Archive of Our Own ^beta

Laying in your bedroll, you blink slowly. The realization that it has likely been over half an hour since you first laid down passes over you. You are not surprised. Bouts of insomnia aren't surprising to you. If anything, they've become commonplace. What's surprising is the thought keeping you up in the first place.

Specifically, the thought that Isa had put in your head.

After breaking free from your self-inflicted time prison, you no longer had any interest in keeping as many secrets from your allies. Friends? Family? You still didn’t feel as though you could lay claim to calling them family after botching your final loop so badly, even if everyone is still around months after the fact. Even if they feel closer now than ever before, with so much laid on the table. Your time loops. Your touch starvation. Your country.

Your habit.

That’s another word you struggle to wrap your brain around. Not habit, but the implication hidden beneath. You think you spoke more about yourself in the aftermath of your final loop than you had in all of your journey to Dormont combined. You talked about what they were aware of, made painfully obvious by your frenzied ripping apart of the script at the end. You talked about what might have been implied with the Wish Craft-based loss of your home, and so many of your memories alongside. Then, you talked about what they might have missed. What they might have been able to piece together on their own time, stars forbid.

“...There’s one more thing,” you had said at the Clocktower. Fatigue crept its way into your bones. You had waited a few days for your Craft exhaustion to lessen before deciding to tear open your own rib cage and bare your soul to everyone. It felt agonizing, but you knew if you didn’t do it then, you would wait and wait and wait until you either exploded (and risked hurting them), or everyone figured it out anyway. You liked to think you would prefer avoiding making the same mistakes.

“I don’t know how much any of you might have figured this out, but… There’s been other stuff that’s… Weird. About me.”

You recall how Odile had quirked up an eyebrow at this. She was intrigued, perhaps even surprised. Isabeau had looked at you as though fully prepared to bear the weight of whatever it was you were about to say, same as all the rest of what you had dropped onto his lap. Mira as well. Bonnie just made a face.

“Yeah, there’s lots of stuff weird about you, Frin,” they waved it off.

“I really don’t think anything’s going to top the time loops in terms of weirdness, buddy,” Isa said, “so do your worst!”

“We’re going to be here for you whether you want us to be or not!” Mira added.

“Whatever happened in those loops must have truly affected you, if you’re talking about it. This openness is at least one good thing they’ve brought you.” Odile had seemed as though she knew what was wrong with you, but she seemed oddly neutral about it.

You made a muffled groaning sound. Now you were locked in. No choice but to go forward. They had decided to hear you out even after you became some kind of Wish Craft-powered half-Sadness or whatever blinding happened when you were fueled by nothing but despair and desperation. Surely they would stick around after hearing you were a different kind of monster…?

“I, uh. You already know I don’t do well in direct sunlight.”

“You do have pretty light skin,” Mira commented. “Practically darkless! It’s a good thing your hat landed nearby!”

Even if you were trying to do a better job of not hiding yourself with it so often.

You continued. “And. Sometimes, I’m faster than I should be? Even with Craft?”

“It did feel like your skill buffed you more than us,” Isa said. You were always sloppy with judging speed. You were built for it even without being what you were, and it was useful in fights. You remember Bonnie tripping on a root, a looming Sadness above them. Sometimes, it simply wasn’t worth it to hold back.

“...When we stopped in villages, sometimes… I can't remember the name of it, but…” The memory clung to you. You did not know if keeping it was worse than forgetting. “There was that one time with that innkeeper. Passed out at the front, wasn’t sick, hadn’t gotten drunk… Complained about a pain in his neck…”

It really had not been your best moment. You had been starving yourself ever since getting wrapped up in the idea of having actual companions. And when you starved yourself, you got even sloppier. Normally you did your best to indulge in your habit far away from anyone who knew your face. That night, you had been too hungry to care.

Isa and Mira shared a look, gears turning in their heads towards a conclusion you knew they were fully capable of reaching but perhaps were still too stunned to make. Odile looked between them—she had definitely already figured you out, and was waiting for the others to catch up. Bonnie was looking rapidly between everyone else, trying to figure out through their expressions what you were no longer necessarily hinting at, but pointing at with a giant arrow.

“Please don’t make me say it out loud…” You had opened up wide enough to let a horse-drawn carriage pass through you. You could be given this one, singular compromise, you felt. Even if you might not have deserved it.

“Siffrin??? Are you saying what I think you’re saying???” Mira had her hands on the sides of her head. Her eyes were shining. Oh no.

“Uh, if you’re reacting like that, then probably…?”

Isa was beginning to blush, and you had absolutely no idea why.

Months later, you think you understand better, but he’s still weird for it.

“You’re a vampire?!?!?!” She announced loud enough for the stars to hear, and it caught you off-guard enough that you flinched and hid yourself in your cloak and hat on reflex. Was she—was she excited???

No, this was Mira, of course she’d be excited about this sort of thing. Something out of her books, made flesh. The others would have the correct response to you being a monster.

“You know, that does explain how the King looked when we caught up with you,” Isa said, and you only became more confused.

You remembered that fight as though someone else had crawled into your body and performed it for you. As though someone else had started off trying to use Craft, only to realize their reserves had run empty from loops upon loops upon loops of built-up starvation clawing at their stomach. As though someone else had decided it would be like killing two birds with one stone to sate their habit with the tyrant who was freezing Vaugarde in time. As though someone else had torn off armor by the plate, ignored the painful buzz of metal on claw, and drank from any exposed skin they could find.

With more mercy than you probably deserved, Isa refrained from mentioning how you looked when everyone caught up with you.

You had had enough blood on you that the shade which coated your teeth blended in with the rest.

“I suppose that was your way of protecting us?” Odile chimed in. “Both with running off on your own and with keeping this secret close to your chest.”

You nodded, though it was more complicated than that. It was easier to respond to something said than to come up with your own words, even if everything everyone was saying was so blinding confusing.

“Does that mean you’re secretly super old or something??? Older than Dile???” Bonnie bounced up and down in their seat, and no, yeah, you were absolutely beyond confused.

You must have made a face, because Odile suddenly looked amused about something.

“N-No. I’m as old as I look,” you said.

“Oh, so about 20, then,” Odile smirked. “And that’s taking into account you being allowed to drink. I would go lower if I could.”

“No!!! I’m older than that!!! I’m at least 25!”

“We can meet in the middle and say 22. See how generous I am?”

“That isn’t even in the middle!” You gripped the brim of your hat and tugged it down to fully shield yourself from Odile’s accusations.

“At least give them an extra six months, m’dame! 22 and a half!” Isa pleaded on your behalf.

“Please, madame, out of the kindness of your heart?” Mira joined in.

“Fine, fine. If only because it would be good to get back to the actual topic at hand.”

“Thank you, m’dame!”

“So generous!!!”

After getting a little sidetracked, the conversation wound back around to your habit. You did your best to explain what you knew about yourself even with your comically poor memory.

Hilarious, that you could trace the shape of everything wrong with you with precision, but the moment you tried to recall anything about your past that might humanize you, all you got for your trouble was a headache.

The most important thing, you felt, was that you had what was effectively a spare life, separate from the loops. You hadn’t learned that about yourself until you died to a Sadness. That death had been different to when you were turned into a crêpe or when you froze yourself with tears. The first obliterated your body, and the second rendered you completely immobile. Dealing the final strike on a Sadness, then dying, however? That gave you enough room to ‘advance’ that the loop didn’t immediately trigger.

Apparently, using that spare life meant feeling even hungrier than you already were.

You could not sate your habit with Sadnesses. Despite your memory, the taste of attempting it still clung to the inside of your throat.

You did not want to try and remember who else you attempted to sate your habit with during that loop.

Once you looped back to the meadow, you knew whatever change had happened within you had been reset. You vowed to never slip up and die to a Sadness again.

You left out the particulars of that loop and only explained that were you to die beyond the loops, you would come back, changed. Maybe even Changed? You weren’t sure what made a change a Change, but coming back from the dead felt like a capital-C Change to you. Not that it mattered. You had just guessed that Mira and Isa might view it in that way, so you had tried explaining it through that lens.

Theological concerns aside, you had no idea if this would be the case post-hypothetical resurrection, but you still needed to eat. You hadn’t been putting on a show for the others by taking rations, thankfully. Your appetite was lower than average, but food tasted good to you. Bonnie had nothing to worry about. Except they started muttering something to themself about needing to try cooking with human blood, and everyone had to nip that in the bud as quickly as possible.

And, of course, it all came back to that. Your habit: not just the physical need to drink human blood, no matter how much you tried to suppress the urge (no matter how much animal blood you used to substitute). It would be too easy if it was just about getting your little fix and being done with it. No, your brain had to be even weirder about it than it already was, because the only thing better than getting to drink your fill was when the person you were trying to drink from was running away from you.

Only you could enjoy making something like getting what you needed into a challenge.

It never felt like self-punishment, though. When you got into that mindset, it felt more like a game than anything else.

The self-punishment came after, when you could think clearly enough to feel sick to your stomach. Those were the moments you could no longer pretend to be human. Those were the moments you were truly Other.

You had spoken of your need, but not the chase, the hunt, that your brain so craved.

In other ways, you were doing better on letting your feelings be known, both in terms of bringing up things related to the loops—Bonnie sacrificed plantain chips to a roaring campfire for you when you had a bad reaction to them, but you did explain in a kid-friendly way after—and things related to your habit. You still struggled to say the actual words—feed was very much banished to the realm of your frenzied thoughts—but euphemism was good enough. Better to ask for everyone to ‘take five’ than to say you were going out to look for something—or someone, to drain so that you could selfishly continue living. It always took longer than five minutes, but that specific way of phrasing it became your shorthand.

As if understanding your habit hadn't been enough, both Mira and Isa offered to personally supplement you. Odile had been uninterested in having her blood regularly drawn. She had told you in private that in a dire situation, you had permission. Bonnie was off-limits, of course. Mira and Isa had to frame their offers like you were doing them a favor to get you to even consider it. Mira, because she was going insane with curiosity as to what it would feel like, and Isa, because… You had caught him blushing again before he gave the same answer as Mira. Pure and innocent curiosity, he swore.

You had your doubts about that. You had been oblivious in the loops for a time, but now you know what to look for.

Mira always offered you her arm when she took her turn. She felt like she was somehow doing something wrong at first, like it was some kind of honored tradition to go for the neck, but you both agreed quickly that going there was too much. You truthfully told her that it didn't matter where, so long as there was a vein.

After the first time, she had asked you if her blood had a discernible taste. Outside of being, well, blood.

“Or is that too weird to answer? You don't have to answer that if you don't want to!”

“It's, uh, it's fine? I'm just trying to figure out how to explain it…”

“Oh! Oh, okay, because you were making a face, and I thought that that was personal, or something, and I didn't want to mess anything up or say something insensitive, so--”

“Mira, it's okay. Seriously.”

“...Okay! If! You! Say! So!”

“...It isn't as strong as the differences between foods. The texture is always the same, for one, but that's, uh, obvious. It's like… Maybe drinks are better for this… It's like, water versus lemonade? The base is the same, but there's something else there if you look for it. It's more subtle. Does that make any sense…?”

“It does! So, were you able to taste something else?”

“...” You recall spending a while trying to figure out how to phrase it in the least embarrassing way possible. You recall realizing that there was no way of getting out of that conversation without being embarrassed.

“...Kind of sweet…” You admitted to the inside of your cloak.

“Aw, Siffrin!” She sounded happy. You didn't get it, and you still don't, but she kept on saying that she liked helping you, so maybe this was part of that? Wanting to make sure you enjoyed yourself a little, instead of dragging yourself through doing something you needed to do to stay alive? It was just like food, right? There was a difference between eating what you strictly needed and eating something you liked.

Thinking of it like that, Isa makes much more sense.

He had offered you his arm the first time, too. Unlike Mira, you didn't stay there. As you got more acclimated to touch—to intimacy—you found yourself wanting more in turn. Or, rather, you found yourself more willing to admit that you wanted more. Drinking from Isa went from something you were doing as a thinly-veiled favor for him to something you both… Anticipated, on a certain level.

It didn't help that Mira started recommending certain books to Isa that you doubted he would have ever sought out were you not what you were. Of course, fiction meant nothing in the face of your half-lived experiences, but you guessed reading about characters somewhat similar to you helped with perspective when you didn't want to talk about it yourself.

That, and… Certain ideas. The one Isa had put in your head. The one you've been circling around all this time, lost in thought, staring up at the tent above.

It was when you first confessed to him your darker thoughts.

The reason why you occasionally looked at him as if he were one of the rabbits you drained so easily. The reason why you sought out larger game, just because boar and deer could put up a better chase. The reason why you craved doing the same to people, even if you never did so unless you were out of your mind with hunger. 

“It’s too much, isn't it? It isn't enough that I have to be like this. I have to make it weird, too. Into some kind of sick game.”

“Okay, Sif, those are your thoughts about it. Do you want to hear mine?”

“Mnh.”

“I think you have a lot of feelings that you keep bottled up, until you have no other choice but to let them all out. I don't have to tell you that that's unhealthy at this point. It sounds like you're trying to get this energy out in a healthier way, which is good, but you still feel guilty about not being… Efficient enough about it.”

You nodded.

“So, what if… And this is only if you're comfortable with it, you can totally say no, or take as long as you need to think on it, but…”

“...”

“What if… Well, it’d be cool if you, uh, wanted to chase me around?”

“What.”

“I-I mean! You already feed from me,” stars, he was too comfortable with saying that, “and I trust you not to get carried away, especially since you've been doing better with staying topped up!”

“But that's. You’d be okay with that? I'm not, I'm not myself when I--”

“Sif, I'm not talking about when you're literally starving. You've been yourself ever since you told us, unless there's something you want to tell me?”

“...No, there's… There’s nothing. But I'm different. I'm weird.”

“And I'm not?”

“You're definitely weird.”

“Exactly! We can be weird together! But seriously, I don't want to pressure you into doing something you don't want to do, but at least think about it, okay? I think it would be a good outlet for you, and it'd be kinda, you know, fun, for me, too?”

“...I'll think about it.”

You did think about it. You're thinking about it right now. Laying next to Isa, listening to his heartbeat. He isn't asleep. You think he has a sixth sense for when you're lost in thought, because he's turned away from you right now. He can't see how you've been staring above yourself for the past however long. It’s like he's waiting for you to say something.

You're thinking about how his heart turns into a drum in your skull when you have your lips against his neck. You're thinking about his blood, savory compared to Mira’s, more filling to you. You're thinking about how the rush of a chase might taste against your tongue, adding to the flavor.

You lick at the cusps of your canines as they rapidly shift to sharpened points. Whatever makes you need human blood to live also gives you the means to get it, though it had surprised you when Isa pointed out the rapid form of Body Craft you performed when you showed him it the first time. You had never made the connection. Apparently, it’s unprecedented. Just one more thing to add to the pile, you guess. Monster that shouldn't exist. Time loop survivor. Miraculous levels of Body Craft, albeit just for your fangs.

You're sure if you were less sensitive about the idea of being poked and prodded at like the inhuman thing you are, Isa would have recommended that you show this form of Body Craft to a House by now. But you are sensitive, and Isa is nice, so he's never brought it up. You're grateful for that. For him.

Your tongue pokes at the grooved back of one of your fangs, there to ensure blood continues to flow even while you're biting someone. Just having them out like this is enough of a reminder to your body that you're craving, like sitting at a dinner table with the plates and cutlery set, but no food to eat.

Isa is still awake.

Do you want to do this?

You surprise yourself by thinking this, but you're in a better place, physically and mentally. You're camping in western Vaugarde, after having gone north to pick up Bonnie’s sister. The forests offer just the right amount of space to move around in, neither exposing nor constricting. You're craving enough to want to try, but not so much so that you feel as if your self-control will buckle. Being on such a consistent diet has done wonders for your sanity.

You're… You're kind of curious about how Isa would handle getting chased by you, too. Animals are only fun to hunt because they can run fast and tire you out. They aren't engaging, not like people. People can think. People can strategize. That kind of intrigue is what you think your mind is latching onto. Like a rehearsal before the show.

You kind of want to do this.

Might as well give it a shot. If nothing else, he'll be proud of you for trying.

“Isa.”

You hear his heartbeat pick up. Startled, even if he didn't flinch. Cute.

“Sif?” He doesn't sound tired at all.

“Can't sleep?”

“Not really. You?”

“Same.”

“Yeah, figured. You've, uh, been perfectly still for a while.”

At least you're both obvious about it. You would have felt weird if only you could tell, and through your unnatural senses, at that.

Isa shifts in place, turning to face you. You wonder how much of your face he can see in the dark. You play with your hair, brushing a few strands over your dead eye, just in case.

“You don't have to do that,” he says, and it's enough to get you to freeze in place. Slowly, you brush your hair back up, uncovering your scarring. One large claw mark which had ruined your eye, and two less severe scars on either side, where the other claws had dug in.

“Better,” he breathes out, and with as much love as he packs into the word, you can almost believe him. “You're pretty, with or without your eyepatch. I'm proud of it, sure, but I like getting to see you fully, too.”

This bedroll is going to be your grave. You blush. You've been doing that more often, thanks to being together with Isa and being forced to pay attention to your body.

“Was that too much?” He asks, an edge of concern in his voice. Stars, you’re being too quiet again! Say something!

“Uh. Yes and no? It's a lot, but… It's nice,” you admit before sinking deeper into your bedroll, covering half of your face with it.

He chuckles a little. You like his overly loud laughs when you hit a chain of puns just right, but you like hearing his quieter laughs, too. You just like it when he laughs.

“Just let me know if it's ever too much. I'm happy to go at your pace,” he says.

“You say that all the time, Isa.”

“Because it's true!”

“But what if I wanted to go at your pace?” You test the waters before you lose your nerve.

You hear his heart beat faster.

“Y-Yeah? You got something in mind, Sif?” His voice is a little strained, anticipatory. It's enough to keep you from backing out.

“You remember when we talked about my… Urgh, my weird thoughts? About…” You are going to need to be more specific than this. You are pretty sure the amount of weird thoughts you have had in your life exceeds what entire town populations could manage. “About wanting a chase…?”

Isa is silent for a moment, then sputters as it clicks. “Oh! Did you, uh, were you wanting to give that a try?”

“Kind of? It doesn’t have to be tonight, but we’re both already up, and…” Stars, as much as you’re getting better about asking for things you might want, it’s still embarrassing.

“This is! Good! Now, I mean! I have energy to burn anyway!” Isa’s struggling a little with this too, which weirdly makes you feel better? “We should-- Let me change back into my day clothes, yeah?”

You nod a few times and completely cover your face with your bedroll. You hear the rustling of clothes as Isa changes, but the sound is less appealing to you than the constant pull of his heart, thumping a beat you can run to. The feeling of tenseness in your body is usually enough to get you to fidget or try biting your nails to burn the energy, but you let it build and make a home in the back of your throat, instead.

When you stop hearing rustling, his heartbeat is made that much louder in your ears.

“All done,” Isa says, and either he set a record in getting ready for this, or you spaced out too much listening to his pulse. “I’ll wait outside the tent for you, okay?”

“Okay,” you lift yourself from the bedroll and are utterly unable to keep yourself from looking at Isa. He is caught in your stare, frozen in place. Your eye must be doing that thing again. Isa had told you once that it lightens in shade, with the pupil narrowing down into a slit when something has your focus. Isa has your focus.

“...Aren’t you going to wait outside?” You ask in a low whisper.

“R-Right!” It’s enough to shock him back into motion. “Yeah, yes, right. You know where I’ll be!”

In a fluid motion, you are left alone in the tent. You better not keep him waiting. You are quick in pulling off your sleep clothes and getting your lightless outfit on. Your dagger remains sheathed near your bedroll. A different, lighter weight rests in one of your side pockets, better for this sort of play. You also leave your cloak and hat off. Being without them puts you a little off-balance, but you’ll correct yourself fast enough. It’ll be easier to blend into the night without them turning you into a darkless beacon.

You slip on your boots and exit the tent, ears twitching at the sound of dried leaves crunching underneath your heels. A good sound that only gets better the faster you step. Not that you'll be able to focus on it once you're locked onto Isa, you imagine.

Isa, apparently having realized how at risk of being loud he is, nudges his head towards the treeline a couple of times and starts walking. You follow, feeling your own heart thrumming a beat in your chest. You lighten your step as you walk across the campsite, which briefly startles Isa enough to get him to turn around and look at you.

“Sorry, that, uh. I knew you could be pretty quiet, but that's…” He trails off.

“...Weird?” Ever since the loops, when you need to be quiet, you walk in a certain way. It served you well in the House, and it works fine enough on rougher terrain now that you've gotten used to it again, even if you can still hear the brush of grass and crunch of leaf litter against your boots.

“It's good. For this. I could barely hear you at all.” He fidgets with his sleeves now that he has them back on.

You think your heartbeat is trying to catch up to his.

Once you both make it out of the camp’s collective earshot, Isa stops and leans against a tree, looking into the forested distance.

“How far from camp can we go until you can't find the others?”

“You're not going to be able to run that far, Isa.” Only having been able to scent out your friends in the House for so many loops made it trivial to pick them out from a crowd, or find where they are amidst the natural scents of pollen and dirt. Your senses sharpened even further with Isa and Mira once they started to help you with your habit.

For some reason, this makes Isa blush.

“Good to know!” He says in that strained voice, only for you. “Because I'm definitely not going to be able to find my own way back.” He laughs a little after saying this, like it's a deflection. Weird.

“Anyway, it’d be good to set some ground rules before we give this a shot,” he continues. “You already know I'm good with you biting me, so that's fine. Uh, weird request, but if you could keep from tearing up my clothes…?”

You squint. “Why would I do that?”

Isa sputters. “You-- Sif. Sifster. You really haven't noticed what you've done to my shirts when you're feeding from me?”

No. You flex your fingers. You really need to keep your nails to yourself.

“H-Hey, not that it's a bad thing! It isn't! It's, uh, kind of flattering? That you get so into it that you don't even notice??? It's just that when you're still, the holes are smaller and easier to mend, so I've just been doing that, but if you're moving around and trying to, you know, get me, any rips will be harder to hide or fix, and I think if m’dame sees something like that I'll die on the spot???”

You feel lightheaded. “Uh. Yeah. I'll try to not give you any extra work to do…?” You pull your gloves out from one of your pants pockets and slip them on. You then wiggle your fingers in the air to show Isa your covered nails. You should start wearing your gloves more often. Maybe not as often as before, but…

“That works! Just for this, though.” He raises his hands disarmingly. “You don't have to go back to wearing your gloves all the time, if you don't want to. Promise!”

He’s reading your blinding mind. That, or your expressions, which you have long since realized are extremely telling. Whatever. You like getting to brush hands with Isa whenever you think nobody is looking, so it's good you don't have to worry about that. It's harder to do with your gloves on, even if you still like wearing them when you have a bad day and need to keep yourself from biting your nails.

“Okay, so, was there anything you wanted to go over, Sif? That was my main concern, so…”

…Isa’s more worried about his clothes getting a little torn than you potentially losing it with your fangs buried in his neck?

He trusts you more than you can ever trust yourself.

You need to be able to live up to that trust.

Is there anything you want to go over? “Not really? I mean, it's all pretend, except the biting part,” you say. A play without an audience, thank the stars. You just want it to be an interesting one.

You must look like you're still thinking, because Isa is giving you the space to say something else.

“...I mean, do you want to carry over our sparring rules?” You ask. It might help with your insecurity if you can think of this as just a different kind of spar.

Isa nods. “I figured we'd do that anyway, but it's always good to be on the same page.”

Right. No actual weapons, no going for the head, stop when either of you calls for it. Not that you've personally needed to invoke that last rule with Isa yet. Before the loops, he knew your limits better than you did, and now, you have a means of holding your Craft back that's better than guesswork and sheer force of will.

You pull out the single Ka Buan hairpin from your side pocket and begin idly tracing your finger against the little decorative crow attached to the end by a thin chain. It's a simple design otherwise, and easy to hold. When Odile gave it to you, she told you that some Ka Buan Piercing Craft users would channel through metal hairpins in a pinch. Some were even sharpened to fine points, meant to be weapons hidden in plain sight, but the one you're holding is blunted at the end. The point (ha) is that it's a bad weapon.

It helps put you back on everyone's level.

You blink, and you find that in the time it took you to reminisce, Isa’s put on his sparring gloves.

“Anything else?” He says in that tone that means he knows you have something else on your mind.

You sigh and slip the hairpin back into your side pocket for later. The Craft giving you just a little more space to work with makes it so the hairpin fits snugly, rather than not at all. Fidgeting with the fabric, you wonder if there really is anything else. What else could you…?

Well…

It’s embarrassing, but you had just been thinking about it, so… “Don't be afraid to get creative, I guess? Going fast isn't the fun part. Or at least, it’s not the main thing I'm looking for? It's the…” You draw a circle in the air with your hand, looking for the word.

“The anticipation?” Isa supplies.

You nod. “The anticipation. That, and… It feels like practice, almost.” Stars, that sounds bad, backtrack! “Not that I want to see what the real thing would look like! Just--”

“I think I get it! It's the same with kittens, right?”

Your peripheral vision is near-instantly choked out in favor of focusing entirely on Isa.

He has saved you from digging your own grave by stealing your shovel and digging his own.

“Oh, that's a reaction,” Isa murmurs under his breath, and you can hear the way his thundering heart crashes into his words, making them warble. You have no idea if he's scared, lovestruck, or both.

Whatever he’s feeling, he powers through it. “Okay, okay, let me explain! So with kittens and other animals, they do this thing called play fighting. It's part of how they learn how to socialize, how to hunt, and how to interact with each other without hurting each other or getting hurt themselves. It's, uh, important for them, and I've been thinking that, maybe, since you never got that experience, you're still wanting it now? Does that sound about right…?”

You realize that Isa must have been thinking about this for a long time to have come up with an actual analogy for it. Not only one that sounds roughly correct with what's been going through your head, but one that completely and utterly disarms you.

All this time, you've thought yourself a monster. A thing to be avoided, or a threat to be tempered. You are not human. You are an impossible thing that steals from humans what it can't make for itself.

And Isa just called you a blinding kitten? To your face???

You have no idea if that's the most considerate thing anyone has ever said to you, or if you want to really put Isa through it when you hunt him down.

You think you have space in your thoughts for both.

“...Isa?” You say in the softest, gentlest voice you can manage, words caressed in a smile, a tone pulled straight from when you thought Bonnie had broken your dagger back in the loops.

The shudder that runs down Isa’s body is unmistakable to you. He really does like this.

“Sif…?”

“I think you should start running.”

He's frozen for a moment, a deer in the light of your stare. Then, he runs. Your legs tense on instinct, wanting nothing more than to keep him in sight, but you stomp on the urge until it quiets. There’s no point in a chase that doesn't have a few twists and turns. No point in a play that doesn't have a conflict.

Besides, you don’t have to see him to be able to keep track of him. His scent lingers, though he must have taken that into consideration before bolting. Isa didn't go the direction you thought he would: the opposite of camp, if only to give the two of you a bit more room to work with. He’s running upwind instead, taking much of his scent with him. You can feel your sense of his exact location blur into a radius. Normally, this would put you on edge. You like having the comfort of knowing exactly where everyone is. You’ve gotten used to almost always having that knowledge.

But like this, eye narrowed, heart pounding, it’s new. It’s exciting. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. How long should you wait? Don’t start running yet. Start walking? You start walking, slowly, comically. Exaggerated steps that nothing and no one will hear. You follow where Isa had first darted off, the disturbed leaf litter and broken branches as obvious as flames to you. His scent trail is fading, but you still have that sense of a rough location, an area to go to and survey.

As you follow the trail, it gets harder to keep your footsteps slow. Looking at the ground, it also gets harder to see where Isa’s trail picks back up. There are gaps in it, patches of leaves covering themselves. Moved back by him to cover his trail? Half-hearted, before getting more serious, before leaving the thicker parts of the forest where the leaf litter was so abundant altogether and making it easier to hide footsteps. Harder to hide oneself, but Isa must have realized that losing you was more important in the short-term than anything else. Good.

You can no longer follow the exact path Isa is taking, but you can get close enough. Not that you think you want to follow anymore. Flexing your fingers in your gloves, you peel away from the lost trail and start to take a wide berth, letting your legs get the message that they’re allowed to go faster. Your struggling walk becomes a jog becomes a run, still human in terms of speed, maybe. You’ve seen people run this fast. They might call it a sprint instead of a run, but you have distance to make up, and an Isa to catch.

You feel different. Your thoughts are sharper. Easier to put your problems aside when there’s only one thing your brain wants to focus on, and it’s following the constant thrum of Isa, Isa, Isa. The beat of his heart becomes clearer in your head the more you hone in on it. You stop making your wide circle around the area you sense him to be and switch to closing the distance. The beat of his heart truly does become louder the closer you get. You want to savor it. Hold that pulse on your tongue.

You slow down, this time not out of forced restraint, but out of wanting to keep the element of surprise. Your breathing is a gentle sound, in and out. Don’t have to hold back so much. You walk like you’re in the House—no, you walk like you’re hunting. Isa had stopped being able to hear you when you walked this quietly, and you were right behind him. Unless you make a stupid mistake or give yourself away, he can’t hear you.

The thought sends a rush through your veins.

You start hearing him before you can see him. He isn’t running anymore, of course. His footsteps are cautious but certain. Yours are, too. More frequent than his, because you still need to catch up. Closer and closer.

Movement from the corner of your eye. A swish of a light shade. Barely there, but when you snap your head to focus on it, you see it again.

You find the rhythm of his footsteps and match it. Walk to his pace. Don’t run to his heartbeat, fast, fast, fast.

You're close. A handful of long strides away.

But you don't want to catch him so quickly.

You take a moment to put on your face. You bare your fangs in a predator’s smile, causing your eye to squint into a shaded curve. Back in the loops, when you had a frightening enough face during conversations with Isa, he would ask you if you had practiced in a mirror. It made for some good unintentional advice. You’re still terrible at managing your expressions from moment to moment, but if you have enough time to set yourself up, you can make your eye look like it's cutting through shadow.

Once your face is set, you look at the back of Isa’s head, then purposefully step on a small branch, breaking it with your heel.

He whips around to look for the source. You look directly into his eyes the moment you have the opportunity to. You are stock-still, waiting for him to notice you.

A handful of heartbeats pass.

Isa locks eyes with you.

“Keep running.”

The threat hits him like Craft, and he's off again, exciting every muscle in your body to chase, chase, chase!

Normally, this is around where you start physically suppressing yourself. There are too many contradictory wants in your head to fight all of them off and sort them successfully, so you only do it when your thoughts by themselves aren't enough. Wanting nothing more than to sink into the urge of the chase—with the target of that chase being Isa of all people—would have made the you of a few months ago curl up into a little ball and focus on breathing until it passed.

Now, though… You don't feel the pull as harshly as you used to. It’s the difference between being dragged into the deep end and being guided into shallow water. Your head is still above the waves. You can still breathe. You can still think.

You can still chase.

You follow as though an invisible string connecting you and Isa has been pulled taut.

Keeping less distance between the two of you means you don't lose track of where he is.

It’s truly a game, where the foregone conclusion is your victory.

You burn more energy running literal circles around Isa, teasing him with your constant presence, only made noticeable when you want to be noticed.

A brush against the branch of a tree.

The crunching of leaves all but stomped on.

Each time, he stops and looks for your eye in the night. Confirming that it’s still just you.

As if you’d let anything else get him.

You want more. More than the chase, you want to catch, to touch, to bite—

Isa’s stopped. Walking carefully instead of running. Tired? You can hear his breath in your ears as if he’s right next to you.

No more running. A break from running. Time to catch.

The thought of touching Isa in order to catch him sends raw energy through your body.

You see a rock to your right. Perfect size. It fits nicely in the palm of your hand.

You grin as you throw the rock.

Isa turns away from you and towards the sound.

You dart out from the trees and pounce—

—and catch dried leaves in your hands.

What?

“Phew!” He breathes out from your blind spot, a smile in his breathless voice. “What, did you think I’d fall for the same trick Bonbon pulls on Sadnesses?”

He had predicted you. He couldn't outspeed you, so he predicted you. Picked a direction and hoped it was the right one to dodge in.

Your head turns to face Isa in a blink. His heartbeat is as loud as his words. Poum-poum, poum-poum, poum-poum.

His pulse jumps as slips into the defensive stance he uses when you spar.

Your grin widens. “You're really giving me a…"

His expression shifts. He knows what you're doing and he isn't going to stop you.

“...rocky chase.”

His mouth goes wonky as he tries and fails to suppress a snort.

Then, while his guard is lowered, you leap for him again. This time, you succeed, feeling the once-overwhelming pressure of your covered palms pushing Isa, the shift of gravity as your—

“Up you go!”

—momentum is used against you, his body merely guiding yours around his, through the air and onto the ground—

“Hsssssss!”

—where you stick the landing in a crouch, claws trying to burrow into the dirt through your gloves.

The warmth of where he touched you lingers despite your clothes.

“Trying to use my love of puns against me, Sif? That's just stone cold.” Isa picks the pun chain up effortlessly, and you feel your pounding heart take a break from matching Isa’s in order to flutter.

Stars, you adore this man.

Stars, the things you're going to do when you get this man.

He's too aware of you right now. Guard too high. You start taking slow steps, still crouched, circling him. Your footsteps are silent. He tracks your movements in the dark, able to retain eye contact with you as your pupil narrows into a line and your entire world becomes Isa.

You extend your hand and snap your fingers.

“Make Up The Time.”

A rush of Craft flows through your muscles, energizing you like a swallow of blood.

“O-Oh,” Isa breathes out, “not in the mood for puns, anymore…?”

You dart forward and watch as he repositions his arms, trying to play off of your speed again. But you don’t let him. You stop just shy of his reach, let your grin crinkle your eye, then you dart back and away into the treeline, out of sight.

Using Make Up The Time was unnecessary, but it’s dramatic, and that makes it necessary.

Just like slinking back into the shadows. It's unnecessary, but dramatic, and therefore necessary.

It’ll all help with building back up the anticipation. You caught up to Isa, and now he knows you’re willing to close the distance completely. The only question is when you'll do it again.

He's taking the chance to run. You indulge yourself in listening to his heavy footsteps. He isn't even trying to hide the sound. You wet your lips again. Let yourself focus on the breeze. He isn't going upwind. He is leaving an excruciatingly obvious trail for you to follow, as if you hadn't carved out a place in your brain for his pulse and his pulse alone, ever since first tasting the warmth of his blood.

You start moving.

Fast, fast, fast, wind in your hair, wind against your skin.

You keep just the right amount of distance, letting that be what your mind latches onto and doesn't let go.

You never let Isa out of earshot, and only occasionally let him out of sight if only to spot him again in moments.

It's freeing, having control of how you use this time. Writing the script instead of following it.

Editing it with Isa according to breath and pulse.

Being able to survive something as intense as touch.

You crave catching up.

You do so.

Isa’s breathing harder, all of his running catching up to him alongside you. You quiet yourself again, drawing nearer, your panting a mere whisper on the wind compared to his.

He won’t hear you over the sound of his own breathing.

At least, not until it's too late.

You wait until he starts walking again, and just as he's trying to shift his weight from one foot to the other, you leap.

“Hsssss!”

You're coming from behind, and he's already caught off-guard.

Using your speed against you isn't in the cards for him this time.

Isa’s heart races in your ears as you knock him face-down onto the ground, your hands clasped around his wrists and pressing down to the earth. His sleeves are spread out against the grass like the wings of a butterfly beneath glass. His warmth is pressing through your gloves. Your eyes are locked to the side of his neck.

“I'm not done yet!” He startles you by speaking, his voice breathy but strong.

Then he tugs his right arm forward, knocking you off-balance. Using this, he throws all of his weight into rolling, taking you along for the ride. Before you can process what's happening, he has you in a pin of his own, his larger hands holding your gloved ones at either side of your head.

You feel the warmth of his palms against yours. You feel the pulse of his body as his feverish heart tries to keep up with what is being demanded of it, radiating blood like a star radiates light.

You feel your face grow hot.

You sense his doing the same.

He surprises you yet again by leaning in and whispering into your ear.

“See? You’re doing great. You can let go, Sif. I’ll be here to catch you.”

Your breath hitches.

Right when you thought you were doing better with touch, with openness, all it takes is for Isa to pull something like this, and it sends every last thought of yours rushing out of your head. There is a world of difference between having a hand touch your shoulder without you jumping out of your skin, and having Isa hovering over you in the dead of night, offering his time, his love, his own self, all to you.

“H-How am I supposed to scare you when you say stuff like that…?” You let out a breathless little laugh and turn your head to the right. Without your hat, your cloak, or even your hands to help cover you, you feel exposed. You try to calm yourself down by imagining Isa being unable to tell how much you’re blushing in the darkness. The thought that comes to you immediately after is that he would be able to guess regardless.

Isa lets out a cute little strangled noise and frees your hands, but keeps his close for balance. His thumbs rub against your gloves. “I just wanted you to know! Because you should know! You really are doing great, so if you feel comfortable with letting go a little more, I think that would be, uh, exciting? For both of us? B-But like I said before, I’m happy to go at your pace,” he rapidly tacks on at the end, that ever-present escape route.

You turn over the idea in your head for a moment. Are you comfortable with letting go a little more? What you’ve been doing so far has been nice. You’re in the shallow water of your habit, indulging just enough to let it have an outlet without taking it too far. But you still have a few steps you can take before the water starts getting deep. Isa wouldn’t judge you for going either way on this—he’s gotten that much through to you in the months beyond your loops, at least—so you can actually be a little honest with yourself.

You know what he wants, even if he would be the first person to advocate for your decision should it be the exact opposite.

And you know that the star beating in his chest has a gravitational pull calling you to go further.

You want to run towards him, not away.

You want to hear more of his cute noises. You want to hear him out of breath and gasping as you catch him. You want to hear him let go as your fangs break skin.

You face him properly again, your head turned slightly to the left to keep him centered in your vision.

“...I. I think I can do that,” you try to say in your best confident voice, which is less confident, more quiet. You can feel blood pooling in your cheeks.

“Yeah? You sure?” Isa asks, trying to keep from nudging you in one direction or another, but you can hear the tinge of desire in his voice.

You nod, then recognize that just nodding might not be enough.

“I’m sure.” Hearing yourself say it out loud actually helps steel your nerves.

He nods back.

“So,” you continue, voice a little quieter, a little steadier, “you can…” You trail off, rolling your wrists in lazy circles. They pop a few times each.

“Yeah…?” Isa knows what you’re asking for but doesn’t seem to be sure why. He obliges you and presses his hands back against yours, palm to palm, fingers between fingers, making it feel more like you’re holding hands in a weird way than being restrained by him.

You take the opportunity to clasp onto his hands and push, letting loose a bit of the strength you had gained during the loops. Before, you could accidentally be too fast, but not accidentally too strong. Now, you do your best to keep this brand new way of being unnatural under wraps.

But. 

But the look on Isa’s face as you manage to brute force your way out from underneath him is too good to pass up. He’s surprised: both in a good way, and in an ‘I’m so blinded, aren’t I?’ way.

A little extra strength is good. Just not too much.

Not so much that—no, you aren’t thinking about that. This is meant to help you, not to make you spiral about things that never even happened to the others. Concentrate.

It’s easier to crawl back into your own body when Isa is right in front of you, gearing up for another round. He’s already recovered, back in a defensive position, and just seeing him like that tugs at the part of your brain itching to pounce. You enter an offensive stance, and out of habit, keep your arms close to yourself, hiding them in a cloak you aren’t wearing.

You meet his eyes. He's smiling, but it's not the same easy smile he wears when fighting Sadnesses with everyone. He looks focused. He's thinking—he's always thinking—but he's letting himself look the part, too. He's letting go, too.

Funny, that the two of you can let your masks slip only to put on the replacements of ‘hunter’ and ‘hunted’.

Something to think about later, when your mind isn't so crowded with Isa’s pulse.

It's time. Your right hand slowly slips into the side pocket holding your hairpin. Your covered fingertips brush against the end of it, steadily getting a grip. You don't know what Isa can see of you, but if he can tell that you're going for a weapon, he doesn't show it. At least, not on the outside. You can hear his heart racing in your ears. He's probably working out what move you're going to use.

In truth, you have exactly one move you can use, now that you have it down.

After all, none of your dagger puns work with a hairpin.

In a blink, you whip out the pin and hold it like a wand, your other hand making the scissors sign.

“Pin There, Done That,” you smirk.

Craft fires down your arms and through your hands, but only a fraction of it can get through the shape of the pin. The lightless shot cuts a curve through the air until it suddenly rebounds towards Isa’s feet.

Isa is not fast.

But he is a quick thinker.

He manages to get a Craft shield up just before your attack connects—on contact, it disperses in multiple directions before fizzling out to nothing but a sharp tang in the air. The scent gives you a rush.

“You don't want to see what my new move does?” Your playful tone is at odds with your aggressive stance, your bright eye, and your complete focus on Isa.

Or maybe it's more teasing than playful. You don't know what Isa hears in your tone. All you know is that it gets him to start using your breathing exercise.

“That's fine,” you continue, leaning harder into teasing. The more steps you take into the water of your craving, the easier it is to speak. “I bet my cooldown is shorter than your shield’s.”

“...How long is it?” Isa asks.

Your mouth settles into a cat-like curve.

One turn has passed.

“Don’t you already know? I have to Make Up The Time somehow,” you cheerfully snap your fingers, letting Isa simmer over the realization that there is no way out.

“COME ON!!!” He shouts in response, and it does a little something to you to hear that defense buff, expecting to receive it yourself, only to not feel the familiar buzz against your skin. But that's more than fine. You'll get to feel it against your fangs shortly.

Two turns have passed.

Even in the loops where everyone was at their strongest, none of the others ever learned a one turn cooldown move.

“Pin There, Done That,” you call, and the lightless flare your hairpin lets out yet again cuts a curve through the air before aiming for Isa’s feet.

He tries to dodge off of pure instinct, but the shot gets him in his right foot. You watch with enraptured interest as his expression rapidly cycles through a series of emotions you can only half-name, before he settles on shock. He has realized that your move isn't a damaging move.

It's a speed debuff.

Feels like pins and needles!

“Sif, buddy,” Isa starts, his hands placatingly raised in the air. He's resting more of his weight on his left side, off of the foot that's now thoroughly asleep. Seems he's giving up on running from you like this and instead wants to appeal to you.

Your tongue works over the backs of your fangs.

“Yes, Isa?” You smile as you take a step towards him.

“We can keep going-- I can keep going,” he says, and it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself of this than you.

You take another step.

Isa stays in place.

He's playing the part of the scared quarry, but not so much that you think it's real. It's an interesting line to draw. Maybe you could have played with that more if your decision to even try hadn't been so spur of the moment.

“No. No, I don't think you can,” another step, and you're one good stride away from him.

“Besides,” you say before he can even get a word in edgewise, “what makes you think I can keep going?”

Isa’s heartbeat is thunder in your head as you close the distance.

You sweep Isa’s numbed foot out from underneath him and use how he’s already off-balance to get him back on the ground, one more time. He tenses, but doesn't put up a fight. Rather than struggle, he looks up at you. A bit of the glint in your eye reflects off of his irises. His lips are parted to help him catch his breath. His face is a nice, dark shade.

You wonder if you look anywhere near as starstruck.

Your craving tugs at you, and you follow, dipping your head down to line up your lips with Isa’s neck. You trace where you can feel his pulse the strongest the same way this planet traces a path dictated by its sun. Neither of you knows what expression the other is wearing, now. You only know that you feel his hand brush against yours, and that whatever smothered thoughts you have on touch and vulnerability and intimacy tremble as you lace your fingers through his.

You don’t usually take this much time to line up a bite. You usually want to get it over with as soon as possible. But between Mira wanting you to enjoy yourself, Isa being prone like this, and your own desire to draw out more sounds from him… You drag a fang over his skin, opposite the way you need to in order to break skin. The way you need to keep your mouth open for this is a little awkward, but again, he doesn’t know what you look like while doing this. All he needs to feel is the pressure. The anticipation.

He feels it with a gasp that threatens to take your breath with it.

You feel lightheaded.

Isa’s heart flutters in just the right way, and you can no longer resist.

You sigh as you sink your fangs into Isa’s neck. Your eyes close. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. He sees you. He feels you. He understands you. What tension his body held when you first broke skin quickly melts into the relaxation your bite forces into all of your prey. His blood wraps around the grooves in your fangs and pools in your mouth, easy to swallow. It runs across your tongue, pressing warmth into it, the flavor reminiscent of both meat and the knife used to cut it. It radiates within you. Light and heat trapped in your center.

Your orbiting thoughts set a languid pace for your swallows. You could move your fangs, open the wounds a little more, but you don’t. You want to stretch this moment out. You want to only think about the mechanical responses your body makes for you between your breaths. You want to sink, to let go, to begin the chase anew…

Isa squeezes your hand again.

Oh. Time to stop.

You gently unsheathe your fangs from his neck and press down onto the wounds with your tongue. It’s a motion you have had plenty of practice with in the past, but have only bothered to refine to relative painlessness for Mira and Isa’s sake. Isa makes more fun sounds as you close his wounds with your saliva and attempt to clean the area of blood. You never do too good a job of the latter, but Isa is always quick to insist that he doesn’t mind. Between that and having been patching up the holes you make in his clothes, he doesn’t mind about a lot of things regarding you, does he?

This train of thought is making you sentimental.

You decide to stop while you’re ahead and turn your thoughts back towards present Isa. You pull back from his neck and inspect the area. His skin is smeared with blood and shaded, but it’s healed. Good. You release a breath you did not realize you had been holding until that moment.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Isa asks through a smile. He sounds tired.

“...You’re good.” You did not hurt him. You did not hurt him. You did not hurt him.

“Good,” he echoes you. Like there was never a doubt in his mind.

“Y-You could use something to eat, though,” you say, getting up and off of Isa while continuing to hold hands. “Bonnie is still sneaking snacks into my pockets, maybe they left some of those panisses in--”

You wave your free hand around in nothing but air.

Bonnie keeps putting snacks in your cloak pockets.

You are not wearing your cloak.

“...Don’t look at me.” You shield your face with your free hand.

Isa snorts and moves to sit up. “It’s okay, Sif. I’ll sneak something when we get back to camp.”

Stars, what did you do to deserve this man? You had forgotten something as basic as food for someone you intended to draw blood from, and all he can do is smile and take it. He doesn’t mind, comes the new thought process you’ve been trying to carve into your head along with the others. It’s an honest mistake. Nobody will abandon you over a little blunder. As much of a struggle as it is to internalize and keep internalized, you know that if you almost breaking the world over your knee didn’t get everyone to abandon you, something like this wouldn’t get Isa to abandon you.

Not after everything you’ve been through.

“Are you good?” Isa asks.

“...Just feeling sentimental, I guess.” The feeling came back even after you tried to push it down, so that means it’s important, right?

“Aw, Sif…” Isa leans into you, just enough to let you feel pressure and a bit of warmth through your sleeves. It feels nice. His heartbeat isn’t a flood of noise to you anymore. It’s a steady thing. The beat to a song you’ve heard a thousand times before, and will hear a thousand times again.

“...We should head back,” you say.

Isa makes an affirmative grunt and moves to stand. You follow suit, ready to help him if he’s off-balance from your Craft, his having supplemented you, or both. It looks like his foot isn’t asleep anymore, judging by how much weight he’s putting on it, but he still looks a little unsteady. You keep holding hands, which is definitely not life-ending if it’s in service of helping him not fall on his face.

“Alright, I’m good. Lead the way?” He looks to you as if you had personally dotted the sky with stars to guide you back with.

Heart in your throat, all you can do is nod.

Together, you return to your family.