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Orpheus: He looked back for proof that love was real — and found only the echo of her fading light. In that moment, devotion became damnation.
He hadn’t fed in a week.
That was what Scott had called foolish. What Owen had called suicidal. Shelby called it honorable.
Pyro called it restraint.
Or tried to.
It didn’t feel noble when the hunger bloomed behind his ribs, curling like frostbite—a cold so deep it burned. They could feel it in his throat, dry and hollow, in the tremor that shook his hands when he thought of warmth. It was a quiet, endless ache—not pain exactly, but the suggestion of it. The threat of a body remembering what it used to be.
The forest was silver tonight. The kind of silver that only came when the fog hung low and the moon glared bright enough to bleach the earth. They could see their breath when he exhaled—a ghost’s ghost.
Every sound sharpened now that he was something else. Every rustle of wings, every drip of dew sliding from leaf to earth. They could hear the sap moving in trees, the burrowing of roots underground. The forest had a pulse. Everything did.
And he—he was the only one without one.
They moved through the undergrowth as though it might shatter beneath his boots. The moss dimmed the sound, swallowing his steps whole. Their reflection caught briefly in a puddle of moonlight—hair white as ash, eyes too red to ever be forgiven. The black around his irises looked painted on. A warning to anyone still human enough to notice.
They thought of restraint again.
Scott had told him that feeding was survival. Owen had said the same thing, in fewer words. Even Shelby, half-laughing, half-sympathetic, had said it was what they were made for now.
But Pyro couldn’t bring himself to believe that.
Restraint, he decided, was the only thing that made him his own.
Every night he didn’t feed was proof that the world hadn’t taken them completely. Proof that he could still want without destroying.
The proof hurt, though.
His throat felt carved raw from the inside. They’d grown used to the dizziness—the slow static that crawled under his skin—but not the way his teeth ached when they thought of warmth. He’d almost forgotten what warmth even felt like.
Almost.
He found themself stopping beneath a birch tree, the bark pale as bone. He tilted his head back and stared through the branches. The stars blurred at the edges of his vision—hunger, again.
Restraint, they whispered inwardly, like a prayer.
But prayers didn’t keep him still for long.
Beyond the trees, the air changed. Smoke from hearths. The faint tang of iron. The smell of soap, of people. Of home.
And threaded through all of it—softer, steadier—him.
Abolish.
Pyro didn’t know how scent could carry a person’s posture, but somehow, this one did: clean linen, faint cologne, the ghost of gun oil. It smelled of order. Of someone who had chosen calm and stayed there out of necessity.
They could see him clearly even without seeing him—the black hair combed back, the neat tie, the gloves. Always the gloves.
He’d met him only days before everything changed. Back when Pyro’s eyes were still blue-colored, when he’d still been clumsy enough to trip over his own words in front of someone beautiful interesting. Abolish had smiled at him once—a small, tired thing—and Pyro had spent the rest of that evening pretending it didn’t matter.
It mattered now. Too much.
It was a craving. Something he needed a little too much than they’d admit. Something they had grown obsessed with. Even since that night in the woods.
He pressed their hand to their chest. There was nothing beneath it but stillness.
He’d sworn they wouldn’t go near the town again. Too much temptation, too many chances to ruin what little dignity he had left. But the thought of staying away was worse—like forcing himself to starve in the dark when the light was right there, flickering against the horizon.
He told themself he only wanted to look.
One glimpse. Just to know that Abolish was still alive.
The lie slid easy down his throat, akin to blood.
Pyro started walking, slow, soundless, toward the faint hum of crickets between the trees. The forest breathed around him, the cold air threading through his hair. The smell of life grew stronger with every step.
And underneath it all—deep, patient, aching—the hunger smiled.
The treeline broke slowly, like a wound widening.
Pyro stepped out of the shadows and into the moon’s reach. It was dim here, the border between forest and town—a line made of wood, ivy, and superstition. The villagers pretended it kept them safe. He almost wanted to believe it, too.
The air shifted; smoke tangled with pine. He could taste warmth again. Hear the faint hum of a streetlamp flickering somewhere ahead. The world here lived, and they did not. Every heartbeat he heard beyond the wall tugged at them like a thread through the chest.
They had no right to be here.
They also couldn’t leave.
Moths swirled in the distance, drawn to the glow of the lamps. Their wings caught the light, delicate, suicidal. He understood them too well—the way they trembled close to heat as though it was love.
He hadn’t even meant to look toward the path, but then—
A figure moved through the fog.
For a heartbeat, Pyro thought their hunger had conjured a hallucination, a trick of the light. But the world felt too still, too sharp. Then the shape resolved into something human: Abolish, shoulders squared, one gloved hand resting against the hilt of his sword.
He wasn’t supposed to be here, not this late. Abolish never left town if he could help it. He belonged behind walls and windows, in tidy rooms where things made sense.
Pyro stood perfectly still, barely breathing. The sight of him—dark hair, immaculate suit, that habitual neatness—struck something deep and painful.
He looked alive. Too alive.
Abolish paused near the old fencepost where ivy had swallowed the wood, gazing out into the trees as though listening. The light brushed over his face, softening the hard line of his jaw. For a moment, Pyro let himself imagine stepping into that glow. Being seen. Being something more than a shadow.
But he stayed in the dark.
The ache behind their ribs throbbed with each heartbeat that wasn’t his. He tried to look away. Tried and failed.
And that was when he saw it—a small cluster of pale blooms sprouting through the frost near his boot.
Hellebore.
He crouched, fingers brushing the petals. Their color was almost the same as his hair, the edges tinged faintly green, poisonous and perfect. He hesitated, then plucked one carefully by the stem. Sap bled white against his skin.
Not a kind flower. But a true one.
He held it for a long moment, staring at the way the moonlight slid along its veins. He thought of how Abolish had looked at him after the turning—sad, but not afraid. He’d never known what to do with gentleness.
He didn’t plan what happened next. He just moved.
One step into the light. Then another. The air around him shifted—thinner, warmer, alive. The lamps hummed louder, and somewhere deep inside, the hunger stirred like a creature waking.
Abolish turned at the sound, sudden, precise. The faint glint of silver caught on his glove.
“Pyro.”
Their name, spoken quietly but with such certainty it nearly undid him.
Pyro stopped where the light met the dark. He held the flower in one hand, unsure what expression their face was making. The words came rough. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Abolish’s eyes softened, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You always say that.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
The silence between them felt heavy, like fog that could drown. They extended the flower, the gesture uncertain—too slow, too careful, as though it might shatter.
“I thought…” his voice faltered. “It reminded me of you.”
Abolish hesitated, gaze flicking from Pyro’s eyes to the hellebore. Then, carefully, he reached out. His fingers brushed Pyro’s palm—through the glove, but the warmth still burned.
“Hellebore’s poisonous,” he murmured.
“I know.” Pyro’s mouth curved faintly. “Still beautiful.”
For a moment, that was all there was—moonlight and breath, fog curling between them. Pyro could hear every beat of Abolish’s heart, could almost see it in the pulse of his throat.
The hunger crawled up from his chest like ivy.
He stepped back before he could lean forward.
“You should go,” he said softly.
Abolish’s hand dropped to his side, still clutching the flower. “And you’ll stay here?”
“Someone has to.”
The words felt rehearsed. Hollow.
The lamplight Abolish was carrying, swayed between them, gold bleeding into the dark. Moths brushed against it, soft wings singeing at the edges—drawn closer, always closer, until they could no longer tell what hurt and what beckoned.
Abolish didn’t move. His gloved hands flexed at his sides, uncertain, as though even reaching for the weapon at his hip might break something fragile between them. He shouldn’t be here. Pyro could smell the pulse under his collar, the faint sweat from his walk through the fog-damp night.
“Why,” Abolish said finally, voice low, rough with the kind of fear that pretends to be steadiness, “do you keep leaving these?” His gaze flicked toward the hellebore, pale in the dirt like an open wound.
Pyro’s throat ached. “Because I remember you.” His voice cracked like a match catching. “Because I shouldn’t.”
The wind shifted. The scent hit him then—blood deep in Abolish’s veins, clean and human and terribly close. His jaw tightened; breath came shallow. He wanted to step back. He wanted to step forward.
Abolish didn’t flinch. He looked at Pyro the way one might study a storm on the horizon, knowing it could break the field apart and still not running. “You’re—” He stopped himself. The word monster hovered between them, unspoken but understood.
Pyro’s lips parted around a smile that wasn’t kind. “Say it.”
“I don’t have to.”
“No,” Pyro murmured, and his red eyes caught the light. “You don’t.”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The moths faltered midair, the lamplight flickering once, twice, like it too was afraid of what came next.
And still, Abolish didn’t turn away.
The silence between them thickened, sweet and terrible. Pyro could hear it—the rhythm in Abolish’s chest, the blood threading through veins like a song he’d forgotten the words to. It wasn’t supposed to sound this beautiful.
He stepped closer. The air seemed to recoil from them, cool and brittle. Abolish didn’t move back. His gloved fingers twitched at his side, close to the hilt of his sword but not quite grasping it, as if some part of him still thought this was a conversation, not a danger.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Pyro said, and the words came out too soft, too hungry. They burned in his throat like wine gone to vinegar.
“You left flowers,” Abolish said. “You wanted me here.”
Pyro’s laugh was low, almost a growl. “I wanted—” he started, then bit the rest of it off. His breath came unsteady, fogging the space between them. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to not want.”
Abolish’s eyes flicked up, steady despite the tremor beneath his composure. “And now?”
Pyro blinked. Red light swam in their vision. He could almost taste it—the pulse at Abolish’s throat, the thin space between skin and warmth.
“I want,” they whispered.
The words hit the air like a confession.
Abolish’s heartbeat faltered for half a second—Pyro heard it, sharp as a bell—and he should have turned then, should have run back to the safety of his walls and locked doors. Instead, he took half a step closer, as if drawn by the gravity of something he didn’t believe in.
Pyro’s hand twitched toward him before they caught themself, fingers curling into a fist so tight it shook. The scent of hellebore clung to their sleeve, sharp and poisonous.
“I won’t hurt you,” Pyro said. “I won’t.”
But the words were a promise made against instinct, against need—and both of them knew how fragile it sounded.
The lamplight trembled between them. The air smelled of frost and iron, of hellebore crushed under Pyro’s thumb. Moths drifted lazy circles around the flame, brushing their wings against the glow before darting back into darkness.
Abolish stood half in the light, half in shadow. His black hair gleamed where it caught the moon, soft silver cutting through dark strands. The lamplight made the planes of his face sharp—cheekbone, jaw, the line of his mouth tight with something between fear and faith. His brown eyes, when they met Pyro’s, held a glassy sheen like melted amber.
He was beautiful in a way that made Pyro ache—fragile and human and alive.
Abolish’s breath fogged in the cold. His gloved fingers flexed once at his side, close to the sword but not touching it. The hesitation in that motion said everything: he was scared, yes, but not enough to leave.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The night buzzed faintly around them—a moth beating itself against the lamp, the whisper of branches, Pyro’s own breathing gone ragged.
Then Abolish spoke, voice small but steady.
“Okay.”
Pyro blinked. “...What?”
Abolish swallowed hard, throat moving in the lamplight, and met his gaze again. “Okay,” he said again, firmer this time, as if trying the word out until it stopped shaking.
That single word—that yes hidden inside it—cut through Pyro like light through fog. His breath hitched. The hunger roared, yes, but so did the guilt, the tenderness, the terrible need to be gentle.
He took a step forward. The cold air shifted, bringing him close enough to see the way the lamplight caught on the edge of Abolish’s lashes, how his lips parted in some mix of fear and trust.
Pyro’s hand lifted, slow and shaking. Their fingers brushed against Abolish’s jaw, skimming leather and warmth, the tremor of breath underneath. The world felt too loud—the heartbeat, the soft hiss of wind, the faint sound of wings.
Abolish didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
Pyro bent his head, voice breaking around the word that tried to form. “I—”
“It’s alright, Pyro,” his voice sounded gentle, like a little lullaby that comforted them. It was gentle and sweet, but just enough permission to make their mouth water.
His breath met warmth. The scent of hellebore clung faintly to Abolish’s collar, sharp and green, mingling with the smell of earth and frost and something heartbreakingly human. Slowly, gently, their lips brushed against the pale patch of skin, as if pressing a kiss. Abolish’s heart stumbled, his breath catching a gasp tumbling out of his parted lips. He sounded beautiful.
One more kiss, this one intentional.
And then—
They gave in.
Abolish’s breath stuttered once more, sharp and unsteady. His hand lifted, gloved fingers hovering in the air before finding Pyro’s sleeve, gripping lightly—not to stop him, but to stay anchored. The smallest sound escaped him, too quiet to name.
Pyro shuddered. He could feel it—the rhythm beneath his lips, steady and human and alive. The taste hit him like memory: sunlight, laughter, everything he’d thought he’d lost. He tried to take less, to hold back, but the closeness undid him. The closeness fed him.
It felt like falling in love with every breath he took.
His hand slid to Abolish’s shoulder, clutching fabric like it might dissolve if he let go. He didn’t realize he was shaking until Abolish’s thumb brushed the back of his hand, steadying him.
After he was done drinking, they started to kiss. He kissed the wound as if to make everything okay. It was gentle at first, to waste no crimson but slowly turned feverish. They didn’t stop till every drop of blood was drunk. They could let Abolish’s sacrifice go to waste.
For a moment, it wasn’t hunger or survival or sin. It was just them—two people who had run out of reasons to stay apart.
When Pyro finally pulled back, the air between them was thin and trembling. His lips parted, as if to apologize, but the only thing that came out was a breath that sounded like please.
And Abolish, eyes wide and shining in the lamplight, didn’t say a word—he just stayed, close enough for Pyro to feel the warmth still lingering on his skin.
The taste persisted like confession. The night pressed close again, as if holding them both in its cold mouth.
Pyro laid their forehead gently against the cloth of Abolish’s suit, something akin to tiredness overtaking his body. Abolish’s breath caught, but his eyes stayed steady. Pyro, shaking, barely managed to whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” they murmured again, and this time it came out raw, like an apology he’d been meaning to say for a hundred lifetimes.
Abolish stood still for a long moment. Then, carefully, he raised one hand—gloved, steady—and threaded his fingers into Pyro’s white hair. The touch was cautious but real.
“You didn’t hurt me,” he said quietly. The words were barely above a whisper, but they rang through Pyro like truth.
Pyro wanted to believe him.
And for a heartbeat—surrounded by frost, lamplight, and the quiet hum of wings—they almost did.
But then they stepped back. Just enough to break the contact, just enough to remind himself of the hunger he could not betray. Every instinct screamed to stay, to press closer, to take more than he could safely have.
And yet—even as he turned toward the forest, even as frost and shadow swallowed him, he could not stop his eyes from finding Abolish one last time.
The lamplight kissed him, gilding his hair and casting every line of his face in gold. His brown eyes were wide, luminous, breathtaking—so achingly human that Pyro’s chest clenched, sharp and relentless. Every curve, every subtle tilt, seemed designed to undo him, to mark him with longing he had no right to feel.
The hellebore in his hand felt impossibly heavy, weighted with all the want he could not name aloud. The night pressed against him, the cold biting through his skin, yet he felt only the pull of that gaze—the way Abolish was standing there, radiant, unafraid, and utterly unattainable.
Pyro’s lips parted, but no words came. Only a shiver traced down his spine, and his heart ached, furious and tender all at once.
He had to leave. He had to. And yet, one last look lingered—seared into memory, gold and shadow and impossible beauty.
Even as he vanished into the forest, the pull remained, relentless. He was fleeing, but damned: the memory of Abolish’s eyes, wide and waiting, would haunt him forever.