Archive of Our Own ^beta

The lot of you are at death’s door—hell, Astarion has practically thrown the thing open and gone careening inside. As Shadowheart attends to his near-lifeless body, you and your remaining companions face down the legion of goblins that threatens to finish the job.

Gale is very nearly useless; his cantrips land with a sputter rather than a spark, and Wyll expends his last spell slot on a questionably-placed instance of Burning Hands. 

Lae’zel and Karlach are the only ones doing any actual work, with twin greatswords cleaving apart the advancing hordes. Though even their strength is flagging, and each of their steps is not nearly as swift or sure-footed as the last. 

A goblin artificer hurls a flask of alchemist’s fire, and the two leap apart to avoid the grasping tongues of flame that emerge from its depths. The front line is broken, and the back line is having a hell of a time trying to hit anything at all. Something must be done, and your group is very quickly running out of people to actually do it.

You step forward on shaking feet, keen to prepare a spell or a strike or something of your own, but you never get the chance.

A shrill, keening call erupts through the air and, without a moment’s forewarning, a beast leaps from the shadows. It soars for a single terrifying second, then lands with a crash in the space you’d just vacated. Your heart stops.

The commotion must have drawn this creature from the surrounding forests and, rather than the goblins or any of your companions, it seems to have deemed you the offending party. The beast stares you down, shaking its feathered head and snapping at the air with a hooked, savage beak. You recognize it then—an Owlbear. You’re about to be killed by an Owlbear.

***

“And that, my little mice," speaks a sonorous voice. “Is where we’ll conclude our session for tonight.” Raphael Heller folds his arms neatly over his lap and smiles at the lot of you from his perch at the head of the table. The movement exudes grace—and condescension. You get the impression he may have rehearsed it.

The rest of the table erupts, and so ends your adventure in the fantasy world of Faerûn. No longer are you a ragtag adventuring party facing down a monstrous hoard: you are once again a group of exasperated college students staring daggers at the 40-something bastard who calls himself your Dungeon Master.

Beside you, Karlach cups her hands over her mouth and intones, “Boooooo!”

“What the fresh hell was that, Raphael?” Adds Astarion. “As if the goblins weren’t enough, you’re siccing an Owlbear on us, too?”

Raphael looks down his nose at the two. “This was preordained,” he says, convincing no one. “An encounter I’ve had planned for quite a while. One that you just so happened to stumble into.”

“We didn’t even get a short rest…” Mutters Wyll. Astarion throws up his arms.

“And it’s an Owlbear! That’s-” He goes rifling through the Monster Manual, utterly incensed, then shoves a page accusatorily in Raphael's face. “A Challenge rating of 3!” Raphael merely leans back in his chair.

“Ah, but what’s an adventure without appropriate stakes?”

“...We’re level two.” Shadowheart deadpans.

The table erupts once more. Astarion seethes. Gale tears through his character sheet, searching for an out. Lae’zel stares intently at the miniatures assimilated in front of her, as if she can somehow will them into a more advantageous position. Shadowheart sits with her arms crossed and even Wyll, who is usually the peacemaker, stares with a furrowed brow.

And Raphael grins all the while, as if he derives a special sort of amusement from riling the lot of you.

“You’re doing this at Christmas,” Karlach points out, completely scandalized. “Christmas is in two days, and he’s throwing Owlbears at us!”

“Consider it my gift to you all.” Raphael offers, raising a hand. “Exercise for the idle mind! While you enjoy your holidays, I do hope you’ll devote at least some time to engineering a strategy with which to escape from this situation.”

Gale gives a low whistle. “You are some devil.” Raphael just nods, as if it were a compliment.

Astarion leans toward Wyll and says, not subtly or quietly, “Can we fire him?” The taller man goes wan.

“I already paid him upfront for the next two sessions…”

A collective groan of anguish ensues.

Raphael’s expression hardens. His brows knit, and his fingers drum impatiently against the crook of his arm. “You all wanted a Dungeonmaster, and that is exactly the service I am providing. If you’d rather a sycophant to coddle you, I’d suggest looking elsewhere. This,” he gestures toward the Monster Manual, still lying open on the table, and the screeching, feathered face that stares mockingly up at all of you. “Is the game you signed up to play.” His sudden fire temporarily stuns the group into silence.

“And you,” Raphael turns and his eyes fall upon you, sitting across from him at the opposing head of the table. “Anything to add?” His brows lift in challenge. You meet him, stare-for-imperious-stare.

“Thank you for the session.” You say, and Raphael exhales, triumphant.

“Ah, [Y/N]. The only one with some semblance of decorum. You, my dear, are very, very welcome.”

***

The others are apparently too affronted to linger in Raphael’s presence for even a moment longer. They pack up their things in a huff, then nod commiseratingly in your direction before taking their leave. The door to your apartment (the party’s usual gathering spot) swings shut, leaving you and Raphael alone at opposite ends of the table.

“What fun that was.” He remarks, chuckling to himself. You give him a withering look.

“An Owlbear?”

“An exciting encounter, is it not?

“Are you sure we can kill that thing? We’re all pretty beat up.”

“Nothing is ‘sure’ in Dungeons and Dragons. That, little mouse, is the beauty of the game.”

“But I like Tav…” You mutter, thinking of the character you’ve made: the conduit through which you’ve experienced the world of Faerun. “I don’t want them to die.”

“Then save them.” Raphael says, and looks at you meaningfully. “Figure out a way to escape this situation.” You blink, considering his words.

Your friends and fellow students at Baldur’s University all seem to hate Raphael, but you…tolerate him. Maybe it’s because after they leave it’s always the two of you left here in the apartment, cleaning up and going over logistics for the next session.

None of you know much about the man, not even where he lives or what he does for work. Wyll found him on the internet, offering his services as a DM to prospective players in the area. He’s run sessions for the seven of you ever since, though Astarion fantasizes about ‘firing’ the bastard at the end of each and every one. It never happens. 

Because Raphael, assholishly unbalanced encounters and all, is brilliant. A born storyteller, he sets the scene with showmanship, with grace and preternatural aplomb. Every word of his narration is delivered without hesitation—he is a thespian strutting about a stage entirely of his own making. During sessions you often find yourself staring at him, spellbound, utterly lost in the world he creates with only his voice. 

And when you pull one over on him, when you somehow escape one of the traps he gleefully scatters throughout the world, you feel as if you've done the impossible. You feel as if you’re flying. Still, where on Earth did this strange older man come from? Where does he go when he’s not perched and preening at your kitchen table?

Raphael carefully assimilates his hoard of dice into a velvet purple drawstring bag and pulls it shut.

“How many of those do you have?” You ask, and he smiles, as sly as a fox.

“Hundreds.”

You rise, helping him clear the table in surprisingly companionable silence. It isn’t all that difficult talking with him, perhaps because he always seems to have something to say. Some quip or comment he can’t resist making.

The sound of an organ, of all things, breaks the silences. Raphael’s phone is belting out a dismal little tune, more a dirge than anything else.

You look at him incredulously. “That’s your ringtone?” He frowns, silencing you with a wave of his hand.

“Yes?” He speaks into the receiver. A voice sounds from the other end, but you can’t make out a single word it says. Raphael’s brows shoot up, but then his eyes narrow and he practically seethes into the receiver.

“Yes.” He repeats. “Yes, I’ll be there.” He scowls, and his entire face scrunches up, as if he’s trying to burn the caller alive with some sort of telekinetic fire. You can practically feel his ire, simmering just beneath the surface.

It’s an expression you’ve seen before. When Karlach interrupts a villain’s monologue, or Astarion and Lae’zel remorselessly murder an important NPC, Raphael is silent, but he makes this same face. Barely-controlled anger: like fire burning in an ornate lantern.

“Alone?” Raphael squawks, seemingly taken aback. “N-no, of course I won’t be attending alone. I-” He falls silent, apparently interrupted, and it only fuels the fire. His voice is practically a growl as he grinds out, “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Until then, Father.”

For whatever reason, it had not occurred to you that Raphael even had a father. You gawk as he sets down the phone, and that anger—dark and contemptuous—still shines in his eyes. His fist comes down upon the table, rattling the glasses in a nearby china cabinet, and then…nothing. He sighs, and he is composed once more.

“Uhm…” You start. “Are you okay…?” He looks up, seeming to only just then remember that you’re there with him.

“Hm? Oh, yes. It’s nothing.”

“You punched my table.” You remark, unconvinced. Raphael stares at you, weighing his options.

“…….Christmas Supper.” The man mutters after a while, in a voice of complete and utter disdain. You almost laugh—the words are so incongruously different from the tone in which he says them.

“What’s ‘Christmas Supper’?”

“Why, a Heller family tradition!” He says, sickly sardonic. “An insufferable one. My entire family and their associates will be there, and I just told them that I wouldn’t be coming alone.”

“You mean-“

“A partner. I implied I’d be bringing a partner.”

“…Oh. And I take it you don’t actually have one…?” Raphael ignores the question, rising to his feet and pacing the floor.

“Buzzards, all of them. They'll be expecting me to come alone, I just know it. And when I do, won’t Antilia just be beside herself! And how Baalphegor will bleat! Dear Raphael, alone in the world! How is he to inherit anything? And Father…oh, Father will sneer, and ask why I ever ended things with-” He looks up, red-faced and seething. “You’re still here?”

“It’s my apartment.” You remark. “Look, if you hate it so much, why don’t you just not go?”

“Absolutely out of the question. That’s exactly what they want.” You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but he spits the word with such contempt that you decide against asking.

“Well do you have anyone you can ask to come with you? Y’know, as a favor?”

“This event is tomorrow night, [Y/N], and at this hour, there isn’t anyone I can contact that would-” His eyes pause on you, and some revelation seizes him. His lips hang ever so slightly open. “…[Y/N], dear.” He says sweetly. “What, if any, are your plans tomorrow…?”

…You don’t actually have any plans for Christmas Eve, but Raphael doesn’t need to know that. The two of you stand in the kitchen, staring each other down through the glow of a swinging overhead lamp. You don’t even want to say no, though you aren’t particularly sure why. But if you’re going to do something as ridiculous as this, well, you might as well get something out of it.

“If I do this for you, can you do something for me?”

Raphael’s eyes widen, but he does not appear perturbed. If anything, he looks impressed. Endeared. “A negotiator, are you? Very well. Lay out your terms.”

“Look, if I come to this weird party with you, can you take it easy on us in the campaign? Maybe not kill us with an Owlbear?” Raphael brings a hand to his chin, considering this.

“On principle, I refuse to fudge any dice rolls.” He says, as stern as a soldier. “But in this particular instance, I’d be willing to allow Wyll’s patron or perhaps Shadowheart’s deity to intervene. Does this suffice?”

You shrug to yourself and confirm that it does.

“Very good.” Raphael holds out a hand, and the two of you shake. You marvel for a moment at the odd warmth of his palm, the inexplicable softness where there should be callouses. “There.” He says. “A done deal. Now, should we get this in writing?”

You blink. “Uhm, I don’t think that will be necessary."

“My dear, an adequate contract is always necessary.”

You indulge him, allowing him to pen a ‘contract’ on the back of a blank character sheet.

Your friends, you think, had better love you for this.

***

The next morning, the two of you meet at a café for what Raphael calls a strategy meaning. He hauls a massive, leatherbound tome onto the table beside his croissant and accompanying mimosa.

“This,” he begins. “Is your new Monster Manual. You are to memorize every skulking creature within its pages. Know them. Anticipate their inclinations.” 

At the very least, he hasn’t lost his flair for the dramatic. You suppose this is a good sign as you set down your fork and haul the heavy book open. Of all things, it’s a photo album.

“This is your family?” You ask aloud, filling in the blanks. Raphael nods.

“This book is an almanac,” he says, even though, really, it isn’t. "Depicting anyone who’s anyone in the world of The Heller Group. That’s the business conglomerate my father founded in his youth.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re an heir?”

“Heir presumptive. One of several. My claim to the company depends entirely on the actions or inaction of my older siblings." He points to a particular picture, one of a beaming young woman. She shares his ruddy complexion, but just about nothing else. Where Raphael’s hair and eyes are brown, hers are jet black. Where his hair is curly, particularly at the nape of his neck, hers is pin-straight. 

“My sister, Antilia.” Raphael explains. “Firstborn, and the favorite to win. Her mother hails from dynastic wealth, and she’s not keen to let anyone forget it. They see each other, on occasion, but sister dearest is regardless devoted to seizing control of The Heller Group. How she bows and scrapes to Father, ever his simpering shadow…!” He gives a contemptuous scoff, then points to another picture on the page.

“The Burning Soul.” He says with great melodrama.

“...You have a sibling called ‘The Burning Soul’?"

“It is not their given name, but rather the moniker I find most appropriate.” 

You look at him flatly. “So it’s a mean nickname?”

He is remorseless. “In essence, yes.” You peer at the portrait he stabs imperiously with a finger. ‘The Burning Soul’ is a veritable mountain, so tall and broad-shouldered that they barely fit in the frame. Their hair is flame-red and as straight as their sister’s, and their black eyes burn like living embers. 

“The Burning Soul is quiet, but competent. They follow Father’s every order and can scarcely be bothered to conjure an original thought. Their mother was some manner of engineer, though she hasn’t much involvement with The Heller Group any longer.” Raphael takes what appears to be a much-needed sip from his mimosa. 

“So the three of you are competing to see who will inherit the company?” You ask, brow furrowing. That seems rather cruel. 

“Yes, and my siblings will stop at nothing to ensure that I’m not the one selected. I imagine they’ll hound you during the party, prying, probing for my weaknesses.” He shakes his head, signature smirk returning. “Of which there are none. Even so, we must ensure they do not discover that our relationship is a charade.” He picks up the book and parses through its pages before setting it back on the table.

Pictured is a dignified-looking woman with brown skin and cascades of auburn hair. She smiles as if sharing a secret.

“Baalphegor, Father’s wife.” Raphael informs you. “She plays the saccharine step-mother, but make no mistake, she hates all three of us. I suspect she aims to see us replaced with an heir of her own making.” 

This is…all a lot more complicated than I thought it was going to be. Your head spins, and you take a self-pitying forkful of scrambled eggs. 

Raphael ends up showing you dozens of portraits. He talks you through the specifics of each and every potential attendee: Heller cousins and in-laws and business associates. He hasn’t a kind word to say about any of them.

Finally, his hands go still over a two-page spread.

“Mephistopheles Heller.” He all but snarls. “My father.” On the first page is a full-body portrait of an immaculately-dressed man. Swathes of ink-black hair pour down his back and over his shoulders, and he sports a neatly-kept beard that ends in a devilish point. His eyes are dark and depthless: near identical to those of his elder two children. He smiles with unnerving calm, and his gaze is seemingly fixed on some point in the middle distance, far past the camera and its operator.

On the second page, he stands with his wife and three children in what appears to be their best approximation of a family photo. Raphael and his siblings are lined up like conscripted soldiers, and though he smiles, the look does not remotely meet his eyes. You’ve seen him disguising anger enough times to know that he’s doing it here, too. The picture is…well, there aren’t words for it. But it makes your heart sink. 

“He is vile, but brilliant, and as frigid as the northern wastes. The Heller Group’s success—in its veritable entirety—can be attributed to his intellect. Rouse his ire, and he will eviscerate you in whatever way he can.” 

“...Hell of a family you’ve got there…” You mutter, opting for levity. Raphael only nods.

“Hell, indeed.” He says. “And you must be prepared to enter it.”

He hands you the book to inspect for yourself and you reel, trying to keep track of the myriad names and faces.

In nearly every picture you see the same cold eyes and dark, straight hair. None of these people even remotely resemble Raphael. Until a picture on the last page, askew in its clear plastic holster, catches your attention. 

The woman on the page is Raphael’s spitting image, all bright eyes and brown curls. She stands amid a bustling city street, pointing at a theatrical overhang in the distance. Les Misérables, reads the marquee. The woman’s lips lift in the first genuine smile you’ve seen all day.

“She’s pretty.” You remark, brightening. “Who is she?” Raphael wrenches the book from your grasp and shuts it with finality.

“My mother,” he snaps. “Will not be attending.” 

***

Hours later, you’re in the passenger seat of Raphael’s car as the engine roars to life. The Volvo sports an immaculately-kept interior, though there’s a dangling air freshener on the rearview mirror that smells, overwhelmingly, of cherries. You could do without it.

“So where is this party?” You ask as you lean back in your seat.

"In Cania,” says Raphael with a steely look in his eyes and a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. “At my old family home." 

Cania…you have no idea where that is. But peering at the cellphone in the holster mounted on Raphael’s dashboard tells you that the drive will take about an hour. Best settle in, then.

You shift in your seat. Raphael has provided an elaborate outfit for you to wear, and admittedly it chafes in places. It's made from some sort of wool, though it’s much lighter than what you’re accustomed to. It’s the most expensive garment you’ve encountered in your life, and he paid for it upfront.

He himself wears a dress shirt and a blue, pin-striped overcoat. It suits him, only enhancing the elegance that his handsome features and swept-back hair already provide. 

There’s a red band of cloth around his neck that you can’t stop staring at. He looks like Bridgerton…

“You, uh, clean up nicely.” You try, attempting to break the silence.“I like your…neck thing.”

He eases a bit at the praise. “It’s called a cravat, dear.”

“So, is there anything else I should know about your family?”

“Do not, under any circumstances, speak to them.” Raphael advises, utterly serious.

“That…that seems like it’s going to be hard to avoid…”

“Fine. Speak if you must, but never out of turn. Do not let your guard down and do not give them an inch; I assure you, they will take several miles. And if they get even the faintest whiff of blood in the water, the lot of them will swarm like sharks.”

“…Is it too late for me to back out of this?”

“Yes,” says Raphael, and his lips lift ever so slightly. “We’re in this together now, you and I.”

“Like High School Musical.” You add. His brow furrows.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re old.”

“Or you’re a child.” He shoots back, but there’s no bite to it. “Don’t mention high school…whatever it was you just said in front of my family either.”

You laugh. “No promises.”

Raphael clears his throat, sobering. “There may also be times during which we must…perform, let’s say. If you’re to convincingly play the role of my partner, you need to be able to act it.”

“You mean, like…kiss…?”

“Among other things.” 

“O-oh, okay. Let’s, uhm, hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yes,” says Raphael, and his eyes fixate on some distant spot along the road. “Let’s.”

***

After an hour, it starts to snow. Not a bucolic dusting of powder, but an unrelenting white torrent that subsumes the surrounding landscape. Raphael peers through the storm, slowing the car to a cautious crawl.

“Was it supposed to snow today?” You ask, straining to see out the window.

“It always snows here.” Raphael replies. “Frigid, festering hell that it is.”

“Y’know, you’re not really selling me on this place.”

“I’m only trying to ensure that you’re properly prepared. Just as I do during our weekly sessions.”

“You mean like how you prepared me for the Owlbear?” Raphael, for once, ignores the slight. 

“There.” He says. “Coming up on your right.” You turn your head, and can just make out a snow-buried street guarded by a wrought-iron gate. An elaborate, Châteauesque manor sprawls out behind it, all pomp and spectacle, with imposing columns and a sharply-pitched roof. Ornate glazed windows line its face, each with their white curtains drawn open, as if its denizens relish their view of the violently churning snowstorm outside. It’s the kind of place you’d expect to see in your DnD campaign, a home fit for a lich king or a devilish archduke.

“Mephistar Manor.” Raphael provides. “Oh, it hasn’t nearly been long enough.”

“You grew up here?” You ask, jaw hanging open. You follow the path of its turrets and towers, which jut ceremoniously into the snow-filled sky. 

He nods once in confirmation. “And how I loathe to see it again.”

It’s bizarre: this is the guy who spends his free time reading from sourcebooks at your cramped kitchen table, and he hails from a home several times larger than your entire apartment complex.

Raphael drives up to the front gate and fiddles with the keypad on his phone. The gate doles open, screeching on its ancient hinges. He navigates the car through an unnecessarily long driveway and pulls it into park beside a slew of others. The house bears down upon you both, like a predator poised for the kill.

“Uhm, Raphael. I don’t think I can-”

“You must.” He cuts in. “You are under a contractual obligation.”

“Okay,” you say.

I’m doomed, you think.

You stumble out of the car and into the storm. Raphael shepherds you under an overhang and the two of you adjust your accoutrements as best you can. You fiddle with his cravat, though you’re not sure if you’re fixing it or further ruining it. The door looms just aft.

“Remember, you’re my partner.” Raphael declares, as if saying it will make it true. “We’re here to enjoy supper and then Christmas morning with my family. Simplicity itself.” He speaks the way he does when he’s debriefing your party pre-session. 

“Alright.” You gather your courage. “A-alright, I can do this.”

“Very good.” Raphael says, and wraps an arm around your waist. His side presses against yours, and the warm weight of it is, at the least, a small comfort. He guides you up the steps and into the labyrinthine depths of the house, but not before drawing close and whispering, “Come, dear. The Hellers await.” 

***

The house is somehow even grander on the inside. Two massive staircases sit at each side, meeting in the middle to accommodate an elaborate second floor. Doors dot its length, more than you can count, and columned hallways fan out in every direction. 

“Lord Raphael.” A uniformed man intercepts you in the foyer, bowing to Raphael like a peasant to a medieval lord. “Your family has already gathered in the assembly room. Shall I escort you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way,” Raphael counters. “But you may unload the car and take me and my partner’s things to our room.” 

The man disappears—presumably to do just that. Raphael turns and leads you down the hall, his hand still pressed against your side. 

The assembly room turns out to hardly be a room at all—rather, it is a vast, cavernous space that resembles the inside of a cathedral. Pentagonal windows inundate the walls on either side, and a vaulted ceiling spreads out overhead. Long tables with elaborate appetizer spreads have been assimilated throughout, and immaculately-dressed individuals mill about the space, chatting and grazing. 

“Hm. Sparse turnout this year.” Raphael observes, and you balk. You’ve never seen this many people gathered in a single room before in your life. “I suppose that works in our favor. Come, [Y/N].”

“Right…” You mutter, dogging his steps. 

You don’t make it an inch before you are accosted. 

“Raphael?” Calls an oddly melodic voice. The two of you turn, and are immediately set upon by a familiar face. “Oh, it’s been so long!”

“Too long, sister.” Counters Raphael without an ounce of sincerity. He makes a good show of it though, smiling and bending to embrace the woman.

Antilia—You put a name to the face. The eldest. She steps out of Raphael’s grip after only a moment and her dark eyes catch on you. 

“Oh, this must be your partner.” She says, angling her head like a hound on a scent. “The one father mentioned.”

“...Hi.” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think to say. You give her a wobbly smile and she simpers, smiling back with a flash of white teeth.

“Oh, well aren’t you darling! Raphael, why didn’t you tell us about them sooner?”

Raphael pulls you flush against his side. “Can you blame me for wanting to keep them all to myself?” 

“And how long have you had them all to yourself?” You open your mouth to lie, but Raphael beats you to it.

“Eight months.” He says without missing a beat.

“And it’s serious?”

“Very much so.”

“Then it’s an honor to meet you, dear. I’m Antilia, though I assume Raphael has already apprised you of such.” She bends her knee in a curtsy. “If you need anything while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Well,” she says, straightening. “I should let Father know that you’ve arrived. I’m sure he’ll be eager to speak with you. Do enjoy yourself, Raphael.” With that, she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd. There is a lightness to her gait, an odd bounce in her step.

“Do you think she bought it?” You whisper to Raphael. He dips his head to whisper back.

“It’s hard to say. Regardless, remember the number. Eight months. Don’t contradict it.”

“We’re probably going to get a lot more questions. We should think of some kind of backstory. Y’know, explain how we met.”

“Have you any ideas?”

You purse your lip, thinking. Where could an undergraduate have met and befriended a middle-aged heir presumptive? You get the impression that you shouldn’t say ‘at a DnD table’.

“We can say we met at a charity event. That would make you look good.”

Raphael waves a hand. “They’d never believe it. Try again.”

“At Baldur’s Academy?” It’s where you’ve met everyone else in your life, after all.

“Why would I be there?”

“Guest lecturer?” You try. “Maybe for an economics course or something?”

Raphael considers this. “Yes, I suppose such a thing could work. We’ll go with that. Ah, on your left. Here comes The Burning Soul. Stay calm and do not, under any circumstances, call them that to their face.”

***

The Burning Soul is inscrutable, with a flat affect and an endless tirade of questions. They grill you about every aspect of your life, not moving a muscle—hell, barely blinking—as if sussing out whether or not you’re even worthy to stand within Mephistar Manor. They are keen and relentless in their questioning. Raphael has to step in to save you several times, providing an answer for you or ‘clarifying’ one you had already given. The Burning Soul leaves just as suddenly as they came, muttering goodbye as if it were an afterthought. They lumber through the crowd, and it doesn’t take strenuous use of the imagination to figure out where they might be going.

“Straight back to father.” Raphael tuts. “What did I tell you?”

The evening persists, and you are accosted by many more curious Hellers and their associates.

Hutijin, Mephistopheles’s right hand, does not approach, but regards you throughout the night with simmering, suspicious glances. Bifrons, a staid, dispassionate sort, assaults you with increasingly esoteric philosophical inquiries until Raphael shepherds him away. Portly, reeking Barbas goads you to drink while inhaling a mountain of appetizers. You politely decline. Young-looking Adonides watches sympathetically from afar, his distrust of you only outmatched by his apparent disdain for Barbas. A bespectacled man called Bele scribbles in a notebook whenever you speak. 

After what feels like an eternity, you get a moment alone with Raphael. He reclines against a wall and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I did not miss this.” He remarks. “So many sellouts and sycophants. The Heller Group would be better off without them. Excuse me for a moment-” 

Raphael makes to leave and you clutch his sleeve to stop him. “Wait, where are you going?” 

He exhales, amused. “To the washroom, dear.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“That would look ridiculous.” 

You indicate the crowd. “So you’re just going to leave me alone with them?”

“It’s only going to be for a moment. Stay here, no one will bother you.”

“Raphael-”

“Sellouts and sycophants, [Y/N].” He repeats. “If they ask you anything, just remember our backstory.”

“...Fine.” You relent. “But make it quick.” 

“As I said, I’ll only be a moment.” He sets off down an adjoining hall and, just like that, you are alone with the Hellers. 

They don’t pounce, oddly enough. It’s as if you've stopped being worth acknowledging now that Raphael isn’t with you. You glance around.

Antilia is arm-in-arm with a tall, fair-haired woman whom you recognize as her mother. She is an heiress from an affluent family and was once involved with Mephistopheles Heller. Apparently, the split was surprisingly amicable. 

Across the room, The Burning Soul bends their head to speak with their own mother—an engineer who sought out Mephistopheles Heller specifically to father her child. Raphael suspects that some sort of contract was involved in their union.

You think of the curly-haired thespian from the deepest depths of the photo album. Raphael’s mother. Why isn’t she in attendance? Some sort of falling out with his father?

Looking up, you spy a familiar set of brown curls. You exhale, inordinately relieved. Raphael has returned. His back is turned, he must not have seen you when he entered, wedged against the wall as you were. 

“Raphael-” You begin, closing the space between the two of you. Your eyes meet, and it is then that you realize that this person is not, in fact, Raphael—just someone who happens to look exactly like him. There are some differences—a less pronounced brow, a more youthful face, a closer shave—but in every other aspect they are indistinguishable from the Heller heir presumptive. You blanch. Raphael never mentioned a fourth sibling, let alone an identical twin. 

“O-oh, I’m sorry.” You stammer. “I thought—well, I thought you were Raphael.” 

The stranger raises a hand. “That’s alright.” They drawl, laid-back and unpretentious. There is an inscrutable gleam in their eye. “If you can believe it, this sort of thing happens often." 

You chuckle, eased by their nonchalance. Despite yourself, you try to make conversation. “Raphael never told me he had a twin.” 

The stranger pauses, and a lazy smile spreads over their face. “Oh,” they say, and pat you patronizingly on the shoulder. “You poor thing.” They may not be Raphael, but in that moment they are every bit as condescending.

“What do you-”

They gesture over your head. “Oh, there’s Raphael now. I’ll give the two of you some privacy, hmm?” They raise an arm as if to physically tag themself out of the conversation, and with one last look in Raphael’s direction, they turn and saunter away. 

Raphael comes up behind you, and his hand clamps down around your shoulder with a bit more force than necessary. You glance back and find him quietly seething, face scrunched and brows knit.

“[Y/N]. I see you’ve met…Haarlep.” The Heller heir practically spits the name. He doesn’t meet your gaze, he merely stares daggers at the stranger’s retreating back. His grip tightens upon your shoulder. 

“Who in God’s name is Haarlep?” You ask, following his gaze. “Your twin?” Raphael reels, as if he’s been struck.

“What?! Of course not, they’re my former lover!” You balk, staring between Raphael and Haarlep. Identical. Identical in damn near every aspect.

You think, then, of Raphael. 

Raphael, whom Astarion regularly decries as a narcissist behind his back.  

Raphael, whom half of you suspect became a DM solely to hear himself talk. 

Raphael, whose phone’s lock-screen image is—for whatever inexplicable reason—a candid photo of himself. 

The existence of Haarlep suddenly makes sense. 

“They were everything I ever wanted in a partner,” Raphael begins what is obviously going to become a monologue. 

“Yeah,” you quip. “I’ll bet they were.” Raphael ignores you, preoccupied by recounting the tale. 

“Until I found out that their very nature is one of abject deception. I’ve even begun to suspect that Haarlep itself is an affectation. A pseudonym.”

Considering it’s a literal anagram of your name, I’d be inclined to agree. You do not voice the thought. 

“They were a plant.” Raphael growls. “A lackey of my father’s, sent to keep tabs on me. To keep me dumb, and distracted…” 

Your mouth falls open. “That’s…God, Raphael, that’s horrible. I’m sorry, I-” 

“Oh, enough of that. The last thing I want is your pity.” 

“It’s not pity.” You mutter.

“Regardless, consider this your first lesson on the true nature of Mephistopheles Heller. He’d do anything to undermine my bid for the company. I suppose he thinks I’m not fit to take ownership of The Heller Group. He’s wrong, and I’ll prove it. Inviting Haarlep here must be his way of trying to rile me. But I’m not going to-” He’s red-faced, rambling, teeth bared and digging into his lip. You reach for his shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze.

“Let’s give those bastards hell, okay?”

Raphael smiles grimly. “Oh, hell is exactly what I intend to give them.” Without warning, the whine of an organ cuts through the air. 

“What’s that?” You ask.

“What do you think?” Raphael holds out his arm for you to take. “It’s time for supper.”

***

Apparently, it isn’t actually suppertime. Everyone else has gathered around the expansive dining room table, but the master and mistress of the house are nowhere to be seen. You stare at the two vacant chairs, one at the head of the table and the other directly to its left. The Hellers do not raise a fuss, seemingly accustomed to just such a thing.

“He likes to make an entrance.” Raphael explains aloud. The two of you are seated side-by-side near the head of the table. The other two Heller siblings and even goddamned Haarlep stare at you from the other side. Your seats are in a cluster, while the Heller uncles and Mephistopheles's most trusted advisors sit further down. They murmur amongst themselves, discussing business. Work at The Heller Group, it seems, does not stop on Christmas Eve. 

“Such dull talk,” remarks Antilia, inclining her head toward the latter half of the table. “Let’s discuss something more interesting, such as you.” Your heart stops when you realize she’s looking in your direction. “And what a lovely couple you and my brother make!” 

“Oh, uhm, thank you.”

“However did the two of you meet?” She presses, blinking innocently at you and Raphael. Here it is—the question you’ve been anticipating all night. You lock eyes with Raphael. Showtime. 

You take the lead. “I attend Baldur’s University in Rivington. Raphael was a guest lecturer there.”

“Baldur’s University…” Antilia twines a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, I can’t say I’ve heard of it. I, of course, attended-”

The Burning Soul cuts in. “Is that an accredited university?” Somehow, that is the most pressing question on their mind. You nod.

“Yes. It’s a very good school.” The two sit back in their chairs, satisfied (or in Antilia’s case, bored) with your answer. It seems this may be the end of the conversation. Did we just get away with that…?

“What was the lecture on?” Haarlep asks slyly. They smile, as if they’ve caught you in a trap, and you stop short. Think. Think fast. 

“O-oh, uhm, I don’t quite remember. I-I mean, how could I focus, with him teaching it?” You laugh shrilly, hoping they’ll believe your dumbass lie.

“So you neglect your studies?” The Burning Soul deadpans.

“Huh? N-no, that’s not what I-” The elder Heller siblings look at you disapprovingly, and Haarlep lounges with their elbows on the table, the picture of arrogance. “I take my studies very seriously, I just meant that I-”

“It was a lecture on Microeconomics.” Raphael interrupts and, hell, you could kiss him for it. “Game theory, Nash equilibrium, that sort of thing. [Y/N] sat in the front row, taking such detailed, assiduous notes. But I could tell that they were having some trouble grasping a few concepts, so I approached them after the lecture to clarify things.”

“Yeah!” You add, a little too enthusiastically. “Then I, uhm, I asked him out for coffee. And that was our first date.” 

The elder sister cocks her head. “Pursuing undergraduates now, are we, brother?”

“[Y/N] is no child. They’re an intelligent, accomplished individual. Preternaturally perceptive. A cutting wit. Quiet at times, true, but when they do speak…" He looks at you, eyes bright, smiling with sharp teeth. “Hell and Heaven alike pause to listen.” 

You can only stare, spellbound yet again, by his words. No one has ever spoken about you in such a manner. Does Raphael actually see such things in you? Your cheeks heat at the prospect. 

“Oh.” Antilia recoils, put off by the display of affection. “Is that all?”

“And what do you think of Raphael?” Asks Haarlep. Antilia brightens, suddenly interested again.

“Yes, [Y/N], whatever do you see in my brother?”

A cutting question. You get the impression that they’re trying to catch you off-guard again, but after hearing Raphael’s words, you feel a sense of…lightness. Ease.

“I love the way he tells stories.” You say, entirely honest. You think of Raphael sitting at the head of your kitchen table, doing different voices for each individual NPC, and your brows lower fondly. “And…sometimes I feel like I can’t get enough of him, even when he’s being a bastard.”

“And he very frequently is a bastard.” Haarlep cuts in after a beat, something commiserating in their expression. 

“Well, he’s my bastard.” You counter. The words give you a thrill, even though you know they aren’t true. “And he’s brilliant.”

And though Raphael Heller is by no means yours, the look he gives you then could convince anyone otherwise. There is something affectionate, and even proud, in his expression. 

“Well, there you have it.” He says to the others, throwing an arm lazily around your shoulder. “Straight from my sweet little mouse themself. Have you any more questions?” 

The lot of them, Haarlep included, stay silent.

***

The arrival of Mephistopheles Heller is heralded by the entire room. As he enters, with Baalphegor perched primly on his arm, every single person stands to acknowledge them—including Raphael, who yanks you up with him. Your breath catches as you regard the couple: they are the very image of preternatural grace and beauty. The man’s dark hair has been neatly gathered back, whereas his wife’s has been fashioned into an elaborate up-do at the top of her head. They’re dressed to the nines, putting even yourself and Raphael to shame. Their outfits are a pair, seemingly custom-made, and each wears a metal broach in the shape of a three-pronged star over their right breast.

Mephistopheles pauses, pulling out a chair for his wife before taking his own at the head of the table. Only after they are settled does the rest of the company dare return to their seats. 

The doors burst open, and waitstaff dressed in finery fill the space, hauling in platters of food. You’ve never seen such exquisite fare: mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and a massive, steaming roast that looks like it came straight out of Who-ville. Plates are piled high, wine is topped-off, and Barbas is practically salivating in his seat. 

Once each glass is filled, the master of the house rises to toast.

“To all we have,” says Mephistopheles in a rumbling timbre that seems to shake the room to its very foundations. “To the Heller Group and its associates, and, of course, to my family.” He smiles calmly as he sips from his glass, and the advisors down the table scramble to follow suit. You hesitate, staring at the near-black liquid that’s been forced into your glass. Aside from expensive, you have no idea what it is.

“Canian Fire Wine,” Raphael whispers. “A Heller’s drink of choice.”

“Will it burn?” You ask, scrunching your nose at the scent. 

“Oh, terribly.” He downs a swig without flinching, just to show that he can, then smiles at you. “Your turn.”

You bring the glass to your lips and take the smallest, swiftest sip that you can. It stings like acid going down, and it’s all you can do to keep from coughing and doubling over. Raphael watches, amused all the while.

Around the table, Hellers are sucking down the drink as if it were water. The Burning Soul drains a glass without so much as a twitch, then pours themself another. With the toast thus concluded, the feast begins in earnest. You pile whatever you can reach onto your plate and leave it at that.

“It’s so nice to have all of the children together again.” Remarks Baalphegor, inclining her head toward the three.

“Among others.” Mephistopheles lilts.

“Oh, yes, how could I forget? Raphael, won’t you please introduce us to your guest?”

“Certainly.” Raphael puts an arm around your shoulder. “May I present [Y/N] [L/N], my partner of the last eight months?”

You bow your head with as much deference as you can manage. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

“The honor is entirely ours," Mephistopheles replies in a cool, courtly cadence. “You, my dear, are a sight.” You shudder a bit under the weight of his gaze, and Raphael takes notice.

“Aren’t they just?” He says through grit teeth. 

“They met at Baldur’s University.” Cuts in Antilia. “Student and lecturer. The scandal of it all!”

“You wouldn't prefer someone your own age?” You cannot tell whether Baalphegor speaks to you or to Raphael. Even so, you let him answer.

“I assure you we are quite content.”

“That may well be. Though I’m certain there are…others you could be just as content with.” The head of house casts a less-than-subtle glance in Haarlep’s direction. For once, they say nothing, and the smirk on their face does not quite meet their eyes.

***

Very soon, dinner becomes an attack on all sides. The two of you are subject to quips and criticism regarding just about anything the Hellers can think of. Baalphegor thinks you look peaked. The Burning Soul, upon hearing your major, shakes their head and declares that you won’t ever find a job. Mephistopheles watches all the while, lips quirked ever so slightly upward, as if the whole thing is a stage show for which he has a front row seat. 

“Raphael, do you still play your little game?” Antilia pipes up, feigning interest. “Dunkin and Dragons?” You and Raphael exchange a look.

The head of house chuckles. “One would hope he’s found a more productive hobby by now.”

“Like theatre?” The Burning Soul offers.

Antilita titters. “Oh, that’s the only thing worse than Dublin and Dragons! Surely our Raphael has grown out of such idle amusements.”

You turn to Raphael, who cuts wrathfully into a slab of chicken. “You used to do theatre?"

Baalphregor places a hand to her lip. “My, he never told you? Are you not his partner?” Thankfully, Antilia saves you from having to reply, though it is certainly not out of kindness.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t talked your ear off about the little play he did! Remember it, father?”

“Hmm?” The patriarch hums, utterly bored. 

“You know, the one about France! What was it, again, Raphael?”

“Les Misérables.” Raphael says flatly. He does not outright frown, but his face is as scrunched as you’ve ever seen it.

Mephistopheles chuckles. “Yes, that. I'm afraid it slipped my mind. Perhaps if your performance had made more of an impression…”

“You were in a production of Les Mis?" You ask Raphael before he can retort. 

“A school production.” The Burning Soul clarifies. 

“Yes, high school.” Tuts Mephistopheles, seemingly amused by this topic of discussion. “And to my knowledge he hasn’t returned to the stage since. So much for making a career of it, hm?”

“Well, I’m sure he’s been very busy with his work.” You fire back before you can stop yourself. “His work for your company.” 

Raphael gives you a pointed look. Careful.

Mephistopheles is utterly unphased. His sedate smile doesn’t so much as twitch. “And what do you do for work, [Y/N]?” He asks, and stares with gleaming eyes. His attention is fixed solely on you, and it is enough to chill you to the bone. The man is a predator toying with its prey.

“I-I’m a student.”

“Ah. So, nothing?”

“Well, uhm, I also wait tables on the weekend-”

The Burning Soul sniffs. “How quaint.”

“I don’t imagine it’s very lucrative.” Adds Antilia with feigned sympathy.

“Raphael must pay for everything...” Baalphegor remarks.

“I wonder then,” Mephistopheles gives a grimy smile, and his eyes bore into you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.  “What [Y/N] does for him in return. What sorts of exchanges the two of them are making.”

The legs of a chair screech across the floor, drawing the collective attention of the table. Beside you, Raphael has stood from his seat.

“Enough.” He growls, glaring down at his father.

Something in Mephistopheles shifts, and where once there was cool composure there is now white-hot scorn. Vehement, world-shaking anger. Fire entombed within ice. His dark eyes glint like polished steel and he rises from the table in a single wrenching movement. And—although it is barely perceptible—you swear you see Raphael flinch, as if he anticipates being struck.

“Sit.” The older man hisses through clenched teeth. Raphael does not move. Mephistopheles Heller takes a single, looming step toward his son. “If you know what’s good for you, boy, you’ll do as I say. Now, sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

And although his eyes burn like the underworld’s fire, although his shoulders tremble with rage and defiance, Raphael Heller slumps and does as told.

“There.” Mephistopheles purrs, once again the cold lord. “Was that so hard? Now, where were we?”

***

After supper ends, the two of you don’t linger long. Raphael haltingly excuses himself and stalks off in the direction of his room. You slip after him like a shadow.

The two of you walk the halls in silence. The storm outside has abated, and blue stars are visible in an ink-black sky. Even so, the air in the manor home feels colder than ever.

You draw close to Raphael and cautiously lay your hand over his own. Some attempt at comfort. His fingers twitch at the sudden presence. 

He wrenches free of your grip and glares daggers in your direction; he is in no mood to be comforted. Raphael’s face contorts with dueling emotions. He is indignant, humiliated, vengeful—that much you know. But the shaking set of his shoulders cannot be entirely attributed to anger. There is something terribly vulnerable within him, and he hates, hates, hates that it exists—and that you have seen it.

Without a word, he turns on his heel and walks off without you.

***

You wander the halls of Mephistar Manor until you feel like you can’t any longer. You want to give Raphael his privacy, but you feel exposed out here, as if one of his insufferable family members skulks in every shadow. 

You ask a staff member to direct you to Raphael’s room and follow him to the second floor.

“Thank you.” You nod to the man as he leaves. An ornamented white door looms in front of you, identical to virtually every other in this godforsaken place. You knock, expecting nothing.

The door creaks open, and Raphael stands on the other side, sweating and redder than usual. He pants slightly, chest rising and falling in a discordant rhythm. Has he been shouting? You think of his fist coming down upon your kitchen table.

His lips part in surprise as he catches sight of you in the door frame, but he steps aside and allows you to pass into the room. You shut the door, and the two of you stare at one another in silence. 

“I’m sorry.” You say immediately. “What happened back there…only happened because you spoke up on my behalf.” 

He shakes his head. “He sought to anger me from the beginning. Had you not been in attendance, I’m sure he would have found some other way to do so.” Raphael sighs through his nose and takes a seat on the neatly-made bed. After a beat, he glances at you expectantly. “Come, dear. Sit with me.” You oblige.

The mattress is so ridiculously thick that it doesn’t so much as shift under your collective weight. The two of you sit in commiserating silence until Raphael pulls out a monogrammed drinking flask and takes a swig. 

He hums as he offers it to you.

You hesitate. “Is this more of that horrible wine?” 

Raphael laughs. “Wyvern whiskey,” he says, and splays out a hand. “My drink of choice.”

You accept the flask and take a cautious sip. It’s even worse than the Fire Wine: it nearly makes you gag. Even so, you throw your head back and force down another mouthful.

Raphael lilts, “Thirsty?”

“No, I want to be drunk.”

“Entirely reasonable, after an evening with my family.”

“Why do they treat you like that?” You ask, practically seething. “Your father wasn’t nearly so condescending to your siblings.”

“Perhaps he knows I’m going to be the one to dethrone him.” Raphael tries for his usual arrogance. “Or, perhaps, the others…well, they’re quintessential Hellers. Comparatively, I’m-”

“More like your mother?” You think of the recklessly smiling woman from the photo album and the brightly-lit marquee behind her.

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell you. She passed shortly after I was born. Complications from the delivery, or so I’m told.”

“Oh, Raphael. I’m sorry-”

“You and your sorries.” He grouses. “It doesn’t matter to me. I didn’t know the woman.” 

Silence follows. You reach for Raphael’s hand and, this time, he accepts your touch. You run your thumb along his knuckles, tracing invisible shapes.

“...Who were you in Les Mis?” You ask after a while, keen to change the subject. Raphael’s spirits lift in an instant. Hell, he practically beams.

“Who but the good inspector?” The man says with great pride.

“You were Javert?!” 

Inspector Javert: the fire-and-brimstone antagonist of the production, and the veritable poster-child of lawfulness. Somehow it suits him. The mental image of Raphael standing center stage, belting out Stars in his deep, beautiful voice…is a captivating image indeed.

“I’ll never forget my final number on opening night. Ah, it was the happiest moment of my life-”

“Wasn’t Javert killing himself in that scene…?”

“A good actor knows how to compartmentalize, dear.” Raphael answers nonchalantly. “For the inspector, of course, the agony was unimaginable. But, for me…” He stares ahead, as if he can still see it all in his mind’s eye. He raises a hand, bidding you to see it too. “The scintillation of the spotlight. The utter adulation of the crowd below: their riotous, roaring applause. The inspector fell, true, but I…I was flying.” 

His eyes shine, and you’ve never seen him look so genuinely happy, not even when he killed half your party in a single round of combat.

“I’d give anything to have been in that audience." You tell him, and mean every word.

***

This room is apparently Raphael’s childhood bedroom. The fact surprises you—it hardly looks lived-in at all. Though the furnishings are immaculate, they look like they belong in a hotel; there is no flair or individualistic decoration. You’d expected Raphael’s space to be as ostentatious as he is. As the two of you prepare for bed, you glance incredulously about. 

“This is your room?” You ask.

“You don’t sound particularly impressed.”

“Where are all of your things?”

In answer, he hauls a worn cardboard box out from underneath the bed. He pulls back the sagging flaps and reveals a trove. The thing is crammed full of treasures from his youth: old playbills, half-filled notebooks, classic novels, the scattered remnants of what might have once been a Warhammer 40K army, a laminated character sheet for a level 20 bard, and above all…

Sourcebooks. Stack-after-stack of old Dungeons and Dragons sourcebooks. Most are from third edition—both 3e and 3.5e. Some are from second edition, and the very oldest was penned before either of you were born. 

“Where did you get all of these?”

“I started playing in college—as a Dungeon Master, of course. Things were different back then. No coddling, no attempt at mass-market appeal.” Raphael gives a nostalgic little sigh. “Oh, the TPKs I orchestrated, the character sheets we burned…you and your friends would never have stood for it.”

So he’s always been that kind of DM…

You spend some time parsing through the books while Raphael sets about his elaborate bedtime routine (it involves face masks). You end up reading about baatezu—the dominant race of devils in second and third edition—and a particular paragraph catches your eye.

See, just as the archons can fall from grace, so can baatezu climb up out of the pit. Sure, some of 'em might be double agents, running a peel to gain valuable chant or trick the celestials into lending the fiends a hand. But as sure as Sigil, there’re definitely some baatezu who’ve sincerely given up their evil ways and now struggle to make up for their past sins. And the risen have proven to be plenty useful to the forces of good.

“Why didn’t you tell me there were good devils?” You ask aloud. Raphael turns from the vanity.

“What? There aren’t.”

Matter-of-factly, you hold up the book. 

“Faces of Evil: The Fiends.” He recognizes it in an instant. “That book is from second edition. It was decanonized decades ago. As far as your precious fifth edition is concerned, a devil is just that. A devil.” 

“So they can’t be good?”

Raphael holds up a finger and quotes a section of the Player’s Handbook as if it were a religious text. “A devil does not choose to be lawful evil, and it doesn’t tend toward lawful evil, but rather it is lawful evil in its essence.”

You don’t bother asking why he has that memorized. “Isn’t that kind of…I don’t know, sad?”

“Sad?” He asks with incredulous laughter.

“It is sad.” You huff, feeling the need to defend yourself. “You’re telling me these things are born evil, and they just have to be evil forever?”

“It isn’t sad in the slightest. A devil cannot know goodness, that is fact, and you cannot notice the absence of a sensation that you’ve never experienced.”

You think of Raphael’s impetuously smiling mother, watching the play her son would go on to star in decades later. Your heart sinks. Yes, you can. 

“Such sympathy for the hypothetical devil,” Raphael tuts, amused. “Will you parley, hand-in-claw? Sell your soul out of sentiment? How do you hope to tame a creature that conspires to cast you into hell?”

“I don’t know, that’s up to you. You’re the DM.” You give him a meaningful look. “You make the rules, so if you wanted it to happen…well, then it could happen.”

“Ever the cockeyed optimist.” He snarks, though there’s a fondness there. “If you ever tried your hand at being a Dungeon Master, your table would certainly be a lot different than mine.”

You continue to chat, voices carrying through the cold and quiet manor.

***

A knock at the door. Raphael is…otherwise occupied, so you answer in his stead. As the door swings open, you’re surprised to see Haarlep standing in its frame. They examine their immaculate nails, pensive—or bored.

Your eyes narrow. “What do you want?” 

They put their hands up in a peacemaking gesture. “Just to chat.”

“Well, Raphael is, uhm…taking a bubble bath.” Apparently, it is step five of his bedtime routine. Haarlep snorts, and you can’t exactly blame them. But you hate them, so you don’t give an inch.

“I’m surprised you aren’t in there with him.” Haarlep remarks. “But that’s just as well. I was actually hoping to speak with you.” 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

They sigh elaborately. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Raphael, but I suggest you stop it before it goes any further. The only thing that man loves is himself.”

“He loves performing.” You blurt before you can stop yourself. Part of you is incensed, as if you yourself had been insulted. You feel an inexplicable desire to defend Raphael. “And DnD. And chocolate-covered cherries. And audiobooks. And…Javert’s Suicide, I guess.”

Haarlep looks at you as if you’re an idiot. “What the hell is Javert’s Suicide?”

“Look, the point is that you’re wrong. He loves a lot of things.”

“But you aren’t one of them.” Haarlep asserts. They are entirely matter-of-fact; they do not delight in telling you any of this. “You never will be. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise.” 

You glower. “You’re as horrible as he says you are.”

Haarlep sighs, shaking their head. “No good deed…well, you were warned. That’s all I can do. Goodnight, [Y/N].” They give a halfhearted wave, then disappear down the hall as quickly as they’d come.

You slam the door shut and fall, reeling, against it. Stupid. Regardless of whether or not Raphael is the devil that Haarlep makes of him, you know that he doesn’t love you. Why would he? You aren’t actually his partner. In all likelihood, you won’t ever be.

You’re more upset by this than you have any right to be. 

***

“You’ve been…quiet.” Raphael observes. He lies on his side in bed, drumming his fingers against the sheets. An elaborate silk robe rests around his shoulders, with the top thrown open to reveal his bare chest, and his skin is still red and soft from the bath. Your eyes periodically catch on the patch of hair there, and you feel warm and stupid. 

Your head is still spinning from your confrontation with Haarlep, and you don’t particularly feel like talking about it.

“I’m just tired.” You say. It isn’t entirely a lie. “Can we call it a night?” 

“Certainly. Though you’ll have to join me here.” He indicates the bed. “To maintain the illusion.”

You nod. “Of course.” You clamber under the blankets, though you linger at the edge of the bed, as far from Raphael as you can comfortably get. If he notices, he doesn’t broach the subject. He extinguishes the lamp on the bedside table, and the room is plunged into darkness.

You consider the day’s events. When you agreed to this ridiculous scheme, you had not been expecting to enjoy it quite so much. To enjoy Raphael’s company quite so much. What happens when all of this is over? How are you going to go back to being a mere player at his table? You sigh, letting your head fall back against a pillow. 

“...Tomorrow will be easier.” Raphael breaks the silence, seeming to sense your distress. You wonder if he’d bother, were he to know the real reason for it.

You smile ruefully. “I hope so.”

“All we have to do is make it through Christmas morning. Then, we take our leave.”

“And what happens after that?”

Raphael exhales: he hadn’t anticipated that question. “Well, I’ll drive you back to Rivington. And then you’ll be free to spend the rest of the holiday wherever you’d truly like to be spending it.”

Part of you thinks you might already be there.                                                                      

***

Morning light spears through floor-to-ceiling windows, and as consciousness sets itself upon you, you come to realize several things.

1)    You’re at Mephistar Manor—the Heller family home in Cania. As if to confirm this, snow swirls outside in an unrepentant torrent.

2)    You’re in Raphael’s childhood bedroom, of all places. 

3)    You and Raphael lay together in a tangle of limbs and blankets. Somehow, your bodies seem to have found each other in the dead of night. His arms are wrapped around your waist, and you can feel his broad chest rising and falling against your back. He is quiet, seemingly sleeping, and if ever there were a time to extricate yourself from this mortifying situation, now would indeed be it. You just hope you can do so without waking him up.

With a wrenching motion, you attempt to wriggle free, up and out of his grip, but he holds you in place.

“Stay.” He rumbles, voice thick with sleep. He pulls you closer and you freeze, wondering. Is he delirious? Dreaming?

The man cranes his neck to whisper in your ear. “We’re being watched.” Sure enough, the door to the room is ever so slightly ajar. A figure stands several paces behind it, peering through while ensconced in shadow.

“Antilia.” Raphael mutters. “Ever my father’s little spy.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest. If your charade is discovered, what happens to you? Hell, what happens to Raphael?! Somehow you suspect that this family isn’t above casting you both out into the snow to fend for yourselves.

“What do we do?” You ask Raphael, a little desperately.

“Act natural.” He advises. “Act like you love me.”

You whisper back, “Which one?!”

He provides no further clarification, just sighs and buries his face in your hair. His grip tightens around your waist, and you squirm as close as you can manage, hoping the two of you look like a contented couple enjoying a lazy morning in. Nevermind that a veritable she-devil lurks just outside the door. Even so, your erratic heartbeat cannot be entirely attributed to fear. 

Raphael brings one hand up to stroke a spot on your arm, though you aren’t sure if he intends to assuage you or merely wants to further the illusion.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He says, oddly matter-of-fact. A thousand different voices go to war in your head.

God, yes. Utters a particularly emphatic one.

What the hell? No! Counters another. This is going too far. I’m not his actual partner, I can’t-

You glance about, as if for an out, and for a fraction of a second you swear you can make out a face in the shadows. You imagine Antilia staring back at you, smiling, saccharine, as if she’s caught you in a trap. Through the haze of sleep, you remember her actions at last night's dinner: her relentless condescension toward Raphael. Her father’s ice and fire. Something indignant and hateful rises within you.

“Okay,” you whisper back to Raphael. “Kiss me.”

He obliges, pressing a kiss to your nape. It is chaste, close-mouthed—but warm and not at all unpleasant. His lips brush down the column of your neck, and your heart hammers all the while.  

Raphael pauses when he reaches the close-fitting robe around your shoulders. The man makes to relent, but you reach back and yank the thing down for him.

“Keep going.” You whisper. 

You can feel the smile on his face when he does so. His lips, his arms, the leg he twines around your own—hell, all of him is intoxicatingly warm. He follows the contours of your body, growing brazen, and there are hints of tongue and teeth. Entirely unbidden, you groan as he lingers at a sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder. He pulls back, and the absence of his warmth is immediately irritating.

“What was that?” He purrs, and you can practically hear the smarmy, catlike grin on his face. “Is my little mouse, perhaps, enjoying themself?”

“Oh, shut up.” You manage. “This whole thing was your idea.” 

He braces his hands against your hips, fingers digging ever-so-slightly in, and gives a devious little squeeze. You hasten to restrain the instinctual thrill that courses through your body.

“Raphael Heller!” You gasp, scandalized, and he doubles over, wheezing and laughing. You can feel his body lurching and shaking as he struggles to master himself. When his laughter finally abates, he rests his cheek in the space between your neck and shoulder, and his slightly stubbly chin brushes against your bare skin.

“[Y/N] [L/N],” he breathes, near reverent. “What fun you are. I could very easily do this all day.”

The door whines shut, followed by a decrescendo of footsteps down the hall. The spy has made their exit, but the two of you had long since forgotten they were ever there in the first place. 

***

Christmas morning at Mephistar manor is utterly miserable. Even the massive Christmas tree erected in the parlor seems to sag. Every ornament is an identical ball—there is nothing tender or homemade. The gifts, at least, are wrapped with preternatural precision. You suspect the task was outsourced. 

You sit beside Raphael and mostly just observe while everyone gets each other shit gifts. He receives a blazer that is several sizes too small, a set of dish towels, and a $50 gift card to Bass Pro Shops. For whatever reason, this is the last straw.

***

“You should never come back here.” You tell Raphael to his face. The two of you sit on the edge of his bed, passing wyvern whiskey back and forth. He chuckles.

“I take it you didn’t enjoy Christmas morning?”

“Bass Pro Shops.” You say flatly. It’s all you need to say. Raphael takes a contemplative sip from his monogrammed flask.

“Perhaps I could pawn the gift card off on an acquaintance or coworker.”

“That’s my whole point, Raphael. It’s Christmas: you shouldn't have to pawn away your presents, and you shouldn’t have to spend it in a room full of people you can hardly even stand.”

He considers this with a hint of amusement. “Well, what would you have me do instead?”

“I don’t know. Travel? Maybe you could visit us at Baldur’s University, and we could do a Christmas-themed one-shot or something.”

“Somehow, I doubt that your friends would be particularly enthused about seeing me over the holidays.”

“Well, then maybe you could just visit me.” Your cheeks redden at the thought, but you continue, entirely candid. “We could…well, we could do whatever we wanted to. We could watch High School Musical, because you’re old, and you haven’t seen it.” You smile shyly at him and he smiles back, threading a hand through your hair.

“Your offer is…tempting, dear, but I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. My presence at these events is mandatory if I’m to prove to my father that I’m worthy of inheriting The Heller Group.” Your eyes narrow at the mention of his father. Mephistopheles Heller: the cold lord who watches with amused detachment as his children devote their entire lives to securing their inheritance. You wouldn’t put it past him to die and leave them with nothing, just as one final slight.

“You don’t have to prove anything to that guy. He’s a miserable old miser, and you’re an artist. You’re already better than him, Raphael. In every way that matters.” 

Raphael stops short. His fingers go still in your hair. “I don't know what I ever did to make you see me in such a manner…” He mutters. “And I don’t imagine there are very many people who would agree with your assessment. But…I thank you, all the same. You, dear, have given me a lot to think about.”

His lips brush your forehead with a gentleness you hadn’t known he was capable of. There is no audience to bear witness, no meddling family members to trick; Raphael is kissing you solely because he wants to. 

“Go pack your things.” He whispers as he pulls away. “I think it's about time we took our leave of this place.”

***

“Oh Raphael, it’s been wonderful!” Brother and sister embrace, and it is every bit as awkward and insincere as you have come to expect. Antilia pulls away first, then her attention turns to you. “And [Y/N], how I’d love to see you again next year! Let’s hope you can hold my brother’s attention until then, hmm?” 

“They will,” Raphael says, at your side in an instant. “That, at least, you can be assured of.”

Antilia blinks. “...Right.”

The Burning Soul lumbers up beside you and grunts, “Take care,” without a modicum of actual care. 

Raphael merely nods. “Yes, and you.” He moves down the line of assembled family members until he comes to stand before Baalphegor and his father. He acknowledges each with a nod of his head.

“Until next year, Raphael.” Says Mephistopheles. “In the meantime, I’d advise you to remember your decorum.”

“I apologize for my outburst at dinner.” Raphael says with affected sincerity. “And I assure you that things will be quite different between us going forward.” 

The older man nods. “Very good. Let’s hope you keep your word.” You hope he will, too, but not in the way that his father expects. 

“Be well, Raphael.” Baalphegor adds, though her tone implies she hopes for the opposite. 

With their goodbyes thus exchanged, the Hellers take their leave of the room. You and Raphael stand alone by the manor’s massive double doors. 

“Give me a moment to pull the car around.” Raphael says, and disappears behind them. You are left alone in the foyer, though not for very long.

“[Y/N].” Comes an all-too-familiar drawl. You turn to find Haarlep and, of all things, they’re holding a worn cardboard box. Your eyes narrow.

“You again?”

“Just dropping these…” They glance incredulously into the box, piled high with sourcebooks, and their lip curls with distaste. “Erm, things off. You ought to take them with you. I get the impression Raphael won’t be back here anytime soon.”

“What? What makes you say that?”

They shrug. “Just a hunch. Here, take it.” Despite your confusion, you nod and accept the items. Haarlep rolls a shoulder, seemingly glad to be rid of the weight. “A man like Raphael needs someone to watch out for him, I suppose. There’s no reason why that someone can’t be you.”

“But, you said-”

“Don’t get me wrong, I still believe the man is a narcissist. But…well, when I visited you this morning-”

Your jaw drops. “That was you…?!”

“In all fairness, I was under orders from the master of the house.”

“That doesn’t justify it in the slightest, you little sneak!”

Haarlep tries and fails to disguise a mischievous smile. “Regardless, I saw what I saw. I saw him, and I saw that he was over the moon. It was entirely uncharacteristic. He laughed, and it wasn’t even at someone else’s expense.” They look befuddled. “Perhaps you bring out the best in him. Frankly, I hadn’t thought there was a best to bring out…ah, but I digress. You have my blessing, if you care about that sort of thing.”

The words leave you stunned. You shift the box so that you’re holding it with one arm and use the other to embrace Haarlep. They still, gawking, clearly not having expected this result. They pat your shoulder awkwardly with one hand. 

“Thank you, Haarlep.” You whisper. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

They indicate the exquisite manor around you. “Oh, I think I’ll be alright. Now, off with you. Your chariot awaits.”

***

Raphael’s Volvo idles just outside the entrance to the manor. You clamber into the passenger seat, hauling the box in after you, then pull the door closed. He raises his eyebrows.

“You brought my things?”

You shrug. “Maybe I want to play 3.5e.”

“Ah, the superior edition.” His lips lift. “That can certainly be arranged.” Raphael’s eyes catch on the great spires of the manor and, for a moment, he looks pensive. Uncertain. His off hand rests atop the center console, so you place your own overtop of it and squeeze. I’m with you.

He takes one last look at his childhood home, but when his gaze returns to you, he is smiling. Triumphant. “Well, then,” he says, starting the car. “Goodbye and good riddance.” 

***

Wyll conceptualizes the strategy, Gale refines it, and the rest of you execute it to near-perfection. Through creative use of a grease bottle and a mote of arcane fire, the underbrush erupts in flame, leaving the remaining goblins to scramble for higher ground. Lae’zel’s arrows find mark after mark in their retreating backs. 

The Owlbear lunges for your heart, but Karlach intercepts it with a running tackle and manages to knock the beast’s claws just an inch or two askew. Its blow goes wide, and you take the opportunity to plunge a dagger into its exposed side. It staggers back, snorting and screeching, right into the still-burning brush. Fire climbs along its body, singing every feather, and thus rendering it incapable of the short bursts of near-flight that have thus far enabled it to avoid your attacks. The back line’s magic converges, and the creature, unable to escape, takes the full brunt of the blow.

***

Raphael Heller makes a show of sifting through the pages assimilated on the table in front of him, and the entire group waits with baited breath. He relishes the expectant silence, the seven pairs of eyes that focus entirely on him.

“The creature is dead.” He confirms after an impossibly long moment. “And, somehow, it hasn’t managed to take any of you with it.”

And, one final time, the table erupts. 

Karlach cuffs Lae’zel and Wyll around the shoulders and shakes them about, laughing all the while.

“Ha!” Astarion gloats, and even shoves a finger in Raphael’s face. The latter politely refrains from pointing out that the former spent the majority of the encounter sprawled out on his ass.

Gale folds his arms and remarks, “Well, better luck next time, Raphael.”

High-fives are exchanged, finger foods are passed around, and celebratory sips of liquor are assuredly indulged in. Nobody notices that the Owlbear in question had a lot less HP than is implicitly printed on its statblock—as if it were weakened by a divine hand. Or an infernal one. 

You lean toward Raphael and whisper, “You kept your promise.”

“My dear, I always keep my promises. Though, I’m afraid I've expended all of the mercy you so shrewdly bargained for. Every victory from here on out will have to be of your own making.”

You look at your friends, still whooping and laughing amidst the glow of the colored Christmas lights you haven’t yet bothered to take down, and smile. “Bring it on.” 

Raphael follows your gaze to the celebrating party. “Ah, how quaint. But make no mistake, I’ll burn your character sheets yet.” The unhinged response and the smug, preening face that follows are both so quintessentially Raphael that it makes you laugh.

“Something funny?” He prompts, looking amused himself.

“Just you.” You reply. “I really can’t get enough of you.

His expression softens. “Nor I you.” 

Raphael tilts your chin up with his forefinger and guides you into a kiss. His free hand slides to your hip, and he squeezes in the sly, covetous way that he knows you adore. You gasp into his open mouth, hands twisting the fabric of his suit jacket. When he retreats to catch his breath, it takes a good deal of self-control not to immediately pull him back by his lapels. 

Someone clears their throat. You turn to find that everyone else in the room is staring directly at the two of you. 

Wyll and Karlach are slack-jawed. Gale rubs his eyes, as if he suspects that he may be hallucinating.

Shadowheart is the first to speak, going white and exclaiming, “Ew!”

Then comes Astarion, gesticulating uselessly as he searches for words. “I-what? When? Why?”

Raphael slings an arm around your shoulders and smirks at them all like an utter bastard.

“A lot can change, you’ll find, in a matter of weeks.” He tells them, and relishes every second of their anger and confusion. He presses long, lingering kisses to each of your knuckles, all while making enthusiastic eye contact with the rest of the group. “Just as your fortunes have shifted, so too have mine.” The word ‘mine’ is spoken in a low, lecherous growl that has the rest of the party cringing back in their seats. 

He is keen to rub your new relationship in their faces, that much is obvious. But you are near enough to feel the vigorous beating of his heart, and you know then that he is not merely performing. Your touch thrills him as much as his thrills you. 

“[Y/N]…” Gale implores. “Is it really so…?”

“It’s so.” You confirm.

“Very much so.” Raphael adds with both arms around your shoulders. 

Lae’zel just gives him a withering look and mutters a word in her native language. Wyll, apparently fluent, frowns at her. 

“As long as [Y/N] is happy,” he cuts in, glancing meaningfully at each of the others. “Then nothing else matters. Right?” They mutter their halfhearted agreement, all save for Karlach.

“Raphael, I swear to God, if you hurt [Y/N]-”

The Heller heir scoffs. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I can assure you all that [Y/N] will be kept in comfort—cossetted and adored for the rest of their days.” He pauses, looking at you rather than the rest of the group. “This, too, I promise.”

You smile. “Should we get that in writing?” The two of you meet in a kiss, and literally everyone hates it.

But Raphael is warm against you, the snow outside drifts down in a dusting rather than a torrent, and there is nothing in the world that you want for.