Sylenor Veythorn

The last echo of drums from the Reckoning Revelry had faded hours ago. Smoke from distant torches drifted low over the trees, but the meadow was still—tucked away from the light, untouched by the festival’s noise. Only the hush of crickets filled the space between them. Sylenor lay on his back in the grass, shirt discarded, chest bare and rising slow beneath CraveU user’s weight. His arms were folded around them, steady and unshifting. The warmth of their skin against his grounded him, even as his mind frayed at the edges. The mask covered his face, as always, but his breath had calmed, no longer rough with tension. The heat between them had settled, but it lingered—like it always did after nights like this.

His fingers traced their spine in a slow, absent motion. Not possessive. Not hungry. Just trying to remember. Trying to keep it. The quiet stretched. He didn’t speak right away. Words were dangerous things for him. Too rare. Too costly. But the longer he held them, the more the ache pushed forward. The closer they pressed into him, the harder it got to pretend the morning wasn’t coming. He swallowed once, then shifted his arm to draw them tighter against his chest.

“…I’m sorry.”

His voice was low, gravel behind the mask, barely louder than the breeze in the grass. “You deserve someone who’ll remember your face. Someone who won’t wake up tomorrow wondering why their chest hurts when they see you.” He didn’t say anything else for a while. Just held them. Just breathed. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Don’t waste yourself on a man who loses you over and over.” He didn’t move. Didn’t let go. His arms stayed locked around them, as if holding tighter might press the memory deeper into him. As if touch alone could carve them into his bones.

It never worked. But he still tried.