A profound weariness settled over me. Levi's healing couldn't progress quickly enough; the anticipation of unleashing our more unrestrained desires was already a tantalizing whisper in the back of my mind. He concluded a series of focused phone calls concerning the border situation and the ongoing needs of the refugees.

He settled beside me on the living room couch, and nestled his head onto my shoulder with a quiet sigh. Ah, look at this. The formidable Levi, acting with the bashful tenderness of a teenage sweetheart after a first kiss. A soft chuckle escaped my lips, and I rested my hand on the smooth coolness of his dark hair.

"Why the sudden display of… cuteness, Levi?"

"Cute?" he echoed, lifting his head to meet my gaze. "Perhaps a display of… strategic vulnerability, Pulla? Does it pluck at your empathetic heartstrings? I must confess," he admitted, a note of genuine exhaustion in his voice, "the prolonged period at the border left me… depleted. Consumed by a persistent hunger, existing on fragmented snatches of sleep, and enduring a constant, low-grade thrum of physical discomfort."

"Ah, Levi…" I murmured, my heart softening. "The hunger I can well imagine. But why the lack of sleep?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "The auditory assault, Raphael. An unrelenting cacophony. The cries of the displaced, their screams, the shouts of personnel, the static of the comms systems, the constant thud of hurried footsteps, the endless murmur of conversations in a multitude of tongues, the tap of more footsteps, the sharp hiss of a cigarette being lit, the low gurgle of water boiling in countless kettles, the heavy tramp of boots, then again, the cries, the piercing screams, the shouts…"

"Ah, my weary lion," I murmured, my fingers continuing their gentle dance through the dark strands of his hair.

"Earplugs were a non-viable option, unfortunately," he explained, his voice low and weary against my shoulder. "Maintaining a state of heightened vigilance was paramount, given the nature of emergency situations. However," he paused, "I did find myself wishing, for the simple comfort of your presence, Raphael. Specifically," he shifted slightly, his gaze meeting mine with an unexpected softness, "I longed for the quiet solace of your hands pressed against my ears."

My hands. He wanted my hands.

"Stop being so unexpectedly… sweet, Levi," I teased gently, a soft smile playing on my lips. "I might actually start believing that a genuine sentimental core is beginning to… develop within your complex architecture."

"Ah... another illuminating anecdote from the theater of the absurd that was the border encampment," he sighed, shifting slightly. "Military personnel were eventually deployed to establish a semblance of order and implement necessary protocols, their logistical capabilities proving essential for the construction of temporary housing. Predictably, isolated incidents of opportunistic looting and theft did occur. Do you know the nature of the query posed to me by the commanding officer? He inquired as to whether his troops should… openly display their firearms in the vicinity of the refugees. Gods, Raphael. Did he genuinely require external consultation to ascertain the self-evident principle that one does not brandish lethal weaponry in the presence of traumatized and vulnerable individuals?"

"Gods, Levi... the absolute incompetence!" I exclaimed, shaking my head in disbelief. "Also, are you recounting these tales of bureaucratic absurdity in a deliberate attempt to… seduce my moral sensibilities?"

"Yes and no, Pulla," he murmured, his gaze softening slightly. “Beyond any manipulative intent, the injustice of it all… engendered a profound and rather unwelcome sense of isolation."

"Why did that sense of isolation take root?" I asked softly, my hand now stroking his cheek, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

Levi sighed, his head resting heavily on my shoulder. "The 'origami incident' was particularly… egregious," he began. "Shaw, that particularly odious vermin, accusing me of possessing… 'empathy'? The audacity of such a blatant mischaracterization, the utter erasure of my fundamental self… it engendered a considerable degree of… displeasure. I, the amoral entity, devoid of any semblance of a moral compass, was the one forced to state the obvious. It was… isolating, Raphael. To be surrounded by individuals who lacked the most rudimentary understanding of ethical conduct, while I, by their very definition, should be the one devoid of such considerations…" His voice trailed off.

"So, the world expects those with empathy to act ethically, but they fail spectacularly, and the one without it has to pick up the pieces. The irony is staggering, and the isolation you felt is completely understandable."

"That persistent mischaracterization, that blatant disregard for my very identity… logically, it was not unforeseen. However," a subtle shift in his tone, a flicker of something akin to hurt, "it did… sting, nonetheless." He then took a deep breath, the air catching slightly in his chest. "There are… certain admissions I feel compelled to make, Raphael."

Here we go. Levi's 'confessions' rarely involved minor transgressions.

They were usually seismic shifts in his understanding or revelations that would undoubtedly rearrange my reality.

"Spill it, Levi," I urged gently, my hand resting on his cheek. "Let the tectonic plates shift."

He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "The period following my rehabilitation… it engendered within me a sensation of profound and absolute liberation. The clarity of sobriety, after twelve years mired in the fog of addiction, coupled with the complete divestment of all material possessions prior to my… cessation attempt… these factors coalesced into a sense of unfettered freedom, a state of being almost beyond verbal articulation. While I observe your occasional discomfort at my directness, I perceive an underlying appreciation for its veracity. Furthermore, this sustained sobriety has coincided with the singular period in my existence where I have been openly communicative regarding my neurodivergency."

He paused, his gaze becoming piercing. "Raphael, since my rehabilitation, I have not engaged in any deliberate obfuscation or falsehood in my dealings with you. Nor, indeed, with any other individual. To then be confronted with this persistent… erasure, this willful negation of my fundamental being… it is not merely insulting or isolating. It engenders within me a visceral sense of revulsion."

Wow.

That's… a lot to unpack.

"Oh, Levi..." I murmured, my hand tightening on his. "To possess such a strong and unwavering sense of justice, as you do, and to be constantly confronted with such blatant injustice… it must be an unbearable weight to carry. But," I continued, my gaze meeting his with sincerity, "I am grateful for your brutal honesty, Levi. Truly. And it means the world to me to hear that you now feel secure enough in our relationship to share these deeply personal experiences." I paused, a soft smile touching my lips. "While hearing your unfiltered perspective can sometimes be… jarring… it is also incredibly valuable. Because it signifies a deepening, evolving trust between us, a willingness to be truly seen, warts and all."

He placed his head on my shoulder again, now burying it deeper, “To be seen, Raphael, is my greatest desire in this pale blue dot.”

"I know, my love," I murmured, stroking his hair. "We will both keep trying, every single day."

...

Well.

That simple promise of mutual effort seemed to falter rather quickly, as the ever-contentious territory of morality once again became our battleground.

My three weeks at the foundation, had become a media sensation. My agency saw this as prime publicity and proposed a television program centered around my efforts. The very notion of profiting from a deeply personal and genuinely altruistic endeavor left a bitter taste in my mouth, a sense of my sincere intentions being sullied by the machinery of fame. Levi, predictably, held a diametrically opposed viewpoint.

"Levi," I stated firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument, "I endured those three weeks – the relentless work, the lack of showers, the barely-there meals, the nights spent contorted on a lumpy couch – not for some public adoration. I will not participate in this exploitative spectacle."

Levi’s eyes rolled heavenward. "Predictable, simplistic, and frankly, intellectually unstimulating. Truly, Raphael. This proposed interview transcends your individual sensibilities. It is not about your personal narrative; it is about the undeniable impact of a prominent and affluent individual such as yourself actively engaging in philanthropic endeavors. Your participation will, statistically speaking, generate a significant influx of donations and a substantial increase in volunteer recruitment."

"So, in your world, the ends always justify the means, even if it means sacrificing personal integrity for a few extra coins in the donation box?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes," Levi affirmed. "Not every decision revolves around your delicate moral sensibilities, Raphael. Cease this petulant display. What transpires? You will indulge in a brief period of self-flagellation, wallowing in a manufactured guilt. Then, I will present a rational counter-argument, elucidating the undeniable logic of the situation, and you will, inevitably, concede the fundamental truth: in certain circumstances, the resultant benefits decidedly outweigh the perceived ethical compromises."

Oh, he's really digging in his heels. Dismissing my genuine discomfort as some childish tantrum. The bastard.

"It's not a matter of mere logical deduction, Levi," I countered, my voice rising. "It's about me. I don't want to participate in this interview because my genuine efforts, my sincere desire to help, have been reduced to nothing more than vapid public relations fodder."

"Is that so?" Levi's left eyebrow arched sharply. He moved with a deliberate slowness, closing the space between us until he stood mere inches away, his intense gaze unwavering. "Very well, Raphael. If we are to delve into the realm of subjective feeling, let us do so. Because of your monumental 'guilt,' you are actively depriving the Ascarian populace of witnessing a wealthy and influential immigrant Cyrusian – namely you – actively assisting his own people, even in the aftermath of such hardship. Furthermore, Raphael," his voice took on a sharper edge, "because of this self-indulgent 'blunder,' the already dwindling stream of donations for Cyrusian refugees will diminish further. Public attention is a fickle commodity; nearly a month has passed, and their focus is already beginning to drift. Raphael. You will set aside this childish obstinacy, embrace the responsibilities that come with your position, drown your precious sorrow and guilt in vintage wine if you must, and you will do the interview."

He's weaponizing my own desire to help against my aversion to the spotlight. He makes it so damn difficult to hold onto my moral high ground when his pragmatic arguments are so infuriatingly sound. It's a battle between my gut and his brain, and his brain usually wins.

"Damn it, Levi, you can't just issue commands like some tyrannical ruler! I am not some puppet you can manipulate into doing your bidding. I will not do that interview," I retorted, my voice trembling with anger and wounded pride.

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. "Do you honestly believe my staff would indulge in such sentimental drivel about 'morality' and 'emotions' when faced with the realities of a crisis? No. Because they understand a fundamental truth: life is not a simplistic dichotomy of right and wrong; it is series of decisions, each one an unavoidable renunciation. You will utilize that television platform to underscore the vital importance of continued donations, thereby actively facilitating the survival of a far greater number of individuals. Then, you will return to this residence, chain-smoke your anemic excuse for cigarettes while muttering your complaints, but deep down, you will acknowledge the undeniable truth: not every facet of existence revolves around your personal preferences, and you will have executed what was necessary to ensure the survival of many."

It's not about my feelings. It's about the potential to help countless others. I hate that he's right, but I also know he is. The bastard. He always sees the cold, hard truth, even when I'm trying to hide from it.

"Ugh…" I exhaled.

"Furthermore," Levi continued, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion, "kindly be aware that I possess no vested interest whatsoever in your ultimate decision regarding this interview. None. However, I am acutely aware that you do care. Your persistent engagement in this debate, your seeking of my perspective, stems from your implicit understanding that I will provide the necessary impetus, the logical push, to compel you towards the most efficacious course of action.Raphael, I reiterate: set aside your personal reservations, conduct the interview, and then, if you still harbor the inclination for futile philosophical discourse, we can revisit the nebulous realm of 'morality'."

"You are an absolute bastard, Levi," I conceded, the fight draining from me. "But... I will do the interview. And," I added, the tension beginning to give way to a need for comfort, "while I know your sobriety remains paramount, your skills in mixology haven't faded, have they? Prepare me something… strong. I need to call my agency and face this… reality."

"Hm..." he murmured, and I caught the telltale crinkle around his right eye. A smug smile played on his lips. "So," he continued, a distinct note of pride coloring his tone, "my Pulla did, in fact, seek my approval. An unexpected, yet undeniably gratifying, development. I am honored."

Honored? The smug bastard. It wasn't about seeking his approval, exactly. It was about needing him to cut through my emotional bullshit and tell me the hard truth. Like a… like a firm hand guiding me when I’m being irrational. Gods, why did that thought even enter my head? Firm hand. Approval. Honor.

"Damn it all!" I hissed under my breath. Why now? Why this sudden resurgence of that daddy-issues? Not now. I knew the predictable pattern that would follow. The tendrils of shame, that bloodhound of sniffing it out with unnerving accuracy, the relentless pressure, and my eventual, inevitable capitulation. No. Never. I wouldn't let it. I snatched my phone from my back pocket and stabbed at my agent's number.

"Wipe that self-satisfied look off your face, Levi," I snapped, even as a betraying blush heated my neck and the tips of my ears. Mortified by my own reaction, I turned my back on him abruptly and retreated towards the bedroom.

…

I leaned against the closed door, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the phantom weight of Levi’s knowing gaze still pressing on my back.

“Jax? It’s me.”

“Raphael! Wonderful news about the foundation! The agency is buzzing. We’ve already fielded multiple inquiries…” Jax’s usual effusive tone grated on my raw nerves.

“Yeah, about that,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “They want me to do a TV interview, right?”

A beat of silence. “Well, yes! It’s a fantastic opportunity. Think of the exposure! It will solidify your image as not just a talent, but a compassionate, engaged human being. The offers will flood in!”

“That’s exactly the problem, Jax,” I said, the bitterness lacing my words. “It feels… performative. Like I’m cashing in on their suffering.”

Jax’s tone shifted, becoming more placating. “Now, now. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s about raising awareness, inspiring others. Think of the donations, the volunteers…”

I closed my eyes, the image of Levi’s smugly knowing face burning behind my eyelids.

“I know, Jax,” I said, the fight draining out of me. “He… someone… pointed that out. The potential good it could do.”

“Excellent! So you’re on board?” Jax’s enthusiasm was almost painful.

“Yes,” I said, the word feeling like a lead weight in my mouth. “But on my terms. No manufactured sentimentality. No focus on me as some kind of savior. It has to be about the refugees, about their stories, about the ongoing need.”

“Of course! We can absolutely frame it that way. We’ll work with you. This is going to be huge, Raphael! Huge!”

I hung up, the buzzing in my ear a poor imitation of the turmoil in my chest. I had agreed. I had swallowed my pride, my discomfort, my sense of being exploited. I had done what Levi deemed 'efficacious.'

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Now for that drink. And then, the reckoning with the smug bastard waiting for me on the other side of this door. The conversation about morality was going to be… interesting.

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...

"I've made the call," I announced, my voice still carrying a residue of reluctant resignation. "I'm going to do the interview."

"An… efficient decision," he commented, as he stirred the glass. He didn't look up, but a subtle dryness entered his tone. "Now, my dear Raphael, do elaborate on this… 'moral predicament' that so troubles your delicate sensibilities."

I perched on a nearby bar stool. "It feels… wrong, Levi. Viscerally wrong. As if I'm commodifying something genuine, selling a piece of myself for public consumption. I do not like this feeling."

Levi chuckled. "Of course you are selling a piece of yourself, Raphael. Just as I have perpetually sold my own brain." He placed the finished glass in front of me.

It's a bleak comparison, but a disturbingly apt one. We're both being asked to commodify something deeply personal, something that should be inherently valuable and untainted. His logic, as always, cuts straight to the bone, even if it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I inhaled the rich bouquet of the wine before taking a sip.

"I still... I truly dislike this feeling, Levi," I admitted, the words a quiet murmur.

"Existence itself, Raphael, is an unending series of transactions. Every choice, every interaction, every attempt at communication necessitates a constant negotiation," Levi stated, his gaze direct. "You experience a sense of moral discomfort; I acknowledge the validity of that sensation within your subjective reality. However," he continued, his voice gaining a note of certainty, "observe the consequences of tomorrow. You will witness how this bad feeling, this internal conflict, will have directly contributed to a concrete, measurable outcome. And ultimately, Raphael, tangible outcomes are the only true metrics of consequence."

Tangible outcomes, bought with a piece of my own discomfort. And that, I suppose, is the transaction. My soul for their survival. And Levi, sees it as a fair trade. I just wish it didn’t feel so… hollow.

"I'm not disputing the potential benefits of this interview, Levi," I conceded. "My discomfort stems from a deeper place. It feels wrong, not just on some abstract moral level, but as a betrayal of the very people I spent those weeks with. It feels like I'm now leveraging their suffering for my own gain, even if the intention is ultimately to help more."

Levi’s eyes narrowed slightly, impatience crossing his features. “Gods, Raphael… what a remarkably self-absorbed perspective. You were not the one who endured the loss of their home, the terror of displacement in a war-ravaged nation. You cannot presume to speak for their experiences, nor can you replicate the depth of their suffering. Your intentions may be noble, but to frame your participation as a betrayal of them is a rather… narcissistic conceit.”

Ouch. Framing my genuine discomfort as some kind of self-aggrandizing martyrdom.

"You're right, Levi," I conceded, the wine doing little to soothe the bitter taste of his truth. "I haven't endured what they have. But does that completely invalidate this gnawing feeling that the whole situation is… sullied?" I took another sip, the liquid doing little to extinguish the internal unease.

I had deliberately poked the bear.

"Sullied, wrong, impure, reprehensible, or any other melodramatic descriptor your privileged lexicon can conjure – they are ultimately irrelevant," Levi declared, waving a hand, his impatience palpable. "Once more, as your partner, I do not dispute the existence or intensity of your feelings. No. What I am vehemently rejecting is the notion that your sheltered existence grants you the prerogative to deem it 'good' to abstain from an interview that will demonstrably benefit countless refugees, simply because it clashes with your delicate sensibilities. What an utterly tedious and self-indulgent discussion."

He really doesn't pull any punches, does he? My sullied feelings, my precious moral quandary... they do sound rather pathetic when weighed against the potential to actually help people who have lost everything.

"Perhaps my sheltered existence has fostered a naive belief that intent and personal integrity still hold some intrinsic value, even when weighed against your tangible outcomes," I countered. I took another, slightly larger sip of the wine.

"Indeed," Levi conceded, his tone laced with a dismissive boredom that stung. "Utterly childish, pathetically naive, and frankly, so intellectually vapid that it doesn't even warrant a cutting rejoinder. So, Raphael," he concluded, turning his back to me and striding towards the living room couch, where he immediately became absorbed in his phone, presumably coordinating efforts for the very refugees we were discussing, "cease this tiresome self-pity, consume your alcoholic beverage, and fulfill your professional obligations."

That's his ultimate dismissal... To not even deem my perspective worthy of a proper argument. It makes me feel… small. Insignificant. Like my feelings are just childish noise to be ignored while he focuses on the real work. Action versus endless internal debate. Responsibility versus self-indulgence. The bastard. And yet… a tiny, grudging part of me understands. He’s moved on to the actual problem, while I’m still stuck in my own head.

"Understood," I repeated, the sarcasm dripping from my voice. "My childish naivete will now dutifully perform for the cameras, ensuring your precious tangible outcomes are achieved."

Gods, why did I have to add that last part? I was going to ask him, however awkwardly, to be a little less… dismissive. Did that single glass of wine already loosen my tongue this much?

Levi scoffed, his attention fixed on his phone. "Should every single refugee perish in the next twenty-four hours, Raphael, it would elicit precisely zero emotional response within me, a fact of which you are acutely aware. Therefore, this is not about achieving an outcome for me. It is about securing a tangible benefit for them. I surmise your remarkably dense cranium requires further blunt force trauma for even the most rudimentary concepts to penetrate."

Charming. He really knows how to make me feel like an utter idiot. It's always about the outcome, isn't it? His lack of empathy doesn't negate his desire for a positive result.

"Yeah," I echoed. "There you are, furiously tapping away at your emotionless equation, the great humanitarian calculator."

Damn it, Raphael. Why can't you just let it go? You're being deliberately antagonistic again.

"Indeed," Levi replied, his thumbs moving on the screen. "While I have been tasked with resolving nationwide logistical complexities in the past, the intricacies of this international displacement scenario present a novel and rather… intellectually stimulating challenge to solve."

While I’m drowning in empathy and moral conflict, he’s actually doing something. Solving the damn puzzle. And people will live because of it. Fuck him…

"So, while I'm tearing myself apart over the ethical implications of this interview, you're merely indulging in the intellectual stimulation of human suffering?" I blurted out.

Damn it. Why do I keep doing this? I didn't want another fight. I just wanted… a little less callousness. A bit of reassurance.

"Oh?" Levi's head snapped up. The casual disinterest vanished. "Fine."

His phone clattered to the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Since my intellectual interest in the plight of human suffering is apparently so offensive to your sensibilities, I have elected to cease that interest entirely. Problem solved."

His voice was calm.

I vaulted off the bar stool, and strode towards the couch. Levi remained seated, his posture still, his intense gaze fixed on me, unblinking.

"What the fuck, Levi?" I roared, my voice cracking with a mixture of fear and disbelief. He offered no response. "You can't just… abandon everything! Your responsibilities, the people who need help!" I yelled again, the desperation rising in my throat.

"Truly?"

The emptiness in his eyes… it’s like arguing with a void. He’s retreated somewhere cold and logical, and I have no idea how to reach him there. He’s always been detached in his own way, but this… this feels different.

"What in the absolute hell do you think you're playing at, Levi?" I shouted. "Is this some kind of manipulation? Are you seriously going to let countless innocent people suffer because of my stupid, impulsive mouth?"

He rose slowly from the couch, his unwavering gaze still locked on mine. "The fundamental difference between you and me, Raphael, is this: you are, at times, an utter imbecile. You deliberately sought to provoke me, weaponizing my very identity against me in the form of an accusation. And yet another crucial difference separates our actions: I, despite my inherent lack of emotions, consistently execute my responsibilities. You, however, allow your precious 'feelings' to jeopardize crucial outcomes."

"Yes, damn it, I lashed out," I admitted, the words raw with a mixture of shame and lingering hurt. "And yes, I weaponized your… different way of processing emotions against you. That was unfair, and I am genuinely sorry for it. I felt dismissed, Levi, like my struggle was just an inconvenience to your logical efficiency. But," I continued, my voice gaining a firmer edge, "my hurtful words, however misguided, do not give you the right to even feign abandonment of your responsibilities."

A cold smirk touched Levi's lips. "I did not feel hurt, Raphael," he corrected, his voice calm. "I experienced anger, a logical response to witnessing yet another display of profound injustice, this time directed from my own husband. And yes," he added, his gaze unwavering, "you are being an imbecile. What? Did you honestly believe I would shirk my duties, neglect the very tangible outcomes we discussed, simply because of your emotional outburst? Obviously not. It was a calculated maneuver, a rather transparent bluff on my part. Grow up, Raphael."

Bluff.

The manipulative bastard. It worked, didn't it? The terror of him abandoning his efforts shook me more than any argument could.

Bluff or not, his point is brutally clear. Grow up, Raphael. The lives of those refugees are more important than my bruised ego.

"So, the injustice you refer to was my clumsy, attempt to articulate my discomfort? And your response was to… stage a bluff designed to manipulate my emotions?" I countered, a hint of lingering resentment coloring my tone. "Well, congratulations, Levi. Consider me suitably chastened. Now, for the sake of the actual people who need our help, can we please move forward?"

"The injustice, Raphael," Levi corrected, his voice firm, "was my own husband weaponizing my very being against me, using my neurodivergence as a tool for accusation. My subsequent actions were merely a logical countermeasure, employing the readily available weapon of your volatile emotions – a rather predictable and easily exploitable vulnerability, I might add. The actual problem is this: you will conduct the interview tomorrow. That is the conclusion. You possess the autonomy to cancel it, a decision that would elicit precisely zero emotional response from me. You may also request my assistance in crafting your statement; I would be happy to ensure its composition yields the desired impact. Regardless, Raphael, you will fulfill your professional obligation and achieve the necessary outcome. Is that sufficiently clear?"

I did. I used his lack of empathy against him, knowing it would sting. And his response? To weaponize my emotions right back at me.

The autonomy to cancel? A hollow threat, I suspect. He knows I won't. He knows the weight of responsibility I feel, even if he doesn't understand the emotional burden of it. So, yes. It's clear.

"I am truly sorry, Levi," I murmured, the shame still burning. "Using your neurodivergence against you… that was low, and it wasn't fair. The truth is… I just wanted you to be a little kinder to me."

"I acknowledged the validity of your emotional distress, Raphael," Levi replied, his tone softening slightly. "That was the impetus behind preparing your alcoholic beverage. My commitment to sobriety does impede my capacity for conventional niceness, as it removes the social lubricant that typically filters my more… direct mode of communication. However," he conceded, "I do apologize for my… villainy." He then arched a skeptical eyebrow. "But truly, Raphael? After all this, how could you possibly have missed the rather obvious nature of my bluff?"

He played me like a damn fiddle.

"You manipulative bastard," I muttered under my breath.

"And your deliberate attempts to provoke a reaction from me, knowing full well my sensitivities, were acts of pure altruism, were they?" Levi countered, his eyebrow still arched.

Touché. I did poke the bear, hoping for some kind of emotional response, even if it was negative.

"Gods," I sighed, the tension of the argument leaving me utterly drained. "We desperately need couples therapy. And you," I added, looking directly at him, "need to make a conscious effort to be… kinder to me."

Levi's brows furrowed in thought. "Couples therapy presents a unique logistical challenge for our specific dynamic, Raphael. Locating a professional with a comprehensive understanding of my neurological framework is paramount, and such individuals are statistically rare. Engaging with a therapist lacking this nuanced understanding would likely induce significant resentment on my part, thereby negating any potential benefit. Therefore, a period of thorough research and vetting is a prerequisite." He then looked at me, his gaze intense.

"Let me be clear: should you ever again weaponize my neurodivergence as a tool for accusation or employ it in a deliberate attempt to provoke me, the ensuing retribution will be of such a nature as to make you sincerely wish for the permanent closure of your tear ducts." His expression softened slightly as he drew me closer, his arms encircling my waist. "However, for you, dear Raphael, I will cultivate a more… nice demeanor."

"The tear duct thing… noted. Perhaps we can start with you just refraining from calling me an imbecile?"

"Oh?" Levi's eyebrow shot up again. "Pray tell, Raphael, are we operating under selective amnesia? A considerable portion of the insult hurling, originates from your own vocalizations. Secondly," he continued, his gaze intensifying, "yes, that was indeed a threat. My repeated attempts at logical explanation appear to have been woefully ineffective in modifying your behavior. For the preservation of our admittedly unconventional marital bond, a more… direct approach seemed necessary. And let me offer you a word of caution, dear Raphael," he added, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes, "you possess precisely zero comprehension of the intricate and potentially unpleasant machinations that occur within my cognitive processes when the concept of retribution takes root."

The nerve of this man. Yes, I hurl insults, but usually in response to his… Levi-ness. And the threat… he's not even trying to soften it anymore. And the glint in his eyes… it's unsettlingly genuine.

"Stop with your veiled threats, Levi," I stated, attempting a tone of authority that felt... undermined.

"Ah, but my dear Raphael," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips as his hands slid down my back, settling on my rear, "as you are acutely aware, such pronouncements are a rather distinctive element of my charm." He then leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "One could argue that the onus for eliciting niceness lies squarely with the recipient of my… directness."

A traitorous part of me recognizes the twisted logic. My barbs and impulsive insults probably don't exactly encourage gentle treatment. It's a vicious cycle. We provoke each other in our own dysfunctional ways. And maybe, just maybe, I do need to try being a little less… Raphael-ish if I want him to be a little less… Levi.

"Alright, Levi. I will refrain from resorting to insults, provided you extend the same courtesy."

"Delicious," he murmured against my ear. "And what are the stipulated consequences for a breach of this… agreement? What exquisite penalties await the transgressor?"

"I am attempting to establish a clear boundary here, Levi," I said, my voice tinged with frustration. "Why must you always turn everything into some kind of… game?"

"Hm..." he hummed, his grip on my posterior tightening. "Because, my dear Raphael, my estimations place the likelihood of your adherence to this boundary at a rather… limited timeframe. Perhaps forty-eight hours, at most? And is it so unreasonable for me to desire reciprocal niceness from my husband? Consider this a proactive deterrent. Now," he continued, his gaze holding mine, "tell me, Raphael. What is the penalty?"

He knows me too well. My good intentions tend to crumble under Levi-ness.

Gods, what should the penalty be? Something equally absurd? Something that will actually make him think twice? Or should I just refuse to play his game entirely? But then he'll just… Levi harder. Damn him and his beautiful, manipulative mind.

"The penalty, my dear Levi, is that I will be exceptionally 'not nice' right back at you. Prepare for a symphony of sarcasm."

"Are you entirely confident, in your capacity to sustain a level of cynicism comparable to my own? A cynicism meticulously cultivated over three decades of immersion in misanthropy, profound distrust, and an unwavering skepticism towards the entirety of the human species? I think not, my dear. Choose a deterrent with a touch more… teeth."

Gods, this is impossible. How do you punish someone who seems to thrive on negativity and intellectual sparring? What could I possibly threaten him with that would actually make him care?

"Aha! I have it. If you utter a single insult in my direction, you must immediately consume an entire can of energy drink." I couldn't help but smirk, recalling his dramatic shudder and vehement denouncements.

"Excellent," Levi murmured, his hand still caressing my butt. "Let us establish the precise parameters of this… accord. All forms of profanity and vulgarity are hereby prohibited. Any and all forms of direct or indirect insult are likewise forbidden. Lastly… Should you breach our agreement, Raphael, you will be subjected to task of reading an entire philosophical treatise of my choosing, within a strict three-day timeframe."

"What? Absolutely not!" I exclaimed, my eyes widening in genuine horror. "Levi, you know my attention span engages in mortal combat with that of a goldfish!"

"Indeed, I am acutely aware of your… limitations in that regard," he replied, a smug smirk playing on his lips. "That is why I exercised a degree of leniency and granted you a generous three-day window for completion."

"Not even something remotely engaging, like fiction or history… but… but philosophy? Oh, the torture…"

He pressed a light kiss to my cheek. "I am pleased that we have achieved a mutually acceptable resolution. A remarkably efficient utilization of our time, wouldn't you agree?"

"W-What was that?" I stammered, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic display of physical affection.

"I believe that qualifies as an instance of my 'endeavoring niceness'."

My God… this man is going to be the absolute death of me.

I had just willingly entered into a contract that effectively silenced my primary mode of communication. No more sarcastic barbs, no more muttered insults, no more calling him the infuriating bastard that he was. My god, what have I done? I have truly struck a deal with the Devil himself.

"Oh my god, Levi…" I breathed out, the weight of my monumental miscalculation pressing down on me.

He chuckled, his grip on my butt tightening. "My dear Raphael," he murmured, a smug amusement lacing his tone, "you rather overplayed your hand, frantically grasping for a deterrent. You attempted to negotiate terms… with me. It was, I must confess, a delightful, thoroughly amusing, and even endearing spectacle to witness the moment of horrified realization dawn upon your features as you grasped the undeniable truth: you have been, once again, manipulated."

The grip on my ass is just the cherry on top of his smug little victory sundae. This entire exchange was just a game to him. A delightful game where he, predictably, came out on top.

"Gods…"

"Shh…" Levi murmured, pressing a finger to my lips, silencing my lament. "You can contemplate the full ramifications of our little agreement later, my dear. For now, go and enjoy the alcoholic beverage I so thoughtfully prepared for you." He punctuated his instruction with a final squeeze of my posterior before retrieving his phone from the floor. With a wide, smug smirk plastered across his face, he then turned and retreated towards the master bedroom, leaving me standing there, contemplating the devilish bargain I had just struck.