Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s truly astounding, how something as intangible as words can hurt as much as a blade slipped through the ribs.

Just as with wounds inflicted by the sharpest of knives, Hugo doesn’t consciously realize it, at first.

He and Lycaon are supposed to be scouting out the target of their next heist – an upcoming politician who shot to prominence for their philanthropic acts, but whose funds never actually make it to any charity. It’s an assignment that Jack is letting them plan out in its entirety for the first time, without any of his input, which makes it as good as Hugo’s mission.

Lycaon cares most about the outcome, after all, while Hugo is the one who prioritizes the means; although Lycaon is Hugo’s equal – in the strength of their will, competence in both wit and battle, stubbornness – Hugo knows he’ll most likely get his way, even if Lycaon usually puts up a show of protesting just to keep Hugo’s ego down to size.

So he and Lycaon are supposed to be scouting out the target of their next heist, but while waiting Hugo had thought of a better idea, and he’d gotten the intel they needed ahead of time and slipped back to the secret hideaway, thinking to surprise Lycaon—

It’s that almost childish delight in theatrics, of wanting to sneak up on his ever-vigilant partner and impress him (not that Lycaon is ever impressed, really) with how brilliant and efficient Hugo is, that saves Hugo from walking straight into a conversation that Jack never meant for him to be privy to.

He hears his name first and pauses instead of swanning into the room, curious more than anything else. That curiosity fades into something colder as he listens to the rest of Jack’s words – of condemnation, no matter how beautifully they were wrapped in metaphors about flowers blooming in the light and dark – and yet there Hugo remains, utterly still, even as Jack speaks of restraining him, choking him.

He doesn’t realize that he’s waiting for Lycaon to protest, to rise up in Hugo’s defense and reject Jack’s demand until it doesn’t happen, Lycaon’s troubled silence as damning as the executioner’s blade.

The pain slices right through Hugo then, agonizing.

He actually glances down. But no; his shirt is pristine – no blood, no visible wounds.

Everything crashes into his awareness all at once – the way Hugo’s lungs are burning because he’s been holding his breath, his vision going spotty at the edges and his head spinning from the lack of oxygen. The way his shoulders ache from how forcibly still he’s holding himself, all his muscles tense.

The way he’s standing outside the room holding the two people he trusts most in this broken world, who have now just spoken about killing him.

Instinct kicks in, hard.

He forces himself to breathe in deep, steady intervals no matter how much his chest quivers, threatening now to hyperventilate, and backs away, balancing his weight carefully on each step to avoid any squeaky spots on the hardwood floor.

Don’t run. Don’t panic. Don’t draw their attention.

These are the lessons that have been beaten into him by his mother, by each painful encounter with his siblings at the Ravenlock Manor. Crying only impaired his vision, clogged up his lungs. And no one ever cared to listen, to either the begging or the furious screaming; often, it only spurred them on.

Here is the greatest lesson of them all – nothing is ever what they seem, on the surface. His father’s genteel smile and soft voice, masking the heartless sociopath beneath. A table full of beautiful desserts, only leading to nausea and pain, choked half to death on cloying sweetness.

And the warmth and safety of a found family, now revealed to be only a paper-thin shroud – so easily torn apart by the weight of Hugo’s past, the stain of his bloodline.

Hugo is a fool to forget these lessons.

At least this time, he’s the only one to pay the price.

---

He ends up back on the rooftop opposite their mark’s residence – his and Lycaon’s original rendezvous spot.

Hugo stares dully out into the night sky. The horizon had been painted in glorious reds and gold when he first departed, but by the time he made it back, the sun had fully set. He should appreciate all the shadows to hide in; instead, like a flower that has basked too long in the sun, Hugo just finds himself wilting, cold and listless in the dark.

He thinks about running, of just abandoning Jack and Lycaon and slipping away, to make a life for himself elsewhere. He also considers, for a brief moment, of just barging in after all and screaming at them—

How could you? How could you take me in and show me kindness, teach me to crave warmth and strive to be better, only to turn around and rip it all away?

How could you do this to me?

—but technically, Lycaon hasn’t done anything yet, and Hugo is weak.

He’s always been weak, and the moment he hears Lycaon’s footsteps, the quiet three-tone whistle that is their signal to each other, Hugo pushes away all those nebulous, half-formed plans.

Everyone puts on an act, right? Hugo can act. And if he acts well enough, perhaps he can keep the illusion of being trusted, of being cared for, for a while longer.

Like a puppet whose strings have been pulled tight, Hugo straightens from his slouch, tosses his head back and says, voice light, “You’re late.”

“I got held up,” Lycaon says, without missing a beat. “Jack wanted a word with me.”

“Oh? I thought he agreed to let us run this mission solo. He isn’t meddling, is he?”

“It’s still our mission, Hugo. He didn’t say a word about the politician, promise.”

That is true. Lycaon is terrible at lying, but telling truths while omitting crucial information - Hugo never realized how effective that can be.

He always lets Lycaon get away with such vague answers, never thinking that his righteous partner would hide anything from him.

“What did you and Jack talk about, then?” Hugo asks, unable to resist even though he knows the answer – whatever answer Lycaon chooses to give – will hurt.

“Nothing important,” Lycaon says, and that – that is a lie. “But it’s Jack, so of course I had to hear him out. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Stepping up to the ledge that Hugo is sitting on, Lycaon takes one look over the edge and then fists one hand in the collar of Hugo’s shirt. He’s done that dozens of times, always irrationally worried that Hugo would slip one day and plunge straight to his death, but this time, the brush of Lycaon’s claws, the movement so close to the vulnerable nape of Hugo’s neck, those damning words – restrain him, stop him, choke him – trip off Hugo’s instincts in the wrong way, and he flinches, hard.

Lycaon freezes. “Hugo?”

Recovering, Hugo brushes it off, reaching up to tug Lycaon’s hand away. “I’m just cold, and you always run so unfairly hot, you furry space heater. You startled me, that’s all. No need to scuff me like a naughty kitten, I've been sitting here for the past half hour without mishap.”

See? Hugo too can speak honestly without telling the entire truth.

Lycaon flexes his fingers, then sits on the ledge as well, although he keeps his legs firmly planted on the rooftop, unlike Hugo who lets his dangle free, uncaring of the sheer drop beneath him. He has to twist his body sideways to stare out in the same direction as Hugo – first at the night sky, then down at the politician’s residence below.

“You always take more risks than you should,” Lycaon mutters. “It worries me.”

Hugo doesn’t quite manage to swallow his laugh, although he keeps the incredulity mostly under wraps. “I think that should be the least of your worries.”

Perhaps if Hugo does take a fatal tumble right off the roof, it’ll solve all of Jack and Lycaon’s problems.

The moment he finishes thinking that thought, Hugo reaches over and pinches the vulnerable skin on the inner side of his elbow, hard enough that it’ll likely bruise. It isn’t like him to be so nihilistic, and that tiny but sharp pinch of pain is a reminder – he’s paid worse, to be alive.

And if he wants to preserve the illusion that all is well, then Hugo needs to put on a better act. He’s gone silent for a little too long, after all.

Except… Lycaon is strangely silent, too.

He’s just staring, his ears pricked forward in attention. Had he caught Hugo pinching himself? Hugo is sure that the darkness, the angle of his body hid the movement from Lycaon.

“Partner,” Hugo drawls. “You’re staring at me like I’m a piece of meat that you’d like to take a bite of. You’re not actually a dog, so you shouldn’t act like one. Right?”

Normally, poking or making fun of Lycaon’s canine aspects will rile his partner up like no tomorrow, and Hugo aims to complete the job, touching two fingers to Lycaon’s chin and pressing upwards, as if to keep his mouth shut.

He isn’t surprised when Lycaon retaliates, grabbing at his arm. He is surprised, though, when Lycaon presses his nose to Hugo’s wrist, breathing in deeply.

Hugo lets out a startled hiss. “Okay, what is up with you? You’re acting weird.”

He tries to tug his hand free, but Lycaon’s grip is vice-like.

“You’re acting weirder,” Lycaon retorts, but his tone is all wrong; rather than scathing, his voice comes out oddly hesitant. He lifts his head, but doesn’t relinquish Hugo’s arm. “This isn’t your usual fragrance.”

Stupid wolf Thirens and their stupidly sharp sense of smell. “If you had shown up on time, you’d know that I already got the intel by speaking to that politician’s youngest daughter. She’s an aspiring perfumer, and naturally, I sampled some of her latest perfumes while we chatted about her profession, what inspired her to take up perfumery, you know, things like her father’s charities.”

Lycaon ignores everything about their actual mission, staring down at Hugo’s wrist as if he can find the answers to the world there. “What scents are these? They smell… very flowery.”

Sighing, Hugo resigns himself to having his arm kidnapped for the foreseeable future. “I doubt you’d understand the intricacies of fragrance aesthetics, so I’ll keep it simple. It’s predominantly jasmine, lily of the valley and rose, with a base of cashmere wood. She picked mainly floral scents, because I said I was looking for a gift for my sister.”

Hugo’s voices drops on the last word, near breathless, as it always does when he speaks about Serena. She would have loved that perfume.

Lycaon stays silent, long enough for agitation to begin pricking under Hugo’s skin.

“Either tell me what’s wrong with you, or release me,” Hugo demands, twisting his arm so he can grab back at Lycaon, digging his fingers in.

But Lycaon doesn’t flinch. His ears, Hugo finally notices, have flattened, his tail tucked down, unmoving.

“Hugo,” Lycaon says. “Neither Jack nor I wear fragrances. And we don’t have flowers at our secret hideaway, not in the garden or inside the house—”

He breaks off, staring at Hugo. Hugo stares back.

Then, Hugo rips his arm from Lycaon’s grasp, uncaring that he scratches himself on Lycaon’s claws doing so.

“Hugo,” Lycaon exclaims, reaching out automatically, and Hugo ducks away, scrambling across the rooftop, only stopping when he runs out of space.

Lycaon doesn’t follow him, but his eyes are wide, two spots of reflected red in the dark.

Wetness is dripping down Hugo’s arm, but his heart is pounding so quickly that Hugo can’t feel any pain.

The laugh he lets out sounds like glass grinding against glass in his ears. “And here I thought I had made the perfect getaway, like the good phantom thief I’m supposed to be. You and your ridiculously acute sense of smell, Lycaon.”

Lycaon nods, although it seems to be more just to do something rather than in agreement. “I couldn’t figure out where the scent of flowers came from, until I smelled it again on your wrist.” This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Hugo, you came home, didn’t you. Did you… hear everything Jack said?”

Home. Lycaon calls it their home, and Hugo doesn’t want to do this.

If you can’t hide, run.

Hugo leaps for the rooftop beside them, tucking and rolling to disperse his momentum before he scrambles to his feet and bolts.

Despite the wind in his ears, the pounding of his heart, it only takes several seconds before Hugo hears the heavy thud behind him, Lycaon leaping the rooftop and chasing right after him.

The scant seconds of Hugo’s head start means little against Lycaon’s speed and stamina, but Hugo won’t allow himself to get caught. They’re not just equals – they complement each other. Lycaon may be faster, he might be able to overpower Hugo easily, but Hugo is nimbler, the unpredictable one with plenty of tricks up his sleeve.

And there’s one trait ingrained in Hugo that he suspects Lycaon never had to learn so violently: the relentless drive to survive, even if he has to claw for it with ripped out fingernails and blood in his mouth.

Hugo is good at this. It’s how he survived the Ravenlock Manor.

Outnumbered? Hide better.

Cornered? Fight dirty, then slip out.

Hauled up as a scapegoat in a makeshift trial with his so-called father playing judge, jury and executioner?

Lie. Lie through his teeth. Lie like Hugo’s heart isn’t breaking.

Now, rushing across the rooftops, Hugo uses the environment to his advantage, taking the narrow ledges and tight gaps that force Lycaon with his larger frame to find alternatives. He doesn’t manage to lose Lycaon – the wolf Thiren must be tracking him by scent or some other senses – but he does stay ahead.

And of course, Hugo always has a final backup plan.

He had charted this route in advance, in case their mission goes awry and they needed to make a hasty and clean escape; it takes them towards the border of Janus Quarter, to a construction site abandoned for its proximity to the Cretan Hollow and the many, smaller companion Hollows that tend to manifest around it.

“Hugo!” he finally hears Lycaon yell. Jack had trained them to remain silent when traveling by rooftop – nothing blows their cover like incessant bickering, or that one time very early on when Hugo had slipped and his yelp of panic went unnoticed only because Lycaon’s shout of his name had been louder – but in this abandoned space, there’s nothing holding either of them back.

Hugo doesn’t waste his breath responding. Instead, he jumps out towards the scaffolding, grabbing on tight with both hands and dragging himself upwards, high, higher.

When Lycaon leaps onto the scaffolding, Hugo feels it through the reverberations along the steel poles, the way the makeshift structure shifts under their combined weight. He scrambles onto the half-finished building then; he didn’t quite make it to the top, but this is high enough.

Hugo makes his way slowly towards the furthest end of the level, trying to catch his breath. The floor is barely finished, just the main support beams and landings with the walls yet to be filled in. His arm hurts, now that he’s slowed down enough to feel it; the scratches aren’t deep but they’re long, Lycaon’s claws sharp enough to rip through fabric and skin alike, especially since Hugo hadn’t cared one bit about how they’re placed when he’d ripped his hand free.

He doesn’t bother trying to bind them. These wounds won’t matter, after this.

The moon is full and bright tonight, a minor blessing that allowed Hugo to navigate relatively safely across the rooftops without tripping over some unseen obstacle. The moonlight is quite forgiving, turning the abandoned construction yard into something almost beautiful – all stark, silvered edges, a visual contrast against the sheer darkness of the Hollow beneath.

Hugo only turns away from the sight when Lycaon finally catches up with him.

“Hugo.” Lycaon doesn’t even have the decency to sound winded, although it means the frustration is all the more obvious in his voice. He stops several paces away, further than their usual preference, obviously wary of spooking Hugo into fleeing once more. “Stop fucking running.”

“I already stopped,” Hugo points out. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t even be able to catch my shadow.”

Lycaon’s eyes flash with ire, but after a moment, he backs down. When he speaks again, the previous hesitance is back. “Then… can we talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Hugo says. “Jack was very clear. He doesn’t trust me. And you obviously agree.”

“I do trust you—”

“Because your silence was so convincing.”

Lycaon opens his mouth, but no words emerge.

Hugo smiles. It feels overstretched on his lips, stiff and unnatural. “Like so,” he says softly, and takes a step backward.

Lycaon’s head comes up sharply, his ears pricking straight up. “Don’t—it’s dangerous. Please, can we just get off this building first?”

Hugo shakes his head and takes another step backwards. He’s close to the edge now, the wind buffeting at his back.

Lycaon’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“Making it easy for you and Jack,” Hugo answers. “You don’t have to do anything; I’m taking it out of your hands.”

Lycaon is stubborn, after all. He won’t give up the chase, and Hugo can’t outrun him forever.

Therefore, Hugo will give Lycaon a finite end, so he’ll finally stop.

“Goodbye, Lycaon,” Hugo says, and pushes himself backwards, lets gravity grip him before his survival instincts can kick in.

Lycaon lunges for him. Hugo catches a glimpse of his partner’s eyes, full of terror; his outstretched hand. Then, Hugo is falling, his hair whipping in his face, the wind a roar in his ears. The world whirls by in shapes and shadows, the faint outlines of the abandoned buildings standing out against the night sky, the distant stars a silent witness—

—and a figure leaps out from the building after him, a distinct silhouette against the glow of the moon. 

No, you're not supposed to follow me, Hugo has just enough time to think—

—and then he's plunging through the chromatic shimmer of the Hollow fissure, sparks of light blinding his vision and heavy Etheric pressure crushing the breath from his lungs before the darkness takes him. 

Chapter Text

Normal laws of physics and spacetime don’t apply within the Hollows.

When Hugo emerges within the Hollow it’s at an angle near the ground, his tremendous falling momentum mostly dispersed during the transition from reality into this abnormal space. He tucks his head down and draws in all his limbs; the landing is jarring and his head spins as he rolls and tumbles across the ground, not quite able to check all the energy from the impact.

When Hugo finally comes to a stop, his arm isn’t the only thing hurting anymore. He’s bruised and scraped up, but that’s infinitely better than splattering into a gory mess at the bottom of the half-finished building.

His chest feels tight, like he can’t quite get a proper breath in, but Hugo forces himself to sit up. He’d landed harshly but more or less safely, because Hugo had known what to expect when he entered this Hollow.

Lycaon didn’t.

Jack, whether due to his age or health, had never entertained venturing near the Hollows, and Lycaon, to the best of Hugo’s knowledge, had stuck to Jack’s methods. To Hugo, however, the Hollows have always been a viable option.

After all, the first Hollow Hugo ever encountered could easily have become his grave; instead, it had been his salvation. He’d leapt through the fissure with the thought that anything would be better than having to live through another day of his father’s malicious games, his siblings’ increasingly bloodthirsty retaliations, and when he’d miraculously emerged from the Hollow, Hugo found Jack and Lycaon.

So when Jack began hinting at allowing the two of them to run missions on their own, Hugo had added an escape route through the Hollow as a backup plan, although he’d wanted to ease his partner into the idea of it.

So much for that.

The space Hugo landed in is a facsimile of the abandoned construction site. There’s no sign of Lycaon nearby, even though they entered the Hollow just seconds apart. Hugo staggers to his feet and begins pacing forward, his heart in his throat – given how this accursed day has gone, it would be Hugo’s luck if the Hollow warped Lycaon to another zone entirely.

But one thing finally goes right; when Hugo turns around a corner, there Lycaon is, lying face down on the ground.

Hugo has to catch his tongue between his teeth as he dashes to his partner’s side, no matter how much he wants to call out Lycaon’s name. Being too noisy on the rooftops just means getting discovered and having to strike off that particular route as the residence around that area become more alert to the interlopers navigating on top of their buildings; being too noisy in the Hollow means potentially attracting the attention of Ethereals.

There’s no blood, Hugo tells himself. All of Lycaon’s limbs appear intact. Never mind internal bleeding or bruising; Hugo needs to check if Lycaon is breathing, first.

But the moment Hugo tumbles to his knees, reaching for his partner—

—Lycaon rolls over and lunges, flattening Hugo to the ground.

Hugo’s startled yelp is muffled by a mouthful of fur. His arms get trapped between Lycaon’s chest and his own; the rest of him is pinned down by Lycaon’s substantial weight.

By the time Hugo manages to shift enough so he can turn his face away from Lycaon’s ruff – he’s lucky Lycaon’s over the top spiked collar didn’t gauge an eye out – his shock has transmuted into an affronted outrage.

“You—mutt!” he exclaims, although it comes out breathless on account of the nearly full-grown wolf Thiren pressing the air from his lungs. “Did you bait me? Did you seriously just bait me with the idea that you were injured so you could trap me?”

“No,” Lycaon mumbles. “I was dazed from the impact and trying to catch my breath. You startled me; I just reacted.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Hugo attempts to push Lycaon off. He fails. “Fine. Get off me.”

“No,” Lycaon says, his voice stronger now. He shifts, bracing more of his weight on his arms so Hugo can breathe a little easier, but he also doesn’t move, leaving Hugo caged in by his limbs.

“Did you hit your head or something?” Managing to wiggle one arm free, Hugo reaches up to grab Lycaon by the head, to pull him away enough so he can get a look at his pupils. But his fingers refuse to cooperate; instead, they begin sifting carefully through Lycaon’s fur, feeling along the curve of his skull for bumps or cracks.

Lycaon’s ears flick under Hugo’s touch. “Me?” he growls, and oh, there’s the anger now. “What about you? You jumped off a building, you lunatic!”

Hugo scoffs. “And what does that say about you? I knew there was a Hollow beneath me; I planned for it. You, on the other hand, leapt right off the building after me, with no strategy or guarantee of survival.” Suddenly, his own outrage is back. “What the hell, Lycaon?”

Lycaon pulls back, turning to stare down at Hugo. His ears have flattened; his eyes are clear, pupils narrowed with emotion.

“Did you,” Lycaon growls, a sound that Hugo both hears and feels, a deep rumbling vibration where their chests are still pressed together, “honestly think I could just stand there and watch you die? I didn’t know you had a plan either. I’ve always been the one dragging you out of trouble, how could I just let you—”

He breaks off then, turning his head to the side. But Lycaon’s eyes are still trained on Hugo, unblinking, as if he can’t bring himself to look away.

Nope.

Hugo is not having this conversation any more than he wants to have the one about Jack’s warnings – especially not here, in the Hollow with Lycaon looming over him, his fur bristling as it only ever does when Lycaon is furious, as though he’s facing a threat—

—or perhaps, from heightened, sustained fear.

“I don’t owe you any answers,” Hugo sneers, grabbing at Lycaon’s collar, the spikes digging in his palms. He kicks out his legs, pinned as they are; if he can get at least one foot under him to brace with, he’ll have some leverage to get free. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Lycaon doesn’t answer. He just lets his weight settle more evenly over Hugo, his arms braced on either side of Hugo’s head. Hugo’s drag on his collar must bother him – Lycaon’s expression is pinched, his mouth opening to pull in more laboured breaths – but other than that—

Nothing. Like Hugo’s a child throwing a tantrum, and all Lycaon has to do is wait it out.

Cornered, out of options, Hugo goes for the metaphorical jugular.

Letting his hands fall from Lycaon’s collar, Hugo allows his entire body to go slack, no longer resisting.

“All right, let’s get it over with. You’ve managed to stop and restrain me.” Hugo closes his eyes and tips his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. “Go ahead – choke me.”

Lycaon flinches – if they weren’t pressed so closely together, Hugo wouldn’t have noticed. Hugo doesn’t allow the vindictive smile to touch his lips; he just lies there passively, daring Lycaon to make a move.

An inhale of breath—

But instead of Lycaon’s voice, there’s an unnerving, guttural roar, piercing in Hugo’s ears.

Hugo’s eyes fly open.

He meets Lycaon’s gaze immediately. They share an instant of mutual understanding, and then Lycaon rolls to the side, rising. He reaches out one hand to help pull Hugo to his feet, only to jerk back at the last moment, his fingers curling in a fist.

Hugo doesn’t have time to analyze that odd reaction. He scrambles to his feet on his own, eyes already flicking around their surroundings.

“Fight, or retreat?” Lycaon asks.

They’re in a fairly defensible area – a building behind them, just two entry points to keep an eye on. This Companion Hollow is fairly new, so the Ethereals within should still be weak.

If they retreat, however, and end up falling further into the Hollow – well, Hugo doesn’t fancy their chances without a Bangboo to help calculate and guide them out.

“Fight,” Hugo answers, flicking out his switch blade. He takes a step back even as Lycaon moves forward, their usual combat stances – Lycaon with his formidable claws and raw power as their front-facing offensive, Hugo with his knife and unpredictable fighting style as an opportunistic attacker.

The pressure in the air drops as Ethereals begin manifesting. These are humanoid in shape, although they seem to lack any sense of strategizing; instead of acting as a group, they seem to operate on individual impulses, milling towards the two humans in their wake in fits and starts.

Hugo and Lycaon have fended off groups of attackers before, gangs and raiders from other syndicates. Even with just the two of them, they should make short work of these Ethereals.

Lycaon lunges forward, claws leading. He hits the first two Ethereals swiftly, disabling them enough that Hugo, darting in his wake, finishes them off easily. By the time he looks up, Lycaon is in the thick of the swarm, shredding through Ethereals, the air heavy with released Ether.

Not one to let anyone best him, Hugo dashes in, striking at any stranglers that try to come around beside or behind them, destroying any heavily damaged Ethereals when the opportunity comes up.

Lycaon takes a few passing blows, mostly calculated so he can strike back; Hugo doesn’t sustain any injuries at all.

And then the Hati manifests behind Hugo.

Its howl – the same ear-splitting roar that they’d first heard, earlier – makes Hugo whirl around, switch blade flashing out. It glances off the creature’s tough hide, leaving only a shallow gouge instead of the deep tears the other Ethereals took.

Every single instinct in Hugo is telling him to retreat – live to fucking fight another day is a famous saying for a reason – but he holds his ground.

Lycaon is still fighting off the swarm of humanoid Ethereals. Even though they’ve more than halved their numbers, Hugo won’t leave his partner’s back exposed. Neither can he take down the Hati on his own.

He’ll just have to keep this four-legged beast occupied until Lycaon gets rid of the other Ethereals.

The next few minutes are a blur of whirling movement. Hugo doesn’t stop moving – he flicks from one side of the Hati to the other, trying to keep it contained to one area, avoiding the beast’s heavy swipes, ducking forward to strike with his blade whenever its attention threatens to wander.

It’s almost hypnotic, to fight like this – no conscious strategizing, just fully absorbed in the moment.

It’s only when Lycaon calls his name that Hugo’s focus resharpens, instinctively falling back as his partner bounds past him, intercepting the Hati’s latest attack.

“It has armor,” Hugo bites out, panting. His lungs are burning, his heartbeat pounding in his ears; it’s much more tiring to fight in the Hollow. “My blade keeps glancing off its hide; your claws probably will too.”

Lycaon lets out a low growl of his own, his attacks turning more much aggressive, utilizing heavy punches and kicks now. Hugo gives himself another moment to catch his breath, and then wades back into the battle – with Lycaon taking the brunt of the Hati’s attacks, Hugo focuses at striking at the Ethereal’s existing wounds, layering on assaults on the same spots until his blade finally sinks in, and Ether sprays through the air.

The Hati howls, piercing enough that Hugo staggers, his ears ringing. He must have made enough of a nuisance of himself that it enrages the Ethereal; it ignores Lycaon entirely and charges, claws tearing gashes in the ground, barreling straight for Hugo.

Hugo knows in an instant – he can’t dodge the Hati, and he won’t be able to fend it off. Instead of attempting to run and exposing his back to the creature, Hugo braces himself, knife up in hopes he can get in one last strike before he’s crushed—

A white blur slams into the Hati, knocking it off-course. Lycaon latches on, claws digging into the deep wound Hugo inflicted, tearing the edges wider. Frenzied, the Ethereal bucks, its own bestial forearms reaching up to rip Lycaon loose, and with one mighty convulsion, it flings Lycaon away.

Lycaon crashes into the building heavily enough to leave a visible dent.

But like Hugo, he’d been prepared – he managed to land one final kick on the Hati; with a groan, the Ethereal collapses to the ground, temporarily stunned.

Hugo doesn’t have time to consider his latest brush with death, or Lycaon’s state, or the swell of guilt and worry that could so easily overwhelm him. Instead, his eyes fall immediately on the exposed core that takes the place of the creature’s head.

Darting forward, Hugo grips his switch blade with both hands, raises it over his head, and puts all his strength into one massive upward leap – so that when he brings the knife down onto the core, the blow carries all his own power as well as the added force of gravity.

A loud sound, like shattering glass, rings out across the Hollow. Then the Ethereal disintegrates, shards of Ether dissolving around Hugo as he lands heavily on his feet. Somehow, he’s still holding onto his switch blade.

For the longest moment, he just stands there, panting, waiting in case other Ethereals emerge. But the Hollow remains perfectly, eerily silent, save for Hugo’s heart still pounding in his ears.

He glances over his shoulder, at where Lycaon had landed at the base of the building. This time, he doesn’t run over to check on his partner.

Not because he’s wary of getting pinned by Lycaon again, but because—

Why do good people always have to suffer? Serena asked him once, when they’d hidden in a tiny nook in the ceiling, a space that was perfect for Serena with her small stature, and that Hugo only fit through because of how skinny he’d been when he’d first arrived at the Ravenlock Manor. Faintly, two rooms over, they can hear the muffled thuds and yells as the guards dealt with the teacher who’d came to speak with their father, concerned over the bruising on one of their siblings.

None of the Ravenlock children were allowed to attend public school. The teacher had simply seen their sister passingly on the street, and worried about the injuries, accompanied her home.

Hugo didn’t have an answer for Serena then, and he still doesn’t have an answer to that question now.

Lycaon was supposed to be safe, if grieving, back with Jack, just like Serena was supposed to be safe in all the hiding spots Hugo showed her. But she’d overheard their siblings plotting against Hugo and left to try to warn him, falling into their trap. She’d chased after him just like Lycaon chased him all the way into the Hollow, taking the blows meant for Hugo in Hugo’s stead.

It’s always because of Hugo. Why do they keep caring for him?

It’s only going to get them killed.

“Lycaon,” Hugo calls out, trying to infuse as much sarcasm into his voice as possible. “Are you alive, or was the little beastie too much for you?”

A long moment of silence – during which Hugo’s heart feels like it might give out from how hard it is beating – and then Lycaon finally rolls over on his back with a faint grunt.

“I’m fine,” Lycaon says, turning his head to meet Hugo’s gaze.

One moment, Hugo is staring at Lycaon. The next, his knees are smarting badly, and he finds himself sitting on the ground, his legs splayed out at an awkward angle.

Did… his knees just give out?

“Hugo!” Lycaon yells, scrambling to his feet.

Suddenly Hugo becomes all too aware of the way his head hurts, pain stabbing into his temples with each throb of his heart. His hands, when he finally lets go of his switch blade, are shaking.

“I’m… fine?” Hugo says when Lycaon drops to his own knees beside him. He doesn’t tell Lycaon that his vision is blurry at the edges, making his partner’s red eyes stand out all the more. “The Ethereal didn’t hit me at all.”

“You’re obviously not fine,” Lycaon says, brushing Hugo’s bangs out of his face, pressing one hand against his forehead. It feels burningly hot against Hugo’s clammy skin, even more than usual. “If it’s not an injury from the Ethereals… when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“Breakfast,” Hugo replies automatically, “with you and Ja—”

The name gets stuck in Hugo’s throat, because how was that just this morning?

Lycaon undoubtedly noticed Hugo’s reaction, but mercifully glosses over it. Instead, he begins digging through his pockets even as he scolds Hugo, “That was over twelve hours ago! Why didn’t you have lunch?”

“I was busy setting up the appointment with the perfumer to get the intel,” Hugo mumbles. “And I did have some snacks afterwards, before I went to find you, because I knew you’d nag at me otherwise.”

“Well, look at you,” Lycaon retorts, pulling out a pair of ration bars. “I’m right to nag, aren’t I?”

Hugo squints, trying to get his eyes to focus on the shiny foil packaging. “Why do you have those?”

“Because of you, you idiot. I’d normally bring chocolate, but they get melty in the summer.” Carefully, Lycaon tears one of the ration bars open. It’s rather crumbly but surprisingly in one piece; Lycaon breaks the bar into two, and offers the bigger half to Hugo.

“My portion’s bigger than yours,” Hugo says.

“Are you seriously arguing with me, you hypoglycemic fool?” When Hugo opens his mouth to retort, Lycaon wedges the ration bar between Hugo’s teeth. “I’m already taking the other half because I know you’d complain if you’re the only one eating.”

Petulantly, Hugo bites into the ration bar. It’s cloyingly sweet – honey and syrup over the crunch of trail mix – and for a moment Hugo has to fight back nausea as his gag reflex threatens to kick in.

But Lycaon is sitting next to him, quietly eating his own portion, eyes still fixed on Hugo. So Hugo forces himself to swallow.

It takes him a long while to finish even that half of the ration bar, but nausea aside, Hugo does feel a bit better when he’s done. He doesn’t complain when Lycaon breaks open the second ration bar, just accepts his half, nibbling slowly on it.

It feels strange to just sit here in the aftermath of… everything. But the battle with the Ethereals has exhausted Hugo’s capacity to react to his emotional turmoil, and fighting side by side with Lycaon has reset his instincts towards his partner, leaving Hugo afraid more to hurt him than to be hurt by him.

Lycaon, too, seems loathed the break the silence. Only the occasional twitch of his tail betrays the fact that his inner thoughts aren’t as peaceful as his outward demeanour is.

And now that he has eaten and the pounding headache is subsiding, Hugo finally notices – Lycaon has hooked his ankles around Hugo’s own, not quite pinning him down, not a substantial grip by any means, but still maintaining a hold on Hugo.

Pretending to stretch, Hugo tries experimentally to shift away. Like before, Lycaon doesn’t budge.

Hugo stares at their entangled feet, and then turns around to stare at Lycaon.

Lycaon doesn’t even pretend to feel self-conscious about it. Instead, he just tips his chin towards Hugo’s arm and says, quietly, “You’re bleeding again.”

Hugo glances down at his arm. The once scabbed over long scratches had torn open again during the fight with the Ethereals; his arm looks ghastly because of all the rusty, half-dried streaks of blood, but Hugo’s lived with worse.

Dragging a corner of his shirt up, Hugo tries to dab the scratches clean, pressing down to help them scab over again. Lycaon, to Hugo’s faint surprise, doesn’t offer to help.

He thinks back to that odd moment before, when Lycaon reached out to pull Hugo to his feet, only to yank his hand back at the last moment. The way Lycaon is using his legs to keep a hold of Hugo, even when a hand grip would be so much more effective at preventing Hugo from running away. The way he hadn’t touched Hugo with his hands, other than that one time shortly after Hugo collapsed. The way Lycaon keeps his fingers curled into fists now, claws carefully tucked inwards.

Hugo closes his eyes, pressing his shirt down hard on the scratches until they throb.

Staying close to Hugo might get the people he loves killed, but Hugo isn’t just going to abandon Lycaon in the Hollow. Neither is he going to let Lycaon wallow in guilt for something that isn’t his fault, that Hugo doesn’t blame him for.

Hugo has lived with crippling guilt for years now. He won’t let Lycaon suffer even a fraction of that.

Dropping his shirt, Hugo reaches out lightning quick to catch Lycaon’s hand, prying Lycaon’s fingers apart and forcing his own between them to grip on tight.

Lycaon flinches, but like Hugo predicted, he doesn’t dare pull back, afraid of hurting Hugo again with his claws.

Hugo stares at him until his partner finally lifts his eyes to meet Hugo's gaze.

“We’re getting out of this Hollow,” Hugo declares, squeezing Lycaon’s hand hard; with anyone else, their bones would be creaking, but not so with Lycaon. “Together.”

Lycaon’s eyes flick between Hugo’s face and their entwined hands, ears twitching before they settle at a more neutral angle.

“Okay,” Lycaon finally replies, voice soft. He squeezes Hugo’s fingers back, lighter, careful with his strength. “Together.”

Chapter Text

Despite what others may think, Hugo’s recklessness is often founded on a bedrock of thorough preparation and planning; his actions only appear reckless because he chooses the most unconventional ways of achieving his goals.

After all, the more unpredictable Hugo is, the less likely it is that others can catch or best him.

So, while Hugo may have picked a dangerous track through the Hollows as an escape route, he had made sure to properly prepare the Carrot data ahead of time so they can get out safely. It only takes them another hour or so to find the exit; when Hugo and Lycaon emerge out of the Hollow, the entire city is still shrouded in the darkness of night.

It feels almost surreal, to be standing in the real world once again. The air feels lighter, their bodies no longer straining under the pressure of concentrated Ether. When they cut across the abandoned construction site, trying to get as far away from the Hollow as possible, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes is crisp, no longer oddly muted as it was in the Hollow.

Lycaon’s hand, however, is the same – warm, clasping Hugo’s own hand with a steady pressure, their fingers still entwined.

Hugo concentrates on that point of contact even as his mind begins circling the critical question.

Where do they go from here?

Whether Hugo wants to or not, he’s going to have to speak with Lycaon. By his own resolve, running is no longer an option.

“I don’t want to go back to the secret hideaway,” Hugo blurts out. His voice sounds startlingly loud in the night.

Lycaon’s steps slow down, and then halt.

Hugo bites his lip. They both know what Hugo really means is: I don’t want to see Jack right now.

But all Lycaon does is nods.

When he tugs lightly on Hugo’s hand, Hugo follows. They’d emerged on a different side of the Hollow, after all, and Lycaon’s sense of direction is uncannily accurate. And, well—

Hugo is tired.

So he lets his partner take the lead this time. Lycaon doesn’t make for the rooftops but stays on the streets, even if it takes them longer this way. Hugo doesn’t dwell too much on it; all he cares is that they’re heading towards the city center, and not along the outskirts where their hideaway is located.

It begins drizzling, so finely that it’s more mist than rain, when they finally make it to Lumina Square. It’s so late – or perhaps early would be more accurate – that the streets are entirely devoid of life, only the rain-slick floor reflecting the neon colours of the ever-bright billboards and advertisement signs. Still, Lycaon avoids the main public spaces and their ubiquitous street cameras; instead, he makes for the backstreet alleys, stopping at a familiar corner.

Hugo has just enough time to let out a quiet sigh – of relief, because he knows where Lycaon plans to go; and of trepidation, because he knows what must necessarily come after – when Lycaon lets go of his hand.

Before Hugo can react to the sudden bereavement, Lycaon tucks one arm under Hugo’s knees and the other securely around his back, sweeps him up in a princess carry and leaps for the first storey balcony.

It’s not the first time Lycaon has carried Hugo, although he usually just grabs at Hugo any which way – firmly around the waist, or thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes; Hugo likes pushing things until the very last second, and Lycaon often has to bodily pick him up to make their escape. But this time, Lycaon’s hands are very careful, cradling Hugo to his chest as he bounds from storey to storey, making his way upwards to the top of the building.

Not once does Hugo ever feel in danger of falling. And yet, his stomach swoops at each leap Lycaon makes, no matter how securely he’s held in Lycaon’s arms.

He’s feeling nauseous again by the time they make it to the rooftop deck, although Hugo thinks he does an admirable job of hiding it, his tone flat with mock annoyance as he says, “You can put me down now.”

Lycaon just shakes his head, striding over to a corner of the rooftop deck that’s covered by an awning, likely installed to shield the stack of crates from inclement weather. There’s a small clear space behind them, barely enough for two young men or perhaps just one wolf Thiren; to fit, Lycaon sits with his back to the wall, Hugo pulled flush against his chest like a favoured teddy bear.

Hugo is entirely wrapped up in Lycaon’s limbs like this – Lycaon’s legs bracketing his, Lycaon’s arms settling lightly around his waist. It’s both comfortingly familiar and utterly terrifying, because—

The illusion has shattered, hasn’t it? Each second that passes is a countdown to the moment when Hugo will lose this.

The rain begins coming down in earnest. Hugo shivers – they found shelter in time to avoid getting completely drenched, but Hugo’s hair and clothes are still damp and his body temperature has always run colder than the average.

And—

It was raining, too, the night Serena died.

“I still think falling is the best way to die,” Hugo says, and knows immediately it’s the wrong thing to say, because Lycaon’s arms tighten so hard around Hugo that he lets out a quiet wheeze.

“Sorry,” Lycaon murmurs, but it still takes another moment before his grip loosens. He draws in several deep breathes, his chest rising and falling against Hugo’s back. “Why?”

“Why is falling the best way to die? It’s… peaceful. Once you commit to the fall, there’s nothing you can do. No struggling, no fighting back, just – you and gravity, and the impact at the very end. Quick. Almost painless, I imagine.”

Scissors, knives – the violence of his mother attempting to gouge his grey eye out is too visceral for Hugo to ever want to die that way. Suffocation – through drowning, strangulation, or from food forced down his throat – triggers every single one of Hugo’s instincts to live; he has, and will, fight back against the perpetrators, to at least drag them down with him if he can’t get free.

A lethal dosage injected into the veins might seem like a good option too, but—

It’s how their siblings murdered Serena. Quietly, leaving her body there to taunt Hugo, watching as he hunted frantically for a pulse at her throat, half convinced that she’s just unconscious because there had been no visible wounds—

No. Hugo would not insult Serena’s memory by ever taking that route.

“Why not just… passing in your sleep?” Lycaon says, breaking into Hugo’s morbid thoughts. “At home, in your own bed, in a familiar and comforting place?”

Oh, his dear partner. A smile creeps onto Hugo’s lips, fond. “I don’t think that’s an option for someone like me.”

“Why not?” Lycaon snarls. “You’re not a bad person, Hugo.”

Hugo clamps down on the laughter bubbling up in his throat, coughing to get it out of his system. “Why do you think I stayed hidden during your conversation with Jack, when he said all those things about me?”

“Because of your pride?” Normally, Lycaon would say that scathingly, but this time there’s too much hesitance in his tone. Like he knows that’s not quite the right answer, and that he’s going to hate the one Hugo will respond with.

“You’re not wrong.” Hugo decides to give this to his partner. “I’ve found that begging for people to trust me, to spare me, never works. So I’ll never do it willingly.” He looks up at the sliver of the night sky beyond the awning. “But mostly… it’s because I think Jack is right.”

“Why? You haven’t done anything,” Lycaon insists.

“Yet,” Hugo corrects. “I haven’t killed anyone yet. If I ever cross paths with my siblings, I might. If I ever see my father again, I will.”

Hugo believes this with all his heart – his father and siblings deserve to die. Why should they be allowed to continue to abuse others? Why do they get to live despite all the atrocities they have committed, while kind-hearted Serena remains forever dead, murdered for no reason other than to undermine Hugo, and even the memory of her discarded by the Ravenlock family soon after?

Serena was killed on nothing more than a sadistic man’s whim. If there is to be any justice in this broken world, if Hugo is to give her death meaning—

Then Hugo must live and destroy the entirety of the Ravenlock family, so that no other innocents will suffer the way Serena has suffered.

“Hugo,” Lycaon whispers, and it’s only when his hands fall upon Hugo’s arms, stilling his movements, that Hugo realizes he’s trembling from head to toe, his breathing hitching on every other breath.

“I’m just cold,” Hugo automatically deflects, even as he wills his body to cooperate, curling his hands into fists to try to force them into stillness. But the more he tries the worse the trembling gets, until eventually he just hunches over, letting his damp bangs fall over his face, shielding his expression.

He hates this. He hates showing any vulnerabilities, and now even his own body has betrayed him.

Something heavy and warm falls onto Hugo’s lap.

Hugo startles backwards, pressing back against Lycaon’s chest. He stares down at the mass of white fur draped over his thighs.

Lycaon’s tail.

Hugo has rarely touched it, no matter how tactile they are with each other. Lycaon, like most furry Thirens, is extremely particular about his tail, and Hugo has had his boundaries trampled too many times to ever desire doing so to someone he cares for. He might tease Lycaon about it, but he’ll never deliberately touch Lycaon’s tail without his permission.

“Lycaon,” Hugo says, not quite daring to move.

Carefully, Lycaon lifts Hugo’s hands and sets them on his tail, pressing them into the fluffy coat so there’s no mistaking his intent. Then he wraps his arms back around Hugo’s waist.

“You’re cold, right?” Lycaon says gruffly, the excuse awkward in his mouth. “My fur is water resistant and the undercoat keeps me warm. You, on the other hand, are always cold, even on a normal day. With the rain and all – I rather you not freeze to death.”

It’s a great explanation, if not for the way Lycaon’s tail curls almost tighter around Hugo than his arms. Makeshift blankets don’t need to be that possessive.

But the weight of Lycaon’s tail is grounding. Hugo moves his hands in a cautious caress, and although the fur is matted from their flight across the city and the battle against the Ethereals inside the Hollow, it still feels silken against Hugo’s skin, and luxuriously warm when Hugo sinks his fingers into the undercoat.

Several moments tick by like this – the rain a steady susurration in the background, Lycaon a warm steady presence around Hugo. Mindlessly brushing his fingers against Lycaon’s fur is almost hypnotizing, but there’s only so long Hugo can delay the inevitable.

Just like all those times when he hid in the closet to cry, it was only a matter of time before reality intruded and he got dragged out, kicking and screaming. Hugo has learned that it’s best to leave first, on his own terms.

“So,” he says, keeping his voice light. “Not going to tell me that my father deserves to live, that I shouldn’t try to kill him?”

Lycaon stays silent for a long while, the tip of his tail thumping against Hugo’s hip. Then, he lets out a sigh and sets his chin atop Hugo’s head.

“I know you have nightmares,” he says, and hugs Hugo closer when Hugo goes utterly still in his arms. “You somehow trained yourself not to make any noise even in your sleep, but I’m a wolf Thiren. I can still hear you thrashing against the sheets, when you gasp for breath.’

“Do you know how terrifying it is to watch someone scream, but not hear any sound emerging from their mouth? You’d claw at the shadows, sometimes, or cry – but all without a sound.”

Hugo’s response comes out raspy, his throat tightening around the words. “Sorry for scaring you.”

Lycaon shakes his head, a movement that ruffles Hugo’s hair from where his cheek is still pressed against the top of Hugo’s head. “You don’t talk much about your past, Hugo, but if your father did that to you – I’m not self-righteous enough to say that what you’re feeling is wrong.”

Hugo sits with that thought for a moment, fingers sifting through Lycaon’s fur, mindlessly untangling any knot he finds. “But you don’t think I should kill him.”

A quiet exhalation. But Lycaon doesn’t answer right away; as the silence stretches out, a pang of surprise washes through Hugo.

He’d have thought that Lycaon, of all people, would be so sure of his convictions – that to take a life, no matter the circumstances, is wrong.

Struck with a sudden need to study Lycaon’s expressions with his own two eyes, Hugo taps at Lycaon’s arms; when they loosen, Lycaon’s tail uncurling reluctantly, Hugo turns around to face his partner, setting one hand on Lycaon’s shoulder for balance.

“Do you think I could do it?” Hugo asks. “Murder someone?”

Lycaon’s crimson-red eyes flicker but don’t pull away, and Hugo knows he’s entirely honest when he answers, “Yes.”

Hugo’s eyes drop, but Lycaon’s hands come up, cradling Hugo’s face, his claws light pinpricks against Hugo’s skin.

“So could I,” Lycaon says, his gaze unwavering. “With these claws, with my strength.”

Lycaon is certainly capable of it. The pain from Lycaon’s scratches has died to a dull throb, only flaring up if Hugo extends his arm too far, and they are shallow enough that Hugo was never in danger from the blood loss. But he’s also lucky; Lycaon’s claws didn’t nick any major arteries when Hugo ripped his arm loose.

If Lycaon had held on tighter, or reacted too slowly to loosen his grip; if the placement of his fingers had been higher, at Hugo’s wrist – well, perhaps they’d be having this conversation at the hospital, not at their favoured rooftop hideout.

But Hugo is sure of this: “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Lycaon says. “I stand by my principles, that taking another’s life is wrong. But… I didn’t think I would ever jump off a building either, so who is to say that I won’t ever kill anyone? Accidentally… or perhaps, to save someone else.”

Hugo swallows, because he could swear—

Then, Lycaon brushes his thumb along the vulnerable skin under Hugo’s left eye, over the beauty marks. A tear mole, Hugo once heard the Ravenlock servants call it – a symbol of hardships ahead in life.

And Hugo has two, like teardrops falling from his Ravenlock-inherited eye.

“To save you,” Lycaon admits. “To save you, Hugo.”

He’d half suspected it, but it’s still a shock to hear Lycaon speak it out loud, in no uncertain terms. Hugo doesn’t shift back, too conscious of Lycaon’s hands on his face, of all the ways he could hurt himself and send Lycaon into another guilty spiral; instead, he reaches up and grabs Lycaon’s wrists, squeezing.

“Do you actually understand what you’re saying?”

“That I prioritize you above all others?” Lycaon says, devastatingly. “Yes.”

“No.” Hugo’s heart stutters, unsettled – like a missed step, something pulled out of synch. “Jack already believes I walk in the abyss’s shadow; the last thing any of us needs is you—is me corrupting you into walking that path alongside me.”

“You didn’t corrupt me into anything,” Lycaon says, eyes flashing. “I have the agency to make my own decisions, thank you.”

“Then why on earth would you make this one?” Hugo says, bewildered. Instead of gripping at Lycaon’s wrists, he finds himself trying to push Lycaon away. “Lycaon—”

Lycaon withdraws his hands from Hugo’s face, the sudden rush of cold air against his skin such a contrast to the former warmth that it’s like a slap to the face. But Lycaon’s tail has come up, tucking against the small of Hugo’s back, curving around his hip, and Hugo stalls, caught between two conflicting wants.

“What is wrong with walking the path alongside you?” Lycaon has curled his fingers into his palms again. “Earlier, you acted as though everything was normal until I realized that you overheard the conversation I had with Jack. Now, your instincts seem to be to run.” He lets out a deep breath. “Away from me. What changed?”

“Nothing changed,” Hugo says. “I simply remembered – anyone who has ever cared for me gets hurt. And eventually, they die.” The laugh that emerges from his throat is serrated, as though it’s coming through a mouthful of broken glass. “Isn’t that amazing, Lycaon? I don’t even have to do it with my own two hands. I can kill people, simply by being me.”

“Hugo—”

“Look at you.” Hugo leans forward, against all his instincts that just want to run, to avoid confrontation. “Hurting now, because of what I’ve said. Think of how much more pain you’ll be in if you shattered your principles, just to save me.” And then, because words can so easily turn into weapons on his tongue— “But I guess that means you could do it. It’s what Jack wanted, right? You can save me from going down the wrong path by simply killing m—”

“No!” Lycaon snarls, lips pulled back over his fangs. Hugo doesn’t even flinch. “You said something, when we were up on that abandoned building. You said it was clear I didn’t trust you, that my silence was so convincing.” His fur is bristling now, his tail curling tighter around Hugo. “I don’t know at which point of the conversation that you left. But I stayed silent because I wouldn’t make that promise to Jack.’

“Then, you let yourself fall off that building. No hesitation, no fear in your eyes. I didn’t know there was a Hollow below you. And in that moment, I was faced with a world where you would no longer exist. Not simply that you were away from my side, but just—gone, forever. There would be no trace of your theatrics as you outsmart most of New Eridu; I would no longer get to witness your delighted ear-wiggles when you successfully steal food off my plate. Your scent would go stale in our attic hideaway, before disappearing for good.”

The laugh Lycaon lets out next is sardonic. “Congratulations, Hugo. Your suicidal dive into the Hollow has ensured that I could never intentionally hurt you, much less attempt to take your life.”

It’s too much.

Hugo’s heart may have stuttered before; now, it’s galloping in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with this revelation.

The only other person who has ever looked at Hugo and thought, yes, I’ll defy the expectations of the world for him had been Serena, and her consideration had been quietly resolute. And since her death, there will always be a part of Hugo that automatically pushes away such sympathies, no matter how much he craves it – so when Hugo finally manages to string together enough words to respond, his reply is—

“All of this, and you still don’t agree with Jack? Look at all the ways I’ve managed to manipulate you.”

Lycaon’s ears go so flat that they almost disappear into the rest of his fur. “You are so infuriating. Fine. We’ll do this your way.”

He straightens, flicking his tail away, and Hugo stumbles slightly in his lap, thrown off balance. But Lycaon’s hands settle on Hugo’s hips, holding him in place – placed deliberately over the more durable leather of the belt so his claws don’t come anywhere near Hugo’s skin, but gripping tight enough that Hugo couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

“Lycaon,” Hugo says, caught completely off-guard. “What are you doing?”

“You seem to think that you’re guilty of something. So, Hugo Vlad, I’m putting you on trial.”

Hugo reels back, those words combined with the drone of the rain throwing him unpleasantly back into the past – on his knees in the mud and rain, his siblings clamoring gleefully for his punishment, his father watching on with cold, calculating eyes while in the background the servants hurried to cover Serena’s body.

Bile rises in his throat, but then Lycaon shakes him, and Hugo jolts back into the present.

“You’ve always wanted power, to one day stand at the top. Would you use that power to abuse those who are weaker than you? To oppress them, or take advantage of them to further your own ambition?”

“What?” Hugo blinks hard to try to focus. “No.”

“No?” Lycaon says, almost mockingly.

“No.” The flash of irritation clears Hugo’s head. “The main reason I want to stand at the top is to ensure no one has leverage against me. When you have nothing – no money or assets, no reputation or connections – all of your energy goes into merely eking out an existence. And we all deserve more than just to survive. The ones with power should help those less fortunate than them.”

“What about the criminals we’ve crossed paths with? The ones who have kidnapped innocents or blackmailed the desperate for their own gain? What should be done about them?”

“They should be brought to justice.”

Lycaon leans forward. “With their deaths?”

“If the crime warrants it. They should pay for their sins.”

“But who decides? You? Or the justice system, with due process?”

“The system is flawed,” Hugo says through gritted teeth. “Our operation with Jack exists entirely because of those grey spaces. You and I both know that syndicates with less morals take full advantage of the gaps in the system. Just look at TOPS.”

Lycaon gazes at him steadily. “Those words don’t sound like they draw from the path of evil or hatred.”

“You want to talk about hatred?” Something ignites in the depths of Hugo’s heart, long buried embers of pain and anger suddenly roaring into an inferno now that the ashes of his past have been stirred up. “You may have witnessed my nightmares, but you couldn’t possibly know how long I’ve dreamed of killing my family. Of manipulating them into destroying each other, of pushing them to the brink and watching on with vicious satisfaction as they realize they’ve lost. I want to look my father in the eyes – those damned red eyes he treasures so much – and watch the life fade from them, and I’ll make sure as he dies that he knows exactly who put an end to his dynasty. I want to hurt them the same way they hurt Serena, the way they hurt me.”

He's panting by the end of that tirade, breathless from the force of his anger. But like a flame burning through tinder, that blaze of emotion can only last so long, and when Hugo comes down from that surge what is left is just a deep well of guilt and grief, as vast and endless as the ocean.

His vision is going blurry with unshed tears. How convenient, because Hugo can’t bring himself to look at Lycaon right now.

“Hugo.” Lycaon’s voice is unbearably gentle. “Nothing you’ve said has convinced me that you bear this so-called curse of evil. You’re not the perpetrator; you’re a victim.”

Hugo lets out a gasp. All the fight goes out of him instantly.

“I don’t know about your family,” Lycaon continues, “or why Jack is so convinced that your entire bloodline is bound to evil. But I know you. And I don’t think you could ever be malicious like your father, because you care about people. You care so deeply, Hugo.”

It’s—

—too much.

Hugo sways forward, collapsing onto Lycaon like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Then he turns his face into Lycaon’s shoulder, into the thick ruff at his throat, and screams.

It comes out noiseless, because that is what Hugo’s life has conditioned him to do. But Lycaon lets out a sympathetic whine, as if to vocalize what Hugo cannot, curling his limbs and tail firmly around Hugo—

—and then he just lets Hugo react, to scream and cry and rage after so many years of bottling it all up inside.

Time passes, indistinct.

Eventually, Hugo quietens, leaning exhaustedly against Lycaon’s stalwart figure. The rain and the dark blurs all awareness of time and space into something liminal, but Lycaon is warm; the rise and fall of his breathing and the subtle rumble in his chest, under Hugo’s ear, is strangely soothing. After a while, Hugo becomes aware that Lycaon is speaking, in a steady cadence that suggests his partner doesn’t expect any response; he lets Lycaon’s voice wash over him, calm and familiar, until something catches his attention.

“Say that again.” Hugo’s voice comes out hoarse, half-muffled against Lycaon’s fur.

Lycaon pauses. Hugo can almost feel his gaze, peering down to check on him, but Hugo refuses to lift his face from Lycaon’s shoulder.

Hugo can pinpoint the moment Lycaon decides to indulge him, because his partner simply leans back, his arm shifting to hold Hugo more securely.

“I said, I should have made a detour to the pharmacy, to treat those gashes on your arm properly.”

That’s what Hugo thought he heard. Always a worrier, Lycaon is.

“Why? I’m quite sure your claws are sanitary. They’ll heal on their own.”

Lycaon doesn’t answer, but the silence that falls between them feels charged, like Lycaon wants to protest but is holding back for Hugo’s sake.

Hugo lets out a sigh. Then he reaches out – with his uninjured arm, even – and slides his hand along the crates they’re sheltering behind until he finds the half-hidden latch. The panel opens up with a click, and inside the crate is a seemingly haphazard pile of supplies – a first-aid kit, bottles of water, two knives sheathed in leather, a ziplock bag of prepaid gift cards and a metal case.

“Here.” Hugo nudges the first-aid kit in Lycaon’s direction. “Go wild.”

But instead of reaching for the kit, Lycaon just stares into the crate, his eyes flicking over the items, assessing.

This time, Hugo makes sure to use his injured arm when he touches Lycaon’s cheek, drawing his attention away. “It’s just an old habit.” He’d done this back at the Ravenlock Manor, stealing food and supplies with Serena’s help and stashing them across their many hiding spots. Just in case. “Don’t think too much about it.”

To Lycaon’s credit, he doesn’t push further. Hugo watches on with half-lidded eyes as Lycaon unbinds the damp, makeshift bandages – made from the extra fabric at the bottom of their shirts, shredded into neat strips with Lycaon’s sharp claws – and begins treating the long scratches. With all this care, perhaps they’ll even heal without a scar.

But even after Lycaon wraps up Hugo’s entire forearm with clean, sterile bandages, the air between them still feels charged, a lingering tension from something left unsaid. Hugo could continue to ignore it – honestly, he’s almost half-unconscious with fatigue – but when has he ever chosen the easy way out?

“There’s still something on your mind,” Hugo rasps. “Something that bothers you more than these wounds.” Which is saying something, considering how fixated Lycaon is on them, his hands still gently smoothing over the bandaging long after he’d tied off the ends.

“A lot of things about you bother me,” Lycaon mutters, an echo of their usual banter. He goes quiet for a while, evidently choosing his words carefully. “I was just thinking that we could go around in circles about what is right or wrong and never truly come to an agreement. And not to mention, you keep fighting me on how I view you, simply because it doesn’t align with how you view yourself.”

Hugo makes a grumbling noise of dissent at that, which makes Lycaon smile for a brief instant.

“But I think we can both agree on this – thoughts aren’t crimes; actions are.” Lycaon drums his fingers against Hugo’s elbow, like the tap of a judge’s gavel. “You haven’t done anything yet. And your hatred is targeted. So, if you ever encounter any of your family, especially your father… I want you to come to me first, before acting in any way.”

Well. That certainly explains Lycaon’s reluctance in bringing up the subject.

“I won’t be chained up again,” Hugo says, weary. All those years of bending himself into all kinds of shapes, hoping to appease his mother, and then being confined in the Ravenlock manor, forced to fight and scheme and do all the hateful things his father favoured just to survive— “I can’t do that, I won’t allow myself to ever be restrained again. Not even by you, Lycaon.”

A much longer pause this time. Then, instead of responding to Hugo’s words, Lycaon asks, “Hugo… are you afraid of me?”

Blinking slowly, Hugo lets the question settle in his mind.

He pushes himself off Lycaon’s shoulder, and reaches for Lycaon’s hands, wrapping his fingers around them. Then, Hugo guides them upwards, to his throat.

Lycaon draws in a sharp breath.

Lycaon’s hands are warm, almost burning against Hugo’s skin; he refuses to put any strength into the hold, so Hugo keeps his fingers atop Lycaon’s, clasping them firmly in place. Like this, Lycaon must be able to feel the way Hugo’s pulse thrums, like a bird beating its wings frantically within the circle of their hands.

Physical pain means little to Hugo. He has weathered neglect, taken beatings and survived numerous murder attempts; Lycaon, despite his wild, predatorial nature, will never compare to the sheer ruthless viciousness of Hugo’s siblings, because Lycaon possesses something they never had – a compassionate heart.

But with that heart, Lycaon has become someone special to Hugo, and that gives him power over Hugo in ways that he can’t defend from. Lycaon’s regard matters, and if he wants to hurt Hugo, all he has to do is leave.

Is Hugo afraid of Lycaon?

“Yes,” Hugo says, his throat pressing against Lycaon’s fingers with each word. “You terrify me.”

Lycaon goes so utterly motionless that for a moment, Hugo wonders if he’s still breathing. Then, he dips his head, his ears flicking. “That makes two of us.”

Nothing Lycaon says should faze Hugo anymore, not with the number of times he’s surprised Hugo over the past hour alone, and yet. Hugo’s grip slackens just the slightest, and Lycaon takes immediate advantage of Hugo’s distraction – he slides his hands away from Hugo’s throat and slips his fingers instead into Hugo’s hair, carefully cradling the back of Hugo’s head.

It’s still a hold, keeping Hugo close, but no longer is it a leash around Hugo’s neck.

“When I told you to come to me first, if you ever came face-to-face with your family – it’s not a chain. It’s not there to cage, or bind, or strip away your agency.” Lycaon leans forward, pressing his forehead against Hugo’s. “Instead, I meant it as a tether, an anchor. I want to support you, to be someone you can rely on. We’ll figure out what to do, together.”

Lycaon’s eyes always glow faintly in the dark, and they’re even more striking up close; this near, there is no mistaking the conviction in their crimson depths.

“That’s what you told me, back in the Hollow,” Lycaon says. “That we’ll make it through, together.”

Hugo draws in a shuddery breath. With how stubborn Lycaon is, there is only so many times Hugo can keep trying to push his partner away.

And more importantly – Hugo doesn’t want to.

Whether or not Hugo is allowed to have this, it’s clear that Lycaon will continue to pursue him, with the same persistence and determination that drove him to leap off a building after Hugo.

In that case, Hugo’s priority now should be on how to safeguard Lycaon – from the curse of Hugo’s lineage, and from Hugo himself.

“All right,” Hugo says softly. He reaches up to touch Lycaon’s cheek, his fingers sinking into soft fur. “I’ll come to you first. I promise.”

“Good,” Lycaon says, his voice composed. But his tail betrays him – it begins wagging, in fits and starts, a counterpoint to the constant fall of the rain. "Thank you." 

"Why are you thanking me?" Hugo whispers. 

"Because," Lycaon says, nuzzling into Hugo's touch, and adds nothing further. But his grip tightens, just the slightest, even as the tension in the rest of his body gradually unwinds, softening until the both of them are curled languidly together - a quiet decompression, as fear eases into gentle relief. 

Hugo strokes lightly at Lycaon's fur and ears, even as realization sparks in his mind.

Lycaon was afraid that Hugo would choose to leave after all, wasn't he? 

That makes two of them, indeed. 

Hugo’s promise and Lycaon’s steadfast regard doesn’t solve Hugo’s issues. The past continues to haunt him, and his anger and hatred are only ever buried just below the surface – perhaps, Hugo will never be able to banish those dark emotions in their entirety. Lycaon may have rejected Jack’s directive, but there’s still the matter of Jack himself. And Jack’s words—

They’ll linger in Hugo’s mind, casting shadows of doubt over everything Hugo does.

No, everything is still terrible, the exhaustion dragging at Hugo’s mind and his heart heavy with a trust betrayed.

But even as the rain continues to fall, like it did the fateful night Serena was killed – this time, Hugo doesn’t find himself consumed with despair. It’s hard to feel anything but cherished, after all, with the way Lycaon is holding him, the way Hugo can feel the steady beat of Lycaon's heart and the warmth of his touch - alive, alive, and still with him. 

This time, Hugo is not alone.