The rest of the night in the hospital passed in a blur of examinations, hushed conversations with doctors and (reluctantly, on Levi's part) with the police, and the dulling effects of pain medication. Finn was released after a few hours of observation, looking pale but determined to put the ordeal behind him. Levi and I were kept overnight for further monitoring.

The next morning, after what felt like only moments of fitful sleep, Levi and I were discharged, both feeling physically battered and emotionally drained. The drive back to the house was quiet.

As Levi unlocked the front door, a surprising wave of normalcy washed over us. The house was immaculate. The overturned furniture had been righted, the lingering scent of antiseptic had replaced the metallic tang of blood.

The normalcy, however, felt jarring. It was as if the brutal events of the previous day had been erased, leaving behind a pristine but hollow shell. The memories, the fear, the raw emotions – they were still vivid.

Levi stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the familiar yet now strangely alien surroundings. A heavy sigh escaped him. "Well," he said quietly, the weariness evident in his voice. "At least someone did something."

I nodded slowly, the pain medication making me feel slightly detached. "Yeah. It's... almost like it didn't happen."

But we both knew it had.

...

"Two months, huh? Fuck. Just when I was about to kick off my award tour. Now, with these two lovely fractured ribs, I'm supposed to travel, stay in goddamn hotels, and spend my days doing interviews? This is just perfect." I let out a frustrated groan, the reality of my curtailed plans sinking in.

Levi sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I understand it's important to you, Raphael. This award... it means a lot. But pushing yourself with fractured ribs isn't just uncomfortable, it's potentially dangerous. You could delay the healing, cause more pain, even risk further injury."

"Ugh... I'll talk to my agency."

The enthusiasm for schmoozing academics had officially plummeted.

Levi watched me for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Raphael," he said slowly, a hint of something akin to reluctant admiration in his voice, "you have a rather... inhumane ability to pull yourself together, I admit. One minute you're practically howling in pain, the next you're strategizing your award tour, albeit begrudgingly." He shook his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "It's... strangely impressive."

"Gods, Levi. Is this a compliment?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. "Because it kind of sounds like you're saying I'm emotionally stunted. But yeah, I am the type that kind of lives in the moment, for better or worse. So, once I've processed the immediate 'fuck my ribs' of it all, making decisions about what comes next is usually... relatively straightforward. Less agonizing, more... 'right, what's the next hurdle?'"

Levi chuckled softly, a genuine smile finally breaking through the weariness on his face. "No, Raphael, not emotionally stunted. More... remarkably pragmatic, even in the face of significant discomfort.” He paused, a thoughtful expression returning. "Living in the moment... there's a certain freedom to that, isn't there?"

"Freedom and a healthy dose of denial, perhaps," I quipped from my slightly uncomfortable perch. "But yeah, dwelling doesn't tend to get the bills paid or the awards won. Though right now, the 'winning awards' part feels a tad ambitious with these protesting ribs." I shifted gingerly, trying to find a less painful position. "Overthinking just leads to more overthinking. Better to just... do the thing, even if the 'thing' currently involves a lot of wincing and strategically placed pillows."

Levi managed a small, reassuring smile. "Yes, Raphael. Your... resilience is, as always, a bit of a marvel to behold." He gave me a wry glance.

“Well… I am glad for you but I have burning question. Where is Ragnar right now?

A shadow seemed to fall over Levi's face at my question. He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze drifting towards the window.

"He's... still at the hospital," Levi finally said, his voice low and carefully measured. "Under police custody. Given the circumstances... the attempt, the shooting... they're keeping a close eye on him. There's an investigation underway." He paused, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "They'll likely want to question all of us again soon."

“He needs mental facility, not prison.”

Levi nodded slowly. "You're right," he conceded, his voice quiet. "Prison... it feels like just another way to lock away the problem without actually dealing with it. After... everything he told us, everything we saw... it's clear." He looked towards the window again, a weariness settling over him. "A mental facility... somewhere he can actually get help... maybe that's what he needs. For everyone's sake."

"What do you think they'll do?"

Levi sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "I honestly don't know, Raphael. It will depend on the police investigation, the psychiatric evaluation they'll likely conduct... the legal system here can be... complicated, since he is a fallen noble."

"I think he seriously considered our... 'fishing buddies' attempt," I said, a wry smile touching my lips. "I could see it in his eyes, that flicker of... something. He even let go of my collar for a second there."

...

The next hour felt like reliving the nightmare, but this time under the sterile scrutiny of the law. The officer asked detailed questions about Ragnar – his behavior, the suicide attempt, the shooting, our actions. Levi, ever composed, recounted the events precisely, carefully sidestepping the truly gut-wrenching parts of his family history. I chimed in, corroborating his story, each shift in my position sending a jolt of pain through my fractured ribs, a constant reminder of the chaos.

He wanted to know about Ragnar's mental state, his twisted motivations, our messed-up relationship with him.

Finally, the officer closed his notepad, his expression unreadable. "Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen. We will likely need to speak with you again as the investigation progresses. Mr. Blake, we will keep you informed about your grandfather's condition and the legal proceedings."

With a polite nod, he thanked and left, the silence that followed feeling heavier than before.

Levi let out a long, weary sigh. "Well," he said quietly, the exhaustion etched on his face. "That was... unpleasant."

I nodded, the adrenaline finally draining away, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in my ribs and a deep sense of unease. "Yeah. Feels like this whole damn nightmare is far from over."

…

A week crawled by, each day a slow, deliberate march marked by the dull throb in my ribs. Levi, returned to work. But he was different now, a subtle shift in his demeanor. He called frequently throughout the day, his voice softer, more solicitous than before. He’d rush home as soon as he could.

He’d help me adjust pillows. He’d bring me tea, carefully brewed and just the right temperature. He even attempted to cook, resulting in one memorable culinary disaster involving burnt toast and suspiciously grey scrambled eggs, which we both ended up laughing about.

Evenings were spent quietly. Sometimes he’d read to me, his deep voice a soothing balm against the persistent ache. Other times, we’d just sit in comfortable silence.

The award tour felt like a distant dream, my agency handling the postponements and rearrangements with a surprising degree of understanding. My world had shrunk to the confines of the house, his presence a constant, quiet reassurance.

Another week unfolded, marked by Levi's diligent care and his increasingly palpable restlessness. He navigated his return to the office with his usual competence, but the spark seemed muted. He attended to my needs with unwavering patience, adjusting my pillows, fetching drinks, and ensuring I was as comfortable as possible. Yet, beneath the surface of his attentiveness, a quiet unease simmered.

It wasn't the profound, unsettling boredom that had once driven him to the morbid solace of the cemetery. This was a more subtle ennui, a quiet dissatisfaction that manifested in unexpected ways. He started experimenting in the kitchen. The initial attempts were comical disasters – sunken cakes, rock-hard cookies, and a truly alarming attempt at bread that resembled something unearthed from an archaeological dig.

Then, to my surprise, he found a rhythm. He meticulously followed recipes, his brow furrowed in concentration, and gradually, edible, even delicious, creations emerged from the oven. But as his skill in baking grew, so did his boredom. The challenge had been met, the novelty had worn off.

Then came the truly concerning development. Levi, my alluring and brilliant chemist, began to subtly sabotage his own newfound hobby. He'd swap ingredients, replacing baking soda with some unknown concoction from his lab, or substituting one obscure chemical compound for another. The results were… unpredictable. Cakes would rise to alarming heights and then collapse into rubbery craters. Cookies would taste faintly of lavender or inexplicably glow under UV light.

Levi was desperately trying to find an anchor, a flicker of interest to latch onto in the mundane routine that had settled upon us. He clung to these small experiments, these baking projects, with a quiet desperation. But the passion wasn't there. It was a performance of engagement, a valiant but ultimately sad attempt to reignite a spark that seemed to have been extinguished by the weight of his past and the unsettling quiet of our present.

Seeing Ragnar, with the cold steel of the gun pressed against his temple, had shaken me to my core. It wasn't just the raw desperation of the act itself, but the unsettling mirror it held up to Levi. In that horrifying tableau, I saw a reflection of the darkness that could consume him, the same abyss Ragnar had stared into for so long.

Ragnar's decades of self-imposed exile, a life lived on the fringes, suddenly felt like a potential future for Levi. I think that's why Levi had been so profoundly disturbed by the sight of his grandfather. He didn't just see a madman; he saw a distorted image of himself. 'Why prolong the inevitable?' The words echoed in my mind, a chilling sentiment that both grandfather and grandson had uttered.

Even Ragnar, lost in his own twisted world, had recognized it. His vacant eyes had flickered with a chilling awareness, a spark of morbid curiosity igniting only when I'd casually mentioned, "Levi is bored."

Another week passed, the rhythm of Levi's care and his quiet restlessness continuing. My ribs were slowly healing, the sharp, stabbing pain gradually receding into a dull ache. I was more mobile now, able to navigate the house with less wincing, though any sudden movements were still a painful reminder of my fragility.

Levi's attempts at finding a spark remained varied and largely unsuccessful. The baking had devolved into chaotic experiments with increasingly bizarre chemical combinations, resulting in inedible concoctions that often filled the house with strange, vaguely alarming odors. He’d then briefly throw himself into organizing his extensive collection of scientific journals, only to abandon it after a day or two, the meticulous order failing to hold his interest.

We existed in a comfortable but somewhat stagnant space. The vibrant, intense Levi I knew felt like he was being slowly leached of his color.

Another week drifted by, and Levi's quiet restlessness finally solidified into a more pronounced withdrawal. His study became his sanctuary, the door always closed. He'd spend hours within those book-lined walls. He became even more meticulous about my care, checking on me frequently, ensuring I had everything I needed, but his interactions felt…perfunctory. It was as if he were tending to me out of duty, a sense of responsibility overriding any genuine engagement. He was physically present, a comforting anchor in the aftermath of the storm, but emotionally, he felt miles away, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

I watched the closed door of Levi's study for a long moment. Finally, I pushed myself up from the couch. I walked slowly to his door and knocked softly.

"Levi," I called, my voice a little weak. "Come with me."

There was a pause, then the sound of a book closing. The door creaked open, and Levi stood there, his eyes shadowed, a weariness about him that went beyond lack of sleep.

"To where, Raphael?" he asked, his tone flat. "The doctor said travel isn't exactly advised for you yet."

"To the award tour," I said, meeting his gaze. "Come with me."

"Why?" he asked softly. "Why would you want me to come? You'll have your people, your friends... your world."

"What do you mean, why?" I echoed, a touch of playful exasperation in my voice. "Levi, I'll be traveling for weeks. Who will meticulously wrap my ribs so they don't protest every time I breathe? Who will brew my tea at precisely the right temperature and glare daggers at any interviewer ask about weird things, you know? Come with me. Please."

Levi's expression softened, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He leaned against the door frame, considering my words. "Scaring interviewers," he repeated dryly. "I do have a certain talent for that, don't I?" A flicker of his old intensity sparked in his eyes, a welcome sign after the past few weeks of his withdrawal.

He paused, the smile fading slightly as he looked at me, a deeper consideration now in his gaze. "Traveling... for weeks... with your ribs still healing..."

"I'll be careful," I assured him, perhaps a little too quickly. "And you'll be there to... supervise. Besides," I added, a more vulnerable note creeping into my voice, "it would be... nice. To have you there."

Levi's smile completely vanished. He pushed himself off the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest, a familiar stubborn set to his jaw. "Absolutely not, Raphael," he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "You are still healing. Traveling for weeks, dealing with the stress of interviews and public appearances – it's the last thing you need right now. The doctor was clear. You need rest, not a whirlwind tour. And frankly," he continued, a hint of his old bluntness returning, "the thought of spending weeks surrounded by... that world... fills me with a special kind of dread. My place is here, ensuring you're actually recovering, not pushing yourself for the sake of accolades."

"Ugh," I groaned, making my ribs ache in protest. "Stubborn asshole."

I glared at him. "Fine. Then don't. I will be gone for weeks, navigating this whole damn circus on my own, while you'd rather barricade yourself in your steel-doored fortress, surrounded by dusty boxes of evidence and God knows what other morbid fascinations. Fine. Do whatever you want." I turned away, a cold knot of resentment tightening in my gut.

“Raphael… I am not exactly in a good mental space right now. And I can not take an argument right now.”

My bitterness flared. "Oh? Is that so? Great, it only took you a month to say that. A whole month of you disappearing into your study while I'm hobbling around here. Well, guess what? I'm leaving for the award tour, and it will also take a month. Maybe then, when I'm halfway across the world, you can finally articulate your 'mental space'." I didn't wait for a response, turning and heading towards the bedroom, the effort sending a sharp stab of pain through my ribs.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Levi didn't follow me immediately. I could almost feel his gaze on my back, the unspoken tension radiating from the doorway. Finally, I heard his quiet footsteps.

"Raphael," he said softly, his voice devoid of the earlier sharpness. "Please... be careful on this trip. Don't push yourself too hard. And... keep in touch."

His words, though softer, didn't bridge the gap that had opened between us. They felt like a reluctant concession, a practical concern overriding the deeper issue. I didn't turn around.

"Of course, Levi," I replied, my own voice flat. "Wouldn't want you to worry from your fortress of solitude."

I started packing, the rustling of clothes and the snap of suitcase latches filling the silence. Each item I folded felt like another step away from him, another brick in the wall that was slowly building between us. The award tour, which had once felt like a glittering opportunity, now felt like an escape, a necessary distance to allow us both to... what? Heal? Drift further apart? I didn't know. All I knew was that staying here, in this strained silence, was becoming unbearable.

Levi remained in the doorway for a long moment, then with another quiet sigh, he retreated. The click of his study door closing echoed through the house, a definitive sound of separation. I was leaving, and he was retreating further into himself. The thought was a bleak companion as I continued to pack for a journey I now faced with a heavy heart.

…

The award tour was a blur of unfamiliar hotel rooms, echoing interview studios, and crowded ballrooms filled with the polite applause and knowing smiles of the academic elite. My ribs protested with every forced laugh and congratulatory hug.

I moved through the schedule like a well-oiled machine, reciting anecdotes about Aethelgard and Lumin painting, fielding questions about artistic vision and the socio-political subtext of the film. I even managed a few charmingly self-deprecating remarks about my "recent clumsiness," which usually elicited sympathetic chuckles. But beneath the practiced smiles and carefully chosen words, a hollow ache persisted.

Every evening, in the sterile quiet of my hotel room, I'd reach for my phone. There were occasional, terse texts from Levi – "Are you alright?" "Take it easy." "Let me know when you're back." They were dutiful but lacked the warmth, the spark of connection I desperately craved. My own replies were equally brief, a clipped "Fine," or "Everything's going as planned."

The dinners were a parade of intellectual discourse and subtle networking, the parties a swirl of champagne flutes and polite conversation. I found myself observing the academics, the very people whose approval I had once so eagerly sought, with a newfound detachment. Their world, once so alluring, now felt strangely sterile.

There were moments, fleeting and unexpected, when a pang of loneliness would hit me with surprising force – a shared laugh between two attendees that reminded me of Levi's dry wit, a quiet corner in a bustling room that echoed the silence of his study. In those moments and I would simply miss him, miss the familiar weight of his presence, even his frustrating stubbornness.

The weeks blurred into a succession of cities and faces. I collected accolades and praise, the weight of the award feeling strangely light in my hands. It was what I had worked for, what I had craved. Yet, the triumph felt muted, incomplete. The tour was a success, by all external measures. But inside, a different kind of journey was taking place, one marked by a growing awareness of the distance that had grown between us and the unsettling question of what awaited me upon my return.

The final leg of the award tour took me to the vibrant, chaotic energy of Newlow, the self-proclaimed capital of fun in Ascaria. The atmosphere was electric, the celebrations bordering on the theatrical. The dinners were a kaleidoscope of exotic dishes and flamboyant personalities, the parties a sensory overload of music, laughter, and dazzling displays.

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Yet, even midst the sensory feast of Newlow, the hollowness persisted. The forced enthusiasm of the crowds felt strangely artificial, the effusive praise echoing in a void.

One evening, at a masquerade ball that seemed straight out of a fever dream, I found myself standing on a balcony overlooking the swirling mass of costumed revelers. The city lights twinkled below, a dizzying panorama of manufactured joy. And in that moment, surrounded by revelry, I felt an acute pang of loneliness.

There was no text message waiting for me, no simple, mundane complaint to pierce the glittering facade.

The award tour was drawing to a close. The final ceremonies were completed, the last interviews wrapped up. I had fulfilled my obligations, played my part in the spectacle. The vibrant energy of Newlow, couldn't fill the quiet ache in my chest, the unspoken distance that stretched between Levi and me.

The final masquerade ball in Newlow was a dizzying spectacle. Liquid courage, generously applied throughout the evening, began to loosen the tight knot of loneliness in my chest. Perhaps it was the sheer artificiality of the revelry, the masks hiding true emotions, that made my own facade feel particularly brittle.

Then he appeared – a young man with eyes that crinkled when he smiled, hidden just behind the edge of a feathered mask. He offered a compliment, something about the otherworldly beauty of my own simple, unadorned mask, and for a reason I couldn't quite articulate, I responded in kind. A flirtatious banter began, light and meaningless, fueled by the potent combination of alcohol and the gnawing ache of absence.

He was charming, attentive, his words a temporary distraction from the echoing silence across the ocean. We talked about the absurdity of the ball, the anonymity the masks provided, the fleeting nature of connection in such a setting. His laughter was bright and carefree.

As the night wore on, the flirtation deepened, becoming more intimate, more daring under the cloak of anonymity. His hand brushed mine, a spark of something unfamiliar igniting in the sterile landscape of my loneliness. In that moment, surrounded by the swirling chaos of Newlow's capital of fun, I made a choice, a reckless, impulsive decision born of alcohol and a desperate yearning for connection – any connection – to fill the void Levi's absence had created.

"Your mask is... surprisingly understated," the young man said, his voice a low murmur midst the music, his eyes crinkling above his own bird-like mask. "Midst all this plumage and glitter, it's quite refreshing."

A wry smile touched my lips. "Perhaps I'm saving my drama for the stage, not the ballroom." The liquid courage was definitely making me bolder than usual.

"Ah, an artist," he breathed, leaning closer, the scent of something citrusy about him. "Of what medium?"

"Actor," I replied, the word feeling strange and distant in this gaudy setting. "Though lately, I've been a connoisseur of... silence."

He seemed to catch the shift in my tone. "Silence can be deafening. Perhaps a little noise is what you need?" His hand brushed mine again.

"Perhaps," I conceded, my gaze lingering on his masked face. "Or perhaps... the right kind of silence."

"And what does the 'right kind' sound like?" he asked, his voice dropping even lower, a hint of playful challenge in his tone.

I hesitated, the image of Levi's quiet study, the rustling of his papers, the occasional deep sigh, flashing through my mind. "It's... complicated," I finally said, the alcohol-fueled boldness wavering slightly.

"Complicated can be interesting," he countered, his fingers now gently tracing the edge of my mask. "Tell me something complicated about your silence."

I took another sip of my drink, the warmth spreading through me. "It's usually accompanied by a very stubborn, brilliant man who prefers the company of old books and volatile chemicals."

The words tumbled out in a rush, a bitter cocktail of longing and resentment. "The asshole," I muttered, the music of the ball suddenly feeling jarring and intrusive. "The stubborn asshole. The Devil himself. That infuriating Devil. Manipulative, calculating bastard."

"Lonely," I whispered, the realization hitting me with a painful force. "Isolated son of a bitch."

His withdrawal, his retreat into the study – it wasn't just about stubbornness or a lack of interest in my life. It was a familiar pattern.

"God damn it," I choked out, the carefully constructed charm of the evening dissolving into a raw, aching vulnerability. "I missed him so much."

The young man, whose hand was still gently resting on mine, tilted his masked head, a silent question in his eyes. But I couldn't meet his gaze.

I pulled my hand away. "I... I need some air," I mumbled, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. Without waiting for a response, I turned and fled, pushing through the throng of masked figures, the vibrant costumes and glittering decorations.

I stumbled out onto a nearby balcony. The lights of Newlow stretched out before me, a dazzling panorama of a city that celebrated fleeting pleasures. But all I could see was the darkness of Levi's study.

The liquid courage had evaporated, leaving behind a clarity and a sharp pang of regret. My impulsive flirtation, born of loneliness and a foolish attempt to fill the void, now felt like a betrayal, a selfish act that had only amplified my longing for the one person who truly knew me, flaws and all. The award tour, the accolades, the fleeting connections – they were all meaningless without him.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. This damn heart of mine. Why did it have to be him? Was it the infuriating brilliance that could dissect a complex equation in seconds but struggled with basic human interaction? Was it the sharp, angular beauty that could leave me breathless one moment and feeling utterly insignificant the next? Or perhaps it was the carefully curated charm he occasionally deigned to unleash, enough to ensnare me completely before retreating back into his shell?

Couldn't this ridiculous organ pounding in my chest have chosen someone else? Someone easier to decipher, someone who offered warmth without the constant undercurrent of intellectual challenge and emotional distance. Someone who wouldn't retreat into a fortress of silence when the world became too much. Why this prickly, complex enigma who seemed determined to keep me at arm's length even when we were inches apart?

Here I was, surrounded by the superficial allure of Newlow, having just engaged in a meaningless flirtation to momentarily escape my loneliness, and all I could think about was the one person who consistently made me feel both utterly exasperated and inexplicably tethered. It was a cruel twist of fate, this stubborn, illogical pull towards the very man who drove me to the brink of screaming frustration on a daily basis.

The champagne had done little to soothe the ache in my chest, but it had perhaps dulled the sharp edges of my regret. With a sigh, I turned back towards the throng of masked figures, my gaze searching for the bright, carefree energy of the young man. The need for some kind of connection, however fleeting, still gnawed at me.

I found him near the edge of the dance floor, his bird-like mask tilted in conversation with another elaborately costumed guest. As I approached, his eyes met mine, a hint of a smile crinkling around the edges of his mask.

"Lost?" he murmured.

"Perhaps," I admitted, offering a small, somewhat unsteady smile in return. "Or perhaps... found my way back." The words felt hollow even to my own ears.

"And what did you find?" he asked, his gaze holding mine with a gentle curiosity.

I hesitated, the image of Levi's closed study door flashing in my mind. "A distraction, maybe," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "A way to forget the... silence."

He nodded slowly, his eyes understanding. "Silence can be a heavy burden to carry alone." He reached out, his fingers brushing mine once more. "Perhaps we can make some noise together?"

His touch was warm, his smile genuine.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath. The young man's hand in mine felt foreign, his smile a pale imitation of the sharp, knowing curve of Levi's lips. What in God's name was I doing?

Levi wouldn't be jealous. He had told me, repeatedly, with that infuriatingly detached honesty of his, that such displays of affection from others held no sway over him. And I knew it was true. He wouldn't care. Not in the way I desperately wished he would. Nothing.

It wasn't just his absence I was mourning; it was the stark reality of his emotional distance. I wished, with a fierce, almost childish longing, that he would care. That the thought of me with someone else, even a fleeting flirtation in a crowded ballroom, would elicit some flicker of jealousy, some sign that I held a unique and irreplaceable place in his complex heart.

I was a fucking hypocrite.

Here I was, nursing a familiar ache of heartbreak, a self-inflicted wound based on expectations I knew he could never meet.

Fuck. What was I even doing? This clumsy attempt at flirtation, this desperate grab for fleeting connection in a sea of strangers – was it a pathetic cry for attention?

Utterly, undeniably pathetic, seeking a cheap imitation of comfort while the real, complicated, infuriating thing remained an unbridgeable distance away.

"Fuck," I repeated, the word laced with disgust, directed squarely at myself. I met the young man's surprised gaze. This wasn't him. This was me, flailing in the dark, using him as a pathetic substitute.

"Accept my apologies," I mumbled, the words clipped and abrupt. "It seems the alcohol got the better of me. Excuse me." Without waiting for a response, I pushed past him, the need to escape the suffocating artificiality of the ball becoming paramount.

Each step away from the ball felt like a step towards clarity, a painful acknowledgment of my own foolishness. Levi, in his distant, infuriating way, was still the only one who truly occupied the messy, complicated landscape of my heart. And this clumsy attempt to find a substitute had only served to underscore that undeniable, frustrating truth.

Then, the impossible happened. My phone buzzed in my hand, the caller ID displaying an infuriating name. Levi.

He called me.

That stubborn, infuriating fucker actually called me.

"Good evening, Raphael," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a strange tremor through me after weeks of terse texts.

"Hi," I managed.

There was a pause, a beat of silence filled only with the distant sounds of Newlow. "How are you?" he finally asked, his tone uncharacteristically subdued.

"Shitty."

Another pause. Then, a simple, unexpected admission. "Me too."

My anger wavered, replaced by a raw, unexpected surge of something else. Concern? A foolish flicker of hope? "Why, what's wrong?" I asked, the sharpness in my voice softening despite myself.

"I missed you."

The simple admission hit me with surprising force, momentarily stealing my breath. All the resentment, the hurt, the weeks of icy distance seemed to crumble a little at those three words. "Fuck you, Levi," I choked out. "But, yeah. I missed you, too."

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone line, a sound I hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity. "Are you really that surprised, Raphael?" he asked, a hint of his old dry amusement finally breaking through the subdued tone.

"Yes," I admitted, the honesty feeling strangely liberating. "Yes, I think I was. After... everything. It just feels... better. Hearing it out loud, Levi."

A soft sigh escaped Levi's lips. "Accept my apologies, then, Raphael," he murmured. "I missed you, pulla. When will you come home?"

"There are still some things I need to attend to here," I replied, my voice softer now, the earlier anger almost completely dissipated by his unexpected vulnerability and the familiar endearment. "But... soon, Levi. Very soon."

"I will be waiting, Raphael," he murmured, the simple statement carrying a weight of anticipation that echoed my own longing. "Good night."

"Good night, Levi," I whispered back, the connection feeling fragile yet precious.

Fuck me.

Just one phone call, a few simple words. I was head over heels all over again for that infuriating, brilliant man. Ugh. My damn, dumb, foolish heart. It never learned, did it? Always susceptible to the slightest crack in his armor, the merest hint of vulnerability.

The remaining days of the award tour in Newlow blurred into a restless haze. The glittering parties and effusive praise felt like a distant echo, my mind already halfway across the world, picturing Levi in his study, surrounded by his peculiar assortment of books. Sleep became a fitful affair, filled with fragmented dreams of hushed phone calls and the unexpected tenderness in his voice.

The moment my obligations were fulfilled, I practically sprinted to the airport. Every delay, every bump of turbulence, felt like a personal affront, a cruel obstacle keeping me from him.

The house was quiet when we arrived. I stood in the hallway, my suitcase heavy in my hand, a strange mix of excitement and trepidation churning in my stomach. The door to Levi's study was closed.

Taking a deep breath, I walked towards it and knocked softly. The silence stretched for a moment, then I heard a chair scrape against the floor. The door opened, and there he was. Levi. He looked… different. Tired, perhaps, but there was a softness in his eyes.

We stood there for a long moment, just looking at each other. He took a step forward and reached out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. His touch was cold, familiar, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Welcome home, Raphael," he murmured, his voice low and rough, and in that moment, all the distance, all the frustration, all the longing melted away.

"I missed you so much, Levi," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, leaning into his touch.

Then, my gaze drifted beyond him, taking in the familiar space of our hallway. Or, what used to be our hallway. Leading into the kitchen, the scene that unfolded made my eyebrows shoot up. Beakers bubbled on the stove top where pots should have been. Glassware filled the counter tops, catching the light in a strange, chemical glow. The air hummed with the low whir of some unfamiliar piece of equipment perched precariously on the kitchen table, surrounded by wires and tubes. It looked less like a kitchen and more like a mad scientist's workshop had spontaneously taken root in our home.

"Levi," I said, my voice a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "what in God's name have you done to the kitchen?"

The chaos was back, in full, glorious swing. It was undeniably, unmistakably him.

Levi shrugged, a picture of nonchalance midst the chemical disaster zone that was our kitchen. "That just... sort of happened."

"Sort of happened?" I repeated, my eyes scanning the array of bizarre equipment. "Levi, what in the world were you even doing?"

"Nothing too elaborate," he replied, his tone dismissive. "I didn't wish to utilize my own company's laboratory for such a... childish endeavor, so I repurposed the kitchen. My study, as you know, is rather occupied with the ongoing legal documents." He gestured vaguely towards the closed door of his study, as if that explained everything.

"What the… You know what?" I said, shaking my head, a genuine smile finally breaking through my exasperation. "I even missed this."

"Ah," Levi replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he registered my reaction. "To induce a reaction sometimes takes a rather protracted period. I utilized that time for another endeavor."

"Hm?" I prompted, my curiosity piqued. "What endeavor?"

Without a word, Levi turned and disappeared back into his study. The closed door briefly swallowed him whole. A moment later, he reappeared, holding something delicate between his long fingers. It was an origami lotus, intricately folded from what looked like a single piece of shimmering, iridescent paper.

"Origami?" I echoed, a genuine warmth spreading through me. Levi, the man of complex equations and volatile chemicals, had chosen to spend his time creating something so delicate, so beautiful. A soft smile touched my lips. "Well, I will cherish this always, Levi. Thank you." I leaned in and placed a tender kiss on his cheek.

Levi’s cheek warmed beneath my lips. He remained still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the origami lotus in his hands. Then, he looked up at me.

“It… requires patience,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Something I am not always known for.” He turned the delicate paper flower over, his fingers tracing the sharp creases of the petals.

He held it out to me. “It is yours, Raphael.”

I gently took the lotus from his hand, its lightness surprising. The iridescent paper shimmered in the soft light of the hallway, catching different hues as I turned it.

“I know patience isn’t your forte, Levi,” I said softly, my fingers carefully tracing one of the delicate petals. “That’s what makes this even more… special.” I looked up at him again, a genuine warmth spreading through me. The chaotic kitchen, the legal documents in his study, the weeks of silence – they all seemed to fade into the background. “Thank you, Levi. It’s… perfect.”

He didn't meet my gaze, instead looking down at the empty space where the origami lotus had been. The silence that followed wasn't the strained quiet of the past weeks, but something softer, filled with a tentative understanding.

Then, he cleared his throat. "The... kitchen," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand. "It is... functional. Mostly. Just... do not attempt to locate the salt."

A chuckle escaped me, the tension finally breaking. "Duly noted," I replied, still cradling the delicate origami lotus in my palm. "Perhaps we can tackle the culinary chaos together? Once I've had a proper shower and a very large cup of tea."

"Tea. Yes. Precisely the correct temperature, of course."

...

Ah, yes. After the initial reunion and the surprising origami lotus, the conversation naturally drifted towards the events of the past weeks. I recounted the whirlwind of the award tour.

Levi, in turn, offered glimpses into his "endeavors." The kitchen laboratory, it turned out, was part of a personal project exploring unconventional fermentation methods – something about extracting rare enzymes for a potential application in his company's research.

Levi listened intently as I recounted the less glamorous parts of the award tour, the forced smiles and the underlying loneliness. When I finally confessed the ill-advised flirtation in Newlow, his reaction was… predictably Levi.

"So, from my understanding of the situation," he stated, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion, "you were inebriated and subsequently engaged in flirtatious behavior with an unidentified individual at a social gathering. Am I correct?"

"Yeah," I admitted, the shame still lingering. "I'm sorry about that, Levi. Being drunk is not an excuse. I was sad, lonely… so it happened. It felt really bad… hollow."

Levi's gaze sharpened slightly, his usual detached demeanor momentarily cracking with a flicker of something akin to… curiosity? It was hard to decipher. "Hollow suggests a lack of substance beyond the immediate sensory input. Was your interaction in Newlow entirely physical, a mere attempt to fill the void of loneliness, or did you also seek some form of emotional connection with this individual?"

A wave of heat rushed to my face. "Uhm… What?" I stammered, caught off guard by the directness of his question. My mind raced, trying to backtrack, to minimize the extent of my foolishness. "Nothing even happened, Levi. Just... brushed fingers at best."

Levi's gaze remained steady, unwavering. "That was not the question, Raphael." His tone was calm, but there was an undeniable sharpness beneath the surface.

“Ugh… I can’t believe I am about to say this aloud… I feel guilty and ashamed. It was nothing, Levi. I was lonely and missed you so… I was being an idiot.”

A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the faint hum of the makeshift lab in the kitchen. Levi's gaze remained fixed on me, unwavering, as if he were analyzing my every micro-expression.

“There is something we need to talk about though. Levi… I mean we are married and been thorough a lot of things… But what exactly are we? I mean what am I to you? I love you, and I know you can’t love me back. But you vowed your loyalty to me. But is that it? Am I your confidant, your best friend? Your fuckbuddy? I honestly do not know...”

Levi's gaze didn't waver, making me feel like a particularly interesting specimen under his intense scrutiny. Finally, he sighed, a sound that held a hint of something beyond pure analysis.

"There are... complexities, Raphael," he admitted, his voice softer, almost hesitant. "Our marriage is not a simple equation. We have navigated volatile terrain together.

“My loyalty was not a casual utterance. It means... you are the constant, Raphael. The fixed point. Your perspectives are often... illuminating, even when they are emotionally driven. Confidant... best friend... these labels carry connotations that do not entirely align with the specific architecture of our relationship. You are... Raphael. My husband. The individual to whom I have pledged my loyalty, and with whom I have chosen to build... this." He gestured vaguely around the hallway, encompassing our chaotic home, our unconventional life together. "Its definition may not adhere to societal norms, but its significance to me is... considerable."

"What a you thing to say, Levi," I chuckled softly. "But, thanks. I actually... I feel better now."

Levi's lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile. "By the way, Raphael," he murmured, taking a step closer. "I may not have the conventional notion of 'jealousy,' as you understand it. However," he paused, his eyes locking onto mine, "I might be... territorially possessive. So, my dearest. Tread lightly."

"So you are not jealous, but you feel… some type of ownership, or something akin to it," I clarified, trying to fully grasp the nuances of his admission.

Levi's gaze remained intense, unwavering. "Raphael," he stated, his voice low and steady, "it is clear that I cannot reciprocate certain emotional... constructs. I am not so obtuse as to prevent you from seeking a partner who can offer you what I cannot. If that time comes, I will not impede your path. Well… Not without a little... persuasive argument."

"Ah… Shit…" I breathed out, the implication of his words sinking in. It wasn't love, not in the way I yearned for, but it was something… fierce. Something undeniably Levi. "Not love," I repeated softly, a flicker of disappointment quickly overshadowed by a strange sense of… acceptance. "But… attachment, yeah? A very… Levi kind of attachment."

Somehow, despite the lack of the L-word, it felt… significant.

"Attachment…" Levi repeated, the word rolling off his tongue as he visibly processed its nuances. He tapped his fingers, the familiar sign that the intricate gears of his mind were whirring, dissecting the concept, fitting it into his internal framework. Finally, his gaze refocused, a sense of intellectual satisfaction flickering within them. "Yes," he concluded, his tone firm, decisive. "It would be the most accurate description, indeed."

A soft smile touched my lips as I watched him grapple with the word. "I love you, Levi."

"R-Raphael…" he murmured, his voice a surprising tremor. He abruptly averted his gaze, he focused intently on the otherwise unremarkable surface of the coffee table. It was a rare display of… bashfulness? Discomfort? It was undeniably endearing. The sight of it made my smile soften into something more tender.

A warm chuckle escaped my lips. "Thirty-year-old man looking utterly adorable," I murmured, shaking my head with a fond smile. "Honestly, Levi, even after all this time, it still manages to take me by surprise."