So…

The morning light revealed an empty space beside me. Predictably, Levi was already in his study, orchestrating some form of bureaucratic chaos with his usual… flair. Just another Tuesday, really. But that wasn't the unsettling part. No. That came with the discovery of the documents he'd placed on my table before disappearing to terrorize the nation. The bastard hadn't just left me the mountains. He had also, bequeathed me his "entire" art collection. His… entire… collection…

He… he really was prepared for death. Fuck. I knew he had those tendencies. I knew. But I was so lost, so unsure how to truly help him navigate that abyss. Then that horrific night… breaking his own fingers in front of me… I knew then how utterly helpless he felt. Maybe… maybe instead of tiptoeing around him, waiting for the inevitable attempt, I should have been more forceful, gotten him into a facility sooner.

No.

That’s a lie I tell myself in moments like these. He wouldn’t have allowed it. Even the time I managed to get him into rehab, it was a nightmare – restraints, lost in the haze of whatever he’d taken.

It was an impossible dilemma. Would I have? Could I have? If I had… what then? Would he have hated me forever? Would it have even made a difference? The guilt gnawed at me.

The truly shocking part of all this… he's still sober. Completely clean, which, okay, that's obviously good. But still sober, after everything? It feels miraculous.

Then, this afternoon… he was actually baking muffins. The sound of the hot tray grazing his arm – tss – the smell of cooked skin filled the air. There was this brief pause. A heartbeat, where I saw his eyes clench shut. I knew, he was debating whether to just… let it burn. Wait for the rush of the endorphins. Luckily, instinct, or maybe a sliver of self-preservation I hadn't dared to hope for, kicked in, and he plunged his arm under the tap. The relief that washed over me was quickly followed by a fresh wave of terror at how close he had come to… that.

The memory of his broken fingers still claws at me, a visceral nightmare that replays in vivid detail. The sudden lunge towards the kitchen, the crack as the pestle met bone… there was no hesitation. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. That serene acceptance in the face of such brutal self-harm… it haunts me still.

I think, somewhere deep down, a shift occurred in how I perceived him. I started to see him as something other than human. Indestructible. Invincible. Someone you could never truly break, no matter what.

It wasn’t his outward cruelty or his callous demeanor that fostered this delusion, no. It was… how he dealt with his own abusers, like his mother. He wasn’t enraged by the violation of her stealing his sperm. No. His anger stemmed purely from the fact that she had disrupted his plans. That detachment in the face of such personal violation warped my perception. I thought that if he could compartmentalize and strategize through such deep betrayals, then surely he would be unaffected by so many other things. How devastatingly wrong I was. How wrong…

Then that conversation at the rehab… Gods, he was right. So utterly, brutally right. Every single word he uttered was like a honed blade, slicing through my self-righteousness, my misguided attempts to control him. I had never witnessed that level of raw honesty from him before. No grand pronouncements, just a relentless, unflinching truth that laid bare the depth of his despair.

And the open door… I had clung to that image, twisting it into another form of his manipulation, a desperate plea for us to play the heroes and pull him back from the brink. But the chilling reality… the crushing weight of it… settled upon me. He didn't leave that door open for us. He did it… so that I wouldn't have to tear the entire house apart to retrieve his lifeless body. A final, devastating act of… consideration.

But… he never once said the words, "I forgive you," for abandoning him there. For two months. I truly believed he was indestructible. That he wouldn't even register my absence, wouldn't possibly care. When his call came, I couldn't bring myself to answer the phone. I was so terrified of him guilt-tripping me into springing him from that place. I wasn't ready to hear his voice. But… the only thing he wanted to talk about was how bad the tea was at the rehab facility. The sheer banality of it, juxtaposed with the darkness I had imagined him in, is a wound that still festers.

How can he possibly forgive me for that? For abandoning him, not just once, but twice now. The first time, I can bury it under layers of fear and my own pain. But this? This feels… truly unforgivable.

What would I do if he had done the same to me? Would I cry? Beg? Whimper for his return? No. I would leave him. In a heartbeat. Without a single backward glance, without a moment's hesitation. The thought is stark, brutal, and undeniably true. And that truth only deepens the chasm of my guilt.

…

Our evening meal was a subdued affair. Levi, was merely whining – a low-grade grumble, the kind a powerful boss might emit over a delayed shipment. But beneath the surface normalcy, the guilt was a relentless tide, pulling me under with every passing moment.

Finally, unable to bear the weight any longer, I broke the peace. "Why did you leave your entire art collection to me, Levi?"

He paused, his spoon hovering over his bland mush. "After my death, Raphael, there was a statistically significant probability – even factoring in the most competent authorities – that they would be unable to locate and properly catalog every single piece of my collection. It was, primarily, a logistical approach. Ensuring its preservation and… appropriate stewardship."

That’s not what I was asking.

“I asked from a sentimental point of view, Levi,” I pressed. “Please, just… give me anything other than ‘stewardship’ or ‘logistical’.”

Levi lifted his gaze to the ceiling, a silent plea for patience with my illogical human emotions.

“Raphael, would you honestly ask this question of anybody else? ‘Why did my husband, moments before his anticipated suicide, bequeath his entire, rather significant, art collection to me?’”

I wouldn't. Because the sentiment would be ‘love’. Which is something he is incapable of… Gods. Is there truly no way for us to close this gap? Is the very chemistry of his brain, the human yearning for sentimental connection will always fall short? Is this the limit of our strange, intense bond?

But… he stays. Despite his inability, despite the logical, unromantic way he approaches everything, he is still here. He didn't go through with it. He's sitting across from me, eating that bland mush, engaging in this frustratingly logical conversation. Is that not… something? If love is beyond his grasp, then what is this fierce loyalty? He could have made his departure far simpler. He could have ensured no one ever found that art. But he chose to leave it to me. Isn't there a message in that choice, however coldly logical his explanation? A form of trust, perhaps? A reliance on me to understand, to preserve… something precious to him?

"I understand," I said, the word feeling heavy and inadequate. "I'm not naive enough to call it love. So, yes. I will call it loyalty."

Levi leaned back slightly, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Are these labels truly so necessary for you, Raphael? We are already married, yes, it was an arrangement initially. And yes, we haven't exactly cultivated a traditional courtship, considering… everything. But it isn't my fault if the lexicon fails to provide a term for what exists between us. If assigning a label eases your mind, you can call it my possessiveness. My… perhaps unhealthy obsession with ensuring your continued well-being and proximity."

Levi lifted his gaze to the ceiling. "I don't know the answer, Raphael. Nobody truly knows. The clinical texts suggest individuals with my… neurological profile are inclined towards obsessive behaviors. 'Obsessed'… it sounds animalistic, frankly rather revolting. Neither that persistent therapist bug at the rehab facility nor I have been able to fully categorize what exists between us, its precise nature remains… elusive."

"Elusive…" I echoed softly, considering his words. "Levi, your struggle with finding a distinct label, not just for our relationship, but for many aspects of yourself – your sexuality, your feelings… that doesn't diminish or erase its validity.”

Levi’s piercing gaze fixed on me, silently demanding, are you truly being genuine right now?

“If you are truly content with that understanding, Raphael, then I am… relieved,” he finally said, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. “This relentless human pursuit of a single word to encapsulate the entirety of a complex relationship is nothing but a futile exercise in simplification. I cannot truthfully utter the word ‘love’ in your direction, because it would be a blatant misrepresentation of my internal experience. But what I do know, with a certainty that transcends logic, is that I am eternally… grateful to whatever cosmic forces aligned to bring you into my existence.”

Grateful to some abstract cosmic force for me. It's not the soaring declaration I might once have hoped for, but… it's Levi. It's his version of… something profound. Maybe that has to be enough. Maybe clinging to the word 'love' is my own futile exercise in simplification. He's here. He's sober. And he's… grateful I exist.

"Well…" I said softly, meeting his intense gaze. "Me too, Levi. I can't keep pushing you to understand something you've stated you're incapable of feeling. But your loyalty to me… it possesses a depth that, in its own way, transcends the fleeting emotions. The sheer unwavering force of your commitment… it's unlike anything I've ever known."

"To be candid," Levi replied, a thoughtful frown returning, "the notion of 'obsession' has been a persistent… variable in my internal analysis for quite some time. If my primary driver were truly obsession, the logical approach would be swift and absolute. I could, with relative ease, transform this entire neighborhood into a self-contained domain, a perfect, controlled environment tailored to your existence. Simple confinement would be far more efficient. But the inherent crudeness… it lacks a certain… elegance. Therefore, Raphael, based on my current assessment of my own internal states and behavioral patterns, I do not believe 'obsession' is the accurate designation."

That’s Levi in a nutshell. The thought of him building a perfect, controlled world for me is chilling, but the fact that he rejects it for being ‘crude’… it’s almost… sweet? In a profoundly warped way.

“Ah, look at you attempting sweetness, Levi. So, not shackles in a dimly lit basement, but an entire town tailored to my whims? Well, thank you… I think.”

The image of “Raphaelville,” meticulously designed and ruthlessly controlled by Levi, was both absurd but darkly amusing.

“I distinctly recall a specific instance where you granted me permission to shackle your ankles,” Levi countered, with a hint of amusement. “Given that I have, thus far, refrained from implementing said permission, I believe it is reasonable to conclude that I am not, as of this moment, operating under the influence of obsession. Yet. Therefore, perhaps we should both tread with a degree of… cautiousness.”

"That particular instance was a temporary lapse in judgment, fueled by a potent cocktail of hormones," I clarified, a faint blush warming my cheeks, "I enjoy my freedom, thank you very much. But," I leaned forward, a genuine curiosity piquing my interest, "indulge me, just for a moment. If you were to succumb to this 'obsession' you're so carefully analyzing, what would be the… Levi-esque 'what if' scenarios?"

An appreciative smirk spread across Levi's face.

"Curating the perfect, self-contained town was the initial construct that occupied my thoughts. However," he paused, "this conversation has illuminated a crucial point. My… supposed 'obsession' with you doesn't derive from a base desire to see you isolated, helpless, and utterly at my mercy. That would be… barbaric, and rather dull. Raphael, I suspect the intricate details of my more elaborate confinement strategies would be… distressing to your sensibilities. But,” a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, "I am reminded of Cassiel's rather… enthusiastic suggestion upon my acquisition of my first 'salary.' Perhaps a regal crown would be a more fitting initial investment. For a photo shoot, of course."

A mortifying blush spread across my face, warming it from my collarbones to the tips of my ears. "That crown thing again? Gods, Levi…" I mumbled, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "You know I… I think I'm starting to grasp the twisted contours of your… affection, yeah? But what I cannot fathom is Cassiel's apparent enthusiasm for the concept."

Levi tilted his head. "Cassiel possesses a highly developed aesthetic sensibility, Raphael. He was appreciating your inherent regal qualities. He has a refined understanding of what constitutes compelling art."

My fists clenched. Being envisioned in a crown is "art"? Of course. Those eccentric, obscenely wealthy art connoisseurs. Well, Levi wasn't a billionaire anymore, not technically, but Cassiel… Cassiel was undeniably, objectively, hotter than me. The thought was a fresh wave of mortification. This is just… embarrassing. And a little bit… weirdly flattering? No, no, mostly embarrassing.

"Well," I huffed, still feeling the heat in my cheeks, "I can assure you, Levi, that I have no intention of donning a ridiculous crown and a velvet cape for your artistic amusement. However," I conceded, pointedly averting my gaze, "I might be persuaded to grant you a hastily taken selfie."

Damn these bizarrely appreciative people and their warped definition of beauty.

His soft voice slipped past my guard. "Raphael." He held up his hand, two fingers wiggling in the air. "Look. A bunny."

"A b-bunny?" I stammered, completely thrown off by the sudden shift in tone and the unexpected display of… whimsy? From Levi?

Then I heard the distinct click of a camera shutter. My eyes widened. That son of a bitch. He actually took my picture. The infuriating, manipulative… asshole. And yet… damn it all, he looked so unexpectedly endearing, that small, almost shy smile playing on his lips as he held up his bunny.

"You took my picture!" I exclaimed, feeling the heat of a crimson blush spread across my entire body.

"You see," Levi said, a smug smirk curving his lips, "a mere selfie would have failed to capture your rather bewildered expression and the delightful crimson flush that now adorns your face. A far more… comprehensive artistic rendering, wouldn't you agree?"

…

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Right. So, I’m now the bewildered owner of what’s apparently one of the most significant art collections in the entire nation. A considerable portion of it is already adorning the walls of Levi’s various charity foundations, which… okay, that’s doing some good, I suppose. But another massive chunk is sitting in climate-controlled storage facilities, gathering dust and appreciating in value while I… what? Stare at the inventory list?

What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with all of this? Do I become some reluctant art mogul, haggling with collectors and auction houses? Do I open my own damn museum? Do I just wander through those cold storage units, gazing at canvases worth more than my entire existence? The hell… this is beyond overwhelming.

“Levi! For fuck’s sake!” I exploded, pacing back and forth in the living room. “Do you have any goddamn idea how long it took me to even read the inventory of your ‘little’ art collection? Gods! What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with all of it?” I huffed, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

Levi, ever the picture of serene detachment, remained sprawled on the living room couch, engrossed in an astronomical textbook. “Whatever amuses you, Raphael. Sell it, burn it for warmth, donate it to a worthy cause, spend your days admiring it. Although…” A wicked smirk spread across his face. “I do have a rather… ‘villainous’ notion percolating. Perhaps Cassiel could pay a discreet visit to the most prominent art collector in Ascaria. You know, for… mutually agreeable prices.”

“You are an asshole, Levi!” I exclaimed, my voice rising in disbelief. “You’re actually relishing this, aren’t you? Cassiel’s biggest rival in the art world is now me, not you? You two were locked in this ridiculous pissing contest for years, and he finally lost… to me, indirectly!”

“Precisely, my dear,” Levi purred. “You see, Cassiel’s fundamental flaw was that he was… rather agreeable. My advantage, initially, was merely the ludicrous extent of my wealth. But now, observe the delicious irony. I am reduced to a charmingly penniless state. I possess nothing of material value beyond the garments currently adorning my person.”

Damn this infuriating man and his gleeful obsession with his penury. He practically drools, a lion fixated on a plump gazelle – and in this scenario, the gazelle is likely Cassiel's inflated ego.

“You’ve actually found a way to derive amusement from this entire chaotic mess! How in the hell can you?” I stared at him.

“Ah, my dear Raphael,” Levi replied, “I vividly recall a rather… memorable occasion. It was at an auction, attended by the very crème de la crème of Ascarian society, when Cassiel, in a fit of pique, hurled a rather substantial wine glass directly at my forehead. You see, beneath this veneer of detached intellect, lies a rather… robust ego. And I do have a penchant for nurturing the tender seedlings of petty grudges. Wouldn’t you agree that the irony, served a decade hence, is exquisitely delicious?”

“You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacularly petty and relentlessly grudge-holding man I have ever encountered in my entire existence, Levi. Like… there isn’t even a second place in distance.” I shook my head.

“Hm… Interesting observation, Raphael,” Levi murmured. “I detect faint undertones of… ‘guilt’ and perhaps even a touch of ‘shame’ in your pronouncements. Dare I inquire? Are you perhaps… curious as to why I have refrained from enacting any elaborate schemes of retaliation or retribution for my fractured ribs?”

Guilt? Shame? Of course, I feel guilty! I broke his ribs! But retribution? From Levi? The man who meticulously plans decade-long revenge plots over spilled wine? The silence has been deafening. Almost… unsettling. Is this a new tactic? A more refined form of torture, letting me stew in anticipation? Or… could it be…? No. Levi doesn't just… forgive.

“Shut up, Levi,” I snapped, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed my discomfort. “Yes, I feel monstrously guilty for letting that blind rage consume me and for hitting you. But that was a horrific day, wasn’t it? You were moments away from… from not being here. What if I had walked through that door ten minutes later? You wouldn’t be sitting on that couch. And then, just seconds after that, the realization that you had been battling this addiction all along… No, Levi, I was not in my right mind. I am sorry for breaking your ribs and for punching you. It was a fit of seismic rage, a complete and utter loss of control. I honestly didn’t even recognize myself in that moment.”

“You see, dear Raphael,” Levi said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, “the concepts of apologies and forgiveness don’t quite… register within the parameters of my neurodivergent brain. They are abstract social constructs that lack a certain… logical framework for me. You needn’t belabor the apologies for the two fractured ribs or that ‘fit of seismic rage.’ In that specific moment, teetering on the precipice of an overdose, the physical pain of your… forceful interactions was not my primary concern. The pain, became far more pronounced in the rehabilitation facility, as my body expelled the accumulated toxins.”

So, how in the hell do I dismantle this gnawing guilt that’s currently excavating a pit in my stomach? How do I bleach away the persistent stain of that day, the way it taints every single sunrise? If my remorse is a linguistic quirk he doesn’t process, then how do I ever find absolution for what I did? This constant ache, this relentless replay of those horrific moments… how do I make it stop?

No… no, damn it. I’m doing it again. Centering everything back on myself, my own internal turmoil. He just laid bare a specific memory of his pain, and all I can fixate on is the corrosive guilt eating away at me.

I carefully sat down next to him on the couch. Tentatively, I placed my hand on his stomach. "I know apologies don't quite… translate for you, so I won't offer one to ease my own conscience. Instead… would you be willing to share some more memories of your time there, hm?" I offered, hoping to truly see his experience without the distorting lens of my own guilt.

“Hm…” Levi mused, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “I could certainly regale you with tales of the intricate bug ecosystem that flourished within those sterile walls. However, I have a distinct premonition that your rather… robust moral compass would likely shatter into a million irreparable pieces upon hearing the details.”

Not probably. One hundred percent guaranteed.

“Okay…” I conceded, a slight grimace on my face. “Perhaps… spare me the truly gruesome specifics for the sake of my delicate moral sensibilities, yeah? But do tell, Levi. How did you actually pass your time in that… delightful establishment?”

Levi’s gaze drifted slightly, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. “The initial month was… brutal. Torture, in its simplest form. A cyclical torment of eating, puking, shivering, trembling… and then repeating the entire unpleasant process. Once the more acute symptoms of withdrawal began to subside, however, my intellect found itself… idle. So, I engaged in a series of rather intricate social manipulations amongst my fellow addicts. I played matchmaker with a certain degree of success, orchestrated the swift exile of a particularly uncouth individual who dared to strike me, instigated and subsequently quelled a rather spirited riot, and then began laying the groundwork for a minor mass hysteria event – a strategic maneuver designed to prompt the facility to contact you. It was during this preparatory phase that you arrived. Oh, and I also facilitated ‘Male Bug B’s’ emotional breakthrough regarding his previously suppressed sexual trauma with the nursing staff, which, rather predictably, engendered a certain… cloying attentiveness towards me. Mostly, however, Raphael, it was tedious.”

Tedious? He describes that… that chaos as tedious? And the fact that he’s sharing this, this unfiltered glimpse into his dark machinations… is that trust? Or just further proof of his utter lack of a moral compass? Probably both.

“Okay, alright,” I conceded, a knot forming in my stomach. “You’re actively trying to make my moral compass disintegrate, but… damn it, I need to know. How in the hell did you deduce that this ‘Male Bug C’ had suffered sexual trauma? And how did you manipulate him into opening up? And… why did you even do that, Levi?”

Levi’s eyes gleamed with a disturbing mix of clinical detachment and perverse satisfaction. “Male Bug C was, a rather fragile creature. I observed his furtive glances towards Male Nurse A, who possessed a background in the military. His interactions with other male patients were marked by a distinct… skepticism. Conclusion: a high probability of past trauma. So, one day, I approached him from behind, masking the sound of my approach until the last possible moment. His subsequent startle response was… pronounced. Conclusion: likely sexual in nature. Following this… diagnostic assessment, I shared anecdotes of my own experiences with abuse and torment at the hands of authoritative male figures, like the Conqueror. This, predictably, lowered his defenses and facilitated his disclosure to Female Nurse A, who, as it happened, was in the early stages of pregnancy at the time. The maternal instinct, as you may know, often manifests as an increased protectiveness towards bugs. This also conveniently positioned me as a ‘helper’ within the rehabilitation ecosystem, earning me the favor of Female Nurse A, who, in her gratitude, occasionally procured chocolate bars for me from external sources.”

“You… you orchestrated all of that intricate manipulation, exploiting a man’s trauma, all for… chocolate bars?” I asked, the incredulity thick in my voice.

“And I am one hundred percent certain that you would find the meticulously crafted narratives involving the Female Bugs – the delicate cultivation of friendships, the strategic leveraging of newfound allegiances to ensure my personal safety from the aforementioned uncouth assailant – far less… palatable to your sensibilities.”

“Yeah, you mentioned something about that… the female alliances,” I conceded, a shiver tracing its way down my spine. “But… how exactly did you do that, Levi? How did you manipulate them so effectively?”

“Elementary, my dear Raphael,” Levi replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “I simply… observed. Female Bug A harbored a certain gratitude towards me for my earlier matchmaking endeavors. Female Bug B displayed distinct obsessive tendencies. And Female Bug C struggled with a pronounced body dysmorphia. I subtly fostered a sense of camaraderie amongst them, highlighting shared experiences and perceived slights. Then, I carefully manufactured a common adversary – the aforementioned ‘Male Swine.’ A well-timed stumble in his vicinity, coupled with a convincingly pained reaction, triggered their protective instincts, resulting in a rather… decisive intervention on my behalf. The precise details of their coordinated assault, however, are best left to your imagination.”

“You actually… orchestrated a situation where women physically protected you from another man, Levi?”

“Not in the manner I initially envisioned, no,” Levi corrected. “While I fully anticipated a coordinated physical assault on the ‘Swine,’ Female Bug A, in a rather unexpected display of… misplaced protectiveness, actually positioned herself as a human shield between us. A miscalculation in my predictive modeling. Human error, you see?”

Human error…

I knew, on an intellectual level, about the empathy deficit, the tendency to view people as pawns, the amusement-driven motivations behind his actions. Intellectually, I grasped all of it. But hearing the cold, step-by-step breakdown of his manipulations, the casual disregard for the vulnerabilities he exploited… it doesn’t diminish the affection I feel. Instead, it breeds this shame, a shadow that taints the affection. What am I supposed to feel? Horror? Disgust? A dawning realization of the monster I’ve bound myself to? Perhaps all of the above. And yet… the love persists. That’s the truly shameful part, isn’t it? Loving him despite knowing all of this.

Levi took a slow breath, his gaze sharp and observant. “Hm… Crimson blush still lingering, fists clenched with a subtle tension, a slight elevation in your heart rate. It is shame, isn’t it? A potent wave of it. But not entirely directed at yourself, I perceive. You also feel a vicarious shame for my actions, as if you are somehow… bound to my moral transgressions. You are not, Raphael. Your internal moral compass is currently spinning wildly, isn’t it? Just as I forewarned you it might.”

Fuck. How does he do that? It's like he has a direct line into my nervous system. Of course I feel shameful. A burning shame for the way he manipulated those vulnerable people. And guilt, a lingering residue of my own past actions. And yes, a knot of disgust for the sheer amorality of it all. But… Gods damn it, I can’t deny the chilling brilliance of his intellect, the Machiavellian precision of his schemes. Damn him.

“Yes, you warned me, and yes, I feel a profound sense of shame, even guilt, despite your assertions that I shouldn’t,” I admitted. “Logically, I understand that your actions are yours alone. But emotionally… I will still feel it. It’s an intrinsic part of how I’m wired.”

“You see, in some of the psychological texts I’ve perused, there’s a recurring observation about certain emotions in neurotypical humans. And there’s one, apparently, that reigns supreme, even surpassing the intensity you ascribe to ‘love.’ Do you know what it is, Raphael? ‘Guilt.’ It possesses a remarkable capacity to crush individuals, to paralyze them, from what I have observed. A feeling that, interestingly, does not register within my own neurological framework, much like remorse or shame. You know what my strongest ‘emotion’ is, Raphael? It is the all-consuming void of boredom.”

This chasm between us… it yawns wider than the blackest stretches of the cosmos sometimes. Guilt, a force so potent it eclipses even the brightest flares of affection? Right now, it certainly feels that way. And he… he simply exists outside its gravitational pull.

Tears streamed down my face. "This… this relationship… it feels… impossible, Levi," I rasped, my voice thick with despair.

Levi's gaze, softened ever so slightly. "Just two days ago, Raphael, we were discussing the necessity of taking certain… decisive steps regarding our future, were we not? And yet, here you are. You haven't even begun to scratch the surface of the things I have done, the sum total of my existence. You've merely been privy to the rather mundane details of my insect husbandry. Do you perceive it now, Raphael? How ‘guilt’ is stronger than ‘love?”

The guilt… it’s not just for the broken ribs, it’s for… for loving someone capable of such things. For being drawn to his mind, even when those edges cut others so deeply. Is guilt stronger than love? He understands the logic of it. But does he understand the tearing in my chest? Does he feel anything beyond the intellectual curiosity? I know for a fact he doesn’t.

“Our conversations, it seems, invariably gravitate to this point, don’t they, Raphael?” Levi observed. “The recurring friction between your steadfast moral compass and my… distinct lack thereof. It is not, ultimately, about ‘you and me,’ Raphael. No. It is about the perpetual discord between your ingrained morality and the fundamental nature of my being.”

Tears were blurring my vision, as Levi reached over to the coffee table and offered me a handful of tissues. "So, that's it then, isn't it?" I choked out. "It's not about us, about trying to bridge that gap. It's just… this constant collision. My right and your wrong. My heart and your heart." I took the tissues, my hands trembling. "It always comes back to this fundamental incompatibility, doesn't it?"

“Yes, this is the crux of it. Our dialogues rarely, if ever, revolve around the mundane trivialities of daily existence – the selection of comestibles or the appropriate hosiery. Nor can it be argued that I subject you to undue maltreatment. The persistent friction lies solely within you, and your unwavering adherence to a moral code that I do not share. Your relentless, almost baffling loyalty to the collective of humanity… that, Raphael, is the perpetual source of my frustration.”

“Frustration?” I repeated, my voice laced with disbelief and hurt. “You know perfectly well that I will always value what is good and right–“

Levi cut me off with a swift gesture of his hand. “That is the core of the issue. You do not value me. Your loyalty, your inherent sense of worth, it is always directed outwards, towards others. Never truly towards me.”

That’s… that’s not true. Is it? I chose him. I stayed. Even knowing… all of this. But that certainty in his voice… it plants a seed of doubt I don’t want to acknowledge. Do I value him? Or do I value the… potential good in him? Is my loyalty to him conditional, dependent on him aligning with my own moral code? Gods, the thought is sickening. He sees my empathy, my care for others, as a rejection of him.

“You see, Raphael,” Levi stated, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, “as I have articulated with considerable clarity in the past, loyalty is a construct that originates with me. As you are acutely aware, I would incinerate this insignificant pale blue dot we inhabit for your sake, without a single sliver of remorse. And yet, your reaction to hearing merely the outlines of some rather… rudimentary manipulations is tears? Not even tears born of sadness for those involved, Raphael. No. Tears of guilt and shame. That is the crux of what I find utterly baffling.”

Inferno and a flood of tears. Perhaps that is the unflinching definition of our impossible union. I, drowning in this suffocating tide of shame and guilt. And he… an unyielding inferno of loyalty directed solely at me, while the vast expanse of humanity elicits little more than intellectual curiosity. Two fundamentally different elements, forever clashing, forever bound.

"But Levi… don't you see? My love for you… it exists alongside my empathy for others. It doesn't negate it. Can't you accept that part of me, even if you don't understand it?"

Levi’s expression hardened, the earlier softness vanishing. “Alongside? You are truly going to elicit a laugh from me, Raphael, with the sheer irony of that statement. Was your initial abandonment for three months, followed by another two months of self-imposed exile in that… rehabilitation center… was that your version of ‘existing alongside’? Are you even being remotely honest, Raphael? Not to me, clearly, but even to yourself? You know, I predicted with absolute certainty that this conversation would culminate in tears. And here we are. Tears, not even for your own pain, not for any perceived hurt I might have inflicted upon you, no. Tears, as always, for the suffering of others.”

He’s twisting it. He’s taking my pain, and turning it into an accusation.

“So that’s what this is, isn’t it, Levi?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Resentment? You resent me because I feel empathy, because I cry for the suffering of others?”

“What a pathetically self-centered notion, Raphael. My ego is not so fragile that it would be bruised by your tears. No. I resent you because you left me alone in this world. Twice.”

“Okay…” I said, my voice barely a whisper, raw with unshed tears. “Okay, I… I understand that you feel resentment, not because I cried, but because you think my empathy extends to everyone but you. But that’s not true, Levi. It’s not.”

Levi’s expression remained cold. “I am a creature of considerable patience, Raphael. However, this conversation is rapidly approaching a point where its inherent dishonesty will elicit a… strong and unfavorable reaction from me. I will retire to my room.” He rose swiftly from the couch. He didn't look back as he walked away, but I saw it. The clenching and unclenching of his fists, a tightly coiled tension.