Chapter Text
“Why are you so surprised?”
Eruhaben, a person Roksu must constantly yell at himself mentally because he keeps forgetting that the old man is, in fact, a dragon.
A petty, bothersome, arrogant, caring, wise, and powerful dragon that, at a moment’s notice, can annihilate anyone and anything with a single, unbothered snap of a finger.
And yet, how could he not think of him as anything else when his every action around Roksu just reminds him of a stereotypical asian father?
Like stars in the endless vast expanse of space, his knowledge is immeasurable. That knowledge, surprisingly enough, does not include understanding the workings of a thermometer.
On the unoccupied space of Roksu’s Emperor Size bed, is a meticulously organized mess of items. Trinkets only seen used by old, scammy engineers that double charge you for problems you never asked to get fixed lay sprawled out atop a golden sheet, inexpertly sorted to resemble oversimplified hangeul with a touch of modern companies’ logo designer magic.
Simply put, utter chaos covered up by a bruised and aged ego.
Roksu should just be glad that Eruhaben wasn’t thinkering in his dragon form like last time.
Because, in his vein attempt to reverse engineer an air conditioner with the goal of upgrading it using that magical draconic spice, he accidentally, and within Roksu’s expectations, turned the whole thing into dust.
The worst part of the accident wasn’t the fact that Roksu’s bedroom was covered in dust, no, that part was easily navigated via the power of co-parenting. It was the fact that his king sized bed somehow got caught in the crossfire.
Roksu was reading a book about philosophers on the ultimate throne he calls his bed, then he became a Greek philosopher himself, seated upon a dusty old throne (literal) yet his mind enlightened and new, set upon a path to seek self righteousness away from the hands of his self proclaimed father numero dos.
That path he walked diverged from the start, but slowly managed to heal and merge into one yet again once Eruhaben finally learned to control his new-found strength.
And committed bribery.
A small case of kidnapping too.
It took one night and half a breakfast for Roksu, and the God of Death by proxy, to learn that dragons can indeed beg, in their own egotistical ways.
This was last week, mind you.
“Because you’re doing that thing, on my bed.”
Apparently, the reminder of that event was the last thing Eruhaben needed at the moment, because the circuit board in his hands snapped in two.
More dust on his bed. Great.
There is a visible vein on his forehead, a common sight yet terribly effective as a treatment for the illness known as ‘petty-firstborn-eyes’.
Roksu hears a cough from beside where he’s lying down, then a cool sensation creeps onto the pillow he’s been laying his head on, and a massive blanket bordering the line between cozy and hot drapes over him, likely to be Eruhaben’s caring attempt at restraining him to the bed.
“There is no mana on this bed at the moment, so you may cease your worries.”
Certainly reassuring, but what if the entire cave turns into dust this time around? It may be worth sticking around to find out, though, Roksu can’t really do anything else in the meantime.
From his peripheral, Eruhaben could be seen using mana to levitate another circuit board into his hands. So that was a bold-faced lie that Roksu’s just too caring to point out. Not because he didn’t want to imagine the vicious look on his face, no matter how much dopamine and satisfaction may doing so bring him, not at all.
It’s quite hard to move around freely under the watch of a visibly aggravated dragon. At times like these, Eruhaben kind of reminds Roksu of Rasheel, a similarly arrogant dragon, just, err…
…more troublesome.
He tried picking a fight with Eruhaben when the two first met.
He got his skull caved in by Eruhaben when the two first met.
He tried meeting with Roksu in secret after that.
He got his ass kicked to the neighboring mountain range after that.
Not the most promising track record, however, Eruhaben did note that he’s much more determined than most other dragons who tried picking a fight with him. Returning for seconds, and even thirds had never been common for his opponents, not even dragons.
Well, after his second run-back, Rasheel actually learned some humility and instead of insisting on borrowing Roksu, now he’s sending him gifts
Crows and a very petulant Eruhaben sometimes deliver him little key chains made from wood.
He even made some for Ohn, Hong, and Raon, earning himself a place in theirs and Eruhaben’s good graces. Not a life-time pass through their radars, unfortunately for Rasheel, but oftentimes it gives him just enough leeway to meet with Roksu once in a while.
Speaking of the chaotic trio.
Roksu struggles under the thick blanket, reaching for a phone that surely must be there. He always keeps it next to him as a habit, and surely enough…
It’s not there.
He struggles a bit more.
And a bit more.
And he somehow finds himself fully under the blanket to see underneath the shimmering golden surface, just to realize that it’s not there.
Roksu’s head pops out from under the blanket, and he’s met by Eruhaben’s amused smirk. Like his lizard brain is perceiving something especially humorous, which, first of all, is incredibly rude.
Second of all, it is incredibly unhelpful.
And third of all, it is the last thing he wants to see and is going to see for the rest of the day.
Eruhaben must’ve sensed that last thought with his impeccable fatherly instincts, since the grin is wiped clean off of his now grumbly face.
With astonishing precision and care, a phone, its case thoroughly decorated with angelic imagery courtesy of the God of Death, and a keychain with three faces attached, that of a red kitten, a grey cat, and a small, chubby black dragon.
‘Cute.’
Rasheel really should consider making this a job, considering the fact that he’s broke, practically homeless, and is living off of Eruhaben’s ‘keep-your-filthy-hands-away-from-my-child’ funds.
Keychains aside, Roksu unlocks his phone with habitual movements.
118.
Because only psychopaths and cowards use passcodes that aren’t their birthday.
His phone opens up to Messager, and his one blunder from earlier that morning is realized.
He should’ve closed all of the apps.
As if waiting patiently for the moment he’s online to ambush him, a coordinated four-point attack immediately pushes through his inbox’s poor defenses.
One from his group-chat with the three children. The others from each of their individual direct messages.
‘Why are they like this…’
He sighs, contemplating whether or not he should just put it on mute, deafen, Do Not Disturb, and the likes just to have another moment of post-somnia-clarity.
Then, just as suddenly and violently, notifications begin flooding through the poor speakers of yet another phone from nearby, Eruhaben’s phone.
And it’s that horrid default mechanical beep boops, tasteless and disgustingly standard, that gives him enough motivation to respond. Because he knew for a fact it’s the trio sending those messages as well.
Roksu also chooses to ignore that other indiscrete crackle that most likely came as the result of another circuit board getting snapped into two. Now, Roksu could either allow the children to continue with their bombardment, eventually leading to Eruhaben breaking another phone the same way he just broke those circuit boards, or give the old man some mercy.
He reluctantly chooses the latter, since having to explain spending half of a middle-class worker’s lifetime fortune on ten phones in the span of a single month to his bank gets pretty tiring the eleventh time around.
Roksu moves to the group chat, one labelled “Paladragons”, likely to be the result of Raon’s newest obsession as usual. The child likes to be on the internet, the same for his older siblings, and whenever he finds something he especially enjoys, that thing will be dragged through the fiery pits of hell of oversaturation and will be promptly ignored by Raon for the rest of time.
He just hopes that none of them ever touch a gacha game.
Roksu isn’t a trillionaire, his fathers are, but they decide to give him the money and let him buy things in his own name for them because they don’t know about online shopping and can’t be bothered to shop in person.
Unsurprisingly, they also do not properly understand the type of things children will do if they have enough money to buy an entire foreign planet.
God forbid the children ever learn of this fact, that their grandfathers are lazy bums that rely on Roksu for standard modernities, and the fact that his actual bank account theoretically holds more than the ten richest individuals combined.
To add insult to injury.
Apparently, the bank managing his and his fathers’ accounts are so afraid of the ancient beings that they basically left a clueless trainee to manage their lines.
Roksu could only hope that the trainee is being well-paid.
They make a great conversation partner, by the way, since whenever Roksu calls, that specific trainee will be the one to answer, resulting in them getting somewhat closer over time.
To the point where Roksu feels their, or rather, his voice is kind of familiar.
Though, the fact is also the same when Eruhaben or Death calls that line, and it usually devolves into annoyed, impatient cursing as the trainee drags himself through whatever process that they need resolving.
Like the pair of boomers they are.
Sometimes, he feels like a single father of three. Sometimes even more. He can’t really put his finger nor his mind on it, but the thought alone is enough to make his lower back cringe and spiritually fold into itself.
How the hell does he even feel back pain–?
Oh, whatever. He’ll just take some pain medication.
Actually.
Speaking of pain medication, Eruhaben had banned them from his lair a couple months back.
For reasons Roksu could not recall, weirdly enough. No matter, for he has his ways.
“Dad.”
Roksu calls for Eruhaben with a tone especially reserved for special persuasion checks like now.
It’s extremely effective!
His golden pupils narrow in onto Roksu’s, already understanding that something mischievous is being concocted and fermented in his mind, yet his mind fully attentive at the way he is called.
He awaits for Roksu’s next words as they enter his ears.
“Do you still have Advil?”
Eruhaben freezes to his spot.
‘Suspicious.’
His eyes are blown wide, comically so for the ancient being. As if a thousand thoughts are crossing his mind each passing second. The thoughts translate into words that escape his lips, yet his voice isn’t in any of them.
‘Incredibly suspicious.’
There’s sweat beginning to pool on his forehead, in a way impossible for anyone within Roksu’s room. The upgraded air conditioner was, in fact, successful, and has been blowing a consistent stream of perfectly tempered air like the romanticist’s twilight zone.
‘He’s hiding something.’
Never has Roksu seen Eruhaben so shaken before, especially in such a way.
Then comes his slow, calculated, but poorly executed response.
“I’ll grab some from my room.”
A confident, stoic, and typical of the ancient dragon response.
But the response is followed by him walking out of the room.
When describing Eruhaben, there is no such thing as simple walking. He strides with grace, with precision, and with utmost nobility and dignity. Even then, for someone as powerful as Eruhaben in his own lair, there is no need for walking.
Simple usage of his mana is enough to locate any item within the lair, and slightly less simple usage of his mana is enough to bring that item to him with ease.
‘He’s definitely hiding something.’