Chapter Text
╭══════ ❈✧❈ ══════╮
Chapter 1: Pain
╰══════ ❈✧❈ ══════╯
┕━━━━━━━╗✹╔━━━━━━━┙
✧˖°. Crickets sang softly in the moonlit fields outside their modest wooden house. The world had settled into the hush of the small hours, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as though it were waiting for dawn. In the distance, a few lanterns flickered on stakes, illuminating the garden where green leaves of vegetables swayed in the cool night air.
Inside the little house, a single candle burned faintly. It was more ornamental than functional, fitted with a crystal so that Ifa could channel a small wisp of Pyro energy to keep the flame steady. The glow traced the walls in a soft orange hue, accentuating the collection of stuffed animals atop a wooden shelf, tokens of Ifa’s profession and the strays he had rehabilitated. Usually, that cosy lamplight created a sense of comfort and belonging, a promise that everything within those walls was safe, cherished, and loved.
Tonight, that promise felt stretched thin for one of the home’s occupants.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. Ororon lay in bed, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Pain coursed through his body in rhythmic waves, starting in his chest, flaring up in his shoulders, and radiating into his arms and back. He had grown used to a dull, ever-present ache an unwelcome companion since he was little but the intensity he felt tonight was beyond his usual threshold. A film of sweat clung to his skin despite the coolness of the night air.
He willed his breathing to remain even. Ifa, after a long day of treating animals from the clan’s stables and travelling caravans, was asleep on the other side of the bed. Ororon could just make out Ifa’s silhouette beneath the sheets, rising and falling with every soft breath. His partner was so tired that he didn’t even twitch at the faintest of noises.
I can handle this, Ororon told himself, pressing a trembling hand against his burning side. I always do.
His mind circled back, to the fact that his “damaged soul” couldn’t filter pyro-based energy phlogistic, as the healers of old had once called it the way a human ’s soul did. According to the tribe that had raised him, those blackened streaks on his arms and torso were proof that the flow of energy in him was cursed, corrupt, or dangerous. It certainly made him dangerous in their eyes, and he had grown up under their fearful gazes and hushed whispers.
Ifa had once called those scorched lines “freaking badass,” comparing them to the tribal tattoos some of his own clan wore proudly, lines of swirling ink that denoted their skill, rank, or personal journeys. Ororon had almost broken down crying when Ifa said that; he had never heard anyone refer to a sign of his presence on earth other than a curse. That moment remained etched in Ororon’s mind as a turning point, a sign that maybe he could be more than a failed offering.
Tonight, though, that feeling was all but buried under pulsing, throbbing agony. Usually, the pain stayed manageable, subdued to an ache with special teas and rest. But every few months, it surged, as though all the withheld suffering demanded to be felt at once. Tonight was one such time, and it was relentless.
He tried to shift, to find a new position that might hurt less. A soft hiss escaped his lips. The motion sent a jolt of fiery ache through his side, and despite himself, Ororon let out a quiet sob. He froze, pressing his lips together, worried that Ifa might wake up. For a few terrible seconds, Ifa stirred, muttering in his sleep. A wave of guilt pressed down on Ororon’s chest, heavy and suffocating. He remained perfectly still until he was certain Ifa had sunk back into deeper sleep.
I should go outside. The thought arrived unbidden, accompanied by a pang of shame. He didn’t want to keep Ifa from sleeping. More than that, he didn’t want Ifa to see him like this shivering, sweaty, wracked with pain. Besides, Ifa worked too hard during the day. He deserved peaceful rest, free of Ororon’s own problems.
Determination rose through the ache, propelling Ororon to push aside the covers and carefully swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He took a moment to catch his breath, his forehead pressed to his knees. He could do it he could stand. He could walk. Slowly, he placed his feet on the wooden floor. The boards felt cold, but it was a welcome distraction.
His body screamed in protest with each movement, but he forced himself up, leaning heavily on the small bedside table for support. After a moment to steady himself, Ororon threw on his thin cloak around his shoulders enough to keep out the chill but not so heavy as to irritate his already sensitive skin. He tiptoed to the door, each step careful, measured, as though the quietness of his escape were the difference between life and death.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. Before he ventured outside, Ororon paused in the darkness of the hallway, leaning against the wall. Sweat coated his upper lip, and he wiped it away with a trembling hand. Pain aside, he couldn’t help but remember how different his nights used to be before meeting Ifa. In his youth, back when he still lived within the tribe that had raised him his so-called “family” he had no cosy home, no comforting light, no one who cared about his tears in the night.
He’d slept on thin pallets in huts with drifting, dusty air that reeked of mildew. Anytime the pain kept him awake, he faced it alone, pressing his fist against his mouth so no one would hear him cry. Often, the more superstitious members of the tribe would punish him just for being in pain, as though his very suffering were a willful act to bring misfortune upon them.
A memory surfaced: an elder with harsh eyes once forced him to spend an entire night outside in a storm, claiming his presence in the communal hut would taint the tribe’s new baby with a “broken spirit.” The biting wind and pelting rain had done nothing to quell the raging fire in his veins. If anything, it made it worse, body trembling and nerves flaring until he blacked out from the agony. When he woke, no one tended to him. They simply gave him a contemptuous glance and told him to keep it quiet.
He always came back to Citlali in the end. The others might glare or mutter behind his back, but no one dared do anything when he was next to her. The fear she inspired was like an impenetrable wall, keeping him out of their reach. Citlali never offered him the warmth of her home or kind words, but she always made him safe.
He shook the memory away. That was then. This is now. Ifa’s place was nothing like that. Still, old habits died hard.
Holding his breath to keep from crying out, Ororon opened the front door and slipped outside.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. A gentle breeze greeted him, carrying the scent of dew-kissed grass and distant blossoms. The small vegetable patch out front was Ororon’s pride and joy, though Ifa tended it just as much. Rows of lettuce, onions, carrots, and an assortment of medicinal herbs glistened with moonlight. Their leaves rustled softly as if encouraging Ororon to come closer.
He found his way to the centre of the patch, where a makeshift bench a plank of wood balanced on two sturdy rocks awaited him. He sat down slowly, teeth clenched to stifle a groan as his joints protested the movement. Once settled, he let out a shuddering breath.
Inhale… exhale… He repeated in his mind. Simple tasks grounded him and gave him a chance to regain a sense of control. This was a trick Ifa had taught him: focusing on something tangible, something small and manageable, to distract from the pain’s overwhelming waves.
Tonight, that tangible thing was weeding a small corner of the patch. He reached down to pull up a stray weed, wincing at the pull in his arms. Each weed he pinched and tugged free offered a tiny burst of satisfaction. It wasn’t enough to dull the pain entirely nothing but real medicine or rest could do that but it kept him present, and helped him focus on the here and now rather than the torment in his mind.
He lost track of time, immersed in this mechanical process. Pull, discard. Pull, discard. Yet the pain gnawed at him incessantly, an ever-present monster lurking in his bones. Eventually, his thoughts began to drift away from the garden and back to the past.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. Images flooded him: the night of the ritual, the chanting, the torches flickering in the oppressive darkness, the smell of incense so thick it made his stomach churn. He had been only thirteen or so, trembling in the centre of a circle formed by robed elders of the tribe. They claimed that sacrificing Ororon—the broken-souled one—would bring back the lost souls to the “Night Kingdom,” some revered place in their mythology.
He remembered Citlali standing guard with a clenched jaw, unwilling or unable to meet Ororon’s pleading gaze. She had been a figure of awe to Ororon she was everything Ororon wasn’t: strong, respected, free. Yet, when the day of the ritual arrived, Citlali's eyes held a flicker of guilt, as though she knew this was wrong but didn't feel the need to stop it.
The chanting had grown louder and faster, culminating in a final, shrill cry as the tribe’s chief raised a gleaming dagger supposedly blessed. But the blade never completed its arc. Something went wrong, the ground shook, and the energy swirling in the centre of the ritual circle erupted in chaotic bursts of pyro, scorching everyone nearby.
Ororon had been certain he was about to die. And, in truth, he would have been happy to. At least then, he could have helped his grandpas, finally been of some use to them.
The pain from the uncontrolled pyro surge was unimaginable, like molten lava pouring through his veins. He blacked out and later woke to find the tribe’s sacred grounds in disarray. The ritual had failed. If anything, it had backfired, leaving Ororon’s body partially burned by the pyro energy. His soul, as it turned out, truly was incompatible with standard methods of channelling energy but the damage extended beyond him, costing the tribe their prized relics, their makeshift altar, and in the chaos, the life of many.
In the aftermath, Ororon’s sense of worthlessness only deepened. I should have died there, he often thought. He told himself he would have gladly given his life if it meant helping others...
And now, here he was, years later, still haunted. The black patches on his torso and arms were a daily reminder of it. He’d only found a measure of healing once he left that tribe behind—no longer able to endure their glares or condemnation. By some twist of fate, or by divine grace, he stumbled into Ifa’s clan’s territory. Ifa discovered him, half-starved and in pain, while he was out gathering herbs for the stable animals. Their story began there, with an unexpected act of kindness.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. A pained smile escaped Ororon’s lips as he remembered how Ifa had greeted him back then: “Bro, you look like you just got hit by life on hard mode.” It was such a strange, casual way to address someone clearly on the brink of collapse, yet it made Ororon feel oddly at ease. Ifa had rummaged through his satchel for medical supplies, gently examining Ororon’s injuries. He was surprisingly gentle for someone who used such brash slang. That day marked the first time Ororon had experienced gentle, undemanding care.
They formed an unspoken bond during his recovery; Ifa’s clan didn’t judge Ororon for his disfigurements or painful episodes. At worst, some of them were a bit wary, but none of them insisted on banishing him. Ororon eventually found a niche helping Ifa with daily chores, learning to care for animals, and assisting in the vegetable patch. Over time, that practical partnership blossomed into friendship, and from there, into something deeper a quiet love that defied Ororon’s ingrained belief that he was unworthy.
And now here he was: Ororon, caretaker of carrots and lettuce, Ifa’s boyfriend (though Ororon still felt a rush of disbelief every time that word crossed his mind), and perpetually worried that he was a burden.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. Ororon lowered his hands from the plants. His lungs felt constricted, as though his rib cage was too tight to allow a proper breath. The pain in his side still flared, relentless, but a new ache bloomed in his chest a familiar sorrow, an new regret. “Capitano…” he whispered into the stillness. “You’d be alive if I had just managed to fix the leylines…”
He stopped, not wanting to give voice to the darkest corners of his thoughts. Capitano was gone, and no amount of wishing would change that. Whether the ritual had succeeded or failed, fate had carved out this path for Ororon, leaving him to live on, raw with guilt and scars. He shut his eyes, letting the tears gather behind closed lids, refusing to let them fall. It was too cold a night for tears; they would burn on his cheeks as they always did.
Sometimes, on nights like these, he feared that all of them had been right, that he was a cursed being who brought misfortune to anyone close to him.
“What if I hurt Ifa too?” The question tumbled from his lips into the stillness of the garden. He had voiced it countless times in his darkest thoughts. Ifa was so bright, so full of life what if my damaged soul tainted him too?
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. He didn’t hear Ifa approach; the rustle of leaves in the night muffled the veterinarian’s footsteps. When Ifa spoke, Ororon nearly jolted out of his skin.
“You, uh, do realise it’s, like, the middle of the night, right?” Ifa’s voice was soft, deeper than usual, as though he was doing his best not to startle Ororon. Despite that effort, Ororon’s heart still jumped.
He turned slowly to see Ifa standing a few paces away, wearing only loose pants and a light jacket he must have grabbed in a hurry. His hair was tousled, his face etched with concern. In his hands, he held a thick, warm blanket, the kind they kept folded at the foot of the bed for colder nights.
“Ifa,” Ororon whispered, feeling an overwhelming mixture of guilt and relief. “I… thought you were asleep.”
“Yeah, I was… until I woke up to find you gone.” Ifa took a step closer, eyes scanning Ororon’s posture, the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t close the distance all the way but offered the blanket as though bridging an invisible gap. “And then I heard you out here, maybe about to pass out from the pain. Seriously, dude, you can’t keep doing this.”
Without waiting for a response, Ifa carefully draped the blanket over Ororon’s shoulders. The weight was comforting, and Ororon managed a weak smile of gratitude. Ifa’s fingers brushed the edges of the blanket, taking care not to press against Ororon’s skin. He knew that in these heightened episodes, even the gentlest contact could be agony.
“I’m sorry,” Ororon said, voice trembling. “I… didn’t want to bother you. I was too noisy.”
“Dude, hush.” Ifa’s expression wavered between annoyance and fierce protectiveness. “You think I can’t handle losing a bit of shut-eye? Seriously, I’d rather lose sleep than watch you do your lone-wolf emo act out here in the cold. Like, for real.”
The corners of Ororon’s lips twitched, trying to form a smile but failing. “I just… I hate feeling like this. And I hate you seeing me like this.”
“Well, that’s tough, because you’re stuck with me.” Ifa crouched down, rummaging in the small satchel he’d slung over his shoulder. He produced a tin box of painkillers and a thermos of tea. “Here. Trust me, it’s hot like, scald-your-tongue hot. So be careful.”
“Thank you,” Ororon mumbled, taking the items with shaky hands. The painkillers rattled in their container. He removed two tablets and popped them into his mouth, washing them down with a careful sip of the tea. Steam curled around his face, and the sweet smell of honey comforted him. Ifa always made sure to add honey because Ororon preferred the taste it cut through the bitterness of the herbs. “You… you’re always so prepared.”
“Hey, I read the script on being a green flag, apparently,” Ifa joked lightly, but his gaze betrayed genuine worry. “In all seriousness, though, we gotta talk about the whole sneaking-around-your-pain thing. It’s not it.”
Ororon lowered the thermos, clasping it between his hands to keep them steady. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just… you work all day. You’re always exhausted. I don’t want to add to that.”
Ifa let out a short laugh, but there was no real mirth in it. “Bro, your well-being isn’t some side quest. You’re literally, like, my favourite person. If I have to handle a few more midnight wake-up calls, that’s fine. NBD.”
A wave of emotion rose in Ororon’s chest—gratitude, relief, and guilt all tangled together. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to come.
Ifa broke the silence by reaching out, then pausing mid-motion. He seemed to remember Ororon’s sensitivity and dropped his hand back to his side. “You good? Can I-- uh, never mind. You’re in too much pain for contact, right?”
Appreciation flooded Ororon’s eyes. “Yeah… sorry. It just… hurts.”
“Don’t apologise, dude. I get it.” Ifa pulled back, settling onto his heels so that he was at eye level with Ororon. “Any chance we can get you inside? Or do you need a minute to chill here, among your vegetable crew?”
Ororon blinked, uncertain. He was torn between wanting to stay in the open air which sometimes helped ground him and the knowledge that Ifa was right: the night was cold, and he was already feverish from the pain. But standing again seemed like a Herculean task, given the stabbing sensation that came every time he shifted.
“I might just stay for a little while,” Ororon admitted, voice hushed. “I’m… sorry.”
Ifa snorted softly. “You keep apologising, and I’m gonna start fining you one more each time. You’re not doing anything wrong, babe.”
Babe. The word still made Ororon’s heart flip, though Ifa had used it plenty of times. It was so casual and affectionate, everything Ororon’s old life lacked.
He took another sip of tea, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasant warmth that travelled down his throat. The painkillers weren’t immediate, but the knowledge that they’d soon begin to work gave him hope. He let out a shaky breath, then forced his eyes open to look at Ifa.
“Thank you,” he said softly, voice cracking. “For staying.”
Ifa’s expression softened. “Duh. You’re kinda my entire world, so… yeah, I’m not going anywhere.”
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. They lapsed into a gentle quiet. Ifa remained at Ororon’s side, watchful, while Ororon busied himself by nursing the tea. Minutes passed. The breeze picked up, rustling Ororon’s blanket and carrying the scent of freshly turned soil. He felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, as though his body had used up every reserve just to stay upright.
“Let’s get you inside,” Ifa murmured. “We can keep the window open if you need fresh air.”
Ororon nodded, more than ready to lie down. But when he moved, his knees buckled. A jolt of agony in his side made him gasp, and darkness momentarily threatened to creep in at the edges of his vision. He felt Ifa’s steady hand brush against his back not pressing too hard, just guiding.
“It’s okay,” Ifa said softly, voice calm. “I got you. Just one step at a time, yeah?”
Ororon sucked in a breath, nodded, and tried to move. The world swam for a moment. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, and the chills made his teeth clatter. Despite the cold, his cheeks felt feverishly warm. One foot in front of the other. He repeated the motion, leaning more heavily on Ifa than he intended, but Ifa didn’t complain or withdraw. He just muttered gentle encouragements.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. They barely made it inside when Ororon stumbled again. Ifa moved quickly, hooking a gentle arm around Ororon’s waist without pressing too hard. But Ororon’s entire body went limp, a soft groan escaping his lips as his knees gave out.
“Babe?” Ifa’s voice caught in his throat, alarm creeping into each single syllable. He eased Ororon down, guiding him to a seated position on the floor. Ororon’s head lolled against Ifa’s shoulder.
“S-sorry,” Ororon managed, though the sound was faint, slurred by exhaustion and pain.
Ifa cradled the back of Ororon’s head. He spoke softly, as though to not scare him. “Shh. You’re good. Just rest, okay? We can sit here as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” he croaked. It was all he could manage, but in that pair of words, he poured every drop of gratitude he felt.
Ifa gave a shaky laugh, relief mingling with concern. “Anytime, babe.”
A moment later, Ororon’s body slumped further. He didn’t so much fall as gently tilt until his weight rested fully on Ifa. A wave of panic shot through Ifa as Ororon’s eyes rolled back, but then he realized it wasn’t a seizure or anything that dire Ororon had simply passed out from the intensity of the pain and the exhaustion that followed.
Ifa released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Carefully, he hooked one arm under Ororon’s knees and the other around his shoulders, making sure not to press against those blackened patches of burnt skin. Even in the faint light of the living room lamp, Ifa could see the sheen of sweat on Ororon’s forehead, the lines of tension carved around his closed eyes.
“Yeah, you’re, like, super warm,” Ifa muttered to himself, brows knitting in concern. “Kind of freaky, but okay.”
He slowly pushed himself to his feet, steadying Ororon’s limp form with practised care. This wasn’t the first time Ifa had carried him, though it was the first time in a while that Ororon had collapsed so dramatically. Ifa’s heart clenched at the memory of the earlier nights, during Ororon’s first few months here, when pain flares were more common.
“You’re good,” Ifa whispered, more to reassure himself than Ororon. “I got you.”
Despite Ororon’s slight frame, Ifa still had to be cautious bad posture or a wrong angle could inadvertently press on a sore spot. He recalled the time he’d accidentally brushed a burn scar on Ororon’s back, making him yelp in pain. The memory still stung. So he moved slowly, step by careful step, making his way to the small bedroom they shared. Gently, he nudged the door open with his hip, then manoeuvred toward the bed.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
✧˖°. With painstaking gentleness, Ifa lowered Ororon onto the mattress. Ororon’s head lolled to one side, his lips parted in shallow breaths. Up close, Ifa could see the subtle flush spreading across Ororon’s cheeks and forehead he was definitely feverish. Even after all these years, the pyro energy in Ororon’s body seemed to flare uncontrollably at times, raising his temperature and causing localised burn-like sensations.
Ifa pulled the blankets aside and carefully tucked them around Ororon, leaving some space near his torso and arms so the fabric wouldn’t press too tightly on the damaged skin. Then he grabbed the small cloth from the bedside table, dipped it into a bowl of cool water he kept there for emergencies, and gently dabbed at Ororon’s forehead.
“You seriously worry me sometimes,” he murmured, his voice trembling with concern he couldn’t quite hide. “Like, can’t you just… let me help from the start?”
He sighed, placing the damp cloth on Ororon’s brow. Ifa was a caretaker by nature, he had a knack for healing animals, after all and it cut him deeply to see Ororon suffer in silence. He remembered the first time Ororon had allowed him to see a pain episode up close. There had been tears (mostly from Ifa) and a misunderstanding that nearly ended with Ororon running away. It took months of reassurance for Ororon to understand that Ifa truly didn’t mind looking after him, that he genuinely wanted to share that burden.
Even so, Ororon still had nights like this, nights where he’d rather slip outside and endure alone. Ifa clenched his jaw. I hate that tribe for doing this to him. For making him feel like this is something he has to hide.
Ifa lightly brushed his hand over Ororon’s hair, mindful not to tug on any knots or sensitive areas. He breathed in, trying to calm his racing heart. The night had been quiet before, but now it seemed too still as if waiting for something to happen.
A lamp glowed on the bedside table, casting a warm halo of light. Ifa watched Ororon’s chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. He’s stable, just knocked out, Ifa reassured himself. He’ll wake up sore, but at least he’ll have some rest.
☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·