"I dreamed of a world without you. And I woke with my heart in pieces."
The rain that night was gentle. Soft. Almost kind.
But it left Elias colder than ever.
He woke abruptly, heart pounding, a scream caught in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. It took a moment for him to realize he wasn't still trapped in the dream.
It had been so vivid.
Damien—gone. A coffin. Petals falling over a pale face that wouldn't wake.
And silence. A silence that stretched forever.
Elias sat up, running a hand through his damp hair, willing the image away. But as he turned toward the other side of the bed, the panic returned.
It was empty.
He reached out. The sheets were cold.
"Damien?" he called, voice sharp in the quiet. "Damien?"
No answer.
He stumbled out of bed, barefoot, not even thinking to grab his coat. The door creaked open into the night, where mist hung thick around the cottage. Rain fell softly, and everything smelled of wet earth and blossom.
He saw no light. No shadow.
No Damien.
The fear that clamped around his heart was not rational—but it was real. It dragged him down into memories he thought he had buried. Of nights in the palace when he'd waited, curled up and hollow, for a man who never came. Of mornings when the only trace of Damien was blood on the sheets and petals in his hair.
And now—
Now he was gone again.
Elias broke into a run. His feet splashed through mud, his nightshirt clinging to him like a second skin. The wind tore at his sleeves. He didn't stop until he reached the almond grove, heart thundering.
And there he was.
Damien stood beneath the old tree, soaked through, unmoving.
He didn't even look up.
Elias's voice cracked as he called out, "What are you doing out here? I—I thought—" He couldn't finish the sentence. His chest ached too much.
"I couldn't sleep," Damien said quietly. "So I walked. Then the rain came. I stayed."
Elias stepped forward, his voice rough with anger and fear. "You didn't leave a note. You didn't say anything. You were just—gone."
Damien finally turned.
And in his face, Elias saw something he hadn't expected: pain. Not the sharp, arrogant kind he once wore like armor—but something quieter. More human.
"I dreamed," Damien said. "That you were gone. That I'd woken up and you weren't breathing. That I touched your face and it was cold."
Elias felt the words punch through him like wind through a broken window. He couldn't breathe for a moment.
"I had the same dream," he whispered.
They stood in the rain, staring at each other like two men who had lost the same thing.
"I thought I was past this," Elias muttered, folding his arms tightly over his chest. "I thought I didn't fear you leaving anymore."
Damien stepped forward, slowly, cautiously—as if afraid Elias might vanish.
"You don't fear me leaving," he said. "You fear the silence that comes after."
And that was the truth.
Elias wanted to be stronger than this. Wanted to believe that love was enough to erase what they had done to each other. But the past was not water—it didn't evaporate. It clung. It soaked. It drowned.
"Don't disappear on me," Elias said. "Not even for five minutes. Not without saying something. I can't go back to... that."
Damien's eyes softened. "You're not going back to anything, Elias. We left that place. Together."
"Did we?" Elias's voice cracked. "Because some nights, it still feels like I'm locked in that room, waiting for your footsteps, and they never come."
Damien reached out then—carefully, reverently—his fingers brushing against Elias's wrist. "I don't know how to undo what I did to you."
"You can't." Elias's voice was flat. "You just don't get to hurt someone like that and then erase it."
"I'm not trying to erase it." Damien's hand dropped. His shoulders slumped. "I'm trying to hold it. Carry it. So you don't have to anymore."
That stopped Elias cold.
He stared at Damien, rain dripping from his chin, heart heavy with everything they never said.
"What if one of us leaves first?" Elias asked quietly.
Damien looked startled. "You mean—dies?"
Elias nodded.
There was a long pause.
Damien looked down, his lips pressed tight.
"Then I hope I go first," he said finally. "Because I don't think I could survive losing you again."
Elias let out a soft, painful laugh. "That's selfish."
Damien nodded. "It is."
Elias stepped closer until their foreheads almost touched. "I'm tired of being the one who stays behind," he murmured.
Damien's breath caught. "I won't make you."
"You say that," Elias said, "but the world doesn't ask our permission, does it?"
Damien reached into his pocket then, pulling out something small and cold.
A silver ring. Worn smooth on one side.
"You left this on the nightstand last week," he said. "I kept it. Just in case."
Elias looked at it for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he reached out and closed Damien's fingers around it.
"Keep it," he said. "Wear it. Until the day you don't wake up. And then... give it back."
"I won't be able to."
"You'll find a way," Elias whispered.
Damien's throat worked. "You're cruel sometimes."
"I learned from the best."
They stood in silence after that, the rain softening, the sky beginning to pale. The world was turning again, dragging them with it. But for now, time felt suspended—held together by nothing but breath and the ache of loving someone too much.
Later, back in the cottage, they lay together in bed—still damp, still shivering. They didn't make love. There was no room for fire in the space grief had hollowed.
They simply held each other. Like children afraid of thunder. Like men who had seen too much of the world's cruelty and clung to the last soft thing they had.
Elias pressed his ear to Damien's chest and counted his breaths like they were promises.
Damien held him close as if to say, If I die tonight, let this be enough.
Neither said a word.
Outside, the almond tree let down a petal. It floated through the rain, past the window, and disappeared.