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slow dancing in the dark

Summary:

It's hard to find stable footing when your life spins at max speed. You might get caught in things you never knew you wanted.

Notes:

HELLO, this is the very first spin-off I planned for this series and I'm glad I carried it all the way through the end.

Now, this fic digs a bit deeper into Vector's status as a sex worker. It's not quite the main focus of the fic, but it's a core trait of Vector in this version of post-canon, so it comes up quite a bit — I talk more about Vector's rules in the fic I wrote for the MiniBang, and how he goes about his (second) job. Please keep in mind that this fic takes place about 6 months before the other fic, and in this one Vector is going Thru It a bit and like everyone who has a taxing job he questions his life from time to time. It's not my intention to imply that sex work (especially a relatively safe version of it, since this is a fictional story where I don't wanna talk about the kind of abuse sex workers face, and my choice of having Vector being a sex worker is a thematic choice related to other conflicts I gave him) is something you necessarily need to be saved from, or something bad that you'd want to ditch to form a nuclear family, or that a monogamous hetero relationship is somehow going to 'fix' a sex worker. I shouldn't even be prefacing the story with this, but honestly? Better safe than sorry, the climate is what it is.

And yes, they had their first time in this new life in high school.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The main perk about the new(ish) place is the light that comes in in the late afternoons. Gold cascades in, cracking through the space between the buildings of the nearby university dormitories, and sometimes Vector thinks about how easier it would have been not to constantly rush to catch the bus and the metro to get there, had he packed it up sooner. But he craved company, even more than he was willing to admit, and having people actually care whether he graduated or not felt nice.

Still, there’s little pleasures about living alone that he doesn’t take for granted. Like being able to leave a cup or two (or five) on the counter without six people getting on his case, or the painted cabinet where he keeps all the gadgets that help him get through the day. Or being able to watch ships in the distance, close as he is to the port. 

He’s still not entirely sure whether the mezzanine that’s both his bedroom and his studio is entirely legal, but it makes the place feel modern and hip, the kind of place you’d show off on social media — if he cared about his personal ones, that is.

The bluetooth speakers let out soft music. He tilts his head toward the window — ample and open, to soak all the natural light in and recharge without having to hope the deck chairs aren’t all taken. It’s peaceful in the apartment, in a way he didn’t quite realise until he collapsed one night and wasn’t woken up by Durbe’s lecturing on stomping his way upstairs when he’s out till the wee hours. He misses Sunday mornings, but hey, it’s not like he can’t ride back home for brunch. 

His eyes trail to his laptop screen, the latest news in full display over it. 

Granted, having email notifs on his phone is a nuisance more often than not, but he felt his heart sink into his stomach earlier on the metro, worn up and battered after yet another infinite shift at the museum. 

Congratulations, 104phecda ! the title read.

Most of the time, he would’ve brushed it off as scam mail, or newsletters, or discount codes that only work if you buy a fuckton of useless crap you’ll regret in a day or two. But hope crept up his spine, making fine hair stand on its ends and crap — he just couldn’t wait to get home. 

You reached 250k followers

Right as his heart had sunk, it was shot right back up like a missile. He felt a grin pull at the corners of his lips, and for once he didn’t care whether people nearby thought he was smiling at someone sending sappy texts at him. More followers meant, generally speaking, more money. More sponsorships.

More work to do. 

He had let out a sigh and slid the phone back into his pocket, saving the specifics of what to do next for when he’d settle on the couch with a cold drink in hand, his head bobbing gleefully at the music in his earphones.

As it turns out, there’s not much more to do than what he already does now — locked content for his most faithful supporters, private online sessions, scheduled meetings at love hotels and mansions lavish enough to make the Barian Household look like a cheap ass Airbnb. The donation button has a pride flag option now, apparently, which would allow him to be spared a couple routine questions that get on his nerves each time — yes, he takes clients of all genders, no, it’s not to broaden the market he just really likes fucking all kinds of people. Milfs are hot, demotivated salarymen are hot, cryptids are hot. Amen. 

If anything, that’s a feat worth celebrating. If he had more than a couple people to tell, that is. 

His gaze trails towards his chats on the next tabs, the former Heartland Academy First Years’ group popping with notifications he’s left unread for quite some time. It’s still nothing compared to when the phone would blow up just from that chat, to the point he had to mute it and beg Alit for updates at the kitchen table, and then he found this… other job, and the more time passed, the more people he met, it went radio silence. Until he chose money over a friend. 

He could wonder how much that played into moving out for good after pretending to want to try the conveniently insulated basement as his operation base, but it’d mean dealing with his feelings and if he wanted to ruin his day he’d try and chat Yuma up. It’s cheaper, and it requires less digging into his own dirt. 

His lips purse into a line as he scrolls through his chats. 

There’s one that catches his eye, one that has a message of his own as the last — something trivial, a sly emote after a quip he barely remembers the context of. Maybe he was making fun of Rio for being too busy to regale him with her precious time, or maybe he was poking and prodding so she’d finally cave in and tell him she misses those times when he used to sneak into her room at night to get some loving. Or poke into her from behind under the pretence of being in a cuddly mood, whichever suited their fancy at the time. 

He knows for a fact that she does miss him when she’s busy — desperately, even, at times. Why else would she send him audios of herself babbling out word for word what she’d like him to do with his tongue while fucking herself with his last-minute Valentine’s present? And they’re not even a couple properly, he just loves being cheesy. He also utterly adores the way a little wrinkle creases between her eyebrows as she tries to pretend she’s not flattered enough to turn a blind eye to the fact he gets on Nasch’s nerves just so he slams him into the wall of the basement while they’re playing pool. 

It’s easier like that. There are strings attached everywhere, but they’re loose enough for him not to feel choked, and for the other end to feel like he’s genuinely not playing favourites. As a matter of fact, no one tells him anything when he stumbles right into Kaito Tenjo’s bed one night when he goes out clubbing alone and he’s intoxicated enough not to give a fuck for once, nor when he wakes up with his face practically buried into Kotori’s tits, and he only stops fooling around with her when Alit admits to wanting to get more serious with her. 

He’s made enough mistakes as is, after all. The kind of mistake that turns into archived chats and being unable to hold a friend’s gaze. 

>>> i got to 250k!! ^_^b

It’s a lot more genuine than it comes off as. He knows for a fact that Rio will be happy for him no matter how she roasts him — a thought that tugs at the corners of his lips and bleeds into a contented sigh as he taps the ‘send’ button. 

He takes a sip from the cold can. Cider certainly isn’t gourmet celebratory shit, but he knows better than to keep to many substances at once within arm reach — he switched to vape pens, only smoking cigarettes and joints when offered, and the strongest liquor you’d find in his cabinet is some rum he got gifted forever ago that he sometimes mix with cola when he’s feeling up to the risk. Everything else happens outside of the four walls of the apartment, and again — drinks aside, mostly when offered. He can’t afford to die (again) foaming at the mouth with no one to help. 

>>> congrats, whore <3 

Vector lets out a chuckle and shakes his head. Classic Rio.

>>> your whore <3 <3 <3

(He means every single, pathetic emoji, but nobody tell her that.)

>>> you flatter me. does this mean you won’t have time for me anymore? would you still fit me in your incredibly busy schedule?

A low blow, but nothing unusual. He takes another sip, as if to find inspiration for the next quip. 

>>> au contraire, chérie. why don’t you come over? mommy isn’t home ;)

One advantage about his second job — his actual job, the one he pays bills with — is that he barely has to put on any mask at all. He’s that much of a natural, playing up the cheesy lines with enough of a convincing tone to scratch the right itches. Even in those who don’t want to admit they have them.

He can easily picture her heaving a long sigh, fiddling with her phone so people don’t notice the way a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. One of the perks of knowing someone for thousands of years is knowing where to hit, after all.

>>> alright, let me give the others a heads up

One that he’ll read, of course, because the group chat is still there even if he doesn’t live at the mansion anymore, but he still likes to ask what’s for dinner — and get Gilag’s pics and quips in response, to the point he even just hopped on the metro one night because he was making his favourite. The very first thing he learned to truly appreciate when he realised he had to settle into a normalcy that never fit around him. 

The message doesn’t take much to arrive. Few, cryptic warning words that she’s heading out for the night, to not wait for her, but Vector knows that Durbe might just casually choose to sleep on the couch in case she gets back and needs to sober up quickly. 

He’d tease him for being still down bad, but he’s long since finished playing pot and kettle.


There was a book he read once, when he learned the true meaning of the word “compulsory” by means of being sat down to actually open the damn thing and not look it up on the internet. He didn’t even like it that much — there was very little for him to latch onto, and in truth it read more like a series of wisdom pills shoved down his throat than an actual story or metaphor for a story. Nonetheless, there was a line that stuck with him — the one about rituals of happiness and preparing your heart for happiness.

He and Rio never had such rituals, at least not when they scramble for time together as is. But it’s better that way, adrenaline pumping strong up and down through him, fingers prickly at the thought of having her over until late.

It’s why he jolts up when the interphone rings. 

He doesn’t even know what they’ll be getting for dinner, but he laid out the coffee table in a way that is nothing short of romantic for his standards — the wine glasses he rarely gets to use, and the closest thing to fine china he has in the house. Ikea plates instead of porcelain, and darker bamboo placemats instead of a silk tablecloth. It’s not much, but it’s honest work and it’s not like Rio cares for luxury in other people’s homes; that, and the flat TV is big enough to make up for the lack of expensive cutleries. 

“Coming!” Vector chirps, even though she can’t hear him yet. 

Maybe he should put himself together, but a perk of practising honesty is that he can be in a baggy band t-shirt and gym shorts and not have to say a word about it. 

She doesn’t even have to ring the bell — the clicking of her heels once she steps out of the elevator on the corridor outside precedes her and all he has to do is open the door just a crack, peeking like a curious kid, just so he knows what to expect.

It’s no surprise for him to see a striped designer blouse on her — the one she’s been eyeing for a while on their shopping trips. Just seeing it tugs the corners of his lips into a smirk, gaze trailing down to the bag around her arm, his mind already trailing all sorts of places to guess the contents of it.

“I can see you, dumbass,” she sighs as a way of greeting, raising the wide sunglasses over her head like a headband when she finally gets to the door. 

“Well, hello,” Vector says with a smirk, fully opening the door to lean against the frame and raise his eyebrows at her. “Since you’re here to celebrate with me, could you please try to be just a tiny bit sweeter than average?”

“I’m just keeping you down to Earth. Also, I brought wine,” she nods her head at the bag on her arm. “You had problems with red wine, yeah?”

“Yeah, unless it’s Syrah or other sparkling reds I don’t remember.”

Rio’s features ease into a smile. “Good thing I brought rosé then. Mylonas, ever heard of it?”

“Girl, honestly it’s already a miracle if I can tell sparklings and stills apart, you give me too much credit,” he chuckles.

“How unbefitting of a king,” she teases, following his lead inside and kicking her pumps off as she steps in, a sigh of relief escaping her lips when the soles of her feet make contact with the cool tiles. Skilled as she might be at walking in those, it’s obviously still a chore to trot downtown in heels that high. 

“That was a couple millennia ago, you can’t hold it against me. And wine tasting was never my strong suit either way; what I do know, is that I’m a heathen who likes his rosé cooled, so if you don’t mind—”

She passes him the bottles and drops her purse on the couch at the same time, eyes trailing to the laid out coffee table as she does. “My, you really put some thought into this.”

A blush threatens to creep up Vector’s face. “To be fair, I really wanted to put that lantern you got me to good use and this seemed like a good enough time to do so.”

It’s technically not a lie, but it’s hardly about the lamp. 

And it’s always like this with her — deflecting, trying to sting each other until one of them gives. And oh, does he want to give right now. Just sinking into her arms and resting his head on her chest — or well, her thighs since he’s looking for somewhere soft and smooth — until he’s cocooned in her scent, falling asleep to the steady rhythm of her breath and the quiet flickers of the tea light’s flame. 

Rio smiles. It’s her secret smile, the one that means “ I get it ”, and she runs a hand through his hair, still not a word coming from her mouth. “What’s for dinner?” she asks after a long pause.

He flops down on the couch and pats the spot next to him. “Come pick with me.”

Her weight lands softly next to him, springs rattling slightly on contact, and she pulls her legs up on the couch, snuggling closer as she does. She rests her face on his shoulder, squinting at the screen — it’s not mistrust or jealousy, she just might want to get her vision tested, but she’ll die before admitting she needs glasses. For his part, he’d probably melt if she got them, just by the way she’d keep adjusting them on the bridge of her nose like she does with her sunnies.

She lets out a hum, pursing her lips as her eyes narrow to slits. “Would it be crass to get a portion of at least three different types of bao buns? Not counting the custard ones, of course.”

“My treat. And we’ll pick one of everything,” Vector announces, practically beaming — but honestly, all the buns are to die for and he got lucky to just scroll through a random menu. He can almost feel the soft dough crumbling under his teeth, the scalding filling forcing him to breathe with his mouth open because he can’t be arsed to blow on the dumpling.

Rio just blinks. “Do you wanna fall asleep right away?”

“Hey, we can have a sleepover if that happens. It’s fun, and we haven’t done it in a while.”

“Do you really want me to stay over?” 

Rio’s tone is heavier now, a beat too long passing between the two of them. He holds her gaze and smiles, his heart too light to care about futile things like pride or boundaries or risks. “And if I do?” 


Vector doesn’t know whether it’s a fetish or he’s just that down bad, but he could watch Rio sink her teeth into soft, chewy foods all night. Custard squirts out of the bun, right onto the side of her hand and she groans at the sensation, quickly catching the lump of cream with the tip of her tongue, not even bothering to be graceful or make eye contact. He can’t say he doesn’t feel the tiniest tinge of disappointment nipping at his stomach when she just cleans herself like a cat. Maybe he wanted to lick it off, hasn’t she thought about that?

Or maybe it’s just the two near-empty bottles speaking. 

“To think you didn’t want to be greedy,” he quips, taking a long sip out of the glass. “You’re just lucky this wine you got pairs well with dessert too.”

Rio rolls his eyes at him, a glance pointed enough to be louder than anything she might have wanted to say. He laughs softly in response and twirls the wine in his glass. Old habits die hard, that’s what he thinks. She gets annoyed when he teases her over being ungraceful, and he holds the glass by the bottom of the bowl instead of the stem, just like when he used to sit on a golden throne instead of a fairly priced sectional. 

“Let me see,” she says, deliberately breathy. 

Before he can conjure a witty retort, her face is less than an inch away from his own, lips ghosting over his. The contact is soft, lingering enough for Vector to immediately wish for more, hands trailing up to keep Rio’s neck still as he presses harder against her mouth by the moment, teeth nipping at her bottom lip the moment she ever so slightly opens her mouth for him. 

He tastes wine on her, mixed with her own unique note and the sweetness of the cream, and it feels velvety enough on her tongue for a groan to bubble up at the back of his throat as he pushes his own tongue against hers. 

She draws back ever so slightly, eyes heavy-lidded and clouded with the haze of alcohol and desire. “Is the taste to your liking?”

Warmth fills him to the brim, his fingers grabbing at the thin fabric of her blouse to pull her close again, placing open-mouthed kisses to her lips in response, the small sounds rising in his throat betraying just how hard he needs to bury himself into her body until no one can tell them apart. It’s almost a reflex, more than a conscious decision — his mouth starts at the corner of her lips and trails along her jaw, the tip of his tongue barely grazing at her lobe before dipping down to her neck and all but latching onto it, pulling soft flesh between his teeth. 

Rio lets out a long sigh in response and that’s the igniter. His tongue trails down the length of her neck, mouth sucking at her collarbone as his fingers find the buttons of her blouse.

“You know,” he all but rasps, “there’s a better way to find that out.”

She chuckles in response, hands smoothing the fabric of his loose t-shirt over his back — but he wants to make sure she grips at it by the time he’s really into it. 

He all but lets out a groan when he realises that no, she didn’t even bother putting on a bra today. Almost like she knew. Her breasts are perky and ready to be teased and he moves his face closer to her chest to place kisses on the soft flesh, feeling her chest rise sharply as he gets closer to her nipples. He can’t help it’s one of his favourite spots — his tongue trails over her breast over and over, following the curve of it just to feel her nipple harden under his touch.

Rio’s breath hitches in her throat again, bleeding into a moan when his teeth dig in and pull, her whole body flushing as she takes the sensation in. “You’re such a tease,” she huffs, but all the bite that would have been in her voice gets lost in a long sigh as his teeth graze over the other breast.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you that you don’t just skip to dessert?” He chuckles, hot against her skin, enough to make it break into goosebumps as another whine of protest leaves her mouth. 

If there’s something he’s practised more with time, it’s definitely patience. Wanting everything at once and right away had him choking on air and nearly dying from it, leaving him empty-handed and hollow, scrambling for forgiveness, slaving his newly acquired human teen years away to try and convince everyone else that he could be deserving of something more than basic sympathy. Rio had always been soft like that, and he could never fathom why. How else could he ever cope, if not by giving her everything she wants and so much more?

He moves fine fabric away, one hand worrying at the side of her pants to pull the zipper down. If he ends up breaking it, he promises mentally, he’s going to get her something better and more fitting to her taste — he knows she’s been prioritising practicality over quality and trying not to splurge, but she deserves

Lips press softly against her stomach, making their slow, careful way down until he feels the soft cotton of her panties. 

She keeps it simple, even at times like these, which in turns means he can be as rough as he pleases. He smirks against the fabric, taking in her heady scent as his mouth meets the wet patch right at the centre, tongue darting out to tease through, only adding more friction to frustrate her with. 

Rio slides further up on the couch as he finally decides to crouch on the floor, hands grabbing at her thighs to spread them wide, making all the more room for himself and for her to rest her ankles on his shoulders.

“Don’t lecture me about impatience when you’re clearly dripping yourself,” she quips, threading a hand through his hair to keep him close to her crotch. 

And she’s right, he is, saliva pooling under his tongue as her unique notes linger on the warm surface even through the barrier of her underwear, and he hooks his fingers hard enough under the elastic for his nail to scrape against Rio’s hip bones — and it makes her hiss in delight, but not as much as the wobbly, choked sound she lets out when his tongue finally plunges in and he groans against her sex. If his eyes weren’t squeezed shut already, they’d be rolling up into his head as he licks a long, broad stripe up the seam of her, the kind that sends her head back when the metal studded tip of his tongue grazes against her clit. He seals his lips around it, hungry and eager, juices pooling on his chin now.

He draws back ever so slightly, just to breathe in and huff a laugh that tickles her. “I was right,” he drawls, swiping his tongue over his lips to take every last drop of her in. “You pair so, so well with wine.”

A beat of silence falls over the both of them, only filled with heavy breathing. Rio blinks in response and then, as if the penny had dropped one second too late, her eyes widen and a violent flush rises up to the tip of her ears, voice booming into a laughter he could only think of as thunderous. She covers her face, shoulders quaking as the laugh gets high pitched, almost wheezing, leaving her gasping for air.

She looks at him dead in the eye, tears twinkling in her irises.

“You— hahaha —you’re such an idiot! I could’ve choked!” She wheezes, and the way it sounds hoarse and genuine goes straight to his cock — and his pants are already tight as is, no matter how comfortable homewear is. 

“Aw, come on, that was a compliment,” he protests, all but pushing her back further to climb on the couch, and over her. “See for yourself,” he drawls, locking his lips with hers again. 

She tastes different all over her body, so genuinely like the different parts of herself, that it makes his head light and his underwear uncomfortable against his strained cock. But no matter how hard it’s begging for release, he must still draw this out for as long as possible; one hand slides between her legs, fingers trailing her slit so that he doesn’t lose momentum. 

“You’re drunk,” she whispers over his mouth as he breaks the kiss.

“I am, and you’re beautiful,” he slurs, going in for another kiss. “And tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be beautiful.”

The Dreamers ,” she sighs. “You showed me that one.”

Vector snorts. “I mean it, though.”

He moves a loose strand off her face, tucking it behind her ear, so he gets to look at her — every minute, apparently insignificant change in expression, every little wrinkle forming when she frowns. But she’s just smiling at him, her features soft and relaxed. 

“Will there still be so much room for me in your new life?” She asks, and there’s no bite to her voice, but something clouds her eyes enough for him to take it seriously. 

His fingers weave with hers and he squeezes. “What new life? All in all, I’ll just have to schedule more shootings to appease the fans and maybe buy that fucking machine that’s been on my wishlist for a while,” he chuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the fan meetings.”

She rolls her eyes at the definition, but a grin tugs at the corners of her lips anyway. “Is that what you call them now?”

“Hey, you love popular guys as much as the next young woman.”

Rio gasps at that. “Wow, that’s,” she says, browsing through her brain for a word poignant enough, “... rude and uncalled for.”

He lets out a sly giggle, leaning in to kiss her again. “I am rude and uncalled for. And you think too much.”

“Lord, I wish I could think a bit less,” she huffs, adjusting on the pillows so that they’re both lying comfortably. “Fashion Week has barely even started and I’m already having none of it. I don’t think there’s enough caffeine and girlboss vibes on this planet to carry me through it— like, do you have any idea how many runways I’m doing back to back? It’s hell.”

“I know, right?” He doesn’t — not the specifics, at least — but he’s been practising listening and understanding and observing for so much more than self-serving reasons. And it’s only earned him good things so far. “I’ll work hard enough so that no one in the household has to slave away their youth.”

“And are you not?”

Vector blinks.

“Slaving away your youth, I mean,” she says with a click of her tongue. “I mean, we both clearly enjoy our jobs but we’re… limited.”

“You wanted to say human, didn’t you?”

“Shut it.”

Vector lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “There’s so much more to this than you’d imagine,” he says, breath bleeding into a sigh. “When people let you in a bit, it’s… strangely rewarding? You learn a lot about them even though you see them through a monitor or just for a night.”

“Don’t you have regulars?” There’s a heaviness in her tone that isn’t lost on him.

“Not outside of our acquaintances and friend circle, no,” he says. “I do enough damage as is.”

“You spend an awful lot trying to fix it, though.”

A beat of silence passes before she continues, softer now. “I’ve known you long enough to tell when you really want something to go well for you. And you’ve done an awful lot of work with… all of us.”

Something tightens in Vector’s throat, and it feels like being pulled apart at the seams, the tangle of his needs and wants pouring out in the form of a long breath through his nostrils and the sudden urge to fight back tears that weren’t even there one moment ago. He purses his lips into a line, scooting closer to Rio’s chest. 

“... Well, I’m tired of missing out on good things, for what it’s worth.” 

He can practically feel the tears knocking at his eyes now, a cup filled to the brim, waiting for the last drop to flood. 

They had already talked about it in detail, one night when Vector had pushed Rio away in a cold sweat, the warm pulses of their crystal cores threatening to break the surface of his Barian body. He knew it could’ve happened, but he still recoiled when the images flashes before his eyes, the sensations entirely too vivid for him not to notice — a burning flame in his lower abdomen, contractions, sweat beading at his brow…

… and the most delicate creature wiggling her little legs in the air, screaming for dear life as she breathed in for the first time. 

Her umbilical cord still bound her to Merag’s worn out, battered body, and his chest had lit up with a pride he hadn’t even felt for conquests, or when he finally reconciled with everyone else in this life. But that left a question hanging.

Why hadn’t he been told about his own child ?

“...You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Rio asks in a hushed tone, like someone else could eavesdrop on their secret, running a hand through his hair as he lays his head on her chest. They barely even use gems anymore, but the connection runs deep enough for her to sense his thoughts, every little cloud over his head. 

“Don’t you ever?”

His voice shakes, carrying the weight of a question he’s been avoiding since he stopped relying on his crystal form to experience stronger sensations. He buries his head in the space between Rio’s exposed breasts, his shoulders shaking as his core tenses — and no matter how close they are, he hopes she spares him the humiliation of noticing. 

She presses a kiss to his head. “Of course I do,” she says, and her voice cracks, too. 

Iris. 

He didn’t even know she had been named that — he’s not sure whether the priestesses had named her that, after what was looked at as a sign of good fortune to come. Maybe they all wanted a quiet life for her, in the safety of the temple, not prevented from seeing her own mother but still blissfully unaware of her origins. He imagined her, roaming through the flower fields and the shores, the waters of the Poseidon Lands lapping quietly at her ankles. He wondered, sometimes, if she ever collected shells.

All he knew about her, is what he saw once, upon connecting with Nasch through their cores. He held Iris’ lifeless body in his arms, and even in her death she looked so much like Merag, Vector had to wonder if he ever suspected anything, or if he just mourned the loss of a young life among the others.

In the only poem about their story, it’s said that Nasch saw the child as a messenger of the gods. How blessed he would be, to just believe that. 

Vector’s body had shaken inside out, the guilt crawling its way up his stomach until he couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as Nasch; he remembers tumbling out of bed, spread eagle on the mansion floor, chest heaving even though his breath got caught in his throat. 

Nasch — Ryouga, he tries to remember it and most of the time he does, but how could he in that moment? — had offered him a hand in silence, peering at him with an inquisitive gaze that maybe didn’t even hold any ill intent but it still felt like needles biting into his skin. 

He remembers his throat drying up, and the tears he had to choke as he crawled back on the bed and buried his face in Nasch’s chest, not daring to speak for the rest of the night. 

“Do you think I really deserve a second chance?” Vector breaks the silence once again, looking up at Rio with teary eyes.

She nods, not even having to think about it. “Of course you do.”

“I mean…” he smacks his lips, letting a beat of silence pass as he gathers a coherent thought, even if the concepts are so very blurred around the edges. Maybe they shouldn’t have gone with the second bottle. “I mean, do you think we could start a family sometime in the future? When things slow down?”

Rio lets out a tired chuckle. “Will things ever slow down, at this rate?”

“I love you.”

It’s not like he never says it, though he’s learned to show it more than he runs his mouth. But there’s still a moment of Rio’s eyes widening, mouth opening and closing like she wants to ask him if he’s serious — and he can’t begrudge her that. He tastes relief when she leans up to kiss him deep, fully intending to let their own tastes mix in their mouths until they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

He runs his hands through her hair, revelling in the softness of her touch on the small of his back, as if to keep him steady and pressed against her. 

There’s no use hiding how his heart flutters under her touch. “I wanna make love to you,” he murmurs against her neck, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin almost reverently, delicate, just how she likes it. He seals the proposal with a quick nipping of teeth at her throat, which earns him a soft laugh that drips down his core, clenching the muscles in his stomach. 

“Only if we forget about all this stuff for a while,” she sighs.

“Let’s take it upstairs, then.” If only because he hasn’t bought a double bed for his new place just to take naughty pics on it and be bored the rest of the time.

It’s been a while since he shared a bed at night, too. Another rule that he has set is that if he can avoid staying the night with a stranger, he’ll try his darndest to, so that he doesn’t have to deal with morning regrets and people trying to sneak out of the room before they can even get room service breakfast. And even with the people who don’t pay him, sometimes there’s work getting in the way of a good time, or sometimes they’re all in a rush and just eager to let some steam off — and it’s much better to do so with someone you trust.

But if there’s something he wants to do with Rio, it’s taking his sweet time to honour her. Make her see stars.

The bed is plush when they land on it, Rio’s body all but sinking into the quilt as he presses over her, covering her mouth and face with kisses. Her being half-naked helps when his hands itch for her skin, immediately finding her thighs and squeezing the meat of them, a request to make room for him between them. His still-clothed boner is flush against her, and he can feel how warm she still is from earlier, heat spreading on the layers of fabric — and who cares if she makes a mess, as long as she feels good. 

His name slips from her lips when he nips at her collarbone, moving just enough to make room for his hand between her legs, fingers brushing teasingly over the slit, over the length of it until the pad of his thumb finds her clit and circles it slowly. A choked sound breaks her steady breathing, legs curling towards her chest as he presses against her centre, slow and gentle, so that every nerve ending ignites. 

“I want you,” he murmurs against the skin, and even though he’s already told her countless times, she deserves to hear.

For all the times he didn’t say so out loud. For all the times he thought just fucking her was enough. For all she is, and all she will ever be in his life if she gives him the chance he’s been yearning for.

Even when other people are involved. Even when he’s not actively thinking of her, he’ll still light up at a text or a story. Hell, even if she’s the one spending time with someone else.

She turns his face towards hers and presses her lips against his — her answer to everything.

Their first kiss in this new life was just like that, too. His knuckles were bruised and he was struggling to light up his cigarette, and she didn’t know what to say so she just turned his face to her, ever gentle, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, so delicate it was barely even there and he had to press harder against her to make sure she was serious and wouldn’t hold back.

He doesn’t want to hold back. He sighs when her hands finally reach the hem of his t-shirt to pull it up and throw it away, and then the waistband of his shorts.

“Fucking finally,” he slurs, breath hot against her skin. She chuckles in response, and it vibrates against his body, making him twitch in his boxers — and he doesn’t know whether he can really wait any longer. 

He lets out a small groan when she finally frees him, dipping his whole body down to soak up her warmth against his, his head light and dizzy with her scent, faint notes of wine still lingering on their tongues as they press kisses against each other’s lips as his fingers find their way through her folds and he buries them in to the knuckle, curling them in hopes she spills a sweet, sweet sound right into his panting mouth. And she does, and it goes down his windpipe and lands in the well, at the bottom of his stomach in the form of a small ember. 

“Do you really wanna go like this?” She asks, one leg lazily snaking around his waist. It’s more of an invitation than a question, her eyes hazy and heavy lidded as they lock with his own.

“Please,” he all but whines, dragging his cock against her thigh, teeth digging hard enough into his bottom lip to bruise.

Her arms find their way around his neck, her eyes rolling back into her head as his thumb presses down on her centre again. Her breath hitches and he takes this snapshot of her into his mind, hair spreading over the duvet like brush streaks. As if she’s painting the ocean just by being there. 

And more than everything else, he wants to swim into her. Get lost in her. 

His fingers slide out of her and he heaves a deep breath, seating himself between her legs. Hands on either side of her head, her feet slide higher and higher until her ankles come to rest on his shoulders, calves pulling him down. “I know, it’s basic,” he chuckles. “But I really need to look at your face.”

She laughs and pulls him down for a kiss, muffling a sound right on his lips when the tip of his cock starts sliding in. 

His name tumbles off her lips in a smooth, velvety sound that digs into his skull and urges him to push forwards, burying himself fully inside her, just feeling her warmth around him. He lets out a whine into her shoulder, teeth pulling at the flesh for balance. But it’s freefall inside her, her walls pressing gently around him and pulling him further down. Almost drowning him.  

A sharp tug at his hair jolts him awake as he starts to move his hips in a frenzied rhythm, her hips raising to meet his — and it’s not a perfectly coordinated dance, there’s wiggling and changes of positions and laughter and her nails dig into his back and scratch down, legs tensing when he hits a deeper spot and a flash of white passes over his eyes, his wind knocked out of him for a brief second that’s filled with a sharp, high-pitched moan of hers. 

If he really focuses, he can smell the temple’s incense on her. Just like so long ago. 

His hand reaches for hers, each finger fitting perfectly in the spaces left between hers. He squeezes, and she answers with the same force.

There’s so much they’d rather say like this. Their favourite thing seems to be “ I’m sorry ”, whether it comes in the form of the actual words, whispered in moments of vulnerability after they both come enough times for the walls to crumble, or the kisses sealing each other’s mouths while they lose sight of the borders of their bodies. It’s in their sighs, the faint brushing of lips he does on her hands when they’re lying on the couch. In the small, insignificant presents he keeps getting her, seashells and dandelions for her to blow away. 

“I love you so much,” his voice cracks and strains as he pushes deeper inside her, biting the inside of his cheek — whether in effort, or because he feels like he lets out too much, he doesn’t know.

“I love you too,” she all but pleads. 

His free hand reaches between them, searching for her clit to stroke it gently, slowing down to help him steady the rhythm. The gasp he lets out when he feels her clench around him tight — so tight, maddeningly tight — makes another flash pass before his eyes, cock throbbing almost in unison with her cunt. His thighs are sore and his back is surely going to hurt tomorrow, and the bruises all over his body burn, but it’s worth it and it’s going to be beautiful when he thinks about it next time he feels lonely, and they’re gonna do it again until they pass out—

Vector ,” she cries out, throwing her head back, the push in her hips forcing him nearly up onto his knees.

She tightens around him one last time, longer than any other. And he feels himself melting inside her, leaking into her as his body nearly flops onto the bed, lips looking frantically for hers in the flurry of dancing little stars that cloud his vision. 

She’s so, so warm and comfortable around him.

He presses slow kisses to her mouth, until her breath evens out and she brushes her lower lip against his mouth. 

“Stay,” he’s the one pleading now, and he’s messed up enough to not regret it immediately. 

She wraps her legs around his form, lips curving into a smile. The matted strands of hair sticking to her face are the finishing touch he needed for his heart to throb madly at the sight — or maybe he’s high on oxy, but he doesn’t feel like crying when he fucks strangers. Their history only makes the main course tastier. 


>>> i’m late

Vector quirks a brow at his phone when he steps out of the cab, hair hidden under a newsboy hat decorated with chains and enamel pins to enhance the goth boy motif. This dude really wanted to fuck an emo boy, and he provided — the main perk being that he can easily hide any bruises under the striped turtleneck and he didn’t even have to touch up his makeup since he smudged his liner to hell and back to begin with, popping in a selfie for Ryouga to make him regret calling him a failed scene kid. 

He presses the metal stud on his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

>>> omg tell me we weren’t supposed to meet today

>>> please

Rio has grown more patient with the years, mostly coaxed into it by Gilag’s excellent diplomatic skills. It doesn’t mean he can just ditch her, though, but he genuinely can’t wrap his head around this one.

Sweat runs cold on the back of his neck and he crosses his fingers, all the rings clinking together as he does.

>>> nono it’s not that…

A beat passes, and Vector wishes he could be more relieved as he scans the area to look for the closest metro station. Or he can just walk the distance to ease the anxiety, whichever makes his teeth stop digging into his cheek faster. 

Something has been nipping at his mind since the last encounter. Fashion Week turned into a full ten days long nightmare, and then two short film sets back to back, so it’s not like they had time to properly sit down and untangle the mess that was that night. And he’s had his fair share, too, a classic case of both of them being only free when the other is busy, nothing that hasn’t happened before. But this time’s different, it tickles him deep into his bones and he just can’t shake the funny feeling off. 

Maybe his Barian instincts will never go away. And that’s kind of a curse. 

>>> my period is late. like, full-blown two weeks delay. never happened before.

Vector stops in his tracks and blinks at the phone. 

>>> well, you’re stressed out of your wits…

Another beat of silence, and he can feel her piercing gaze pinning him into place. He breathes through his nostrils, unsurprisingly short and hitched as the crowd passes him by like his hands are not shaking visibly.

It’s like trying to swallow a boulder with no saliva to gulp it down.

>>> i know, but i need to take a test 

>>> and i thought it would only be fair to take it at your house… not right now, but like, the soonest you’re free this week. 

The boulder sinks into his stomach in freefall.  

His throat dries up again, the crowd suddenly too much and too swarming to handle. His head spins and his forehead throbs, but he knits his brow in an attempt at grabbing at the last straws of his sanity and jams his shaky thumbs into the screen

>>> bitch i’m going home rn, be there asap!!!! fuck!!

Something rushes through his blood, sizzling like pop, an iron-like aftertaste lingering at the back of his throat as he rushes down the stairs of the metro and nearly elbows out passers-by to hop on the train car before the sliding doors close right behind him. His heart jumps up into his throat and his palms are sweaty as he grabs the handle he can get to without standing on his tiptoes and ignores the muttering of the people next to him.

What if it happens ? The question rings through his head like a million sirens, and he can’t bring himself to hate the idea.

What will they do ?

Their life has changed enough as is, three lifetimes condensed into a blink of an eye. They spent so much time unearthing the uncomfortable and the painful truths, that Vector had grown to fear there wouldn’t have time to live at all — and maybe these brand new bodies are mortal, but it’s not a theory he wants to test out anytime soon, even if some terrible voices in his brain constantly dare him to. But that’s not who he is anymore. There’s things that bind him to this new life, and he counts them with each deep breath he takes when the voices ring louder in his head, and he cannot afford to even give them the time of day if something so humbling might be around the corner.

He finds himself snorting softly at the thought. He’s known to get ahead of himself, a fact that hasn’t changed through thousands of years. 

Maybe it’s there and she won’t keep it. Her life is stressful as is, and her body’s too faint and has been bound to a hospital bed for longer than she ever deserved — and maybe the thought of a major change is less than fathomable as of now. But it’s not something he can ask over text, even if his palms prickle. 

The ride home stretches through eternity, flashes of millions of different possibilities shining before his eyes even as he hops off the train.

His eyes stay glued to the screen for the good part of ten minutes, all the way back to the apartment complex, dodging cars and trams left and right and bumping into pedestrians who cuss him in creative ways he doesn’t have any time for.

She’s a better talker than a texter. “alright, give me a sec,” isn’t anywhere near enough to keep him still. What if he doesn’t have time to freshen up and make himself presentable for her? He did take a shower after the deed, but a whole metro ride home is still enough to sweat the entirety of his fluids off. He just drops his backpack next to the shoe rack, hands reaching frantically for the sanitiser dispenser, two full pumps to ward off all the ickies — or give him the illusion of, which is good enough on him.

He doesn’t even put the platforms back up on the rack, speeding towards the bathroom to wash his hands, muttering curses under his breath when the rings threaten to slide off his fingers. He doesn’t even dry them, just dropping them over the bathroom counter and rushing back to the living room, all but flinging himself on the couch in hopes that mindless scrolling might keep him occupied for long enough as to not freak out.

How long is “a sec” in Rio time? What does she need “a sec” for? What if there’s business meetings or events she needs to attend that she can’t reschedule? It’s not like he can wait until whenever, he really needs that night’s sleep and he knows full well that if they don’t get the results within the next couple of hours he might just collapse.

He tosses on the couch, curling up like it’s going to help. But when the bottom of his screen lights up with a notification, he all but squeaks aloud. 

>>> omw

A thousand pounds boulder is lifted off his shoulders. He breaths the heaviest sigh of relief in a while, limbs flopping motionlessly. 

Blood drones loud in his ears, but he lifts the hand still clutching at his phone anyway.

>>> im here for u <3

It’s true, but it always sounds cheesy and over the top if he reads it out loud. But the time of pretending that his feelings are an elaborate act outside of his work is long since gone, and there’s a pang nipping at the top of his stomach at the thought that no, he’s still far from the best at getting his point across.

He’ll just make sure to hold her tight no matter what. 

Maybe it’s not enough to make up for the bloodshed, the scheming, the humiliation. But it’s all he has to offer, and he can only hope she’s good enough to him to let it be what it takes for him to finally feel like this is not some sort of messy placeholder for a grudge. That she’s not keeping him close the way you should keep your enemies, even if her scent drives him crazy, just like thousands of years ago and all the lives after. 

The first time he felt that scent on Rio when she still didn’t know who she was comes to mind. He stood too close to her on the metro, his nose nearly tickled by her hair, and his eyes had teared up and he couldn’t even explain why — the feeling of wanting to go home strong enough to swallow him whole. He didn’t even know everything about himself, either. Just how deep he wanted to sink into that saltwater and smoke scent, like a cocoon he could feel safe in. And how right it felt, when he finally buried his face into the crook of her neck and inhaled her in deep, tears finally streaming out as he pressed kiss after worshipful kiss down her body. 

He wants to kiss her now, too. He just hopes she wants him to — maybe not right away, but later, when he’s treating her to something good regardless of the outcome. Maybe without wine for now. 

The buzzing of the interphone jolts him awake. “Coming!” She can’t hear him, but he says it out loud each time anyway. 

He nearly jams the button when he presses, eyes squinting to make sure it’s her face in the blurred black and white camera. Even pixelated and tiny, she looks especially worn out, and he can only begin to imagine. 

He waits for her with the door already open, beckoning her close with his hand right as she steps out of the elevator. “Hurry, babe.” 

She nods frantically, the clicking of her heels echoing through the hallway. 

“Need some water first?” He asks as he closes the door behind himself, following her into the open space as she nearly throws her purse on the counter and yanks it open, all but scavenging through it with feverish hands. 

“Please,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder.

She pulls the test out of the depths of her bag, muttering curses under her breath. When he passes her the iced water glass, she downs it in one go, even before he can warn her about temperature — but she’s not the ice queen for nothing. 

“Alright,” she says, heaving a sigh. “Let’s do this.”

“Didn’t you take something after you were here?” Vector asks, hesitant, fingers rapping on the counter. “Sorry if I ask, you always do.”

“No, you’re right, I did,” she says, placing both hands on her hips. “I felt like utter shit at work because I had been shaking the whole time during the runways, though, and uh— my lunch went down the toilet and at this point I think Plan B did, too. I spent so much on it, fuck’s sake.”

“You didn’t tell me you felt sick,” he says, brows knitting in concern.

She gives him a shake of her head as a response. “It didn’t cross my mind, that’s it. I had too much to do and I didn’t think much of it, I don’t even remember how much time passed between the pill and the episode…”

He places a hand over her shoulder. “It’s alright, it’s not your fault, I just—” he smacks his lips, as if looking for the right, most thoughtful words. “I worry about you.” 

It sounds entirely too simple, but it’s the best he can do right now. 

Her eyes soften. “Thank you.” The quirking at the corners of her lips is enough to be fully content. 

“Go,” he says, nudging at the bathroom door.

“Wish me luck.”

He leans in for a quick kiss before following her, stopping just short of the door. 

She blinks at him. “You coming in or not?”

Vector tilts his head to the side. “Do you… want me to?” 

Rio shrugs. “Nah, just talk to me.” 

There’s very little they haven’t seen about each other, and truth be told they have walked in on one another to grab soap or a towel, so this isn’t even news. An odd sense of comfort comes with it, sitting warmly at the top of Vector’s stomach. He smiles to himself, shaking his head — when have they let each other’s guard so low that they became sentimental, just like regular old people?

“Alright, let’s leave the door open three inches then.”

A heavy silence falls over them when she disappears behind the white wood of the door. It’s not complete silence, as he can hear the noises of the unassuming city and the quiet droning of electricity flowing through plugged appliances. The fabric of Rio’s pants rustles, and he can picture it pooling at her ankles as she sits; he can almost see her leg bouncing as she waits.

“I think I’m gonna just do shootings and cam if we— if you’re—uh, if the test comes out positive,” he all but blurts out, clicking his tongue between words. “I uh— at least for the very first years. I wanna be—y’know, I need to be present. I’m not saying we should settle down like a bourgeois couple—maybe you’re bourgeois, I’m not—but,” he clears his throat, a finger digging into the collar of his shirt for air; it’s not even that tight, and yet it feels like a rope around his neck, “But I think I gotta make time for this kid if—if you know—if the kid happens.”

His heart thumps in his chest, drilling into his ears and his skull, a fever-hot blush rising up to the roots of his hair. “We gotta be ready,” he all but wheezes, a desperate attempt to make everything make sense. 

“Vector.”

“Yeah?”

A chuckle slips through the door, and it makes his heart pop like an overfilled balloon no matter how bitter it sounds. “I haven’t even pissed in the container and you’re already planning our lives.”

His features twist into a scowl. “I just want to support you! Duh!”

“Okay, but I’m bladder shy when I’m stressed and you’re only short of asking me what we’re naming this kid,” she laughs, but it doesn’t sound genuine. It rather sounds like a cry for help, and he’s sitting there being useless. “Why don’t you talk to me about your day instead?”

Vector lets out a laugh. “You really wanna know how I got stuffed like the sluttiest little doughnut in Heartland City while you’re doing a test?”

“Anything but your anxiety-ridden word vomit, I beg you.” 

He answers with a roll of his eyes and hopes she pictures it. “I got fucked as an emo boy.”

“Charming,” she teases. “Was the guy married?”

“Oh, fuck no, and if he lied about it it’s entirely his problem. Can’t be a homewrecker if I’m trying to build for myself,” he says, leaning slightly against the doorframe, stretching his legs so he can cross his ankles on the floor and lean back. “Or like. Not to have angry wives I can’t fuck to make up for it running after me.”

Rio chuckles. “Alright. And what are you trying to build?”

Vector’s lips straighten into a fine line, knuckles white from tension on his knees. “A place we can be comfortable in. I don’t wanna give it up.”

“You’re cute,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him, a softness in her tone that wraps around his heart like the wrappings of a gift — and the gift is him, and he desperately needs to fling himself at her, to let her know he’s gonna be there no matter what, even if it’s not enough. 

“Gee, thanks, I know,” it’s all he manages to say, even if his palms are sweaty. 

“Alright,” she sighs, heavy and hitched, like something cut her oxygen supply halfway through the word. “This is gonna be the longest five minutes in history.” The cardboard of the box rustles faintly beyond the door, and so does the plastic wrapping of the test; Vector hears her crumple the wrapper before throwing it in the bin, and honestly it’s already enough that she didn’t just launch it into it. 

“How does the thing work exactly?” Vector asks, eyes darting towards the warm sunlight pouring into the open space — calming, reassuring, everything he needs right now and he wishes he could just soak up. 

“You dip it in the piss container for about five mins and hope for the best,” she quips.

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m losing it, actually,” she chuckles. “You know, with all the things I do, getting knocked up wasn’t something I had written down in the planner.”

Vector laughs, too. It’s kind of dry and probably doesn’t sound sincere, but there’s just this electricity crackling down his spine that makes being supportive a pretty tough task. Mostly because he’s finding himself… more enthusiastic about this than Rio sounds like from beyond the door. But maybe she’s mostly just worn out from work. And it’s not like he’d know what to do if they swapped places — and yet the question sits on the flat of his tongue, ready to be shot. 

“And what would you do if the test were to be. You know.”

A beat of silence passes. He can almost picture her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she fights the urge to bang her head to the wall. 

“I think I’ll know when the results come out,” she sighs. It’s more resigned than anything else. “This kind of thing is like a coin toss, you know? You don’t know what you really want until the coin is mid-air.”

“You know I’d love you no matter what you do, right?”

Her breath hitches beyond the door. It’s not that he doesn’t say it enough, but he’d rather just show instead — words have gotten him into far more trouble than he signed up for. And all the honeyed lies he weaves for his audience make him sick to the stomach from time to time, when the interaction feels dry and unfulfilling and awkward. It’s not always the case, but the more he goes on, the more the distinction between those who pay him and those who don’t is stark. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and he can hear the crack in her voice. 

Rio never quite talked about Iris, after all. She just sobbed into his shoulder when he addressed it, when he apologised and when they ended up making love after it — just like the other day. Maybe she wanted to feel his hand on her stomach, his palm lingering there to feel the first little kick, if that was a thing back in the day — or maybe she wanted him to sleep close to her back, his head buried into the crevice of her shoulder, hands resting on the side of her stomach, just soaking up all her wonderful warmth. Not that she isn’t warm now, but something tugs at his heart when his hands wander around her lower belly, almost feeling for the ghost of something beautiful they never had.

Maybe he wants this more than she does. She carried a life once and it was thrown away, why would she want to do it again? 

His breath hitches in the heavy silence. The threat of tears is always around the corner, and they prickle at his eyes as he stands up, ready to just barge in the moment Rio says even just one word. 

His heartbeat pounds into his chest and his head, and time stretches all the way through him. 

“... It’s negative?”

He laughs at how surprised she sounds. He pushes the door slowly, just enough to make room for himself to slide in, his voice echoing from wall to wall as he tries to focus his eyes on Rio. 

The small cup is on the counter, the test is in her hand and she stares at him wide-eyed, her mouth opening and closing for a second as if she wanted to say something and forgot.

What is there to say, after all?

“Are you disappointed, Vec?” She asks, voice bleeding into a nervous chuckle as she looks at the test display again. 

He stops for a second, just to wet his lips and buy time. “Are you?”

It’s the coward’s route, to pass the ball back to the other person. But if he takes the knot at the top of his stomach into account, he could say that his mind has run wild in the span of time since she rushed to the bathroom and the end of the countdown. He can just begin to imagine how slowly time has ticked by for her, but the tightness in his chest stays there.

Maybe it’s just him, always wanting something just beyond his reach. Something to come home to. 

(And for this, moving back to the mansion might not be that bad an idea, but not right now.)

“You’re crying, Vec,” she says, emptying the contents of the transparent cup into the toilet and dropping the test into the bin, letting water and soap wash over the evidence of these moments. “Hey—did you get scared?” 

She steps closer to him, ready to go in for a hug. 

“You didn’t answer,” he murmurs as his arms wrap around her waist and he pulls her closer, burying his face into the crook of her neck. She smells of vape and expensive perfume, maybe one she stole samples of from a model’s changing room. Just for the thrill of it. There’s deep notes of rosewood that mix with her skin and he wants to take all of it in for as long as he can manage. 

“I just wanted to show I’m here for you,” he sobs.

Her hands come to rest around his neck, her mouth pressing gently to his temple. “I know you are,” she says. “I’m glad you are.”

“I love you.”

He turns his head to press a quick kiss to her lips. Maybe there’s an explanation for the tug he feels deep into his gut when he sees children running around, tumbling towards their proud mothers and sinking into their embrace. How they laugh in delight when fathers lift them up — and whatever family they have, he always hopes it’s a safe haven for them. 

Maybe he found himself fantasising about the seven of them coming together to give their child all the best a bit more often than he’s willing to admit. Maybe he won’t say it out loud.

He pecks at Rio’s lips again instead. And that’ll have to do for now. 

“I love you too,” she says, smiling against his lips, forehead resting against his. “But I don’t think we’d be any better parents right now. Let’s give it time, maybe.” 

“You’re right…”

He hears her breath hitch, the tension in her body slowly melting away, and his heart sinks to his stomach again. If he brought a hand to her chest, he’s sure he’d hear thunder threatening to burst out of it. 

Maybe there’s too much noise in this part of the city for a small child. Maybe the crib wouldn’t fit in the loft, and he would have stumbled all over their toys — and moving back to the mansion wouldn’t have been an option either, not even in nine months, not even if he got the basement all to himself to perform and be a star. Maybe Rio would have refused to take time to rest, as she always does. Maybe she could’ve hurt herself, the child and him. 

Maybe it’s for the best that it’s not happening yet — he might have been caught in a bittersweet fantasy about two burnt-out wrecks somehow being able to form a picture perfect family. And yet, there’s still a weight that lifts from his shoulders when he realises that no, the time hasn’t come, and he doesn’t have to rearrange his life around something so big when he’s not entirely sure that what he has is what he wants right now. He’s going to have plenty of time to think that through, after all. 

“Wanna stay tonight?” He asks, voice cracking. “I’ll treat you to whatever you want. Even that fancy sushi place you showed me last month if you like.”

She purses her lips, brows knitting deep in thought, as if to make sure this is not a trick of his to get his way. “No alcohol, though.” 

Vector chuckles. “As you wish.” 

Maybe they’ll forget about it all soon, maybe they’ll laugh about it with the others. For now, he’s just glad they’re both home.  

Notes:

I love my drunk, pathetic bitches so much

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