Gods… the weight of his pain, his accusations, pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. I stood for a long moment, trying to construct words that wouldn't further inflame the raw wound he was exposing. With a hesitant step, I made my way to the back garden.

Levi was sitting stiffly on one of the cold metal chairs, the charred remains of one cigarette already staining the ashtray, a plume of smoke curling from another held between his fingers. I pulled out the adjacent chair and sat down.

“Levi,” I began, my voice low and steady, trying to convey sincerity. “I wasn’t trying to judge you back there. I know it came across that way, and for that, I am sorry. This is a misunderstanding. My questions… they stemmed from a place of wanting to understand. You’ve been open about so much of your past. But that’s why the Queen… why you specifically didn’t tell me about her… it felt significant.”

“Because I did not care, Raphael,” he stated simply, his gaze fixed on the burning tip of the cigarette, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

Nothing. Again, nothing. Just that cold, hard void. A misunderstanding, I said. Was it? Or was it a fundamental clash in our very beings? My need to understand the human cost, his complete detachment from it.

“Is that all it was to you then, Levi?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Just… collateral damage in your grand scheme?”

Levi laughed, the sound sharp and devoid of any warmth. “Collateral damage? Have you ever truly witnessed collateral damage, Raphael? I possess the capacity to ignite this entire country, to watch it burn to ashes. It wouldn't even require a month of my focused attention. And in the end… I would feel absolutely nothing. When will your idealistic mind, your sharp intellect, finally grasp this fundamental aspect of my being? When? Perhaps another decade of painstaking observation? I mean, at least you’ve finally managed to comprehend my lack of empathy and guilt, haven’t you? All thanks to your diligent cramming of those neurodivergence textbooks.” He took a long drag from his cigarette.

"It's not some academic exercise, Levi," I insisted, my voice tight with a mixture of frustration and a deeper, aching sadness. "It's about trying to bridge this gap between us, to understand the inner workings of the man I… care about deeply. But when you speak so casually about the potential for such cold, calculated destruction... it makes that understanding feel difficult.”

“Ah, I see,” he murmured, amused. “It is the lack of conventional villainy that truly troubles your delicate sensibilities, isn’t it? This… contradiction. A man who hasn't even dirtied his own hands with murder, yet orchestrated the downfall of an entire aristocracy. Perhaps,” he mused, a dark glint in his eyes, “if I were a murderer, if I had personally set fire to every single one of those entitled swine, would that fit more neatly into your moral framework? Would that make my lack of empathy somehow more… palatable for your understanding?”

"Are you suggesting, Levi," I said, the smoke from my own freshly lit cigarette curling between us, "that the only path to your understanding lies through a more… visceral display of violence and cruelty? Is that the bridge you're offering across this seemingly insurmountable divide?"

Levi took another slow drag, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the light. “What a predictably tedious question, Raphael. I am not imploring you to embrace darkness, to revel in brutality. I am simply asking you to grasp one simple, fundamental truth about my being. One thing. One damned thing. And you consistently, stubbornly, refuse to do so. Every single time we have this infernal dance. Every. Single. Time.”

"This 'infernal dance,' Levi… it's utterly exhausting," I admitted, the smoke catching in my throat. "For both of us, I can only imagine. Isn't there some other way to break this cycle, to truly find a point of understanding between us, even if our fundamental natures remain… different?"

Levi hummed softly, a chillingly blank expression on his face. “Hm… I perceive two viable options, Raphael. Either I unleash the full extent of my capabilities, allowing you to witness the burning of everything you hold dear, perhaps then your stubbornly empathetic mind might finally grasp that I am not some unknowable abyss, but a simple, predictable void. Or… this.”

He stubbed the glowing end of his cigarette out on the pale skin of his forearm.

"Levi!" I exclaimed, my voice a strangled gasp of shock and horror.

“I felt nothing, Raphael,” he stated, his gaze unwavering, his voice utterly flat. “Other than a rather pleasant rush of endorphins.”

“Oh my god, you idiot, let me at least get you an ice pack or something.” I scrambled to my feet. Before I could take a step, his hand shot out, his grip firm on my wrist, halting my movement.

“No, Raphael. Not again,” he stated, his voice still flat but with an underlying steel. “You are not going to retreat into your familiar patterns, running away from something that makes you uncomfortable. For once, just once in your self-absorbed, self-righteous existence, you will bear witness to something that isn’t filtered through the lens of your own precious feelings. You will stay here, and perhaps, finally, you will begin to understand.” His grip tightened, anchoring me to the spot.

“So, this grotesque display is your language, Levi? Witnessing you inflict pain upon yourself is the singular language you believe my limited comprehension can finally decipher?” I asked, my voice laced with a horrified disbelief.

“Yes, you idiot! I have attempted to articulate this to you, time and time again, but instead of even attempting to accept this fundamental aspect of my being, your utterly predictable instinct is to either try and erase who I am, or to project your own sentimental hopes onto my neurological wiring!” he spat, his grip tightening on my wrist. “My frontal lobe, my amygdala – the very structures responsible for these nuanced human emotions – are demonstrably, measurably smaller than yours, you imbecile! Grasp this, for once and for all! My brain doesn’t possess an inherent sense of morality because it lacks the neurological architecture for it! It doesn’t release the neurochemicals that underpin empathy, guilt, shame, remorse – oxytocin, serotonin, countless others – because it cannot! For once in your self-absorbed existence, try, just try for one goddamn second, to truly imagine what that entails, if your neurotypical brain even possesses the capacity! But I know, with absolute certainty, that you won’t!”

"It's not about erasing you, Levi," I repeated, my voice softer now, the raw edges of our conflict beginning to smooth with a fragile understanding. "It's about… loving you. And it's undeniably hard to love someone I don't fully comprehend. So, tell me then, Levi… what do you feel?"

Levi’s grip on my wrist loosened, a subtle shift in his intensity. “Did you know that some scientists posit the existence of twenty-seven distinct human emotions, Raphael? I experience perhaps… seven. Seven, Raphael. I have tried to explain this to you, countless times, in every way I know how. I even resorted to clumsy analogies, hoping something would penetrate your stubbornly empathetic mind. And yet… even after I have laid bare my neurological reality, after explaining everything with painstaking detail… you still cling to this stubbornly naive belief that I am somehow capable of experiencing feelings in the same messy, oxytocin-drenched way you do. You possess absolutely no comprehension, no faint inkling whatsoever, of the profound disconnect your question even implies, Raphael. It is akin to demanding a person born without sight to articulate the subtle nuances of colors, Raphael. And frankly,” his voice sharpened, the earlier weariness replaced by a cold, cutting edge, “it is deeply insulting that you still refuse to even dare to grasp that fundamental, neurological truth.”

As I stood there, the weight of his words settling heavily, I took a deep breath, trying to quell the whirlwind of emotions inside me. Defying the raw tension that still crackled between us, I placed my hand on his cheek, my thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. “I may not grasp the entirety of your experience, Levi. And you clearly harbor a deep-seated resentment towards humanity, a resentment that bleeds into these conversations, causing you to lash out. But believe me when I say, I do understand your limitations. However,” I continued, my gaze unwavering, “my understanding isn't perfect, it's not a hundred percent. So, instead of resorting to these cutting outbursts every single time this topic arises, explain it to me. Again and again, if necessary. Just as I patiently try to articulate my messy feelings to your logical mind, you dumb son of a bitch.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“The crux of our endless conflict, Raphael, the monotonous refrain of our disagreements, invariably circles back to one singular point: morality. Your morality. Your ever-present conscience. Can you honestly recall a single significant argument between us that has ever truly strayed beyond the confines of your ethical framework? We don’t, do we?”

Self-absorbed. Self-righteous. His earlier accusations echoed in my mind. Is that truly how he perceives our dynamic? A constant moral judgment passed down from my comfortable high ground? And what about his perspective? His logic? His survival mechanisms in a world that wasn't built for him? Do I ever truly try to see things through that lens, without immediately filtering it through my own moral code?

The endless conflict… is it truly endless?

“Yes, Levi. It mostly is, isn’t it? And I understand that. Just as I cannot force a sense of right and wrong upon you, you cannot force amorality upon me, Levi. That will never truly happen, just as morality doesn’t inherently happen for you.”

He scoffed. “Forgive my ingrained skepticism, Raphael, but let’s not conveniently rewrite the immediate past. This entire conflict ignited barely an hour ago. And its genesis? A queen who made the choice to end her own life… eight years ago. You weren’t even within the borders of this country when that tragedy unfolded, Raphael.” His gaze was sharp, a challenge in his intense blue eyes.

“You are, I believe, willfully misunderstanding my intent, Levi,” I countered, trying to keep my voice even despite the sting of his accusation. “I was not attempting to assign blame to you for the Queen’s death; how could I possibly do that, especially given the circumstances? And yes, I was in Cyrusia at that time, a seventeen-year-old teenager, far removed from the events here. My question, then and now, wasn’t about culpability. It was about understanding your silence, your decision not to share that particular detail with me. And now,” I concluded, a dawning sense of acceptance settling within me, “I believe I finally do.”

"Do you, Raphael? Truly? Or is this another iteration of your well-intentioned but ultimately flawed attempts at empathy?"

“Probably, it is,” I admitted. “I don’t know for certain if my understanding is genuine or merely another flawed attempt. I suppose… we’ll truly see in our next disagreement, won’t we?”

“Hm…” Levi mused, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes. “Well… perhaps it is time I gathered my old allies. Maybe if I finally force you to confront the brutal truth of our lives in the hands of those sadistic, abusive monsters, Raphael… maybe only then will you finally, viscerally realize that life exists far beyond the comfortable confines of your well-defined morality. That, I believe, is the final, brutal understanding you desperately need to grasp.”

“No, Levi. Absolutely do not do that,” I said quickly, a wave of alarm washing over me. “Do not force those people to confront me, not like that, not obviously.”

“Great,” he stated flatly. “Then go and read the ‘yellow’ files in my study. Their documented crimes. Perhaps you’ll find some enlightenment there.” He then rose slowly from his chair. This time, however, his eyes locked directly onto mine, never blinking. “Tell me, Raphael,” he asked, his voice low and devoid of inflection, “is murder committed in self-defense still defined as murder? Yes, according to the law, it is. But tell me, Raphael… is it murder to you?”

It's a question that tears at the very fabric of my moral understanding. The intent behind the act, the undeniable necessity of survival, the fundamental right to preserve one's own life… these are not factors to be dismissed lightly.

“I… I don’t know, Levi,” I admitted. “It… it changes depending on the specific circumstances. It’s not a simple answer I can readily give.”

Levi let out a low, humorless chuckle. “How… utterly predictable. Well. This entire conversation has been… illuminating. It began with your predictably empathetic inquiries and has concluded with your equally predictable moral equivocations. What a perfectly flat circle, drawn within the confines of your consistently dissonant experience.”

A flat circle. The image is bleak. Trapped in a cycle of misunderstanding, forever viewing the world through our own fundamentally different lenses.

“Stop acting like a petulant child, Levi. What did you expect? Of course I don’t have a glib, readily available answer for a question that grapples with the very essence of justice and survival.”

“But I do, Raphael,” Levi countered. “I have recounted to you the realities of my four kidnappings, experiences that occurred not in some distant history, but repeatedly throughout my formative years, twice while I was barely a toddler. You see, your sense of morality and conscience remains stubbornly black and white precisely because it has never been forced to that breaking point, never been pushed to the precipice of utter desperation. Forget about me; I was born without that inherent moral compass. But what about those noblewomen, Raphael? Do you possess even the faintest inkling as to the horrors they endured that drove them to turn their backs on their own fathers, their own brothers? Their choices weren't born of some abstract philosophical debate, Raphael. They were forged in the crucible of unimaginable suffering.”

"Tell me, Levi. Tell me more about what they went through. Help me to understand that crucible, so that perhaps I can finally understand you."

"Great," Levi echoed, a bitter edge returning to his voice. "Let me recount for you the charming tale of my wedding night with Julia, then. Following the wedding ceremony itself – a grand affair, Raphael, one where every single noble person was 'legally' compelled to attend, as it was the marriage of a ducal heir – even the late King and Queen graced us with their presence. Then, as the festivities concluded, Julia and I were forced to share a bedchamber in my family's ancestral mansion. That night, Raphael, Julia had to feign sounds of pleasure… and distress. Do you even begin to comprehend why? Do you? And do you know what transpired at the breakfast table the following morning? I received hearty pats on the back for being a 'forceful' man, one who 'took what he wanted' from his new bride."

The highest echelons of society endorsing this… this violation. The casual endorsement of marital rape. The utter lack of regard for Julia's agency, for her pain. Do I even begin to comprehend why? No. Not fully. My own experiences, however complicated, haven't touched this level of forced intimacy, this brutal disregard for personal autonomy.

“Gods…” I choked out, a wave of nausea washing over me. “It’s… utterly disgusting… but why? Why that specific act?”

“Oh?” Levi replied, his voice laced with a bitter sarcasm. “Because our ever-present butlers at home were undoubtedly stationed outside our bedchamber door, listening to ascertain whether the ‘consummation’ of our marriage had ‘succeeded’ according to societal expectations. And the feigned sounds of displeasure, Raphael, were a direct consequence of the ‘sex education’ both Julia and I were forced to endure as fourteen-year-olds – which, in its brutal and non-consensual nature, was essentially state-sanctioned marital rape. Now, Raphael, do you begin to understand the insidious nature of ‘grooming’? At least Julia and I possessed a modicum of agency in our situation, a mutual understanding regarding our bodies. But what about the countless other noblewomen, forced into similar unions without even that small measure of control? No, I don’t think you truly do. Let me ask you something else, Raphael. You, a man of supposed courage and conviction, ran away from your own home when confronted for your sexuality by your homophobic parents. You changed countries, an act of rebellion unheard of in our circles, when none of us were even permitted to travel beyond the tightly controlled confines of our own lineage’s lands,” he finished, his gaze sharp and accusatory.

“Alright, Levi,” I said softly, a newfound understanding and concern coloring my tone. “We will continue this conversation, but perhaps… in a setting where you feel more at ease. You’ve been standing here for quite some time now.”

“A good idea,” Levi agreed. “I believe my stitches might be bleeding.”

“W-What?” I exclaimed, my heart leaping with alarm. I rushed to his side, lifting his shirt to inspect the area. They weren’t actively bleeding, thank the gods, but the wound looked angry, red, and inflamed.

“No… no, they’re not bleeding,” I murmured, relief washing over me in a dizzying wave. “It… it looks like your shirt just chafed it.”

“It is time for my antibiotics,” Levi stated matter-of-factly. “Be a doll for me and yell for Leo, please.”

This morning I was consumed by a ridiculous jealousy over their book club, and now it feels monumentally, pathetically insignificant. I called for Leo, my voice carrying through the evening air, and he arrived in the garden moments later, his medical bag in hand. He began his routine care: checking the wound, his temperature, his pulse. Then, he administered a round of painkillers and the prescribed antibiotics. Once that was done, Leo carefully helped Levi to his feet, supporting him as they slowly walked towards the couch.