood of the counter. Another day, maybe he’d be the one flirting for a discount, taking her to the staff bathroom for some fun, but tonight…
Tonight, Kremy looked tired. Tail thumping, cane gripped real tight. Gideon wasn’t sure what was wrong with his hip, but he knew when Kremy needed to sit. So, watching his normally eloquent boss fluster, he decided to take charge.
“Look, lady, we’ll take it,” Gideon said firmly, taking the coin purse from Kremy’s hands and digging inside. Kremy made to argue, but Gideon refused to look in his direction. “How much for the week?”
“That’ll be fifty three gold,” she said, blinking her big, doe-brown eyes at him. Aw, shucks, that was expensive. One look at Kremy, however, sealed the deal, and Gideon started to count out stacks of ten.
The woman waited patiently as he did, and seeing that he wasn’t backing down, Kremy sighed and watched Gideon count. He went slowly, remembering the spellings of the numbers as Kremy had taught him, and what they were shaped like. Maybe he could practice writing tonight.
“Third floor, you’re in suite thirteen,” she said, handing him a key as she took the gold. Gideon snorted at the fuzzy pink heart that dangled from the end. “Enjoy your stay. You get a drink free at the bar once a night, and breakfast is coplinterty.”
“Complimentary?” Kremy asked, and she snapped her fingers and gum, eyebrows raising as her lips curled.
“That’s the one. Enjoy your stay,” chirruping the final platitude, she switched the sign on the desk to read ‘closed’, and sat back in her chair, filing her nails as if they’d already walked off.
The lobby had the smell of dust and lemon oil, like someone had done a quick wipe-down earlier but hadn’t moved the furniture in years. The walls were painted a deep, dull black, matte where the light hit them, chipped where it didn’t. Velvet curtains, once a rich burgundy, now dulled to brick-red, hung heavy over tall windows. A breeze must’ve slipped in somewhere—one of the curtains was fluttering lazily, its hem showing a line of sun-bleached threadbare spots.
The carpet was thick underfoot, patterned with old damask swirls that looked like they’d been stepped on for decades. Stains and indentations told the quiet history of boots and paws and suitcases dragged too hard. Gideon figured the place had once been proper fancy, but time had worn through the polish, and now it was mostly nostalgia and elbow grease holding it together.
Behind him, Kremy was silent. The gatorkin’s scales were a dark, dusky green mottled with browns, like the riverbeds had lent him their stones. Tonight, they looked duller than usual under the flickering light. His thick tail dragged just a little as he stepped forward, cane in one clawed hand, posture too upright—too careful. That tail normally held itself above the ground, but tonight it dragged. Better on carpet than stone, he mused.
Gideon waited until they passed the front desk, then slowed a bit to fall beside him.
“Stairs’re this way.” He pointed, to where a set of them seemed to wait, not steep but plentiful.
Kremy nodded once, jaw set. His wide snout didn’t give much away unless you knew what to look for, but Gideon had been watching him long enough to see the tightness around the eyes, the twitch in his brow ridges when he shifted his weight wrong. That damned hip of his—Gideon still didn’t know what had happened to it, only that it left Kremy stiff some days, limping others, and on nights like this, it seemed to hollow him out.
The staircase was narrow, its railing polished smooth by generations of hands. The carpet was thinner here, almost worn down to the wooden stairs beneath. It meant the tap of Kremy’s cane would be even louder.
Kremy hesitated at the first step.
“You sure you got this?” Gideon asked, adjusting Kremy’s satchel higher on his shoulder. “’Cause I can—”
“I’m not an invalid,” Kremy said through his teeth, though the growl in his voice was more embarrassment than anger. His claws tightened around the cane. “Just takes me a bit.”
“Right,” Gideon said, stepping aside. “I’ll go slow.”
So he did—one hand on the suitcase, glancing back every couple steps. Kremy followed, steady but sluggish, moving with the kind of stubborn precision that said this wasn’t the worst it’d ever been, just one of the nights he wished it wasn’t. Each step seemed to cost him, his tail swaying slightly for balance, knees stiff, the cane thunking down a moment before each careful lift.
By the second landing, he stopped. Not panting, but still. Quiet. Gideon waited at the top, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Gonna keep that pride, or wanna borrow an elbow?” he offered gently.
Kremy gave him a sidelong look. His snout wrinkled, and then—reluctantly—he extended one clawed hand, resting it on Gideon’s arm. He was heavier than he looked when he leaned in, the weight of muscle and thick bone and something else. Fatigue, maybe. Pain, certainly. Or perhaps just the heavy, leathery weight of his hide.
The climb resumed. Kremy’s scaled hand rubbed on Gideon’s bicep, and they were certainly softer and smoother than the fire genasi’d expected. He’d thought they’d be like rough leather, but no; Kremy’s delicate sensibilities seemed to extend to moisturiser.
The third floor hallway was narrower than the lobby, the walls here painted a pale green that had yellowed over time. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, flickering now and again. A half-dozen framed prints hung askew on the wall—landscapes, mostly, and one odd portrait of a goose in a hat.
Gideon found the door with the tarnished “13” nailed to it and fit the key into the lock. The fuzzy pink heart keychain swayed as he turned it, and he shook his head. Gods, people were odd, he supposed.
The door to Suite Thirteen creaked open with the theatrical flair of a stage curtain rising, and Gideon stepped inside, holding it open with a flourish. His boots thunked onto the pink, heart-print carpet—a plush, toe-swallowing thing that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the last star-crossed lovers checked out a decade ago. The air was heavy with artificial rose and some kind of faint citrus musk, like someone had tried to wrestle romance into a bottle and lost the fight.
Behind him, Kremy limped in slowly, the silver tip of his cane thudding against the carpet with every step. His claws clicked faintly on the wooden doorframe as he trailed his fingers in behind him, incredulous, before he crossed into the plush jungle. Gideon had already turned around in a slow circle, letting out a low whistle as he took it all in.
“Oh, hell, boss,” he drawled, grinning ear to ear. “Ain’t this just the sweetest li’l love nest you ever did see?”
The room was dominated by a round bed—yes, round—draped in red satin sheets that shone like candy wrappers under the pink chandelier overhead. Above the headboard was a mirror shaped like a heart, framed in gold-painted roses, slightly crooked on the wall. There were two champagne flutes on the nightstand—plastic, but thoughtfully placed—and a small basket wrapped in cellophane that contained bubble bath, a rose-shaped candle, and something labelled "Strawberry Body Dust."
Kremy's golden eyes slowly panned across the room, the frill along his jaw twitching once, sharply. His long, thick tail, dark-scaled and ridged, swept along the carpet behind him with an audible sigh. His clawed hand gripped the cane tighter as he stared at the velvet chaise lounge beneath the window—hot pink, with little rhinestones studding the backrest like a cake gone wrong.
Gideon snorted, trying to hold in a laugh, and failed entirely.
“Oh no, they put money into this,” he said, already kicking off his boots with childlike glee. “That’s real silk, probably! Look at that bed! Looks like a strawberry bonbon. You reckon it spins?”
Kremy slowly sank into the nearest chair—shaped like a seashell and upholstered in shimmering lilac—and gave a long, wheezing exhale through his teeth.
“That,” he growled, his voice the deep, gravelly rasp of sun-baked riverbeds, “is why it was fifty-three gold. We’re payin’ for the aura.”
“Hah!” Gideon wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Boss, don’t tell me you didn’t notice it was a honeymoon suite.”
“I noticed the price,” Kremy snapped, adjusting his leg with visible effort, “and the lack of alternatives. We needed a room.”
“You alright?” Gideon asked, softer now, setting their bags down near the bed.
“Mm,” Kremy flicked a slit-pupiled eye toward him and huffed. “Peachy. Just need a minute.”
The scales around his eyes were a little duller than usual, his breathing just a hair too shallow. Gideon busied himself checking the minibar, half to give Kremy some space, half to keep himself from watching too closely. There were two tiny bottles of brandy, something pink and fizzing, and, to his great amusement, a jar of maraschino cherries shaped like hearts.
“Want a drink?” Gideon called over his shoulder, holding up the fizz bottle.
“I don’t drink things with numbers in the name.”
“You do if the number’s proof.”
“Touché.” Kremy’s eye twitched again, but his mouth curled at the edge.
“On it.” Gideon started to prepare a drink, flipping bottles and giggling at the strawberry shaped mugs. Kremy leaned back, the satiny fabric of the ridiculous chair sighing beneath him.
The pink chandelier glinted off the smooth curve of his scaled jaw. His colouring was darker than most—deep green, almost black along the ridges, with a subtle shimmer where the light caught. The rings looped over his fingers gave him an almost aristocratic edge, even in a chair that looked like it had been stolen from a mermaid-themed cabaret.
“Be careful,” Kremy murmured, tail twitching again. “There’s a bottle in there labelled ‘Love Potion No. 9½.’ If you come back singing in rhymes, I’m leaving you on the balcony.”
Gideon barked out a laugh and held the bottle up to the light.
“It’s got glitter in it.”
“Exactly.”
He tossed it aside and pulled out the kettle instead.
“Any chance I can tempt you with a cherry-flavoured something that’s probably edible?” He offered, holding up a wrapped piece of hardened sugar.
“If it’s pink and shaped like a heart, it’s not food. It’s a warning.”
Kremy closed his eyes for a moment, letting his body relax into the ridiculous chair, tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. For all the tackiness, for all the absurdity of the décor, it was warm. Private. Quiet. And for now, safe.
Even if it looked like a cupcake exploded inside a jewellery box.
They’d fallen into a lull after their drinks. Kremy had returned to his seat, eyes half-lidded, legs stretched carefully out in front of him while Gideon sprawled out on the edge of the bed, boots off, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Outside, night pressed its weight against the velvet curtains, thick and unbothered. The room had grown quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock shaped like Cupid, its wings fluttering every minute in a mechanical twitch.
Then, as if the thought had just sprung to life, Gideon sat up.
“You want me to run you a bath?”
Kremy didn’t open his eyes right away. He tilted his head to the side like he was weighing it.
“Depends,” he said eventually, voice low and wry. “You planning on using that... scented oil I saw on the counter?”
“Gods, nah,” Gideon stood and stretched, bones cracking. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m savin’ that for when I find my one true love—probably in the bar downstairs, orderin’ a banana daiquiri and speakin’ in riddles.”
“That so?” Kremy hummed, something close to a laugh caught in his throat. “Go on then.”
Gideon made for the bathroom like a man on a mission, boots thumping across the plush carpet.
“Oh shit!” There was a clatter moments later, a series of delighted gasps and a triumphant, “Well look at this one—it’s got glitter shaped like stars!”
Kremy let the sounds fade into the background. Alone now, with the lamp casting soft amber light across the cluttered honeymoon suite, he exhaled slowly and opened his satchel.
Inside were neatly folded layers of travel-worn clothing, spare gloves, bandages, a dagger he kept more out of habit than necessity, and—after a moment of rummaging—his pyjamas. He pulled them out slowly: deep purple satin with thin vertical stripes in a darker plum. A little gaudy, maybe, but he liked the way they felt. Familiar. Luxurious, even, in his own quiet way.
He ran his claws over the fabric. He was looking forward to a proper bed after weeks of rest, and it seemed plenty big to stretch his tail out too. Hopefully he didn’t hit Gid.
Because they’d be sharing.
Oh.
Oh, no.
A sinking feeling settled in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. There was only one bed.
He hadn’t noticed before, or maybe he had—just chose not to dwell on it. But now the truth loomed in velvet and satin: the two of them would be sleeping side by side. And for all the nights spent on the road together, in caves, inns, abandoned towers, curled around separate fires, they’d never shared that kind of space.
Not for lack of trust. But for Good Reason.
Kremy liked boundaries. Structure. He could keep his thoughts in a clean box that way, his instincts in check. Gideon was warm, loud, easy—a man who didn’t know how much space he took up, physically or otherwise. Sleeping beside him meant losing that clean line. And maybe something else, too.
Kremy stared at the pyjama shirt in his hands. He’d crumpled it without realizing. Wrinkled the neat fold into something tight and strained.
He muttered a quick word and flicked his fingers, casting prestidigitation. The fabric rippled under invisible magic, smoothing itself back into perfect, crisp order. The sleeves aligned. The collar reformed.
Just as he folded it neatly over one arm, a voice rang out through the suite.
“Boss! Bath’s ready! You better hurry before this stuff turns into a caramel stew!”
Kremy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took one last moment to collect himself. Straightened his back. Tilted his head just slightly, letting the last of the thoughts slide back behind his sharper edges.
Steam was already spilling from the open bathroom door like fog creeping over the threshold. The warm scent of citrus and amber floated into the room, mingling with the faintest trace of mint. Gideon had clearly gone all in.
Kremy limped forward, slow but steady, tail dragging lightly behind him across the carpet. He passed the glittering bed with its heart-shaped mirror and gave it a sideways glance of pure disdain. Then he stepped toward the bath, toward the swirl of mist and golden light, and the low sound of Gideon humming off-key.
Just before crossing to the tiled room, he inhaled deeply—and let himself imagine, if only for a second, that it was all just a little less complicated.
The bathroom was… a lie, as far as luxury went.
Kremy stepped inside with a soft grunt, clawed feet tapping on faded tile shaped like flower petals—rose pink and powder blue, dulled by time and half-scrubbed mildew. The mirror was streaked with old polish, the sink an awkward faux-marble relic of some designer’s fever dream. The lighting crackled oddly, casting a sickly lavender hue across the room like an old nightclub that hadn’t realized it had closed down.
But the tub?
The tub was divine.
Deep, broad, sunken slightly into the floor and clearly meant for two. Steam rolled over its high porcelain lip like mist over a still pond, laced with fragrant bubbles that shimmered gold and faint rose. Scents of warm citrus, ginger, and a little bit of vanilla swirled together into something oddly calming. For all the tacky effort around it, the bath was the one thing done right.
“Out,” Kremy said flatly, tail twitching toward the door.
Gideon, sleeves rolled and grinning, turned from adjusting one last floating candle and gave an over-exaggerated bow. “Your spa awaits, sire.”
Kremy snorted.
The door shut behind Gideon, and the lock clicked a moment later. Kremy hummed—a low, pleased sound—and for the first time all day, his shoulders dropped. The ache in his hip was sharp, a blade of pressure coiled just under the skin, but already the heat of the steam was working its way in. The hiss of water echoed gently, soft and uninterrupted. For now, it was just him.
He peeled off his coat with care and draped it over the wall hook. Shirt, bracers, trousers—each removed in measured, precise movements. He didn’t rush. His motions were deliberate. Ceremonial, almost. There was something grounding in undressing alone.
The long mirror on the back of the door caught his eye.
He turned toward it, one hand on his hip, the other draped at his side.
He was slim—too slim, by many standards of his kin. Where most gatorkin grew into heavy shoulders and burly haunches, he remained compact and knife-edged, built more for movement than brawling. Lean muscle traced his sides, dark green scales slick in the low light, accented with glints of deep grey along the base of his scutes.
He'd heard it a thousand times before—runt—and even if it never came from Gideon, it clung to the back of his mind like something sticky and half-dried. But there was power in what he was. Compact didn’t mean weak. Runt didn’t mean lesser. It just meant he had to be smarter. Quicker. More precise. With words or with movement, he was silver-edged
Undoubtedly, there were some benefits to his frame. A different kind of elegance. Things that he’d learned to use to his advantage, whispered by women who were made of smoke and sequins. Men too, though perhaps less so – he’d not been allowed in the men’s dressing room much in those days.
He let his fingers trail lightly over the scars on his stomach; old, pale across the scale, memories of a surgery cheap and cheerful. He was no stranger to pain. But pain didn’t define him.
The bath beckoned.
He slipped in with a hiss of satisfaction, tail flicking instinctively as the heat embraced him. Submerging slowly, carefully, arms sliding along the edges as his throat fluttered with a low, involuntary purr. He was nearly swallowed whole by the water, chin tucked just above the foamy surface, bubbles rising around him like tiny gems. Starry glitter swirled past his scales in whorls of peachy iridescence, as if he commanded tacky galaxies.
For a few blessed seconds, there was nothing but warmth and water and silence.
His tail swished beneath the bubbles. His eyes half-lidded.
But no softness comes when one is guarded as Kremy was. The thought returned—quiet and insistent as a tide.
The bed. One bed. One very pink, very round bed, with one very large, very present Gideon to share it with.
Kremy exhaled through his nose, sending a ripple across the bubbles.
It wasn’t Gideon, per se. He didn’t dislike the man—far from it. Gideon was... a decent sort. Loyal. Solid in a way Kremy could rely on, even if he joked too much and talked like he'd been raised in a tavern full of dogs. He was warm in a way Kremy didn’t know how to be. Which, of course, made him dangerous.
Therefore, sharing a bed? That meant... proximity. The quiet kind. The space where breathing syncs and limbs might brush in the middle of the night. Where silence becomes heavy. Where thoughts might rise that shouldn’t be there in the first place.
He flicked water at the ceiling with his tail, irritated with himself.
It’s just sleep, he thought. He’ll stay on his side. I’ll stay on mine. It’s nothing.
Probably.
Still, the tightness in his chest didn’t fade. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. But something... uneasy. A kind of anticipatory vulnerability. Like a tripwire set but not yet sprung.
He closed his eyes and sank lower into the heat.
Focus on the bath, he told himself. On the water easing tension from muscle and joint, on the low hum of the pipes, on the fragrant bubbles tickling his skin. This moment was his. No eyes. No expectations. No need to brace.
He could worry later.
For now, Kremy allowed himself to float, his lithe form lost beneath the froth, tail flicking lazily, eyes shut tight—not in sleep, but in that strange, in-between stillness where the world felt just far enough away.
At least for now that was enough.
With the bathroom door shut and sealed behind Kremy, Gideon finally let out a long, lazy sigh. He scratched a hand through his hair—dark, a little wavy, tied loosely at the nape—and toed off his socks with the heel of one foot like a man used to peeling off the day. His shirt was already half-unbuttoned, and he shrugged it off without much ceremony, letting it drop into the pile of his things on the floor. Trousers followed, replaced with a pair of soft flannel sleep pants—well-worn and patched once at the thigh.
The room was still warm from the bath’s steam, and the faint scent of citrus lingered even this far out.
He stretched his arms overhead with a yawn, the soft golden glow under his skin pulsing faintly at his chest, ribs, collarbones—embers that came and went with his breathing. Fire genasi blood didn’t flare with mood so much as presence. It lived in him, quietly, like a hearth fire at dusk. It never really went out.
He flopped backward onto the ridiculous bed with a satisfying bounce, arms spread wide like a starfish, tail of flame-touched hair fanning out behind him on the pillows.
The mattress was nicer than it had any right to be.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured, one hand resting on his bare stomach. “This is the softest thing I’ve ever laid on.”
He gave the ceiling a wide, private grin. Then turned his head toward the bathroom door, where steam still curled in lazy plumes beneath the gap.
Kremy. Always modest, always layered up. Gideon had known him for ages now and had maybe seen the man’s ankles twice—both during emergencies. Even when patching wounds, Kremy handled his own dressings like it was a personal ritual, guarded and precise. Not that Gideon minded. He respected that. Kremy didn’t owe anyone a performance.
Still. He was curious. In the way you get curious about someone you’ve travelled beside for too long without truly seeing them. Kremy always kept that little sliver of himself tucked just out of reach.
Gideon reached up and ran his fingers over the thick, raised scars just beneath his pecs—two long lines of old, healed incisions that curved under the muscle. Pale against his fire-lit skin, a little warped at the edges where the stitches had been too tight. He didn’t think about them too much anymore. His dad had helped him get the surgery the moment he was old enough and done growing. It was the one thing his old man had offered without being asked.
“You know who you are. Let’s help the rest of the world catch up.”
He smiled faintly at the memory, then rubbed his thumb across the edge of one scar and let his hand fall.
The room was dim now. Gideon had nudged the switch on the wall, dimming the gaudy chandelier down to a soft red glow—nothing too bright. Neither of them really needed light to see. Not when his skin pulsed like coals under a winded bellows, and Kremy’s slitted pupils could catch every angle of dark with predator precision.
There was a muffled sound—the click of a latch, the whisper of fabric shifting—and then the bathroom door creaked open, spilling steam across the floor like fog again.
Kremy stepped out, clad in his satin pyjamas.
Gideon couldn’t help it: he gave a low whistle.
Purple. Shiny. Elegant in the way only something unapologetically over-the-top could be. The stripes caught what little light there was, and the high collar made him look taller somehow—regal, even, if you squinted.
“You look like a fancy bottle of grape wine at a party I wasn’t invited to,” Gideon drawled, one arm flung behind his head.
Kremy’s eyes flicked toward him, flat as polished obsidian.
“Say another word and I’ll boil you like a crawdad,” he said, but his voice had that sharp, tired softness that meant he wasn’t really biting.
“I’d be honoured to be part o’ your cookin’.” Gideon grinned and sat up, leaning forward on his elbows. “Room’s warm enough already, sugar. No need for extra heat.”
Kremy said nothing—just scanned the bed like it was a battlefield, his jaw clenched, lips tight. His eyes caught the wide plush dip in the center, the obnoxious pink duvet with its heart quilting, the single long pillow clearly meant for cuddling.
His expression barely shifted, but Gideon caught the flicker of trepidation. Not fear. Just… calculation. Wariness.
“Hey, man,” Gideon’s grin softened. “Ain’t no big deal, y’know. I don’t snore. Much. And I’ll keep to my side, promise.”
Kremy made a vague noise—neither agreement nor refusal—and stepped further into the room, his gait still uneven from the bath easing the worst of the pain but not quite smoothing it out. His tail dragged behind him with a lazy flick, and his posture remained sharp, deliberate.
The glow from Gideon’s skin caught the edges of his face—sharpening the cheekbones, softening the mouth.
“There's one pillow,” Kremy muttered.
“I got a coat you can fold. Or you can take the pillow—I got enough padding up here.” Gideon gestured to his chest, bare and marked by scar and soft muscle alike.
Kremy didn't answer right away. Just approached the bed, slowly, fingers brushing at the cuffs of his sleeves, fiddling with them as though buying himself time. The bed loomed now—fluffy, scented faintly of rose powder and dust—and the distance between the two of them, however much space was left on the mattress, felt narrow. Close.
He placed one knee on the edge of the bed. His claws clicked softly against the headboard. The silence stretched.
Gideon waited, watching—not pushing, not joking now. Just waiting.
And Kremy, jaw tight and shoulders drawn, finally climbed up beside him with a slow, bristling grace. He did not relax. But he did lie down.
Close. But not too close.
Just enough to be real. Just enough to make the silence ring a little louder.
Just enough to matter.
For a while, they lay in silence. The kind that felt almost sacred—soft breaths, quiet creaks of the bed frame under weight shifting slightly, the distant hum of old magic in the walls like a lullaby half-remembered.
Gideon lay on his back, arms behind his head, his chest glowing faintly with every breath. The fire in him was never fully asleep, and the warmth of his presence was a subtle one—like sitting too close to a sunlit window. Kremy had positioned himself on his side, facing the opposite wall, but not far. The kind of not-far that said I’m here, but don’t think about it too hard.
Eventually, Kremy stirred.
“…Those scars,” he said, voice low, tail flicking under the covers like a restless thought. “On your chest. I’ve seen them before. Never asked.”
Gideon blinked slowly. Then glanced down at his torso, where the deep, curved lines stood pale against his skin—one under each pec, symmetrical and healed, but unmistakable.
“Oh,” he said, a little surprised by the question. “Yeah. Top surgery.”
Kremy rolled slightly to glance at him, pupil slitted and unblinking.
“That a kind of combat fix?”
Gideon snorted. “Not quite. Had it done on purpose. Nothin’ was broken, just… wasn’t the shape I wanted to be in, y’know? Didn’t feel right. So I changed it.”
“How?”
“Well, wasn’t a girl from when I was real small,” Gideon reasoned. “Pa just wanted me to be grown a’fore I went and changed up. Was m’ birthday present when I was sixteen. He paid for a fancy doctor to do it, said he didn’t trust potions.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. More… thoughtful. Kremy’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, then flicked away.
“…Surgery,” Kremy repeated, as if testing the word in his mouth. “Strange thing, for identity.”
“Strange?” Gideon asked, curiosity creeping in.
“I mean…” Kremy sat up a little, propping himself on one elbow, his silhouette outlined in soft gold. “I suppose I pity mammals. You lot get so… attached to what your bodies look like. Your shape. Your meat.”
He said it clinically, like a scientist or a tailor—like someone who’d always seen physical form as more like a uniform than a truth.
“Heh,” Gideon laughed quietly. “Ain’t wrong. We’re vain as hell.”
But Kremy shook his head.
“No, not vain. Just… trapped, maybe.” He tilted his head, thoughtful now. “When a lizardfolk wants to change, we just do it. No fanfare. We don’t got all that secondary stuff—no… soft bits that tell people what we are. Nothing obvious. Sometimes, not even other lizardfolk can tell. You wake up one day, change your name, wear something different, move different, and that’s it. You’re different now. No questions.”
He paused, then added, with a faint, sharp smirk: “Doesn’t work as well for mammals. You all track things.”
Gideon blinked, propping himself up to mirror Kremy. “Wait… You mean—”
“Mm.” Kremy’s mouth twisted, not quite into a smile. “I wasn’t always Mister LeCroux.”
There was a beat. Gideon didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Quiet. Processing.
The silence was heavier now, but not unwelcome.
Kremy flicked his tail, rubbing at one horn absent-mindedly. “I was seventeen. Woke up one morning. Changed a letter in my name. Put on a suit that fit. That was it. Nobody stopped me. Not really. You grow up, and the nest stops caring. You leave, and they forget you. You’re what you say you are. That’s the deal.”
Gideon let out a low whistle. “That easy?”
Kremy shrugged, but the motion was stiff. “Not really. Not in here.” He tapped his chest with a claw. “Not with the looks I get. Runt’s a runt, no matter what you call yourself. Folk stare anyway. Especially when you don’t puff up like they expect.”
Gideon’s expression softened. “So that’s why you wear all those coats.”
“They make me look expensive,” Kremy said, dryly. “Expensive creatures don’t get questioned. They get left alone.”
Gideon let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but more fond than amused.
“Well,” he said eventually, voice low and warm, “I think you look damn sharp, boss. And I ain’t never cared what anyone used to call you. I only know the one that stomped into my life in a velvet coat, threatened to fire me twice in one day, and pulled me outta that mess with the dryads. That one’s plenty real to me.”
Kremy blinked. Then huffed, sharp and soft.
“…That dryad thing was your fault.”
“Sure was,” Gideon agreed easily, grin curling his lips. “Still. Glad I had you there.”
Kremy didn’t reply, but the quiet that followed had changed. Loosened. Like a knot pulled a little less tight.
Gideon leaned back again, folding his arms under his head.
“I think there’s something beautiful in that, though,” he said after a moment. “What you said. About just changing. Makes me think there’s more than one way to get where we’re goin’. Ain’t all sawbones and scars.”
Kremy’s tail flicked again, slowly, across the bed.
“…No,” he said, almost a whisper. “I suppose not.”
For a moment, the two of them just lay there, not quite touching, but closer than they’d been before. The weight of shared understanding filled the space between them—not complete, not fixed, but real. And real was enough.
Eventually, Kremy shifted again, drawing the blankets up over his shoulders.
“I won’t steal the pillow,” he mumbled.
“You can if you need it,” Gideon replied, voice already thick with sleep. “I’m good at sharin’.”
Kremy didn’t answer. But his tail, when it curled a little closer beneath the sheets, brushed Gideon’s shin once.
Just once.
And then stilled.
It was deep in the night when Kremy stirred, somewhere between a dream and the waking world.
The room was dark, soaked in the syrupy blue hush of early pre-dawn, with shadows slung low across the velvet curtains. The faint scent of rose and old dust lingered, softened now by the steam that had long since faded from the bath. Outside, the world was still, hushed as if muffled by layers of soft wool.
Kremy’s eyes cracked open—just barely.
Cold.
It rolled in beneath the covers like a slow tide, not biting, not cruel. Just… present. A persistent, creeping cool that kissed the tips of his fingers, the length of his tail, the back of his neck. His body, always running cooler than the mammals around him, was slow to warm on its own. The heat from the bath had worn off hours ago, and now the satin of his pyjamas felt too thin, too distant from the fire he’d once soaked in.
He shifted faintly under the covers.
The bed was too big. The room too still. The kind of cold that settled into the bones, quiet and invisible.
But—
There. Beside him.
Gideon’s warmth.
Not just heat, but living warmth—like campfires at dusk, sunbaked bricks, the hush of summer air clinging to the skin. He radiated it in slow pulses, the heat from his fire genasi blood like a lullaby humming under his skin. And though he wasn’t pressed close, he was near enough that Kremy could feel the ghost of it—right there, just out of reach.
In the hazy tangle of sleep and instinct, Kremy didn’t think.
He shifted. Just a little. Tail twitching as he inched closer, sliding toward that subtle, glowing heat source like a stone basking beneath a sun it had almost forgotten.
The bed creaked softly as he moved, careful, cautious. One arm tucked under the pillow, the other drawn close to his chest. He nudged himself into the warmth, angled his spine in the same curve as Gideon’s, pressing his back lightly against the genasi’s chest.
The heat was immediate. Delicious. His breath slowed. His tail curled. And even as a thought flickered somewhere distant in his mind—What are you doing?—it vanished again beneath the pull of sleep and warmth. This was practical. Sensible. Just survival, really.
Gideon shifted behind him.
A low, sleepy murmur escaped the man’s throat, and the heat surged closer.
Arms—strong, heavy, but gentle—curled instinctively around him. One slid beneath Kremy’s arm, the other wrapped around his waist. The contact was warm, so warm, and Kremy made a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a purr and a sigh—as the warmth soaked into his skin, scales drinking in the heat like dry earth under summer rain.
He drifted.
Gideon, now more awake than asleep, opened his eyes into the heavy dark. The shape pressed into his chest was small. Cool. All lithe muscle and textured scale beneath slick satin. Kremy’s body fit against him in a way that was startlingly natural—like the space between them had always been waiting to be filled.
He blinked once, twice, slow as honey. The warmth between them bloomed.
One of Kremy’s scutes bumped against his jaw as the smaller man shifted faintly in his sleep, and Gideon smiled without even meaning to—just a curl of his mouth, soft and full of something like wonder.
The scales under his palm were smooth in places, pebbled in others, like polished stone shaped by wind and water. Kremy smelled faintly of cedar soap and bubble bath, and underneath that, something dryer—silt and hide and warm stone. His tail had wound between their legs without warning, lazy and loose.
Gideon’s arms tightened, barely, pulling the bundle closer, careful not to wake him.
He sighed into Kremy’s shoulder, nuzzled there just once, and let the warm quiet hold them both.
It didn’t feel wrong.
It didn’t feel strange.
Just hazy, soft. Like being wrapped in something safe and secret. Like the world outside the bed had melted away, leaving only the slow pulse of heat and breath and the hum of something unspoken, something not quite yet understood.
And in that dreamy hush, Gideon let himself fall asleep again—wrapped around his boss like it was the most natural thing in the world.