What was that call? It started with apprehension, spiraled into a shouting match, then tears, and finally… a dinner invitation? The hell was that?

I was glued to the couch, the TV a mindless blur, the wine long gone, caught in a numb trance. It was late evening when Levi entered the house. He approached me slowly, his gaze falling upon my hypnotic state. I couldn't even bring myself to look at him.

He snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Dear, are you alright?"

My eyes blinked into focus on him. "I did something. I… I talked to my mom and… I practically invited myself to dinner."

Levi leaned in, not sitting on the couch. I knew how he disliked wearing outside clothes in the house. "Dear, I'll have a change of clothes, then we can discuss your phone talk, alright?"

"No," I countered, pushing myself off the couch. "Let's go to the bedroom. We can talk while you're changing."

...

I lay sprawled on the bed, staring blankly at the white ceiling, and, in a detached voice, recounted the entire phone call.

“Hm…” he mused, shedding his shirt. “So, the issue of your sexuality led to a dispute, and it is evident they do not accept it. However, a provisional arrangement, stemming from mutual longing and the desire for peace, has been brokered. I understand,” he stated, then donned his pajamas. “There is a critical question, dear. The likelihood of them sidestepping your identity, or behaving as if your orientation is not acknowledged, is quite elevated. Are you prepared for this?” he inquired.

They'll do just that. They won't mention Levi is my husband, just 'Levi'. They won't mention our life, just 'your arrangements'. Am I prepared? I just cried into a bottle of wine like a kid. I just threw eight years of bottled rage at my mother. No, I'm not prepared. But I miss them. And a small, stupid part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

“I’m not sure, Levi. It’s not easy. I feel… numb right now. And, your lack of Cyrusian knowledge and cultural understanding will be a big obstacle.”

Levi walked to the bedside drawer. He reached under it, pulling out his black work bag. He rose, a metallic device no bigger than my middle finger held on his hand. It looked like one of those archaic music players people used to clip onto their collars, but far more refined.

“What’s that?”

“A very expensive translating device.”

He settled back onto the bed beside me, not quite touching, but close enough to easily showcase the gadget.

“What?!” I exclaimed, a small chuckle bubbling in my chest. “When did you even think about this?”

Gods, this logical, problem-solving man.

“I pondered the idea of bringing a human translator,” he replied, his voice calm as he pressed a button on the device, then reached for his phone to connect the two. “However, it seemed invasive, so I opted for this device instead. Though I assume I might still miss some contextual clues and cultural linguistic expectations. Nonetheless, I will not be entirely out of the loop.”

“This is actually… very nerd of you, Levi,” I said, a smile touching my lips.

“Ah, do not underestimate this device because it looks unassuming,” he replied, his gaze already shifting to his phone. After a few taps, he put the device close to my mouth. “Speak in Cyrusian, dear.”

“I love you, Levi,” I said. Three seconds later, the device replied, projecting my exact words in my own voice, but in Ascarian: "I love you, Levi."

“Yes, it is indeed a neat little device,” he replied, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

“How the fuck does it do that?” I pressed, leaning closer.

“I had to feed hours of your movies, advertisements, acting gigs, and phone calls into its system so it could accurately monitor and replicate your vocal patterns,” he explained, his tone completely unperturbed by my shock.

“What?”

“It would take a considerable amount of time to explain the full functionalities of this device, dear,” he said, his gaze fixed on the tiny gadget in his palm. “However, rest assured, it is probably the most accurate and fastest non-human translator I could procure.” He paused, then looked up at me. “Also, I will be entirely relying on my ability to read mimics and body language, without the aid of spoken language or its inherent linguistic and cultural subtexts. It will be a rather interesting challenge for me, too.”

Even so… it's more than anyone else would do.

“Thanks, Levi. It means a lot to me,” I said, looking at the tiny device again. “But… I mean, would it say everything out loud in Ascarian to you? It’s gonna be… weird,” I trailed off, imagining the awkwardness.

“Do not worry yourself with the details, dear. I will wear a small earpiece, but I would be looking at my phone a lot.”

“So, you… literally going to be a tablet kid, on my estranged family dinner, Levi?” I asked, a wry amusement coloring my voice.

“I assume, yes. I guess we will have to expect your family to look past my abhorrent dinner etiquette, but dear… The big bad problem from my perspective… is my food aversion,” he said, his tone utterly calm.

"Uhm… Ah," I managed, my mind scrambling for a solution. “So… Levi, the food will be spicy, salty, full of red meat… Oh my god… You’re going to puke… Shit,” I stammered, feeling a full-blown panic attack rapidly escalating.

“I could numb myself with alcohol, which I assume is not a particularly advisable approach given it will be the first time I meet your family,” he mused, completely unperturbed by my rising panic. “I could also inform your family that I suffer from a rather severe stomach illness, perhaps stomach ulcers, which might allow me to opt for more bland dishes… However, I only barely tolerate mashed potatoes, and that is a significant limitation. I could also be honest about my food aversion, which, without the context, would likely be perceived as disrespectful and rude within your rather patriotic culture. I am as stuck as you are, dear.”

This was it. This was the real problem. Not the years of emotional abuse. Not the homophobia. Not the war. It was the fucking beef stew.

“Did you say you're stuck? You… are stuck? You?” I repeated, disbelief warring with the rising panic in my throat.

“I could also attend the evening right after food is finished, since I can consume desserts. It would be considered less impolite, but it would necessitate my leaving you alone.” He paused, a tiny crease forming between his brows. “Or…” he continued, "perhaps I could ingest a substantial tube of analgesic creams so my mouth and palate are completely numb. Those are my final options, dear. I am entirely out of ideas.”

Levi is out of ideas. Levi is defeated by a dinner. By food.

“Obviously, Levi, do not suck on a painkiller tube, don’t even consider that!” I exclaimed, the very thought making my stomach churn. “And… please do not send me alone. I think the possibility of me getting really defensive is high; I would probably lash out and burn bridges… We are doomed,” I finished, slumping back against the pillows.

Levi, however, remained calm, his gaze fixed on the white ceiling. “I have other, rather dramatic ideas, each of which, once again, would be considered either rude or disrespectful, so I am not articulating them. Perhaps I can experiment right now, to see how much I can tolerate. Maybe the best option would be what we always did at other dinners with powerful families—those diplomatic engagements. You would handle the distraction, while I would attempt to compose myself and squeeze my abdominal muscles tight, so I do not cause a projectile war at your family table.”

So, this is it, then. My job: the clown, the diversion, keeping the attention away from the silent battle being waged right beside me. And his job: the stoic, suffering duke, suppressing the very real possibility of vomiting across my mother's tablecloth.

“Levi, even if I distracted them, you’d still have to finish your plate, this is a family dinner, meaning the plates would be filled to the brim… Gods… Also… What if experimenting right now would… you know, impede with your aversion? You came a long way… What if this causes a setback?”

“Hm…” he mused, his gaze thoughtful as he considered my points. “You see, in those diplomatic dinners, I was still using drugs, so I could tolerate. But, since now I am clean, I cannot do that anymore. And, about the experimenting, yes, the possibility of my body rejecting even the blandest food is, regrettably, high.”

I placed my hand on his arm. “Levi… Maybe we should just tell them you’re vegetarian or something.”

He chuckled. “Vegetarian and gay husband, do you plan to combust your parents, dear? But, yes, I think we should come clean. I am quite adept at playing a wounded soldier act; perhaps I can pull some heartstrings, so I do not get red meat shoved down my throat… Ugh,” he said, and a genuine shudder ran through his frame.

A laugh, sharp and humorless, caught in my throat.

“Okay, you will be honest, and play the wounded lion act.”

“Wait,” he said, blinking slowly, as if a new circuit had just connected in his mind. “Ah, why did I not think of this before? I can truly be such a monumental idiot at times,” he muttered.

“What? What are you talking about?” I asked, leaning forward, intrigued by his sudden shift.

“Compromise,” he articulated, his eyes now alight with spark. “They will compromise their traditions, and I will, too. I will learn some basic phrases, and if I can explain my aversion in Cyrusian? Pure gold. My accent would be equivalent to that of a peasant, therefore it would be considered as if ‘I am trying hard.’ Which, since they are patriotic, would be seen as not a grown man whining, but a real person, explaining his issues.” he concluded, a faint hint of triumph in his tone.

“That is so smart! Yes, let’s do that,” I exclaimed, feeling a surge of genuine excitement. “But… are you going to be able to learn anything in less than twenty-four hours?”

“Watch me,” he replied, utterly confident. “Also, I assume my brain for sure picked something up at the borders when I interacted with the refugees.”

“Okay, I'll try not to laugh at your accent.”

“Now, for the final problem,” he stated, rising from the bed with a fluid motion. He walked to the wardrobe that dominated one wall, and began rummaging through the sock drawer.

“What problem?” I asked, pushing myself up onto my elbows.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, still preoccupied with the drawer. I clenched my eyes shut, a nervous flutter in my stomach, and waited. I heard the soft padding of his feet as he walked towards the bed, then felt him lean in close. A brief, soft press of his lips. But as his lips left mine, I felt something else. Something… cold… slide onto my ring finger.

I opened my eyes and looked down. There it was, glinting softly, a marital band.

“L-Levi…” I breathed out.

“This was my second gift, from our anniversary.”

I completely forgot about that.

“I…”

“I told you I would give it to you after I gained mobility, but we never had the time, did we?” he asked, his gaze steady on my face.

“No… We didn’t… It’s…” I began, words catching in my throat.

He leaned closer to my face. “I confess I preferred a dramatic gesture, which is why I was holding onto it. But, since we are visiting your family tomorrow, I thought it would be the perfect time,” he explained.

“Why?” I managed to whisper, still trying to grasp the suddenness of it all.

“Ah,” he said, his gaze dropping to the ring, then back to my eyes. “After you gave the signet ring to my mother, we never had another marital ring, did we? It was an oversight on my part, dear. I should have gifted you one months ago.”

"It feels... right," I whispered, my gaze fixed on the gold band, then lifting to his steady eyes. "Especially after the signet ring. Like it completes something. This makes tomorrow feel... different," I admitted, tracing the smooth gold with my thumb. "Like we're truly a unit, facing it together."

He sat beside me on the bed. He produced a small velvet ring box. Nestled within its plush lining was his own band, mirroring mine in its design. He picked up his ring, turning it slightly, then showed me the inside of the band. Barely visible, intricately etched in tiny script, were two symbols.

“These are our initials, in the ancient Ascarian alphabet,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. He presented his empty ring finger, holding it out to me. “Will you do me the honors?”

With trembling hands, I pushed his ring onto his ring finger, a single tear finally breaking free and tracing a warm path down my cheeks. He smiled warmly at the newly placed band on his hand.

“Levi,” I whispered, the name a reverent breath.

“Ah, accept my apologies for giving a ring in pajamas, and in bed,” he said, his voice soft, "but I do assume it felt just… right.”

It was perfect. Not despite the setting, but because of it. Because it was us. Unvarnished, messy, real. Just the quiet assurance that he knew that this was exactly where we were meant to be.

“Yeah… It’s just right,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on the gleaming gold band on my finger.

Then. A memory clawed its way to the surface of my mind. Oh. Bastard. Manipulative asshole. This was exactly what he did. Fourteen months ago. When we were at that luxurious dinner, when our marriage was nothing but a sham, when every single person in that room was watching our every move, scrutinizing our forced smiles and choreographed touches. When I had leaned over and told him, that I did not wish to be there, that I couldn't endure another minute. And he had done exactly this. He had placed a kiss on my lips and, with the same cool precision, pushed a ring onto my finger. He did the exact same thing.

I slid my hand away from his. "Was that... part of your 'dramatic gesture,' then? Remembering a past success and replicating it?" I asked, my voice cutting and cold.

“What?” he asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

“You did this before,” I pressed, the memory burning. “You did the exact same thing. At that dinner. When you pushed that first ring onto my finger.”

He took a long moment, his gaze distant, processing.

“Ah… Yes. This is a misunderstanding. Fourteen months ago, and now, are not the same.”

Of course, they weren't. Then, it was a business arrangement. Now, it was… us. Or at least, I had thought it was.

“I am not misunderstanding anything. You did the exact same thing you did months ago,” I insisted, my voice tight with a mixture of hurt and stubborn disbelief.

He took a deep breath. “Raphael, the reason why I performed that dramatic gesture in front of many people was to obviously fish for tabloids, since it was right after our marriage. We are currently in our bedroom, in our pajamas, and you genuinely think I did this for… an audience?” he asked, a subtle edge entering his voice, a hint of genuine confusion or perhaps even frustration.

That question landed like a slap.

Gods, I truly am an idiot sometimes.

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close. "I am sorry, I jumped to conclusions… I was just… scared that this moment wasn't as meaningful to you as it was meaningful to me," I confessed, my voice muffled against his shoulder.

He didn't immediately hold me back, his body stiff for a moment—possibly because my accusation had... offended him. "It was meaningful to me, too, Raphael, until you treated me as a mustache-twirling villain," he said, his voice flat.

My throat tightened. I had to fix this. I had just ruined one of the rarest, most beautiful moments we'd ever shared, simply because my own anxieties.

“I am sorry, I saw the parallel, and my mind just made a connection,” I said, still holding him close, a desperate fear clutching at me that if I let go, he might just… shut me off entirely.

“Raphael, I think the main issue is, you still believe or think manipulation or calculation is born out of something insincere or malicious. Obviously, I manipulate, of course I do. But it does not mean I did it for you to suffer. It is so I can make you feel better, even if it is self-serving in the long run.”

“Self-serving?”

“Obviously. Is your benevolent treatment of me not self-serving?” he countered. “It very clearly is. You cultivate my presence to ensure your own comfort and stability, as I cultivate yours. Every individual, Raphael, is inherently self-serving, deeply absorbed in their own pursuits, and ultimately acts solely to their own advantage. I merely articulate this truth openly. This is not borne of any newfound moral conviction; it is simply because I harbor no concern for the opinions of my fellow, equally self-interested, homo sapiens.”

"And for the record," I murmured, tightening my arms around him, pulling him even closer, "my self-serving desire to keep you here is incredibly strong."

“I am glad to hear that, Raphael, but I have homework to do.”

“C’mon, we’re having a breakthrough, don’t go,” I pleaded, unwilling to break the intimate moment. He gently placed his arms on my back.

“Oh?” he asked, his voice laced with a subtle, playful challenge, placing his chin on my shoulder. “Did our wager end, dear? Are we allowed to have long hugs?”

I squeezed him tighter, burying my face a little deeper into his shoulder. "No, the wager hasn't ended. But long hugs are clearly a loophole we need to exploit."

“I have foretold to say. The wager will end tomorrow, after dinner, and I will bask in the delicious victory of mine.”

“Yeah. I'm gonna get emotional and possibly pounce on you,” I retorted. The image of it made me grin against his shirt.

“Quite the monumental oversight, Raphael. Why would anyone ever dream of waging with me?” he mused. Then, his large, warm hands began to gently caress my back. “And,” he continued, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “the wager was on sex, dear. How did you even allow yourself to think you would win?”

I chuckled, pressing closer. "Because I'm an optimist, apparently. And because you're so damn adorable when you're sure you've won."

“Raphael, you should have at least made the rules non-vague,” he murmured. His hands snaked under the hem of my shirt, before his fingernails dragged in delicious trails across my back, creating little pinpricks of fire that made my skin tingle.

“T-That’s cheating,” I stammered, my breath catching in my throat.

“No, the rules were clear: brief kisses, hugs, and hand-holding. But what about this?” he questioned just before he bit down gently on my earlobe.

“Don’t do that,” I said, as I tried to pull myself back, a futile effort against his strength. Levi, replied by dragging his tongue slowly up my neck, a warm trail that left goosebumps in its wake. “Ah, no kisses,” he murmured, his voice thick with triumph.

“Stop, stop,” I pleaded, trying to pull away from his grip.

“Dear, the first rule was, no self-pleasuring, so do not even dream about it. And even if you do, I would tell.”

“Just get off, I won’t,” I mumbled back, pushing against his chest, though my strength felt like water.

“Hm…” he hummed. “Is this torturous enough, or maybe I should show another loophole?” he challenged, and once again, digging his fingernails into my back, he dragged them down, slowly. Every single hair on my body stood on end. Then, those same warm hands, maddeningly gentle, found their way to my inner thighs, stroking and gently caressing.

“Fuck… Levi, don’t,” I whimpered.

“Once again you were naively vague,” he murmured against my ear, the soft vibration of his voice a torment in itself. “What about non-penetration? Does it not count?” His hands closed around my very obvious bulge. He didn't even rub it, he just placed it there, making me instantly jerk my hips.

The ultimate loophole.

I placed my hands over my face, trying to somehow escape the pleasure, as if hiding my eyes would make the sensation, or him, disappear. Levi, the absolute bastard, sneaked out of the embrace and crawled onto the bed, positioning himself directly between my legs. He leaned into my thighs, his straight nose directly brushing my crotch.

“Ah, you are missing the exquisite view,” he murmured, as he grazed my bulge with the tip of his nose.

“Fine, stop torturing me,” I gasped, peeking between my fingers, my eyes squeezed shut for only a second longer before I couldn't bear to miss what he would do next.

“Torture?” he echoed, before he grazed my crotch again, this time with the barest, softest brush of his lips. “I have not even started,” he purred. “I was showcasing the prominent loopholes.”

“Okay… You win, just stop, please.”

Levi rose, peeling himself away from my body. “No winning, dear,” he said. “Wager is not over. What a shame.” He placed his pointer finger directly on the very tip of my exposed bulge, subtly pressing down. “My dear husband is not even allowed to sneakily go into the shower, is he?”

No, no, no. My mind screamed, begged, cursed. He had planned this, to leave me right here.

“I am going to get blue balls, Levi, what the fuck?” I choked out.

“You can put an ice pack, or we have cooling spray in the first aid kit, dear,” he replied, his voice utterly level, completely devoid of inflection. He continued to look right into my eyes.

“The hell are you acting like a vengeful deity, Levi? I lost, okay? Please, let’s just do it,” I pleaded, my voice raw with desperation.

“Ah, I am a responsible person, Raphael. I need to learn a new language from the ground up,” he said, completely unmoved by my anguish. He smoothly got off the bed, his movements fluid and unhurried, as if he hadn't just driven me to the brink of madness. “Also, I would not wish to strain my husband right before his family dinner,” he added, walking to the door, his posture regal and unconcerned. “I will be in my study.”

…

Okay, you fucking asshole, leaving me a whimpering puddle. Before my not-entirely-erect boner raged into a full-blown erection, I had to take care of this. Damn him. With a frustrated growl, I ripped the ring from my finger. Gods. I should have kicked him. I let him do this. I thought he would cave in. He never does. Fuck! I am an idiot.

With a desperate lunge, I threw myself into the shower, yanking the knob to unleash a torrent of cold water in the dead of night. Fuck everything. Calm down. Calm. Yes. Grounding techniques. Strawberry, vanilla, and lavender shower gel. Coconut shampoo, my hair moisturizer, and hair mask… Yes. They smelled nice. Even though Levi, the big bastard with a sweet tooth, made this shower smell like a fucking sugar factory exploded... No. Calm.

I focused on the steam curling around me. Smell the lavender. Yes. You are in a lavender field. Focus on the bubbles. Watch how they pop right after showing you beautiful, iridescent colors. Yes. I am calm. I am a bubble… Floating.

Yeah… Bubbles. I was a bubble. Bubbles don't have boners, be gone. Please, I just wanted to sleep. Bubbles. I was a fucking bubble, obviously. Weak, and prone to popping. Just how Levi had broken me minutes ago. Nope. Focus on the good. Bubbles smelled nice, and they looked beautiful. Yes. I was a good bubble.

After I calmed down, I got out of the shower, the fucking cold water droplets still clinging to my skin, raising goosebumps. As I reached for my clothes, my fingers brushed against a small fat fold near my stomach. Nope. Focus.

Levi had muscle atrophy, and I hadn't even noticed it until he pointed it out. He noticed my fold, but he hadn't cared. No one should. It was… normal. Yes. Calm. There was nothing wrong with a body storing fat. And, if I was being honest, it wasn't exactly a fat fold; it was more like… a thick skin fold. Yeah. This was nothing. Let's just calm down. No need to get insecure. No. No need. Calm down.

I quickly pulled on my clothes and dried my hair, rubbing the towel vigorously. I was good. I was calm. No need for my cauldron of repressed rage to spill over Levi, the absolute, ruthless piece of shit… Calm. No need to rage over some light teasing.

Yep. He was being a bitch. He was just teasing. I placed my head on the soft pillows, and squeezed my eyes shut. He was, as always, being seductive, enjoying my frustration. No need to rage. Time to sleep.

Should I go and teach Levi Cyrusian? Would it not be faster? He would learn from a native speaker, right? He wouldn't have to struggle "from the ground up" if I just… But… If he wanted it, he would ask for it… No, he wouldn't. Ugh. The stubborn bastard. He’d never ask. No. Not my issue. If he wanted it, he should've asked. Yes. Fucking sleep, Raphael.