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By the time the elevator opens up into his penthouse, Sylus has already crossed the threshold of his living room, leaving his half-finished glass of pinot noir and entirely unread book about *the best romance ever, Sylus* to await his return atop the coffee table.
A few months ago, while he was still discovering the nuances behind every look he'd never seen before, he might've acted slightly more nonchalant. No use in scaring away the love of his life, right? But that was *then,* before you got jealous of your own reflection, then took him to your home—never taking a single step on your own before you had to get off his back and unlock the door—to graciously slather a face mask you'd been meaning to try all over his face.
"This might be a personal worst, kitten," he says, seamlessly catching your backpack before you can take it off. It's not particularly heavy—which, in itself, is a miracle, considering the thirty minutes you'd spent at a grocery store for snacks. "Did you get lost?"
Fondly, you roll your pretty eyes. Between that and the way you swat at his arm, he thinks he has a decent grasp on what's going on inside your head. And if you'd look at him like this for the rest of his life, Sylus could, for once, die a happy man.
Preferably at the end of your natural lifespan, this time.
"The movie's not going anywhere, is it?" you deadpan.
Fingers intertwined with your smaller ones, he chuckles. By now, there is no part of his house that's escaped your curious gaze, but still, like the gentleman he is, Sylus leads you to a room he once rarely went into. Because of it, he has to negotiate a schedule for his own personal movie theater now with the twins, who'd pretty much taken it over once they'd realized they had the freedom to.
"Perks of having a *boyfriend*—" And he emphasizes that title with all he has. "—who has a personal theater at his house."
"Among other things," you say, swinging the joined hands between them aimlessly. Mischief twinkles in your eyes as you fall back into your usual teasing habits. "Like your black card."
The black card is, really, a perk only in theory. After all, what point is there in claiming it as one if he has to force you to use it? Force you to buy the things you once dreamed of, that were once out of your budget—like a true-to-size Sylveon plushie that had such a painfully low price tag that, had he been a weaker man, would've left Sylus near tears.
It's in those moments he wishes he could've met you sooner. You could have an entire army of Sylveon if you wanted, and it wouldn't leave a single dent in his various bank accounts. It would've cost you a little under half the month's rent.
Which he now paid for as well, naturally. Because he'd accumulated all this treasure for a reason—and that reason had the nerve to stare at the richest man in multiple solar systems and insist she didn't want to trouble him.
"And my handsome looks?"
Mid-step, about to turn the corner to stand at the correct door, you turn your head to scrutinize him. A shrug follows, and he knows to brace himself for a laugh. And he's right, because what you respond with is a nonchalant "I *guess* so" that attempts, unsuccessfully, to get him to forget all the sweet nothings you like to whisper in his ear.
He follows you into the theater with a grin on his face, like a trained dog on a leash he's never really needed. He'd follow you anywhere, if he could lay his eyes on you for even a moment, for the briefest of seconds.
For Sylus, there is no hell worse than another lifetime without seeing you.
---
The trilogy of movies you insist on watching comes, of course, highly recommended from you. It is also a series that caused Luke and Kieran, upon hearing of Sylus' plans, to lament that they would not be invited to watch this masterpiece of a trilogy again, since it was a date.
Apparently, everyone in this household is a fan of dragons.
Sylus has long since scrapped his initial plan of getting his beloved to remember him. Still, sometimes, he can't help but wonder if, perhaps, some part of you—hidden from even yourself—acknowledges their past in such roundabout ways.
Like that time you asked if you could borrow his printer, as if everything he owned isn't already yours to begin with. Instead of a serious document, what came out of the machine was, instead, two pages worth of fictional dragons that you needed for your game of Hear Me Out with your friends. One of those dragons even had a coloring that was suspiciously similar to his own, however common it might be.
He hadn't been able to stop himself from running his mouth. From mentioning, casually, that if what you desired was a dragon, he could fulfill that role. Despite the strange things you were regularly exposed to, despite the Aether Core in your heart and a friend who was romantically involved with a lemurian, you hadn't taken his words seriously.
"Are you going to dress up for me with wings and a tail?" you had asked, a teasing smile tugging faintly at your lips. "Halloween's not for a while, you know. You're not gonna make me wait until then, are you?"
"Close your eyes for me, sweetheart," he'd said.
And you'd listened, despite the skepticism shining so clearly and obviously in your gorgeous eyes. When they fluttered open at his command, he could see the form he once despised reflected in your gaze. Your loving, but confused gaze.
Needless to say, it didn't take you long to get used to your circumstances.
That's why you're showing him the trilogy in the first place. If it has dragons, you want to see it, and if those dragons are happy, then you want *him* to see it. Sylus, as all lovesick men do, lets you have your way, even if the truth of the matter is that your acceptance of him alone helps soothe those scars.
The world may never love him, but you *do*.
Despite his less-than-stellar introduction, despite his temporary status as an enemy once upon a time, you still do.
"Okay, okay." You tug at his sleeve excitedly, drawing him out of his thoughts. Gesturing wildly at the screen, you say the phrase you've said for the fifth time now. "*This* is the best part."
He pulls you in closer again. Watches you rest your head on his shoulder again. In a few minutes, you'll pull away and drag yourself to the very edge of the seat—as if you might be able to jump into the action if you get close enough.
But that's for later.
For now, Sylus grabs a handful of popcorn from the bag on your lap and turns his gaze back to the movie.
---
By the time the movies wrap up, the clocks in the house all read 1:30 am.
For Sylus, he has a few more hours to get through before he feels the need to sleep. You, however, sleep at a relatively normal time. Already, a few yawns have started slipping past your lips, despite your best effort.
Still, the spatula in your hand, stained with soy sauce at the tips, keeps moving.
There's chicken tenders in the airfryer—the one he bought after you once brought over your own—and a batch of cookies in the oven. Your eyelids keep drooping, and he had to tie up your hair into a bun after it slipped into the sauce you were making.
"Everyone stays up for a sleepover," you'd insisted, before reaching for what was definitely white sugar, and not salt instead. He managed to save what was supposed to be a savory sauce by swapping sugar out of your hands at the last second.
With the bulk of the work done, Sylus' only job is to serve as your—literal—pillar of support. He's got you caged in, hands on either side of the bowl. His chin rests on your shoulder, leaving his back to curve awkwardly to adjust for the height difference.
You've taken to leaning back against his chest and propping your feet against the trim of the cabinets.
It's something so terribly domestic, so *normal* to you, that you must not think twice about humming one of your favorite songs. But for Sylus, who remembers everything from the first time they met to their days in the arena, it's the greatest gift you could ever offer him.
Should fate be unkind to him once again, these memories would sustain him for millenniums to come.
So, when you ask him about his opinion on their first "proper"—the vehemence behind that word, and the air quotes that follow it, make him laugh—sleepover, as the two of you are winding down to sleep, all he can do is kiss you softly. On your lips, on your cheek, the tip of your nose, then your forehead before smoothing out your hair and pressing a kiss just above your hairline.
After all, words alone cannot describe how unfathomably happy he's been, despite his attempts.
"We can do this again," you whisper, giggling softly.
"I'll clear out my schedule," he murmurs fondly. "We can watch something longer this time."
A sleepy smile crosses your lips, before you seal the deal in the best way you know to—a kiss on his lips. He falls asleep that night with a smile on his face, and the woman he loves in his arms.
And when he wakes up, she's still there.