The wind rattled the windows of the northern wing. Rain dripped in slow streams down the arched panes, carving tracks across the glass like tears refusing to fall.
Lucien stood by the liquor cabinet, uncorking a 1900s vintage with one hand, the other searching for a small tablet in the cabinet, while his mind is still wrapped in the tension from their last conversation. He hadn't seen Eliàn all day. Not at breakfast. Not on the greenhouse. Not in any of the corners he usually claimed with his ghostlike presence.
And when Eliàn finally appeared, barefoot, draped in one of Lucien's shirts like a silk cage, he walked past him and didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Lucien could already feel the defiance in the room thick as smoke.
"I gave you space," Lucien said, pouring the wine into two long-stemmed glasses and puttin the tablet med inside one of the glasses. "Now it's your turn to give me something back."
Eliàn didn't respond. Just turned to look at him, eyes glazed like stained glass. Distant. Silent. Beautifully unreadable.
Lucien hated it.
He lifted the glass and handed one to Eliàn, who accepted it without breaking eye contact.
"I'm tired," Eliàn said simply.
Lucien's jaw tensed. "Of me?"
"Of everything."
He turned his back and walked towards the fireplace, setting into the armchair like he was folding into himself. He held the glass with both hands, letting the warmth of the wine seep into his skin.
Lucien watched him. Studied the arch of his neck, the fragile curves beneath the collar of the shirt, the tired defiance that never quite faded.
"You always pretend like you're fine," Lucien said, voice low.
"And you pretend you're in control," Eliàn murmured.
That did it.
The flash of something primal cracked through Lucien's carefully arranged calm. He set his own glass down and crossed the room in three long strides.
"You think I don't notice the way you starve yourself? The way you flinch when I raise my voice? The way you shut down every time I touch you?"
Eliàn didn't look up. "Then stop touching me."
Silence.
The rain softened, but the room didn't.
Lucien exhaled slowly. "You're mine, Eliàn."
"I'm not."
"You chose to stay."
"I chose the lesser evil."
Lucien's hand moved fast–too fast for Eliàn to react. He seized Eliàn's wrist, gripping it just enough to remind him of the power imbalance they both pretended most of the time didn't exist.
"You push and you push," Lucien whispered, "and yet you never leave. Why is that?"
"Because I don't know how," Eliàn said bitterly. "Because every time I try, you drag me back. Because you make sure I have no one else to run to."
Lucien's grip didn't tighten–but his eyes did.
And then slowly, he let go.
"Drink your wine," he said, stepping back.
Eliàn stared at him for a long time, then finally brought the glass to his lips.
Lucien watched closely.
Too closely.
The moment Eliàn's throat moved, Lucien studied him.
Back to silence.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Eliàn's breathing had slowed.
His glass fell from his fingers with a soft thud, wine spilling like a bleeding wound across the rug.
Lucien turned, face unreadable.
He crossed the room, crouching before Eliàn's limp body, brushing back strands of dark hair stuck to his cheek.
"You don't understand yet," Lucien said softly. "But you will."
Lucien pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"You'll hate me for this," he whispered. "But at least you'll still be mine."
He carried Eliàn to the bed like glass–placing him down gently, as though that could somehow make up for what he had done.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
Inside, the silence screamed.