Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Why? 


Why did Spade have to get sick? Why couldn't he just last a little longer?


Chance cradled his baby in his arms as he choked back sobs, petting the bunny's ash colored fur gently. Spade had passed peacefully as Chance slept, thankfully, it was like he didn't want Chance to suffer even more than he already was. Chance was rocking, telling themselves 'This isn't happening' over and over. 
Chance carefully stood up, gently placing the bunny on the bed, staring, waiting for a movement. His mind was numb, their last will to live gone. He pulled their hair in front of his face, pulling until it stung, bringing him back to his senses. 

"I can't just leave you here bud..." He crouched down, petting the soft ears that no longer twitched from his touch. Chance didn't want to accept that their last friend had left him behind. Spade was all they had. All that was worth fighting his thoughts for. 

“He was tired of you. He died because you didn't try hard enough. You are worthless. You will be forgotten as you rot in hell. Spade never liked you.”

Chance's inner thoughts swarmed him, rubbing salt deeper into the wound. He glanced around the room, looking for options: for someone to save them, tell him it would get better, who would clear those thoughts. But there was no one. No one to stop him from drowning in that tub. No one to stop them from gouging a knife through his rapidly beating heart. No one.

Chance stepped outside onto his apartment's front porch, taking in a deep breath, walking past the overdue rent notices that were crammed in that wire door. He unlocked their car door and rummaged through the glove department, finding what he was looking for. A white and red box that read out 'Marlboro', his favorite cigarettes. They grabbed the lighter before throwing the key inside, hitting the leather seat as he shut the door. 

Walking back inside, they passed the bedroom, setting foot into the bathroom, and turning the faucet in the tub to their desirable temperature. It wasn't selfish to be comfortable, was it? "Lukewarm should do it..." they mumbled. He trudged back to the room where the bunny lay still, choosing to tuck him in a blanket with his favorite toy. "'m sorry I couldn't take better care of you," his voice wavered, "I hope I see you again." 

He didn't even bother to undress. Their clothes soaked up the water like a sponge, pajamas becoming slightly transparent. He couldn't decide on what to do so they just got everything he could. The gun, a knife, some pills, that ..razor blade. Chance, with shaky hands, grabbed the blade, twirling it in his fingers. The silence was deafening. 

slice. for Spade's death.

slice. for Chance's stupidity..

slice. for the overdue rent that the poor old lady landlord has been covering for him…

He paused.

Is it fair? Fair she'd have to find him?
Oh, they so hoped it wouldn't be her. She was too sweet. How selfish of him not to think of her.

slice. Another for not thinking.
And then some.

Chance swallowed a sob as he watched the water stain pink, washing away their deeds. 
After lighting a cigarette he carefully removed from the box, he took a drag. The smoke filled his lungs and circled around their head, filling the tiled room. Cigarette still in between his lips, they sank further into the water, inhaling another puff, releasing the grey smog into the air, watching as the vent sucked it up before closing his eyes. He threw the cigarette into the water, watching as it floated and spread its ash like a blooming flower.

Chance couldn't take the agonizing pain anymore.

It was going to get better. Wasn't it? 

He reached for those pills, that knife.

No.

No, that slow painful death was needed.

The gun, with his luck, probably wouldn't go off.

So, they cranked that pill topper off. The pills were meant for Spade. The pills Spade was never happy with taking.

And downed them.

He took that knife and...



and..?



For once, he was scared of dying.

What if this was a bad idea? Is it what Spade would have wanted?

“Yes. He would enjoy the thought knowing you couldn't be around.”
 
The knife dug into his chest, the skin billowing under the wet t-shirt, threatening to break and bleed.

With each thought, he pressed harder,

stabbing where his heart was racing.

Their blood stained his shirt, the water, and his mind.

With one final push, the knife was halfway through, a sickening sound echoed throughout those tiled walls.

Chance wept, scared out of his mind.

Were the pills working?

They were.
They struggled to breathe.
Struggled to convince himself he was ready.
Struggled to--

Loud blaring blasted through the Dreamsphere Head Quarters, the squires running into the room frantically checking where it was coming from in the Dreamsphere.

Right there on the big screen was a new dream.

It looked and seemed barren, save for a dead willow tree in the center. Its branches hung low, with no leaves to hide its structure. They all looked around confused, it had been centuries since a new dream popped up. What were they supposed to do?

Mafioso burst through the door. His aura straightening out the squires as they all sidestepped away from the screen. Mafioso calmly walked over and leaned in observing the screen then sighing. 
"Has anyone been there yet?" His voice silky as the question lingered.

"N-no, sir."

Mafioso pointed at the speaker and promptly demanded, "Set up a teleport there. Now."

The squire quickly nodded and got to work, frantically flipping switches and pressing buttons. 

Mafioso couldn't help but think of the significance of this event or as to why a new dream would appear after so long.
He tilted his fedora to get a better look. Noticing how odd it looked. 

Eunoia walked in, chirping. "Mafioso!"

He turned, lowering his fedora to shadow his eyes, "Boss."

"Explain."

"A new dream has set the off alarms. No one knows why it appeared. Rest assured we will be investigating swiftly."

Eunoia hummed, getting a closer look. She shrugged. "Find the source." 
She skipped away, patting Mafioso's shoulder. 

He sighed heavily, "Yes, boss."

Chance's head hurt. His body ached. How was that possible? Didn't he die?

He opened his eyes; a barren wasteland stretched far in front of him. He looked down, the scars littering his arms and one on his heart. He pulled down the suit jacket sleeve. 

He was back in his usual outfit, the classic sunglasses and fedora adorned on his head. They looked around, glancing up at the willow tree he had woken up from under. Dead like him. If this was his hell, then so be it. It's what they deserved after all.

The sound of wind brushing against the dead branches was loud, dirt kicking up. Chance turned, noticing a dark figure standing in the distance in front of what seemed to be a portal. He squinted, "Is that the Grim Reaper?" The figure approached them, his attire becoming more apparent. Dressed in a black coat with a large fur collar, pinstripe suit with sleek dress shoes. He was fancy, to say the least. It was hard to see his face from under the fedora's shade. 

"Is that the fucking mafia- what the fuck." Chance's blood ran cold as he scurried up the dead tree to his best abilities, his limbs feeling heavy. Mafioso walked with a purpose. 

"You." Mafioso glared at them as they sat in the tree. 

"Who? Me?" Chance pointed at himself, nervously laughing. 

"Who else?" Mafioso's sword glinted in the sunlight. "I advise you remove yourself from that decrepit tree, dreamwalker." 

"No thanks," he shrugged, "I think I'm quite fine up here thank you very much." He looked down, noticing how high they managed to climb. 

Mafioso grew impatient, radioing in his squires. They appeared quickly, running towards the tree and trying to shake down Chance.

Chance lost his balance and down he went, falling and landing on his chest in front of Mafioso's feet. He wheezed, winded from the fall and the impact directly on his diaphragm. Mafioso swiftly lifted him by the collar, the point of the sword slightly poking at Chance's abdomen. "You need to wake up and leave this place."

"I don't even know what this place is!" Chance clawed at the gloved hand holding him hostage in the air. 

"Wake up." Mafioso swiftly plunged the blade far into their abdomen, impaling them. Like a fountain, Chance coughed up blood, the metallic twinge making him feel sick. It hurt like hell. "I hate dreamwalkers." Mafioso cleaned his blade with a cloth before turning around and seeing Chance panicking a few feet away from him, alive and well, with no evidence of being impaled at all. Mafioso visibly looked taken aback, glancing at where his body was. Not even a blood stain remained on the dirt below them. Mafioso lunged forward, the freshly cleaned blade dirtied again as it slashed Chance. "Get out of this place!" Mafioso landed a final blow, severing Chance into 2 pieces. He panted, frustrated. 

"That really hurts." Chance ended up behind Mafioso again, a sweat drop rolling down his temple as he held his stomach, the burning sensation of being cut lingering. "Why aren't you waking up? All dreamwalkers wake up from being killed."

Chance scratched his jaw, "Maybe I'm not what you think I am."

And then it clicked. Chance couldn't wake up. Of course not. "I'm dead." 

"What?" Mafioso's stance loosened, his confusion apparent in his expression. 

"I have no way to wake up, I'm dead in my apartment..." 
The dream shifted, the sky darkening as Chance made the realization, realizing it worked, and this wasn't just a stupid fever dream. Chance crouched, holding his head, mumbling to himself. "'m actually dead... fuck fuck fuck-, this was not what I wanted..." he chewed his fingernails, his cuticles, anything to soothe him. The atmosphere changed, rain began to pour and the ground shook as Chance sobbed, not believing they actually went through with it. 

The dream was reacting. Reacting to his emotions. Mafioso quickly put two and two together. Chance was special, Chance was the event that spawned the dream. But why?

Hyacinths and pink carnations bloomed around Chance, spreading rapidly. The rain turned into a drizzle, light and refreshing. Chance lay there, sobbing into the fresh flowers. The smell of wet dirt and flowers rushed through Mafioso's nose as he watched this almost 6'-man cry. Into a bed of flowers. How odd. How could a dream shift from a desolate wasteland to an overgrown flower field. The willow tree was plentiful of white leaves, swaying in the wind. Just moments ago, it was dead.

A strange event indeed. Thought Mafioso. He'd never think of something like this happening. Mafioso dismissed the squires. They stepped around Chance, not batting an eye at the man on the floor. Mafioso could only watch as the dream swayed. A melody of sounds, from the flowers rustling, the leaves blowing, and the man weeping. How long was he going to cry? He was not about to wait for him to stop.

Mafioso promptly spun on his heel and made his way back to the portal, abandoning the guy he tried to kill but was unsuccessful. Why would a dead person be put in the dreamsphere? It made no sense. Mafioso needed to ask Eunoia some questions.

Chapter Text

A sharp knock echoed through the vast hall, shattering the stillness. Eunoia paused mid-pour, the stream of tea halting as her eyes snapped toward the sound that interrupted her rare moment of peace.

“Eunoia.”

Her expression tightened, though it vanished behind a practiced, polite smile as she opened the door to find Mafioso standing there, fedora tipped low over his eyes.

“Mafioso…” Her eye twitched.

“Interrupting something, boss?” Mafioso dipped into a mock bow, lowering himself to her level.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied, flicking the brim of his fedora with a flick of her finger, “just the most important part of my day.”

“Oops,” he muttered with a shrug, strolling inside and dropping into the chair across from hers as though he owned the place. Eunoia let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before gently closing the door behind him.

“So,” she said, sweeping back to her chair with deliberate grace, smoothing her dress as she sat. She lifted her teacup again, taking a sip while watching him with narrowed eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your oh-so-unexpected visit?”

Mafioso leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on her desk. “I need answers.”

“Answers to…?” She set her cup down with a gentle clink, though her tone made it clear she already knew what he was getting at.

“The dream,” he said, sitting back. “It isn’t natural. I was there when it changed.”

“Changed?” Her interest was visibly piqued.

“It reacts to that new arrival’s emotions,” he said, his voice low. “He’s connected to it somehow.”

Eunoia hummed thoughtfully and reached for another cup, pouring him tea with fluid elegance before sliding it across the table. Mafioso accepted it and drank without hesitation, unfazed by the bitterness.

“I believe I’ve seen—no, read—about something like this before,” she murmured, rising and drifting toward the tall bookcase lining the far wall. Mafioso watched her skim the spines until she landed on a thick volume coated in dust.

“Aha,” she said, turning around and blowing the dust off with theatrical flair. She flipped it open as she walked back, stopping at a yellowed page before placing it on the desk in front of him.

Leaning over his shoulder, she tapped an illustration at the center of the page. “There. A premonition from a psychic centuries ago. It speaks of a seed falling—growing into a dream, tethered to the soul of a so-called dreamwalker. Lucky or unlucky, depending on how he sees it.”

She ran her finger down the image, dust clinging to her fingertip. The sketch showed a tree with roots winding into the chest of a shadowy figure—symbolizing a life, and a dream, intertwined.

“So what you’re saying is… we cut down the tree and he’s gone,” Mafioso said, abruptly rising, nearly bumping into her.

“NO,” Eunoia snapped, stepping back. “That is not what I’m saying, Mafioso. I want tests. Observations. Not murder. If you lay a finger on that tree, I will personally end you—and you know how much I hate getting my hands dirty.”

She kicked him sharply in the shin. He winced but held back a yelp.

“Yes, princess,” he muttered, tipping his fedora. “We’ll start testing immediately.”

“I’m watching you, Mafioso.”

She stood with arms crossed as he exited, disappearing through a portal. Her glare lingered on the empty space he left behind.

“I swear,” she grumbled, “sometimes I wonder how I trust him at all.”

Eunoia turned to the wide window behind her desk, watching the last glimmer of the portal vanish. A thoughtful smirk played at her lips.

“Maybe it’s time I met this newcomer myself.”

Chance paced in tight circles, hydrangeas and poppies blooming wildly at his heels–as if mocking him. “If I'm really dead, was this supposed to be heaven? It doesn’t feel like heaven. If anything, it feels like a cruel joke. Why would pain still exist here? Wasn’t that the whole point of dying ?”

With a frustrated grunt, they dropped to the ground. The flowers closed in, curling into his hair, as if trying to pull him under. “Just breathe, Chance. This can’t be it… right?” Tiny lavender buds began to sprout in a perfect ring around them, framing their form like an ornate painting. They muttered, “There’s more out there—I haven’t seen it all yet. Maybe if I ask nicely, that big guy will let me explore…”

“ Who? ”

Chance jolted upright. In an instant, the lavender vanished, replaced by a burst of marigolds. “WHAT THE FUCK!” He hadn’t noticed Mafioso standing just feet away, silently observing. Mafioso gave a small eyeroll and clicked his tongue.

What caught their attention next were the drooping black lop ears now visible atop Mafioso’s head underneath the fedora. That… was new. But Chance ignored it.

“When did you get here?” he asked, scrambling to sit up.

Mafioso didn’t answer at first. His gaze swept across the strange terrain, noting how the once-empty space now pulsed with butterfly weed. “I came to retrieve you. We’re conducting investigations in this sector. Your interference would be… problematic.”

With no effort, he grabbed the back collar of Chance’s shirt and yanked them upright. “Investigations?” they echoed, brushing themself off.

“Yes,” Mafioso said flatly. “I need more information on how this dream functions. In case you’ve missed the obvious—you’re its creator.”

Chance blinked. “What?”

Mafioso stared at him. “What do you mean ‘what’? You haven’t noticed it changing with your emotions?”

“Ohhhh. Yeah, no. I don’t get it,” he admitted.

Turning his face skyward, Mafioso sighed. “Oh, so help me God…” Chance glared, arms crossed.

As Mafioso began walking toward the glowing portal, he noticed something curious: the flowers followed Chance with each step.

“Chance,” they said, not turning around.

“What?”

“My name,” he paused. “It’s Chance. Not ‘you’ or ‘dreamwalker’ or whatever weird title you keep calling me…what about you? What’s your name?”

Mafioso paused. “It’s none of your business.”

“Must be something embarrassing then–”

With a firm shove, he pushed them through the portal. Behind them, the landscape faded, turning barren once more.

Chance’s jaw dropped as he spun slowly in place, trying to take in every detail of the new surroundings. It was a mall—massive, but long abandoned. Dust clung to the walls, the air thick with stillness. “Where are we?” He stuck close to Mafioso, not wanting to get lost in the maze of dim hallways and crumbling storefronts.

“We’re in the Dying Mall Dream,” Mafioso muttered. “Don’t touch anything. And don’t leave my side.”

That warning fell on deaf ears. They had already wandered a few steps away, eyes wide, glued to the display window of a candy shop across the walkway. Shelves of sweets lined the dusty glass, and though faded, it made Chance’s stomach stir. Had they eaten recently? Did they even need to eat here?

Mafioso glanced over, jaw tightening. Of course, he hadn’t listened. With an annoyed grunt, Mafioso strode over and grabbed the back of Chance’s jacket, pulling them back into step.

“It’s best not to stare at what you can’t have,” he said. “No studs, no shopping.”

Chance groaned. “I’ve been stuck in that flower field forever. Can’t I explore just a little bit? Please?”

A voice chimed in from behind.

“Yes, Mafioso, let the newcomer explore.”

Mafioso sighed deeply before turning around, tipping his fedora. “...Boss.”

Eunoia stepped out from the shadow of a nearby storefront, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. “This is his first dream since arrival. Curiosity is expected,” she said, smiling warmly as she handed Chance a dusty, half-chilled BloxyCola. “On the house.”

Chance took it cautiously, looking to Mafioso with a subtle, confused glance, hoping for help understanding what was going on. Mafioso either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Might I ask what you’re doing here, Eunoia?” Mafioso asked, adjusting his hat so she could meet his eyes.

“I can’t check in on my shops?” she said, faux-offended. “Contrary to belief, I don’t sit around sipping tea all day, silly rabbit.”

His ear twitched. “Don’t call me that. I only say this because you usually don’t roam around.”

“It’s boring with no customers,” Eunoia replied with a casual shrug. “That cute Nashatra girl hasn’t shown up since she fell into debt. Besides, I’ve been meaning to meet this one.”

She turned her gaze to Chance, who was still sipping the BloxyCola she’d handed him. Mafioso gave a sharp whistle to get his attention. Chance flinched slightly and looked up. Eunoia smiled and gave a little wave, beckoning him over.

Reluctantly, they walked toward the pair, feet dragging just a little.

“Greetings,” Eunoia said warmly. “My name is Eunoia. I do hope you’re enjoying your time here. May I ask your name?”

Chance blinked. Was that even English?

Mafioso bent down slightly to mutter in Chance’s ear, “Her name’s Eunoia. She said she hopes you’re enjoying your time here and wants to know your name.”

Understanding clicked in place. Chance’s expression lit up.

“Oh! Uh—yeah, I guess you could say I’m enjoying it so far. Name’s Chance,” he said, holding out a hand for a shake. Eunoia accepted the handshake with a soft smile, her cool metal fingers gently squeezing his. “Nice to meet you, Chance.”

She turned her attention back to Mafioso, her tone shifting to business. “How’s the investigation going?”

Mafioso met her gaze flatly. “No updates yet.”

“A shame,” she muttered, folding her arms. “I’d love to know what that tree really means.”

“As would I,” he replied. “But patience is key, Eunoia.”

Before she could respond, Chance suddenly winced. He clutched his temples with both hands, the empty BloxyCola can clattering to the floor. Sparks flared across his vision. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, gritting his teeth through a strangled cry. The pain came in waves—searing, suffocating. His eyes welled as he gasped for air, chest heaving.

Mafioso’s voice snapped over his radio, urgency cracking through his tone. “Report. What’s happening on your end?”

Static. Then a click. “We clipped a small branch, sir. Was that not authorized?”

Mafioso stiffened, casting a sharp glance at Chance writhing on the ground. Eunoia dropped to her knees beside him, cradling his shoulders, fury flashing in her eyes. Her glare found Mafioso, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Don’t touch the tree again. That’s an order,” he barked into the radio, jamming it back into his coat.

Eunoia’s voice was low, dangerous. “I told you—if anything happens to that tree, I will kill you.”

Mafioso held up his hands, calm but unapologetic. “On a technicality, I didn’t touch it.”

“Then what exactly did your men do?”

“They cut a single branch. Just a small one.”

She looked back at Chance, who trembled against the floor. “That tree is tied to both his mind and his heart. Every cut, every scratch—it hurts him. You need to understand this isn’t some experiment. He’s living it.”

The radio crackled again. “Sir… the branch regrew. Only about five inches, but it recovered. We’re not sure how long it would’ve taken if it were a full limb. Orders?”

Mafioso grunted. “Find out where it came from. I want its origin.”

As the worst of the pain ebbed, Chance went still. A blank look overtook his face. His thoughts were fogged, everything too loud, too bright. His stomach turned. He barely recognized the world around him.

“…Take me back to the dream,” he whispered.

Both Mafioso and Eunoia looked at him in surprise. Mafioso tilted his head. “Earlier you said you wanted to leave. Now you want to go back ?”

Chance turned away, hiding his tear-streaked cheeks. “I’ve seen enough for today.”

Eunoia’s expression dropped. “But you’ve only seen the first of ten levels, Chance. There’s so much left—”

“I can’t understand what you’re saying, Eunoia,” Chance interrupted, his voice tired and raw.

She froze. He wasn’t wrong—her native tongue didn’t come naturally to him. Her shoulders slumped. “Just… take me back.”

Without another word, Mafioso conjured a portal beside him, gently nudging Chance toward it. Before stepping through, Chance glanced back.

Eunoia’s eyes were cast down, a quiet sadness painted across her features.

“…’m sorry,” he murmured.

And then he was gone.

“He’ll learn to understand you eventually,” Mafioso said quietly.

But Eunoia had already turned away.

Chapter Text

Chance sat beneath the willow tree, its cascading leaves a quiet curtain between him and the vast field. The branches coiled around his fingers like silk, as if the tree itself tried to ground him. White roses dotted the meadow in soft bloom — fragile, temporary peace in a place that rarely allowed it. His limbs still ached faintly, but it was the pit in his stomach, the familiar self-loathing, that kept digging deeper. “I should’ve just dealt with it,” he muttered to no one. “Now I’m stuck here again. Because I’m stupid.”

“But we already knew that.”

Chance stiffened. That voice wasn’t Mafioso’s. It was familiar, but not safe.

He slowly turned his head. “...ITrapped?”

Black dahlias burst from the ground like ink stains on a page, swallowing the roses without effort. The air thickened. A figure stepped into view, calm, casual, like he’d always belonged there. “Poor Chance. Still thinking this is some kind of sanctuary?” His tone was laced with amusement, not concern.

Chance’s throat tightened. “You… you said you’d stay by my side. You said you were my friend.”

ITrapped tilted his head, almost puzzled, then gave a dry laugh. “Friend? No, no. You misunderstood. I don’t do friends. I do strategy. You were just a convenient piece. A pawn if you will.”

Chance felt their chest cave inward. “—everything you said…”

“Manipulation. You believed it because you needed to. That’s not my fault.” He stood up, brushing off invisible dust from his sleeve. “You made it easy.”

The willow branches seemed to recoil slightly as if insulted by ITrapped’s presence. Chance clenched his fists, the shame twisting into something else—anger, maybe, or clarity.

“You lied to me.”

“No,” ITrapped said, flashing a cruel smile. “You lied to yourself.”

The silence stretched thick between them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The flowers at their feet had continued blooming. The tree above them stilled.

“You don’t belong here,” Chance muttered.

“Oh, but I do,” ITrapped said softly, his gaze sharp and unblinking. “I go where I’m remembered. And you—well. You never really stopped thinking about me, did you?”

Chance couldn’t answer. Not yet. Their mind was racing, their heart fighting to make sense of the storm they thought they’d left behind. “Why are you here? Just to torment me? I’ve been through enough already these few days…Why did you have to show up?” Chance pleaded, their mind racing. They needed someone to save them from their own heaven. “Because I missed you. I missed seeing that sad little face of yours. The way you tremble when I’m around you…” he chuckled, “I was there, you know. I was there to witness your little act.”

“You—what?”

“I was there. Watching. When you tried to disappear behind a handful of pills and some crocodile tears. You really thought that would work?” He chuckled, a sound completely devoid of warmth. “Pathetic.”

Chance’s breath hitched. “You weren’t there,” he said, but it sounded more like a plea than a protest.

ITrapped leaned in, his voice a whisper now. “Aren’t I always? Somewhere in the back of your head, pulling the strings?” He tapped Chance’s temple with two fingers. “I didn’t have to be in the room. You wanted me there. You pictured it.”

Chance trembled. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” ITrapped tilted his head. “Or are you just scared of what you see when you close your eyes?”

Chance couldn’t speak. Their throat tightened, their mind spiraling. The tree above them quivered. Flowers burst forth again from the ground — scarlet tulips, petunias, golden carnations — as if trying to drown out the darkness coiling around them.

ITrapped patted Chance’s head, “Chance…I thought you knew better than to run from your problems.”

Chance staggered back, barking, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME–.. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU! I-I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY BEST FRIEND! AND YOU LEFT!”

“And whose fault was that?”

“YOURS!”

“Are you sure? The blood on your hands says otherwise.”

Chance looked down, the crimson dripping, but it wasn’t their blood. Glancing back up, ITrapped had a blade plunged through his chest. Their mouth ran dry. “That wasn’t me..I didn’t…I didn’t do this.”

“It hurts Chance…It hurt so much when you repeatedly ignored my pleas for you to stop.”

“You’re twisting it– It wasn’t me!”

“It basically was, though. You stood there. Watching. As I died in front of you—No! I was murdered in front of you. You did nothing to stop it.”

“I was scared of my mind!” Chance paused, wheezing from the panic attack that crept up.

“Who are you yelling at?”

Chance jerked at the voice. Mafioso stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching him with a furrowed brow.

“What?” Chance stammered, eyes wide. “Wh—him! Him!” He jabbed a finger toward the empty space before him. “He was right there!”

Mafioso squinted. “There’s no one there, Chance.”

Chance blinked. His heart dropped.

The field was silent. The air still.

Where ITrapped had stood just seconds ago, now there was nothing. No black dahlias. No shadow. No trace. Just the whisper of willow leaves swaying in the breeze.

He looked down at his hands. Clean.

No blood. No stain. No proof.

His voice cracked. “What…? No. No—he was just there. I–I saw him. He was—he said…” He stumbled back a step, the words dying in his throat. “He was there.”

Mafioso’s voice came a little harder this time. “Who, Chance?”

Chance didn’t respond. Their breathing hitched as a sudden wave of dread crashed over them. Their chest tightened. Their throat closed. They couldn’t get a full breath.

Their vision blurred at the edges.

“Who was here?” Mafioso stepped closer, now clearly alarmed.

Chance clutched at his head, fingers digging into his hair. His pulse was hammering in his ears. “He was here… He was here! He said it was my fault. He said—he said I wanted him here—I didn’t—I didn’t—!”

The world was tilting. Too bright. Too loud. Or was it too quiet? His skin burned, then went numb. The flowers around him twisted into colors he couldn’t name. The dream was shaking, the sky turning dark. The wind stopped. It was as if everything froze.

“I can’t—” Chance gasped, trying to inhale but the air didn’t feel real. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the grass, curled inward. “I can’t breathe—I can’t—”

Mafioso rushed forward, kneeling beside him.

“Chance. Chance. You’re having a panic attack.” His voice was calm now, firm. “You’re safe. You’re in your dream. Breathe. With me. It’s just us here Chance.” But Chance couldn’t hear him — not over the roaring inside his own mind. The only thing he could hear was ITrapped’s voice echoing, replaying, burning.

You let it happen. You watched. You wanted me there.

You lied to yourself.

Lavender bloomed in large sheets of purple across the dream. The willow had begun to bloom, its small white petals drifting gently down, some landing on Chance as he lay sleeping in its shade. His usual accessories were gently placed beside him after they fell off of him. Mafioso had remained beside him until his breathing steadied, barely noticing the willow’s branches brushing him with the wind. Who had Chance seen? And why had it unraveled him so completely? If only he could piece together more of his past—or earn his trust—then maybe he could make sense of it all.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind their ear, Mafioso brushed his fingers softly along Chance’s cheek. For a moment, his usual guardedness slipped. Why was he being so gentle? Chance was a liability, a disruption. But maybe it wasn’t just about weakness. Maybe it was the way they’d clung to him, desperate, trembling, searching for something—someone—to hold onto. The way they had sobbed into his fur collar like a frightened child.

Mafioso rose slowly, careful not to disturb the peaceful sleeper resting beneath the tree. Once again, duty pulled him away, and again, Chance had managed to make it harder than it should’ve been. Gently, he brushed the willow branches aside; their blossoms parting like a bead curtain in silent farewell.

As he walked toward the spot where he usually summoned the portal, the flowers shifted around his boots, bending but never breaking. The air was still warm, the sky still gold. He glanced over his shoulder one last time. The wind rustled the willow's leaves, soft and slow as if the dream itself was waving goodbye.

The moment he stepped through the portal, the warmth vanished. Cold tile clacked under his shoes, replaced by the sterile chill of the lab. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and hushed voices filtered through the thick air. His squires were gathered around a console, eyes wide, typing furiously.

“Sir!” one of them called, the one in the oversized ushanka, motioning him over. “We’ve made a breakthrough.”

Mafioso strode forward. “What did you find?”

“We’ve determined that the tree in the dreamsphere is directly connected to the newcomer’s—”

“Chance,” Mafioso corrected flatly.

“Hm? Oh right, Chance. So—the tree is genetically linked to him.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You saying they share DNA?”

The squire nodded eagerly and tapped a key, bringing up two slowly rotating DNA strands on the screen: identical, side by side.

“Where did you even get a sample of his DNA?” Mafioso’s voice sharpened. “There hasn’t been a single blood draw.”

“Oh, uh—he dropped a BloxyCola can. We swabbed it. Eunoia may have... tipped us off.”

Mafioso sighed heavily. Of course she did. He turned back to the screen, arms crossed. The tree and Chance weren’t just connected metaphorically. They were one and the same somehow. Just living extensions of each other. Questions flooded Mafioso’s mind: What would happen if Chance got hurt? Would the tree feel it too? If Chance were to die, would the dream persist—or would it collapse entirely? These were answers he didn’t want to uncover, not with Eunoia ready to place the blame on him. And more importantly, Chance couldn't die. That wasn’t possible.

“Did anything else happen when the tree appeared?” he asked, hoping for some ripple effect that might offer a clue. “A disturbance in other dreams, maybe?”

“None that we’ve recorded,” the squire replied. “No one’s mentioned anything unusual. As far as we can tell, its existence is still under the radar.”

“Keep researching. If anything important turns up, I want to hear about it right away.”

The squire gave a crisp salute and rushed back to the others, who were still huddled around the data like it was a campfire. Mafioso turned away and headed back toward the portal, stepping through without hesitation and emerging into the hushed, flickering corridors of the dying mall—his current base of operations. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, some flickering, some already burnt out.

He walked past empty storefronts and collapsed kiosks, the air thick with static.

Should he go back? Try to talk Chance into leaving the field again?

Doubtful. After yesterday, Chance wouldn’t budge. He had clung to that meadow like it was his last thread of peace. Still, he couldn’t stay there forever. “Tch. Why would I care if that annoyance was stuck there or not? He could stay there for centuries for all I care…”

Mafioso glanced over his shoulder, as if the portal would still be there behind him. It wasn’t.
“But at the same time, Eunoia wouldn’t want that..”

Eventually, Chance would have to come out. And Mafioso would be there when he did.

The wind was soft, breezing through the tall grass.

Chance stirred beneath the willow, the weight of a petal landing lightly on their cheek. They didn’t open their eyes right away. The stillness was comforting, like being wrapped in a blanket just warm enough. For a moment, they could pretend everything was fine.

Then they reached out instinctively and felt nothing beside them.

They were alone again.

Of course he left. No sound. Just gone.

Chance exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. It wasn’t anger he felt — not really. More like the quiet ache of something missing.

He sat up, and the willow’s branches moved with him, dipping lower, swaying. A few slender vines gently curled around his fingers, barely touching, like the tree was trying to hold his hand. Ground him.“I’m okay,” he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to himself or the tree. “It’s not like he’s obligated to stay here anyways.”

Still, the vines stayed, their grip as light as a hug. Not demanding, not holding him back. Simply just there.

The meadow stretched out before him in a quiet sprawl, lavender spilling into soft hills and the sky above streaked with sleepy gold. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, not loud, just enough to let him know he wasn’t completely alone.

He glanced up at the branches above, watching how the leaves danced without any urgency. They weren’t pretending. They were just existing. Unbothered and peaceful.

“Is this what you're like when my mind is clear?” he asked softly. The willow didn’t answer, but a new blossom opened near his knee, delicate and pale.

Chance smiled faintly and lay back down, letting the vines settle gently around his wrist like a promise. Not to bind, not to control but just to remind him he was here, and he was alive.

And maybe, for now, that was enough. That was until a familiar figure stepped through the soft curtain of branches. Mafioso stood at the edge of the grove, fedora tipped low over his eyes, the fur collar of his coat brushing against his face – the same one Chance had buried his face into, gasping for air earlier. “You’re back,” Chance said quietly.

The vines around his wrist shifted, pulling away to reach toward Mafioso instead. One brushed along the scar on his cheek in a delicate touch. Was that Chance’s doing? Some unconscious tether? Oops.

Mafioso gently pushed the vine aside and adjusted his hat to finally meet Chance’s eyes. “Let’s go,” he said, holding out a hand. “You can’t stay here forever, y’know.” Chance eyed the offered hand, then looked away. “Why not?” he muttered, arms crossing tight across his chest. “Last time I left, I felt like I was dying.”

“That wasn’t the mall’s fault,” Mafioso said with unusual honesty. “It was mine. I promised Eunoia I wouldn’t interfere with this place again.” Chance’s frown deepened. He thought back to Eunoia: her kind eyes, her chirpy voice, the way he’d told her how he couldn’t understand her. “Did I upset her?”

“A little,” Mafioso admitted. “But she gets it. You don’t speak her language yet. That’s not your fault.” He crouched, picking up the fedora Chance had left in the grass. Gently, he placed it back onto their head, adjusting it before extending his hand again.

“Eunoia was right,” he added. “There are ten levels to the mall, and you only wandered partway through the first. There’s more to see. More to understand. Each dream has its own story — its secrets. You just have to trust me a little even if we got off to a rough start initially.”

Chance stared at his hand for a moment longer, hesitant. But this time, when he reached out, Mafioso didn’t yank or pull. He just helped them up gently. “...Okay.” Chance whispered. Maybe he would try again. Mafioso would be there to lead him after all. Mafioso knew the place like the back of his hand. Chance would be an idiot not to trust him.

Chance followed behind Mafioso as they climbed the mall’s strange, spiraling levels. His eyes wandered, eventually landing on the pet store nestled on level six. Behind the glass, a group of bunnies lay curled in soft piles; snow white, small, and energetic. Their fur looked impossibly plush, like fresh clouds pulled from the sky.

Chance lingered, gaze locked on them. They reminded him of Spade.

So close, yet so far.

Mafioso noticed the way Chance had stopped, eyes stuck on the bunnies. “Those things roam all over the dreamsphere,” he said, tapping lightly on the glass and startling them. “These ones just got a bit unlucky, ended up hopping into here. But don’t worry, there’s plenty more out there. Free and dumb.”

Chance glanced over. He remembered something. Or maybe just wondered. Wasn’t he a bunny? “So..do you like bunnies?”

Mafioso tilted his head with a slight smirk. “Oh yes. I quite love the little furballs. They’re stupid. It’s adorable.”

“Ah,” Chance said, amused. “Do you own any?”

“Just one. Her name’s ‘Principessa’ or ‘Princess’, if you prefer. She’s a spoiled brat.”

Chance laughed quietly. “That’s cute. I have—well, had a bunny. A continental giant. His name was Spade. Also spoiled. But probably not as bad as your Princess.”

Mafioso’s smile dimmed just a little. “Had? What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Chance’s finger tapped lightly on the glass. One of the bunnies chased the motion. “He got really sick. Vet bills stacked up, and I couldn’t keep up. He passed peacefully, though.”

Mafioso didn’t say anything at first. Then, in a quick shift of energy, he grabbed Chance by the shoulders and steered him away from the storefront. “C’mon. There’s something I wanna show you.” Chance didn’t resist, just let himself be led. His legs were tired and the constant climbing made the whole place feel like a vertical labyrinth. Mafioso remained composed, unfazed, like usual.

On floor nine they reached a sign lit in soft pink letters: Eunoia’s Burger Shop.

“Don’t worry, she’s not working today,” Mafioso said with a reassuring nod, nudging Chance toward the counter.

Chance hesitated, glancing around. “How do I know if I have… studs? Or whatever pays for stuff here?”

“They’re not physical,” Mafioso replied. “You earn them by traveling. You’ve probably got a few already. But don’t worry about it. My treat.”

Chance peered up at the menu. Everything looked a little surreal as if normal food was drawn from memory. He pointed to the most ordinary looking burger he could find. “I guess I’ll just do that one. Is that okay?”

“Anything you want, Chance. It’s your day today.”

Mafioso punched the order into the kiosk. A whirring noise, then a quiet ding. A tray had slid out from a hatch in the wall.

It looked… real. A warm bun, melted cheese, crisp lettuce. It smelled better than anything Chance could remember.

He took a hesitant bite.

Then another.

His eyes widened, the flavor crashing into him all at once. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that moment.

Mafioso didn’t say a word. He just watched, arms folded, as Chance devoured the meal in a few ravenous bites — like someone who hadn’t eaten in weeks. Well, he hadn’t exactly.

And for a brief moment, the mall didn’t feel so overwhelming. The dream didn’t feel so foreign.

—------------------------------

They walked the halls of the mafia’s hidden base, the air colder than Chance expected, each footstep echoing a little too loud. He was—well, terrified.

Mafioso had reassured him. No one will touch him. Not while he’s around.

Still, being in a place like this felt like stepping into the lion’s den. The walls whispered secrets. The sharp-eyed figures they passed barely glanced his way, but Chance could feel the weight of their curiosity.

Why are we here? He wondered. If Mafioso was giving him the full tour, it meant something; he trusted them enough to bring them to the heart of everything.

Mafioso led him to a steel door at the end of the hall, swiping a key card before it hissed open. Inside was a sharp, well-kept office. Tidy to the point of looking staged. The kind of place you'd expect a mafia boss to operate from. Eunoia’s touch was obvious; too many perfectly placed objects, just enough warmth in the lighting to keep it from feeling sterile.

Chance wandered in slowly, eyes tracing the details: framed photographs, a decanter set, and old maps lining the walls. Mafioso stood back for a moment, watching them take it all in. He almost smiled. Then he stepped toward another door beside the desk and unlocked it. Chance heard the click, then turned to see Mafioso holding the door open. A bedroom. Clean, minimal, but soft light spilled across the floor like a quiet invitation.

Surely he wasn’t suggesting— No. Mind out of the gutter, Chance.

“I rarely sleep here,” Mafioso said, casually. “So you’re free to use the room whenever you need it. Better than crashing on that field again.”

Chance blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

He walked into the room, eyes widening at the bed. Massive. Inviting. The kind of bed that practically begged you to sink in and never get up again. He dropped onto it without thinking, letting the weight of his body fall into the plush mattress. The pillows shaped to him instantly, like they’d been waiting.

“I’ll make sure you’re always welcome here, Chance,” Mafioso said from the doorway. “Don’t let anyone else say otherwise. You wanna walk in and take a nap? Go for it. Eunoia wants you to feel safe. Like this place is yours too. Not some exhibit under a microscope.”

Chance didn’t say anything right away. He just closed his eyes for a second, letting the words settle.

For the first time in a while, the tension in his chest loosened.

A small card fluttered down, landing near Chance’s head.

“That unlocks my office if I’m not around,” Mafioso said. “Bedroom stays unlocked.”

Chance picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. “What’s with the sudden change of heart?” They rolled onto their side, propping themselves up on one elbow. “You’ve been calling me an annoyance for days. So what changed?”

Mafioso didn’t answer at first. He stared ahead, hands in his coat pockets. The truth felt slippery. He couldn’t lean on the Eunoia excuse again. Because I have to care about you somewhat? No—too blunt. Just following orders? Definitely not.

“You’ve been through enough,” he said at last. “You’re still a pain in the ass, but… seeing how your first day went, I figured you deserved a break.” Chance let out a dry laugh. “Thanks, I guess.” They glanced around the room. “You don’t have a fan in here, do you? I can’t sleep in silence. It’s… too quiet.”

“Not yet,” Mafioso said, then snapped his fingers.

A sleek black standing fan shimmered into existence beside the bed, its blades already whirring with a low, soothing hum.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Chance stared.

Mafioso only chuckled. “Get some rest. I’ll be in the other room if you need anything. Tomorrow, we’ll head to another dream.”

Chance hesitated, then slowly began removing their accessories: fedora, sunglasses, headphones—all placed carefully on the nightstand. Kicking off their shoes, they slipped under the thick comforter, its weight comforting and heavy, like the field’s vines but warmer.

The room was cold, the air from the fan cutting through the stillness, but the blankets trapped the warmth around them. The hum filled the silence like white noise. For the first time in what felt like forever, Chance drifted off with ease; safe, warm, and finally, comfortable.

Mafioso closed the bedroom door slightly, leaving it ajar enough for him to peer into from his desk. For a moment, he considered if he should shut it or not. The silence felt different now—less empty.

He walked towards his spot, looking at how there were papers still neatly stacked on the desk. Eunoia’s handwriting marked the edges of a few pages with flowy, almost unreadable script. He sat down, the leather chair creaking softly under his weight.

His eyes weren’t on the documents, though. His eyes couldn't stop flickering back to the bedroom. Chance lay cocooned under layers of blankets, only a tuft of messy hair visible between the pillow and comforter. Mafioso watched the steady rise and fall of their breathing.

“Too quiet,” he murmured to himself, echoing Chance’s earlier words. He understood that. Silence could be heavy in dreams—deceptive even. It was the kind of quiet that made your own thoughts louder.

He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.

“What am I doing…”

He was supposed to keep his distance. Chance was a variable, a disturbance in the cycle, someone Eunoia flagged as important—but not someone to get attached to.

And yet, he had conjured a fan, given up his private quarters, and handed over a card no one else had.

“This’ll bite me later,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Still, he didn’t regret it.

The buzz of whispering in the halls, the ticking of an old grandfather clock, and the dull whir of the fan from the next room filled the space around him.
And for once, Mafioso let the silence linger.

Chapter Text

Chance stirred awake, the familiar whirr of the fan muffled beneath the thick weight of layered blankets. Blankets? Right. Mafioso’s room. His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft light filtering in from the open office door. The bed was a mess now—sheets tangled from hours of restless turning—but the rest of the room remained almost untouched.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and giving the place a proper look. It didn’t feel like anyone really lived here. A few old photos on the wall—black and white, sepia-toned, maybe family which gave the space a little warmth, but otherwise, it felt more like a place borrowed than owned.

On the nightstand sat a folded note, written in neat, looping handwriting.

“An errand came up. I’ll be back soon so be ready. We’ll be going somewhere new.
– Mafioso.”

Chance yawned, stretching until his joints popped in protest. At least the sleep was good. Better than the cold grass or dirt. A part of him almost expected to wake back up in his apartment, surrounded by the usual quiet and clutter of reality. But there wasn’t anything left to return to. Not anymore.

He turned off the fan, gathered his things, and started slipping them back on—sunglasses, headphones in place, fedora—when a voice made him jump.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“JESUS CHRIST—” Chance nearly flung his hat. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

Mafioso stood at the office doorway, unbothered, with his arms crossed. “I made myself known before I walked in. You’re just deaf.”

Chance scowled, pulling on his shoes with a little more aggression than necessary. Before he could reply, something soft and heavy hit him in the face.

“What the hell is this?” He peeled it off—gray fabric, thick with a pale fur collar.

“It’s called a coat ,” Mafioso said dryly, raising a brow. “It gets cold in certain dreams. Better to be prepared than freeze and whine.”

Chance looked down at it, running his fingers along the collar. It looked a lot like Mafioso’s, just… lighter. Less intimidating. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem,” Mafioso said, already turning on his heel. “Finish getting dressed. We’ve got a long walk ahead.”

Chance rushed to the door, tugging the coat tighter around him as he fell into step beside Mafioso, matching his stride as best he could. “Gonna give me a hint as to where we’re going?” he asked, tilting his fedora up just enough to get a clearer look at Mafioso’s expression.

Mafioso didn’t even glance over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Even if I did give you a hint, it’s not like you’d guess right. You don’t know any dreams yet.”

Chance let out a soft, theatrical whine. Just loud enough to be heard but small enough to preserve a shred of dignity. Mafioso, to his credit, didn’t laugh. Not out loud, anyway.

They emerged from the hideout into the dim glow of the dying mall, its quiet hum oddly comforting after the silence of the office. Without a word, Mafioso raised a hand and threw down a portal. Cold, biting wind surged from it instantly, slapping Chance in the face.

“Absolutely not,” Chance said, recoiling, “That’s a freezer . There is no way in hell we’re going in there.”

Before he could retreat a step, Mafioso’s gloved hand landed on his shoulder. The grip was firm, but not rough..until it was. With a swift shove, Mafioso pushed him forward through the portal.

“Freeze,” he said with a smirk, just as Chance stumbled into the icy dream.

Chance’s teeth chattered with each breath. Every step crunched softly beneath layers of fresh snow. The frost nipped at his nose, lips beginning to tint blue.

“It’s Ten Mou,” Mafioso said, walking beside him, his voice calm. “Not even that cold. You’re being overdramatic.”

Chance glared at him through fogged sunglasses. “I didn’t live anywhere remotely this cold, asshole.” His breath curled in the air like smoke.

“You’ll survive,” Mafioso replied dryly. He gave a light nudge to Chance’s lower back with a gloved hand, encouraging him forward.

Chance’s lungs burned. The air was thin, and the cold was a bit deeper than expected. At least the coat Mafioso gave him was warm—soft around the collar, snug at the wrists. Some small comfort in this tundra of a dream.

“Where are we even going? It looks dead out here.” Chance’s voice trembled from the chill.

Mafioso moved steadily ahead, barely phased. “Anything catch your eye?”

Chance scanned the barren landscape, and then pointed at a structure in the distance. “That building, maybe? Looks... less dead.”

Mafioso gave a nod and led the way.

Inside, they were met with a strange sight: a fountain at the center, surrounded by statues with one that looked like it was holding a cheeseburger. Trees stood in each corner, protected behind frosted glass.

“This place is boring and cold,” Chance muttered. “Is there, like, anything else to do here?”

Mafioso didn’t bother responding. He simply turned and gestured for Chance to follow. With a sigh, he asked, “Do you want coffee?”

That got Chance’s attention. “Uhm—yeah, sure. Where from?” When was the last time he had coffee?

Mafioso only tilted his head toward a slope leading to a small stand in the distance.

By the time they reached the top, Chance was wheezing. “Why is everything uphill?” he muttered. Mafioso, of course, looked as calm as ever. That smug bastard.

They approached the stand. Chance immediately ducked behind Mafioso when he saw who was running it.

“Oh shit— Eunoia’s here? Why didn’t you say that?!”

“I don’t exactly track her daily schedule,” Mafioso said, tone flat. “Relax. You’ll be fine.”

Chance clung close, soaking in Mafioso’s warmth like a space heater in the snow. He clung to his coat like a child who didn’t want to get lost in such an open area. Chance was surprised Mafioso didn’t swat his hands away.

“Mafioso!” Eunoia greeted, her voice warm. “What brings you to the cold?”

“Just getting coffee.”

“Okay! One—”

“Two,” he interrupted, stepping aside slightly.

Eunoia leaned over to spot the nervous guest behind him. “Ah, Chance,” she said, smiling softly. “Didn’t see you there.”

She rang up the order, Mafioso losing 14,000 studs without so much as a blink.

Chance fidgeted in place, his words shaky. “E-Eunoia… hey…”

She waved at him gently. “I’m not angry,” she said. “I forgive you. What happened happened and I’m not hung up about about it. No need to be nervous..”

She glanced at Mafioso. “He can translate. And if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he does .”

Mafioso sighed and translated, “She says she’s not mad. Forgives you. Past is the past. I’m stuck being your personal translator now.”

“Oh…” Chance looked down, then back up at her. “I really am sorry, Eunoia. I was kind of a jerk that day. I had a lot going on, but that’s not an excuse.”

Eunoia shook her head and bowed. “You’re a guest. A resident now. It was my fault for assuming you’d understand me without help.”

Mafioso grumbled as he repeated her words to Chance. Then he held out a mug. “Here. Drink. It’s still hot.”

The two sat at a nearby bench. Neither said anything for a while, sipping slowly, letting the warmth of the drink push back the bite of Ten Mou’s cold wind. The world around them remained still, snow falling in slow motion, catching on coats and eyelashes. For once, they were simply enjoying each other’s company.

Chance leaned in a little closer—subtle, but definitely noticeable. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, Mafioso didn’t push him away. That in itself was strange. The taller should have made a show of huffing or nudging him off, muttering something about “personal space”.

But right now?

He said nothing.

Chance took another slow sip of his coffee, hiding a small smile behind the rim of the cup. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was rare, but comfortable. His breath fogged up in front of him, but he didn’t feel frozen anymore.

Mafioso sat still beside him, coat fur catching stray flakes, his hat pulled a little lower over his eyes. His gloved fingers tapped gently against the cup in a rhythm that matched the falling snow. He glanced sideways once but didn’t speak. Just observed. Let the moment live.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

And for a fleeting moment, neither of them had to be anything but warm.

Chance let out a small sigh. “Maybe the cold isn’t so bad after all.”

Mafioso glanced over. “Told you.”

Mafioso transferred them both back to Chance’s dream, the warmth washing over them in an instant. Any frost that clung to their coats melted away, the chill of Ten Mou forgotten as the familiar, golden hue of the dream welcomed them back. The willow swayed gently, its long branches outstretched like arms ushering them home.

Chance exhaled with relief. “I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve been here.”

“It’s been a day, Chance.”

“Okay and?”

Mafioso huffed, the faintest twitch in one of his black lop ears betraying his annoyance, or amusement—it was kind of hard to tell with him.

Then, something rustled.

The tall grass ahead of them began to tremble, parting violently as something rushed through. Chance's instincts kicked in. “What the fuck is that?!” he shrieked, practically leaping into Mafioso’s arms. The taller staggered only slightly, catching the weight without much struggle, though his eyes narrowed at the sudden clinginess.

“It’s not that serious,” he muttered, arms half-raised, not fully committed to catching Chance, but not letting him fall either.

The rustling grew louder. The thumping of paws against the earth. Then—

Out burst a massive ash-colored bunny, its fluffy form bounding toward them with surprising grace. Fat. Round. Unbothered.

“It’s a feral bunny,” Mafioso said with a straight face, slowly taking a step back. “You do not want to mess with those ones.”

Chance narrowed his eyes, squinting through the grass as the bunny stopped a few feet away. Then he saw it.

A spade-shaped mark on the creature’s ear.

Time stopped.

“...S-Spade?” Chance whispered, slipping out of Mafioso’s arms and stumbling to the ground. He crawled forward on all fours, hands trembling. The bunny blinked slowly at him, then hopped forward and gently bumped its nose to Chance’s arm.

And that was it.

The dam broke.

“Oh, Spade—” Chance choked out, voice cracking as tears welled up and fell. “I fucking missed you buddy… ’m sorry… ’m so fucking sorry—”

He wrapped his arms around the massive rabbit, holding him with all the gentleness of someone afraid the dream might shatter if they squeezed too tightly.

Mafioso stood a few paces back, arms crossed, watching in silence. The same Spade from yesterday’s story? Just showing up like this? What were the odds? He didn’t speak. Just observed. Another piece of Chance falling into place.

“You’re so healthy now, Spade,” Chance said between hiccups. “Y-you’re not sick and you look happy!”

Mafioso finally approached, crouching down beside them, hand reaching forward to stroke the bunny’s dense fur. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a big bunny… and such a big crybaby.”

Chance shot him a half-hearted glare, eyes still red. “Oh shut up— He’s a continental giant, that’s why he’s huge.”

The bunny leaned into Mafioso’s hand when he scratched gently behind its ear.

“He’s never been that affectionate with strangers,” Chance murmured, “He’s a biter. Always has been.”

“Maybe he changed,” Mafioso said, still petting the bunny with a rare softness in his tone. Chance couldn’t stop the tears, clinging to the unbothered rabbit like he might vanish if he let go. Mafioso, watching in silence, found himself—if he was being honest—just a little jealous of the attention Spade was getting.

“You’re getting him all wet with your crying,” Mafioso muttered, not unkindly. “Take a breather.”

He gently pulled Chance back, letting Spade hop off with a lazy thump. Chance sniffled, wiping his eyes on his coat sleeve, and leaned against Mafioso’s side without thinking. Mafioso didn’t move away. Instead, he sank into the grass beside him, arms resting on his knees as sunflowers and dandelions slowly bloomed around them.

They sat like that for a while, watching Spade roll through the grass, kicking up petals.

“Hey,” Mafioso said suddenly, glancing at the flowers, then at Chance’s loose hair. “Does picking these hurt you?”

Chance blinked. “Uh, I don’t know? Why?”

Without answering, Mafioso plucked a daisy from the ground and eyed Chance for any reaction. When none came, he leaned closer.

“Turn back around.”

Chance obeyed, curious, and Mafioso untied the loose knot in his hair. With a quiet kind of focus, he began to braid it—threading in flowers as he went. He hummed low under his breath, careful and deliberate, while Chance stayed still, smiling faintly as he watched Spade munch on dandelions nearby.

The moment was soft, fleeting.

Mafioso was quietly grateful that Chance couldn’t see the way his tail was wagging without restraint. “Done.”

Chance reached back carefully, fingers brushing over the delicate braid and the flowers laced through it. A wide, goofy smile bloomed across his face. “You’re weirdly good at this. I can barely manage a ponytail.”

Mafioso gave a subtle shrug, already plucking a nearby dandelion to lure Spade closer. “Eunoia made me learn. Said if I was gonna be useful, I needed to be reliable for everything. ”

Spade waddled over, chomping the dandelion right from Mafioso’s hand before slowly clambering up onto his lap—then onto his chest—until the weight knocked Mafioso flat onto his back.

Chance giggled. “No one’s ever braided my hair before... Thanks, Maf’.”

Mafioso let out a resigned huff, lying motionless beneath the continental giant that had claimed his body like a couch. “Don’t call me that.”

“Aww, really? What about ‘Oso’?”

“No.”

“Bunny?”

Mafioso shot him a sharp glare from the ground, hand twitching toward the spot his blade would be. Chance threw his hands up, laughing, “I’m joking! I’m joking—!”

With a soft grunt, Chance scooted closer and rested his head gently on Spade’s wide back, forming a crooked ‘T’ shape across Mafioso’s body. “This… this is actually nice. Nap sounds good right about now.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying here,” Mafioso muttered, though he didn’t make any attempt to move.

“Too late. Spade doesn’t like being disturbed during nap time.”

A heavy sigh escaped him, but the warmth pressing down on him—both furred and human—was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. Mafioso pulled the brim of his fedora low over his eyes and settled in.

Fine. Just this once.

Eunoia could wait.

Eunoia stood a few feet away, silently taking in the strange but oddly serene tableau in front of her.

There was Mafioso, out cold beneath the willow tree, coat slightly wrinkled, hat tilted over his eyes. That part wasn’t so strange—she knew he’d been overworking himself. What was strange was the presence of Chance, fast asleep on top of him, arms slung across his chest like they’d done this a thousand times before. His face was tucked against Mafioso’s coat, breathing slow and even. The perfect picture of peace.

Spade, the massive bunny, sat beside Eunoia like a loyal guard, chewing grass and clearly unbothered by any of it.

She exhaled softly, crouched down next to the pile, and gave Mafioso a firm nudge to the side.

“Mafioso.”

Nothing.

“ Mafioso ,” she repeated, louder this time.

He stirred slightly, brows furrowing beneath the tilt of his fedora. “Hnh… what…”

“You have work to do,” she said dryly.

Mafioso blinked the sleep out of his eyes, pushing the hat up. His vision focused—and landed directly on the dead weight of Chance across his chest.

“…What the hell ,” he whispered, startled but too pinned down to do anything about it.

Eunoia stifled a chuckle behind her hand. “Looks like he got comfortable.”

“When did—? I don’t—” Mafioso groaned. “I fell asleep for two seconds.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” she said, gesturing to the way Chance was comfortably nuzzled into his lapel. “I think he thinks you're a mattress.”

Mafioso looked like he wanted to disappear into the ground. “He’s drooling.”

“A little,” Eunoia confirmed, entirely too amused. “I came to get you. But I can come back later if this is a bad time.”

“No. No no— get him off me. ”

Eunoia raised an eyebrow. “You get him off you.”

“I can’t ,” Mafioso hissed, keeping his voice low. “If I move too fast I might wake him and then I’ll be the bad guy.”

Eunoia gave him a look like she was trying very hard not to smile. “You’re already the bad guy, Mafioso. May as well earn it.”

He groaned again, flopping his head back into the grass. “This is a nightmare.”

“Then wake up,” she teased, standing up. “I’ll be waiting. Try not to melt in the meantime.”

With one last glance at the chaotic bundle of limbs and fur and awkward vulnerability, Eunoia turned and left, Spade following closely behind only after giving Mafioso a quick headbutt to the knee.

“Traitor,” Mafioso muttered.

Chance only mumbled something incomprehensible in his sleep, arms still locked tightly in place.

Mafioso sighed.

He carefully nudged the sleeping one off of him, letting Chance roll gently into the grass with a quiet thud. The willow’s long branches brushed softly against Mafioso’s shoulder, a silent plea not to leave so soon. He didn’t respond—just dusted off his coat, eyeing the damp spot left behind with a faint grimace.

Crouching down beside Spade, he gave the oversized rabbit a few slow strokes between the ears. The bunny twitched its nose, unbothered as ever.

“Keep him company for me, alright?” Mafioso muttered. The bunny shifted slightly but remained still, accepting the task with quiet dignity.

As he turned, the tall grass parted for him, the dream itself giving him space to exit. He stepped through the portal and into the half-lit corridors of the dying mall. The sudden change in atmosphere was jarring—the cold, flickering lights overhead buzzed faintly as he adjusted his coat and pace.

Eunoia sat at a table nearby, one leg crossed over the other, waving him down with a wry smirk.

“Enjoy your nap?” she teased as he approached.

“It was nice while it lasted,” he replied, tipping his fedora before sitting down across from her. “You said there was work.”

Eunoia cleared her throat, folding her hands in front of her. “Yes, but nothing immediate. I just needed to update you. A few threads are starting to fray, and I’d rather you be ahead of them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Fray as in...?”

“Routine disturbances. New dreamwalkers dipping in, some curious minds poking too far into things they shouldn’t. Nothing you can’t handle.” She paused. “But you’ve been... busy lately.”

Mafioso narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Just an observation.” She leaned back, studying him. “You’ve changed since meeting Chance.”

“Change isn’t always bad.”

“I never said it was.”

They sat in a rare silence for a moment, just the hum of the dead mall around them. Mafioso exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward one of the portals pulsing faintly in the distance.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he said finally. “Let me know if anything urgent happens. Immediately .”

“I always do.” Eunoia stood, straightening her dress. “In the meantime... rest. You may not get much of it soon.”

She disappeared into one of the deeper halls of the mall, her steps echoing lightly against the tiles. Mafioso sat for a moment longer, staring into the quiet shimmer of the portal he came from.

He adjusted his hat again, stood, and made his way back through the portal, returning to the familiar warmth of Chance’s dreamscape. The willow shifted gently as he passed, recognizing his presence with a low rustle. Chance was still out cold, curled up in the tall grass like the world didn’t weigh anything anymore, completely unfazed by the firmness of the ground beneath him.

Spade thumped softly near Mafioso’s boots, nudging his shin insistently, demanding the attention he believed was rightfully his. Mafioso gave the rabbit a brief scratch behind the ears before pulling a small, key-shaped item from his coat pocket—slim, metallic, and engraved with intricately etched symbols.

It was a portal creator. Risky to hand off to someone like Chance, who wasn’t exactly familiar with this type of tech nor place. But still, something about it felt necessary. Maybe not trust—but preparation. Insurance.

Mafioso crouched down, tucked the device carefully near Chance’s hand, and pulled a slim notepad from his inner pocket. With his usual crisp, utilitarian handwriting, he scribbled a short message:

“Don’t mess with the symbols.
They are already mapped to the dying mall.
You won’t be able to walk into our base immediately,
so here’s hoping you remember the climb path we used.
If you accidentally mess it up, the correct sequence is below.”

He added a small sketch of the correct symbol configuration—crude, but recognizable enough—and placed the note beside the key, weighting the corner with a flat stone to keep it from blowing away.

Spade flopped down beside Chance again, resting his chin on the sleeping boy’s shoulder as if in solidarity.

With that, Mafioso turned and walked off, the grass parting obediently beneath his steps, then closing again behind him.

Back through the portal, the mall’s dull lighting welcomed him with its flickering ambiance. He adjusted his collar, already thinking ahead.

New dreamwalkers meant new variables. New entries. New debt. And for the first time in a long while, it actually felt good to be needed for what he was meant to do.

He made his way to his office, steps echoing down the hollow halls as he climbed.

Back to work.

Chapter Text

The soft rustle of leaves and grass swaying in the breeze created a kind of gentle white noise—natural, steady, and nothing like the hum of the fan Chance had fallen asleep to in Mafioso’s room. He stirred, blinking against the golden light that filtered through the branches of the willow above. Spade wasn’t far, lazily munching on the longer blades of grass nearby, ears flicking with each shift in the wind.

Chance sat up slowly, wiping at the dried drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. That’s when he noticed it: something glinting in the light, pinned beneath a smooth stone near where he’d been resting. A silver, key-shaped object with a rotating mechanism with some sort of scroll wheel etched with strange symbols he didn’t recognize. Next to it, folded neatly, was a small note written in familiar handwriting. “There is no way he’s making me do that fuck-ass climb again by myself.”

Chance stared down at the odd key in his hand, thumb hovering over the button like it might bite. With a small exhale, he aimed it ahead, pressing the button just firmly enough. A quiet hum, then a shimmer—like ripples of light moving through glass—and the portal bloomed open, revealing the familiar, vibrant, and vintage interior of the dying mall.

“That nap was so good, I could go for another dream visit,” he murmured, taking a step forward. “Maybe he’ll take me.”

Before stepping through, he turned to glance behind him. Spade was still in the field, big and round in the tall grass, nose twitching as he watched. “Ah, don’t worry bud. I’ll be back soon!” Chance called, voice light, but fond. “I love you, my little fur ball.” He gave a lazy wave as the portal sealed itself shut with a soft hiss behind him.

Now inside the mall, Chance stood still for a moment, looking up at the broken escalators and dangling lights. Some of the digital signs blinked out of sync, still glitching between stores that no longer existed. The air smelled vaguely of old popcorn and dust.

“Do I even remember the way up?” he muttered to himself, squinting toward the upper floors. “Shit…”

He adjusted his coat, shrugged his shoulders like prepping for a workout, and set off toward the nearest busted stairwell. The climb wasn’t as terrible as he remembered, but it still sucked. His hands were sore from gripping chipped railings, and he’d narrowly avoided eating it on one of the loose tiles. But after a few wrong turns and one very sketchy leap over a gap in the flooring, he reached the top. Walking toward the base, Chance barely had time to admire the surroundings before a pair of squires stepped into his path, weapons drawn and points glinting inches from his neck.

"Dreamwalkers are not authorized in here! Go back to where you came from!"

"WOAH! Hey! I—I’m with Mafioso! I know Mafioso! Please don’t kill me—"

The squires eyed each other warily, their gazes shifting from his face to the long, well-worn coat draped over his shoulders. Mafioso’s old coat. It wasn’t proof, but it was enough. The blades lowered.

"...Proceed."

Chance exhaled and didn’t waste the opportunity, darting past them and straight for the office wing. The hallways were quieter here, the energy different—more stern, more structured. He fished out a keycard from his pocket, one Mafioso had given him yesterday. It beeped once. The door clicked open.

Inside, Mafioso barely looked up from his desk, a stack of paperwork under his ink-stained hands. His coat hung pristine over the back of the chair, contrasting the tired slump in his posture.

"I see you figured out the portal key," he said, eyes flicking up only briefly.

"I did—but screw you for making me do that climb again by myself."

"For reasons," Mafioso said without missing a beat, "the key does not map to up here. It avoids unwanted pests."

Chance huffed and dropped into the chair across the desk with an exaggerated plop. Mafioso’s pen stopped mid-word. A pointed silence followed.

"Are you here to resume your nap or...?"

"Nah, I wanna go somewhere. ‘M bored."

"We just came back from a dream, Chance."

"I know, I know, but you said there was lots to explore, and I wanna see more. I wanna get to know the place better."

Mafioso shut the folder in front of him and neatly placed it to the side. Eunoia wouldn’t mind a delay; she never did.

"Where to?"

"As if I’d know, Maf'—"

Mafioso’s expression darkened.

"...iiioso. Mafioso," Chance corrected quickly.

With a quiet hum, Mafioso stood and adjusted his coat. "Come."

Chance leapt to his feet, energy returning like a current through his limbs. There was something in the way Mafioso walked ahead—like he already knew where they were going. Chance didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t paperwork, he was in.

The Marshland bloomed before them in hues of pink and violet, a living watercolor rendered in dream. Thickly dense with towering trees that resembled twisted mangroves, each one blushed in vibrant pinks, the entire canopy above shifted like silk in a soft wind. Below their interlocking roots, the water shimmered a muted magenta, opaque and dreamlike.

Bridges of aged, lacquered wood and iron rafters wound through the swamp, their paths lit by softly glowing lamps nestled in delicate, lantern-like petals. Chance stepped lightly across one of them, his boots echoing against the intricate wooden flooring. The scent of damp earth mingled with something sweet—perhaps the subtle perfume of the marsh blossoms, whose petals glowed faintly, pulsing like breath.

All around them, elevated huts could be seen—some nestled in the trees, others hanging by reinforced vines or supported by rooted platforms. They bore the look of old-world inns, each one cozy with warm light spilling out through wooden slats. Overhead, crosses shaped from twisted roots and branches rested atop the canopy, giving the area a holy, reverent air—as though the entire marsh had been claimed by an old spirit that still watched over it.

The deeper they walked, the more the terrain revealed: curled ferns that swayed as if watching them, translucent fish swimming just under the walkways, and vines that hung like chandeliers, shimmering with dew. Occasional orbs floated gently through the air, casting a soft bioluminescent light, adding to the illusion that the Marshland was alive—and dreaming.

"It’s like the air’s thicker here," Chance whispered as he ran his hand along the railing. "Feels like honey in my lungs."

"It’s dense with old memory," Mafioso said simply, eyes scanning the canopy. "You can hear it if you stop thinking for a second."

Chance tried. Beneath the sounds of dripping water and faintly chirping creatures, he could almost make out something else—like voices deep underwater, murmuring stories too old to repeat aloud. The quiet hum of the marsh wasn’t silence; it was a chorus of half-buried secrets.

Up ahead, one bridge ended in a wide circular platform with plush moss inlay. It looked untouched, like a room no one had entered for years. Mafioso gestured toward it, and they sat down in tandem, their legs dangling off the edge.

It was beautiful. Captivating. A place Chance could get lost in. But he was already feeling the weight of his thoughts begin to stir, dark and familiar. The Marshland’s serenity was unrelenting—and in its quiet perfection, the voice of doubt rang louder.

This is all a fantasy. He’ll end up like the last one. Like ITrapped. Just another smile hiding a knife.

Chance clenched his hands into the moss, trying to ignore the chill rising in his spine. The dream was too perfect. And perfect things never stayed. He bit the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening.

“You alright?” Mafioso asked.

Chance gave a quick nod, not trusting his voice.

But the thought festered. His mind turned inward, old patterns looping like a carousel he couldn’t step off. When Mafioso looked away, inspecting one of the floating orbs, Chance subtly slipped the sleeve of his coat up. Just enough. His nails scraped old lines, desperate for pressure—some proof that he could still feel, still be in control of something, anything.

The pain was sharp. Familiar. Brief. He pressed the fabric back down, sucking in a slow breath, eyes watery now—not from the act, but from what it meant.

The Marshland didn’t judge him. Its glow remained soft, the pink light kind. Spade wasn’t there to nuzzle him back into calm. Mafioso was beside him, a quiet silhouette in the dreamlight, unaware of the small storm Chance had weathered alone.

And that was almost worse.

Almost .

Chance turned toward the voice, blinking like he’d just come back to reality.

"Hm? Yeah?"

"I’ve been saying your name over and over. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine. Just... thinking."

Mafioso narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "About?"

Chance hesitated, then said quietly, "An... old friend."

He wasn’t sure if ITrapped even counted as that anymore. The memory burned like bile in his chest. They’d been close once—really close. Ran together, slept on rooftops together, shared what little they had. But everything fell apart during that one chase. The one where they were being hunted, desperation thick in the air.

ITrapped ran first.

Left him behind.

And Chance, bleeding and furious, had still doubled back when he lost the attacker. The alley was dark, but he remembered every detail. ITrapped on the ground, coughing blood, trying to crawl away while a figure stood over him, knife plunging down over and over.

And ITrapped—

He was calling for Chance.

Begging for help.

Chance froze for too long. When he finally moved, it was already over. Too late.

He carried that image like a scar no one could see.

It took him a long time to go through ITrapped’s things. At first, he was grieving. Then angry. Then... curious. What had ITrapped been doing behind his back? What had he been running from?

The answer came in the form of receipts, credit chips, and scribbled notes. Hidden under mattress seams and floorboards. ITrapped had been bleeding him dry—draining his accounts, writing off debts in Chance’s name, leveraging his identity to fund whatever the hell he’d been doing on the side.

It wasn’t just betrayal. It was theft. It was manipulation. It was never friendship.

And somehow, even with all that, Chance still blamed himself for not saving him in time.

"...Sorry," Chance mumbled. "Didn’t mean to space out."

Mafioso’s gaze lingered, but he didn’t push. Instead, he gestured forward, deeper into the dream they’d been in.

"Let’s keep moving."

Chance nodded, shaking off the memory, though it clung to him like smoke.

They continued through the winding boardwalk of the pink swamp, boots tapping softly on the wooden planks. Overhead, thick branches of the mangrove-like trees arched, vibrant with pastel blossoms and long, hanging roots that dipped into the soft, glowing water. Huts built into the trunks peeked through the mist, their windows flickering with candlelight. The air buzzed with the hum of frogs and distant music, like some strange lullaby drifting on the air.

Despite the beauty of it, Chance's mood didn’t lift. His thoughts were heavy, circling the past like vultures.

"This place is gorgeous," he said, more to fill the silence than anything else. Mafioso only gave a small grunt in response.

They walked in silence until they came to a fork in the bridge. Mafioso stopped.

"Inn's that way," he said, pointing right. "If you want to look around. We won’t go far."

Chance nodded and stepped off, eyes scanning the space with mild curiosity. The closer he got to the huts, the more surreal everything became—soft candle-glow warming the interiors, mist curling around his boots, and strange lanterns bobbing lazily in the air. It was dreamy, like walking through a watercolor.

Eventually, they found themselves alone on a platform overlooking the swamp. The wooden ledge stretched out like a dock. Chance leaned against the railing, staring at the ripples below.

Mafioso stood beside him.

"You're still thinking about him," Mafioso said quietly, voice low so it wouldn't echo.

Chance didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

"I went back for him," he said finally. "He left me, and I still went back. Thought maybe it meant something."

Mafioso didn’t speak, but Chance could feel the weight of his attention.

"And even after I found everything he'd done..." Chance dragged a hand over his face. "I still thought maybe if I'd moved faster..."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was full, stretched over the years of grief Chance had never really put into words.

"People like that," Mafioso said slowly, "they make you feel like it’s your fault even when it isn’t. That's how they survive so long."

Chance nodded faintly, biting the inside of his cheek. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, but they shook just a little.

A frog croaked somewhere below.

"You wanna head back?" Mafioso asked.

Chance considered it. Part of him wanted to stay. Part of him wanted to be anywhere else. But he just nodded.

They stepped through the return portal and landed back at the willow field. The sky was darker now, closer to dusk, casting everything in warm lavender and gold. Spade was gone—probably burrowed into some shaded nook nearby. Chance walked slowly toward the base of the willow and sat down with a small sigh.

Mafioso followed, sitting beside him.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The breeze rustled through the hanging leaves, brushing Chance's curls gently. He rested his head back against the tree and let his eyes fall shut.

"You ever feel like everything you do is just... wrong?" Chance murmured.

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. Then:

"Yeah. More than I'd like."

Chance glanced at him from the corner of his eye. The air between them felt closer now, shared. Like something unspoken had settled. Had he always looked this…handsome?

He didn’t mean to lean in, not consciously. But his shoulder brushed Mafioso's. Just lightly.

Mafioso turned his head toward him, the shadows playing over his sharp features. He was quiet, unreadable.

Chance looked up.

Then, without really thinking, he leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick—uncertain. A whisper of contact more than a declaration. But it happened.

Mafioso froze. Completely. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

When Chance pulled back, his heart hammering in his chest, Mafioso was staring at him, stunned. His expression was unreadable but clearly shaken.

The silence stretched.

Chance blinked, suddenly unsure, shrinking inward. "I..."

But Mafioso stood abruptly. His hand brushed over his mouth, then fell to his side. He didn’t look angry. Just... overwhelmed.

"I need to go," he said shortly, voice clipped. He turned before Chance could respond, already heading toward the path.

Chance remained where he was, rooted under the willow tree, confusion and regret twisting in his stomach.

Mafioso didn’t look back.

The silence after Mafioso’s departure felt like a physical weight pressing down on Chance's chest. He sat there under the willow, knees drawn to his chest, arms looped around them. Shame began to coil its way through him, slow and suffocating.

He shouldn't have done that.

He let his emotions get the better of him—again. What kind of idiot kisses someone just because the moment feels soft? Because they were finally beginning to trust you? Now he had probably ruined everything.

Acquaintances shattered because he wanted it to be more.

A cold breeze passed through the branches, rustling the leaves above. The quiet was deafening.

His breathing grew shallow. Thoughts spiraled faster.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself, rocking slightly where he sat. "Why would you do that? You fuck it up. Every time."

A part of him begged to move on, to get up and walk away. But the other part? The one that had been clawing at the inside of his skull since ITrapped? That part said it needed to be let out.

That part told him he needed to hurt.

His hands moved on their own, reaching up to the brim of his fedora. There, hidden in a subtle compartment stitched carefully along the inner lining, was a small, thin blade. One he kept for emergencies—and sometimes for this. The metal glinted faintly in the soft pink glow of the dreamscape.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then slowly, mechanically, he rolled up his sleeve.

The skin on his forearm was pale, with scabs and familiar scars littering the flesh. A singular larger one down the center from the attempt that didn’t work. The hesitation lasted for only a breath more before the blade met flesh.

It was shallow. Just a line. Enough to sting. Enough to see the fine red bead rise from beneath the surface.

Another.

And another.

Each one steadier. Cleaner.

He told himself it wasn’t deep. It wasn’t dangerous. Just enough to let it out.

Just enough to feel something real.

Pansies, blue columbines, and hyacinths a beautiful purple flushed out around him. His emotions overbearing.

His breath hitched as the pain bloomed, sharp and hot. He gritted his teeth and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, curling further inward. Tears blurred his vision, falling silently as he watched the crimson slide slowly over his skin, catching the light like lacquer.

It felt like punishment. Like release.

For being so stupid .

For ruining something good.

For daring to want more .

He curled tighter, cradling his arm against his chest, trying to cry quietly. The dream around him didn’t react, but somehow the color seemed more distant now. The pinks and warm golds muted, faded.

The willow branches swayed gently, indifferent.

Chance didn’t know how long he stayed there.

But eventually, the blade was tucked back into its place beneath the fedora. The sleeve was rolled back down. The evidence hidden.

And he sat in the grass, still and silent, his tears drying slowly in the warm breeze, waiting for something—or someone—to decide what came next.

Above him, the willow leaves began to droop.

Not from the wind, but with a kind of solemn stillness, as if the tree could sense the pain that had soaked into its roots.

A single leaf broke free, twirling downward in slow, aching spirals before landing softly beside Chance’s hand.

The grass no longer danced. The branches no longer hummed.

The willow, too, had gone quiet with sorrow.

Chapter Text

Seven weeks.

It had been seven weeks since Mafioso left Chance behind in that once-soft dream. Time didn’t pass normally here—it stretched and lasted too long for comfort—but Chance counted the days all the same. Seven weeks of silence. Seven weeks of waking empty. Seven weeks of watching something in the world around them dim and wither.

The dream had changed. It wasn’t gentle anymore.

The grass, once lush and waving, now lay trimmed and coarse beneath their feet. Flowers that used to bloom with easy joy had vanished, leaving behind only brittle stems and tired soil. The willow stood stiff and motionless, its branches no longer swaying or reaching out. It didn’t grieve with Chance anymore. It had gone still—like everything else.

Even Spade was quieter now. His eyes held no blame, only concern. That made it worse.

Chance sat in the same spots day after day, their studs dwindling from quiet visits to the dying mall. It was the only place they knew how to navigate, the only place that felt remotely real. But the shelves were sparse of good items. Prices were too high. Meals became more infrequent. Hunger was a dull, constant ache—but not as loud as the emptiness in their chest.

They had no one to speak to. Eunoia appeared sometimes in the corners of their vision, shimmering like a half-formed thought, but without Mafioso to translate, her presence only reminded Chance of how alone they actually were. They didn’t even try to call out anymore. It felt too heavy.

The worst part was the stillness. Not the silence of the dream, but the stillness inside themselves. The part that used to hope. That used to imagine Mafioso returning, or waking up to find it had all been a test. That part had gone quiet, too.

They tried to keep moving, tried to keep going to the mall, to feed Spade when they could, to count the studs and pretend that mattered. But most days, they just sat. Staring. Breathing. Waiting.

The dream used to feel like a sanctuary. Now it felt like a mausoleum.

And Chance wasn’t sure how much longer they could stand being its only ghost.

The food court lights flickered weakly above Chance’s head, casting a pale yellow glow that didn’t quite reach the edges of the cracked tile floor. Most of the tables were empty—abandoned fast food counters with faded menus, chairs stacked or missing entirely. The hum of the mall’s ventilation system filled the silence like a tired sigh.

Chance sat at a corner table, hunched forward, arms resting on the table’s surface, forehead against their sleeve. They hadn’t eaten today. Maybe not yesterday either. They couldn’t remember. Their studs were nearly gone, and even if they had enough for something small, it all tasted the same now—dry, bland, a chore rather than a comfort.

They stared at nothing. A tray sat untouched in front of them, holding a cup of water and a half-eaten burrito. The mall was dying, but not fast enough to let them go with it.

So when the chair across from Chance scraped quietly against the floor, they didn’t look up.

Not at first.

Only when a gentle knock on the tabletop came—two light taps—did Chance lift their head slightly, eyes bloodshot, shoulders trembling from more than just the cold air.

Eunoia sat across from them.

Her expression was unreadable, her presence quiet, almost spectral beneath the overhead light. She didn’t speak. Of course she didn’t. Without Mafioso, Chance couldn’t understand her—couldn’t even pretend to hold a conversation.

And maybe that should have made it worse.

But she stayed.

Eunoia pulled a small notepad from her dress pocket and, after a moment’s thought, scribbled something on the page. She turned it around and slid it across the table.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Chance blinked slowly, uncertain. Their hands twitched slightly, then settled.

Another page.

“I see you.”

Something broke in Chance’s chest. Not loudly—just a quiet, exhausted collapse, like an old building finally giving up against gravity.

Their lip trembled.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she wrote again.

“I don’t need to understand everything to care.”

Chance’s throat closed up. They wanted to speak, but the words wouldn't come. There were too many tangled emotions in the way—shame, grief, the unbearable weight of being so profoundly alone for so long.

A tear rolled down their cheek before they even realized it had started.

Eunoia reached across the table—not to touch, but to gently slide a crumpled napkin toward them. A simple gesture.

Chance took it.

And for the first time in weeks, they wiped their face.

Eunoia leaned back in her seat, flipping the page again.

“Can I stay a while?”

Chance nodded.

Barely.

But it was enough.

Eunoia stood slowly, her chair scraping softly against the worn tile. She didn’t say anything—just stepped around the table with quiet intent and lowered herself into the seat beside Chance.

She didn’t get too close. Just close enough to feel like someone was still there.

Then, gently, she offered her hand—sleek and metallic, open and steady in a way that didn’t ask, didn’t intrude. Just existed.

Chance stared at it for a long time. They didn’t want to be touched, but they didn’t want to be alone either. That hand looked cold but dependable. Not like it would pull them apart if they leaned in too far.

So they reached out.

Her fingers curled around theirs with just enough pressure to remind them that they were still real.

Eunoia pulled the small notepad towards her from its previous spot and scribbled with quick precision before turning it toward them.

“What happened?”

The words were too kind.

Chance’s shoulders tensed, and their gaze dropped to the table. Their free hand moved restlessly, fingers brushing the edge of the tray of untouched food.

“I don’t really know where to start,” they murmured, voice thick and dry.

But Eunoia didn’t rush them. She sat still, her hand warm from the touch, and waited.

Eventually, the words spilled.

“He left a couple of weeks ago,” Chance said, not looking up. “Just… left. I don’t even blame him. I think I was dragging him down.”

They took a shaky breath. “Everything here used to feel warm. Comforting, even when things were bad. It was softer. Things grew. The willow moved when I was close. The grass used to reach for my ankles like it wanted me to stay.”

A pause. Their throat worked around something bitter.

“But now it’s all short. Bare. Dead-looking. Like it gave up the second I did. Spade’s even struggling. And I can’t blame him either.”

They wiped at one eye, frustrated by the tears starting to gather. “I haven’t been sleeping much. I wake up and everything’s heavy. It’s like I’m walking through syrup. I don’t… I don’t feel real half the time. Just hungry. Tired. Guilty.”

Their hand trembled slightly in Eunoia’s.

“I come here because it’s the only place I knew where I could get food. The studs I earned… they’re almost gone I can tell. And everything’s so expensive. I skip meals more than I eat, and no one notices. No one looks. I think even the randoms that show up here are avoiding me.”

They finally glanced up at her, eyes glassy. “I’ve seen you around. I've been wanting to talk to you, but I didn’t know how. Without him—without the way he could make the barrier between us make sense—I didn’t think it would matter.”

Eunoia’s eyes were soft with something unreadable. Not pity. Something older. She reached for the notepad again.

“It matters.”

Chance’s breath caught. She didn’t let go of their hand.

More writing.

“You didn’t deserve to be left alone like this.”

Chance looked away again, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want him to know,” they said quietly. “Not how I’m doing. Not what it’s been like. Please. Don’t tell him.”

Eunoia nodded.

Then wrote:

“I won’t. I promise.”

There wasn’t a smile. Just presence. Just patience. Just her hand still holding theirs, as if to say: you don’t have to carry this alone.

And for the first time in weeks, something inside Chance didn’t feel quite so hollow.

The silence that followed Eunoia’s promise settled gently between them. Not heavy like before—just quiet. Like the hush of a moment being held.

Chance’s eyes were fixed on the food court tiles, still scuffed from years of footsteps, yet somehow lifeless under the current fluorescent haze.

Their voice came out rough, hesitant.

“…How is he?”

Eunoia didn’t answer right away. She looked down at their joined hands. Her thumb moved slightly, not in comfort, but more like consideration—as if she were weighing every possible word she might write next.

Chance didn’t look at her, but the tension in their shoulders returned. “You don’t have to lie,” they murmured. “I just… I’ve been trying not to ask. But I’m so tired of pretending I don’t care.”

Eunoia’s hand slipped from theirs only to retrieve the notepad again. She wrote slower this time.

“He’s alive. He’s working.”

She hesitated before the next part.

“But he’s not the same.”

Chance swallowed hard.

Eunoia didn’t stop there.

“He doesn’t talk about you. Not even when he should. But he’s… quieter. Less fire, more ash. Like he’s trying to prove something to himself. Or forget something.”

Chance’s lips parted like they wanted to speak, but no words came out.

Eunoia tilted the pad again, another line added:

“He looks like someone who thinks he's doing the right thing by leaving.”

Chance gave a bitter exhale that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught in their throat.

“Then he’s wrong,” they whispered. “Because I’m not doing better. Not even close.”

They blinked hard, wiping at their cheek again.

“I miss him. I hate that I do, but I do miss him. Even if it’s been a short time. He was the only person I could really trust in showing this place I still don’t know my way around. I keep thinking maybe he’d show up, or maybe this was all some kind of test, and I just failed. And every time I think I’m past it, I’m not. I’m just more tired than I was yesterday.”

Eunoia didn’t write anything for a while. She just sat there. Present. Listening.

Then, carefully, she put the pen to the page again.

“I don’t think he knows how to come back. And I don’t think he’d want you to see how much he’s failing, too.”

Chance’s hands clenched slightly. “That’s stupid.”

Eunoia didn’t write it down, but her silence agreed.

And still, she didn’t let the space between them grow. She didn’t try to fix it. Just let it be what it was.

Finally, Chance whispered, “Thank you. For not sugarcoating it.”

Eunoia nodded, then scribbled one last thing on the page and gently slid it across the table.

“You still matter. Even when no one says it. Even when it hurts.”

Chance didn’t cry—not yet. But their eyes shimmered, and they didn’t look away this time.

They just let that sentence sit there, anchoring them to the table like a lifeline.

The quiet between them wasn’t as sharp anymore.

It settled into something softer, like the way dusk falls after a long, sunless day—still dim, but not as cold. The kind of quiet where something new could begin, even if it was still small and uncertain.

Eunoia shifted slightly in her seat, then tapped the notepad once to catch Chance’s attention. When they looked over, she was already writing again, slower this time, more intentional.

“I could teach you.”

Chance blinked, unsure.

Eunoia underlined the sentence once and added below:

“My language. If you want. You wouldn’t need a translator anymore.”

For a moment, Chance stared at the words, not fully understanding.

“You mean… so I can talk to you?”

Eunoia nodded. Then, with a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, she scribbled:

“So we can talk to each other.”

Something in Chance’s chest stirred, surprised by how badly they wanted that.

“I thought it was too complicated… or... or something.”

Eunoia shook her head. Then she wrote:

“It is complex. That’s why I want to share it with you.”

That sentence settled somewhere deep in Chance’s chest, weaving between all the brittle spaces that had started to crack under loneliness. It didn’t fix anything—not the hunger, or the emptiness, or the ache Mafioso left behind—but it planted something else. A seed. A reason to show up tomorrow.

“…Yeah,” Chance murmured, voice still a little rough. “Okay. I want to learn.”

Eunoia nodded, calm but certain. She turned to a clean page, and in graceful, curved strokes, wrote a single symbol. Then beside it, its pronunciation, and beneath that, its meaning.

She pointed to it, then at Chance.

“Me?” they guessed.

Eunoia nodded again.

Chance tried to pronounce it, stumbling slightly. She corrected them with a quiet laugh and wrote a phonetic guide.

They tried again.

Better.

It was awkward. Foreign. But not alienating. And for the first time in weeks, Chance felt the smallest flicker of something different than despair.

They felt seen.

And maybe, just maybe, understood.

Another few weeks passed. Quietly. Gently.

And the dream began to change with him.

It was subtle at first. The sky, once dull and heavy with grief, began to return to its soft blue hues. The grass was no longer clipped to nothing; it had started to grow again, inch by inch, daring to sway with the breeze. Flowers still hesitated, but here and there, a patch of color would appear—bold little flecks in the green, like hope returning in shy, trembling waves.

Even the willow seemed different. It didn’t reach for him like it once had. But its branches, though stilled, no longer sagged with sorrow. They stood in a quiet sort of neutrality now—watchful, patient.

Chance didn’t cry as often. Not because he didn’t still feel the ache, but because he had found something to anchor himself to. Something that required presence. Effort. Time.

Someone.

He was with Eunoia more now than he was alone. Their lessons had become routine—an odd kind of comfort he hadn’t expected. She’d meet him at the food court table, always with her metallic hands holding a notepad, sometimes decorated with crude little doodles in the margins: stars, cats, and the occasional bunny.

She didn’t ask for more than he could give. Didn’t overwhelm him with her energy, but gave it in bursts, like sunshine breaking through clouds. Encouraging smiles. Quick claps when he got a phrase right. Gentle corrections when he didn’t.

And now—now, he could slightly understand her. Nothing deep, not yet. But enough to make him laugh. Enough to understand when she teased him, praised him, or asked him how his day was. The first time he held an entire exchange without asking her to write down a word, Eunoia grinned so wide she nearly dropped her stylus.

“You’re learning fast,” she said aloud this time, her voice thin and light like wind chimes.

Chance smiled faintly. “Guess I have a good teacher.”

She paused, then scribbled quickly:
‘Good teacher’ deserves tea. You buy.
Then, as if to make it worse, she added a badly-drawn cup with steam and a big happy face.

He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. He didn’t mind buying tea. He didn’t mind the way she sat beside him, or how she listened when he tried new words, or the way she waited when his voice got stuck. Most of all, he didn’t mind that she never pushed too hard when he got quiet again.

The pain of Mafioso’s absence hadn’t disappeared. It still tugged at him when he saw certain things. It still whispered in the dark when he had nightmares or caught his reflection and remembered the blade under the fedora. But it didn’t choke him like before. It didn’t devour his whole day.

Not when there was something else to think about. Something else to do. Someone else to talk to.

Sometimes, when they weren’t practicing, they’d just sit. She’d sketch in her notepad—animals, other people here, dreamwalkers she’d encountered—and he’d rest his chin in his hand, watching the dream around them. It wasn’t perfect. But it wasn’t as empty.

And in those quiet moments, with the hum of the mall in the background and her pen scratching softly beside him, Chance began to think he might make it.

Not because everything was fixed.

But because he wasn’t alone in the waiting.

It was a slow afternoon. The kind where the air inside the mall felt oddly still, as though even the dream itself was taking a moment to breathe.

Chance sat with Eunoia at their usual table in the food court. His hands were stained faintly with ink from copying a new set of vocabulary she’d brought—a themed list about emotions. Appropriate, he’d joked. He hadn’t expected to actually start feeling so many of them again.

Eunoia was sketching something on the back of a receipt while sipping a hot drink. Her brow twitched, humming faintly with thought, before she paused and looked at him with that tilted, unreadable expression she always made before saying something important.

She tapped her pen against the paper, then scribbled down:

Have you thought about seeing Mafioso?

The air between them shifted.

Chance blinked, then sat up a little. “What?”

She didn’t look away, just nodded gently and wrote again.

Not to fix everything. Just to see him. Maybe it will help.

His jaw clenched before he could stop it. “You think I need to see him?”

Eunoia hesitated. Then slowly, she shook her head and wrote carefully:

I don’t think you need him. I just think you might want to stop hurting like this.

That hit harder than he expected. His fingers curled against the edge of the table, and he stared at her, searching for something else—some hidden motive. Was she tired of him? Tired of babysitting? Was this her way of saying go back to where you came from ?

“I’m not… ready,” he mumbled. “If this is your way of pushing me away—”

She immediately began scribbling, faster this time, and pushed the notepad toward him. She made sure to repeat the written words verbally as well.

I’m not pushing you. I’m here. Always. But you talk about him a lot. And when you do, you look like you’re trying not to drown.

Chance didn’t know what to say. His throat tightened.

She added:

I just want you to breathe.

He stared at the words for a long time. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t even pushing. They were gentle. Like her. And yet, something in him still recoiled—afraid, not of Mafioso exactly, but of what seeing him might unlock again. That old ache. That guilt. That fear that maybe Mafioso would look at him and see nothing but a mistake.

“I don’t think I can,” he said, voice low. “Not yet.”

Eunoia didn’t argue. She simply nodded, folded the paper in half, and drew a smiley face on the back. Then she slid it toward him, tapped her chest lightly with two fingers, and gave him a thumbs-up.

“You are my best friend,” she said softly.

Chance’s heart ached at the sound of it. His number one friend.

He looked away, but not before smiling—small, faint, but real.

“…Thanks.”

They didn’t bring up Mafioso again that day. Instead, Eunoia asked if he wanted to learn how to curse in her language.

He said yes. And maybe, just maybe, he laughed again.

Chapter Text

Lessons passed, and Eunoia was thrilled with Chance’s progress. Chance could officially understand her to the best of their abilities, occasionally needing help but not as much as previously. Eunoia no longer mainly wrote on a notepad, instead, they spoke to one another as if Chance had known her language all their life.

Chance was healing slowly, uncertainly, like new grass pushing through frostbitten soil. Their days with Eunoia brought warmth in quiet ways: laughter shared over silly misunderstandings, the soft rhythm of conversation unfolding like petals in spring. In those moments, Chance felt almost human again. Almost whole.

But the thought of Mafioso still lingered, a phantom ache that never quite faded.

Some mornings, they’d wake with the weight of that wave of shame that overcame them. Sometimes, when Eunoia touched their arm with gentle, absentminded care, her fingers would brush the places where old pain still hummed beneath the skin. She never noticed. They didn’t want her to. But the sting was there, quiet and cruel, as if their body remembered more vividly than their mind dared to.

And the dream—ever watchful, ever attuned—responded in kind.

When the ache became too loud, the skies would dim. Cold rain would drizzle from unseen clouds, soft and persistent. Not the violent kind, but mournful, like tears shed on behalf of someone who could no longer cry. The willow no longer wept openly, but its branches curled inward, heavy with knowing. The grass, while growing taller again, often glistened with dew that hadn’t come from the morning.

It was as if the world around Chance mourned in tandem, understanding without words that healing was never a straight line. Spade stayed behind, as always. The little bunny never ventured beyond the willow’s reach, never dared to step past the soft ring of long grass that framed the only place Chance still called safe. His big form remained curled in the shade during the day, ears flicking lazily, watching the breeze stir the leaves like lullabies. And though Spade couldn’t speak, Chance often imagined he understood—every glance, every twitch, every time he stood still and waited for them to return.

But the comfort didn’t follow them into the mall.

Chance had been scraping by, counting studs and watching the number drop via the mini tablet Eunoia gifted him like blood from a wound they couldn’t stop. Quiet desperation turned to habits: stretching meals across days, skipping drinks, chewing slowly to trick their mind. Eunoia noticed, of course. She always did. Sometimes she’d buy them something and pretend it was just a gift, a small celebration of a lesson well done.

But she couldn’t feed them every day. And Chance knew that.

When the tablet finally buzzed, a soft tone like an empty sigh, they already knew what it would say.
Balance: -7000.00

It wasn’t a large number, at least not here, but it may as well have been a mountain.

Still, they were hungry. Still, the food was there. Chance took one. Then another. The machines didn’t stop them. No sirens. No voice warning of credit failure. Just silence.

So they kept going.

A snack bar. A bottle of water. Another tray of dry tacos that tasted like cardboard and shame.
They told themselves they’d pay it back. Eventually. Someday.

But the dream noticed.

At first, it was nothing more than background noise—faint whispers from empty corners, a cold draft that didn’t belong, the prickling sensation of being watched when no one was there. Chance wrote it off as stress, paranoia, and exhaustion. Maybe even guilt.

But the more the number on their balance dipped into the red, the worse it got.
The whispers grew louder.
The cold more biting.
And then… they began to see them .

Shadows. Small, voidlike figures lurking at the edge of their vision. Humanoid, but not quite. Amalgamations of smoke and shapes that pulsed with something wrong . They didn’t speak. They didn’t move fast. They only watched. And they were always watching.

Chance tried to ignore them, to convince themselves it was all in their head. But with every reluctant trip to the mall and every food item taken on borrowed time, the creatures multiplied. They followed from a distance, never chasing—just lingering. Growing.

Even the willow felt further away now. Its branches no longer reached for them the way they used to. Spade, still nestled safely beneath its leaves, couldn’t follow them into the maze of the mall. Couldn’t see the figures Chance saw. Couldn’t hear the whispers that bled through the fluorescent lights and into the cracks of their thoughts.

Eunoia noticed, as always.

She saw the tension in Chance’s shoulders, the way they turned around too quickly when no one called their name. The distant look in their eyes like they were trying to count how many things were following them without turning their head.

But she’d always assumed that was just Chance being Chance.
Anxious. Wounded. Plagued by something even she was scared of.

Until the moment her ledger glowed.
And their name— Chance —lit up in red.

Her breath hitched in disbelief.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not to him.

Eunoia stared at the glowing red letters, her metallic fingers tightening around the edges of the ledger as if she could will it to change. But it didn’t. Chance. Scrawled across the page like a sentence. A warning.

This kind of debt wasn’t a gentle tap on the shoulder—it was a chain. And she knew what came next.

She closed the ledger slowly, her thoughts racing. Debt in the dreamsphere was no small thing; it wasn’t about money—it was about weight. The burden of owing, the emotional toll of imbalance. And when that burden grew too heavy, the dream pushed back. The shadows that Chance had begun to see weren’t just hallucinations. They were harbingers.

Eunoia knew what the rules were. If a debt couldn’t be relieved through the usual means, the dream required travel. Movement. A journey to restore balance. A draining journey.

And looking at Chance lately—sleepless, hollow-eyed, barely eating—he was in no shape for that kind of strain. The dream wouldn’t care.

Worse still, if his name had carved itself into her ledger, then it had certainly burned itself into his .

The dream made no exceptions.

The name flickered in soft red ink across the surface of her ledger. Not handwritten, not etched, but appeared . The kind of ink that pulsed with meaning far beyond its shape.

She already knew what it meant. The system was old, but unchanging—when a name appeared unprompted, it was because the dream had taken notice. And when it showed up in hers, it always showed up in his.

Mafioso.

A cold sense of inevitability tightened in her chest. He hadn’t spoken to him since the day he’d walked away from the willow field, leaving Chance behind. But now there was no way Mafioso would let this slide.

Somewhere across the dream, Mafioso would have already seen the same crimson glow threading across the lines of his own ledger. The name he’d tried to ignore for weeks. The name he'd buried under forced resolve and distance.

Chance.

He would know.

And there would be no way to pretend otherwise. So she ran.

The dream blurred past her—lights smearing like watercolors, pathways collapsing and reforming under her feet. Panic twisted her core as she bolted through the shifting corridors of the dreamsphere, all logic abandoned in favor of one singular purpose.

She had to find him. Now .

The mall loomed, dim and hollow. Most of the lights were out. The food court sat still as stone, cast in a bluish haze that looked more like dusk than electricity. The cold silence made her mechanic pulse louder in her ears.

She found him in the back, near a forgotten kiosk with shutters half-closed and shelves stripped bare. He was curled against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, head down, fingers tangled in his sleeves like he could disappear into them.

“Chance!” Eunoia’s voice cracked as she stumbled to her knees beside him, metallic limbs clinking sharply against the tile. “Chance, look at me!”

He flinched but didn’t move.

She didn’t wait. She reached forward and gently, but firmly, lifted his chin.

“What did you do?!” she gasped, her voice breaking again. “Why?!”

His eyes were red. Not from crying—those tears had dried long ago. This was worse. This was emptiness so full it threatened to spill into something else. His mouth opened, then shut again. No words.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?!” Eunoia demanded, shaking her head as she crouched lower. “You should’ve told me— anyone! ”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” Chance whispered.

She stared at him in disbelief. “You think you’re a burden because you’re hurting ?”

He didn’t answer.

“I would’ve helped. I wanted to help, Chance. That’s what people who care about you do. ”

“I was scared,” he said. “I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

Eunoia's expression softened, even as her eyes brimmed with a kind of pained frustration. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. Then, quietly, firmly:

“You’re not invisible. You’re not disposable. And you’re not alone—not anymore.”

Chance looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in weeks, something behind his eyes shifted. Not much. Just enough.

“I saw them,” he mumbled. “The shadows. I thought I could ignore them, but they’re getting bigger. Smarter. They know I’m scared.”

Eunoia’s grip on his shoulders tightened. Her expression—usually animated with a soft quirk or mechanical mischief—was now deadly serious, eyes narrowed in a rare flash of authority.

“They’re nightmares, Chance,” she said. “That’s why we collect debt. Not for the studs. But for the safety of the dreamwalkers. For you. ”

Her voice trembled for a moment. Then she paused, lips parting slightly, as though weighing the weight of her next words.

“He knows.”

Chance blinked. “...What?”

“Your name,” she said quietly. “It didn’t just show up in my ledger. It appeared in his. Mafioso’s.”

A chill ran through him, not from the cold dream air, but something deeper. He shifted where he sat, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

“He’s going to come after you,” she added.

Chance let out a dry laugh, humorless and hollow. “We already established that I can’t die. Isn’t that how this works? You people chase down the ones who owe, and—what? Erase them? Detain them?”

Eunoia blinked, startled. “You… you can’t die?”

“No,” Chance murmured, voice flat. “Not really. I just… respawn. Immediately. Over and over. Kind of a cruel joke.”

She didn’t respond right away, processing the implications. Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers curling against her palm before she hummed—low, mechanical, concerned.

“...Then stay vigilant.”

Chance lowered his head again, cheek pressed against the bare curve of his arm. His voice was quieter this time. “Why are you so worried? They’re harmless… aren’t they?”

Eunoia shook her head slowly. “No. Not even close.”

He frowned.

“Nightmares aren’t just illusions,” she continued, her voice unusually grim. “They’re fragmented thought. Lingering despair. They’ll find a way in—into your mind —if you let them. If they see an opening, they don’t just haunt your dreams. They feed. On your energy, your focus, your will.”

She leaned in closer, her tone dropping to a whisper.

“Do not , under any circumstances, interact with them. Don’t acknowledge them. Don’t answer them. If they speak, don’t listen. ”

Chance was quiet for a long time.

“They already know I see them,” he said eventually. “I think… they’ve been waiting for me to crack.”

Eunoia didn’t deny it. The silence was enough.

Why would Mafioso come after him at all if he’d been so determined to stay away?

Unless… he wasn’t coming himself.

Unless he was going to send his squires.

Cold, efficient, and without a trace of mercy—those squires wouldn’t hesitate. Chance was just another name to them. Another task to complete. Another debt to erase.

But why even bother?

Killing him to relieve the debt was pointless. He couldn’t die—not in the way that mattered. The dream always pulled him back, rewound the damage, like it refused to let him go.

So what was the endgame?

Punishment? Fear? Was it just to prove a point?

Chance curled his fingers into his sleeves. The thought of Mafioso being behind this—whether directly or through his hunters—made his stomach knot. Not because he feared death. But because he feared what it meant if Mafioso truly didn’t care anymore.

Maybe the pursuit wasn’t about studs.

Maybe it was about severing what was left of the thread between them.

And that hurt worse than anything the squires could do.

Chance lay sprawled in the tall grass, the sun beating down on him with a heat that didn’t warm—only burned. It bled through his skin, heavy and numbing. Nearby, Spade nibbled at the blades of green, peaceful, unaware. But peace never lasted long for Chance.

Not anymore.

The nightmares followed him everywhere now. Lurking in the corners of his vision, whispering in the silence. And one had finally drawn close.

He felt it before he saw it—a pressure, like gravity doubling against his chest. Paralysis crept into his limbs, locking him in place. His body refused to move, even as every instinct screamed to run.

It hovered just beyond his reach, an approximation of a person. Or what it thought a person might be. Its form flickered, half-finished. A silhouette. A mockery.

It had pulled something from his memories.

Elliot.

An old friend. Long gone. Forgotten—at least, he’d tried to forget. But the nightmare remembered. It dug , found the fractures in his mind, and wore Elliot’s face like a cracked mask. The shape twitched unnaturally, its edges flickering like static. It had no mouth, but its voice slid into Chance’s mind like oil.

“ When your mind is in shambles… remember that we are here to fix that pain… ”

It took a step closer.

“ ...to free you from this place. ”

Chance’s heart pounded, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe . The air around him had thickened, heavy with dread. Elliot’s shadow thing drew closer, raising one twitching hand as if to touch him—but it couldn’t. Not yet.

It didn’t need to.

The taunting was enough. The voice in his head, the face he hadn’t seen in years, twisted by the dream’s malevolence—it was too much.

Chance stared, wide-eyed, helpless.

And the dream watched.

The longer he stared into that faceless version of Elliot, the more distorted everything became.

The field—once vivid and soft, alive with quiet wind and summer warmth—began to sour. The grass around him lost its color, bleeding into shades of gray and brittle yellow. It curled inward as though shrinking away from the nightmare’s presence. Even the air dimmed, as if the sun above were dimming behind clouds that hadn’t been there moments ago.

Spade, still munching just a few feet away, froze mid-bite.

Chance’s sanctuary—the willow—shuddered.

It had always been the one constant in the dream. A place where the leaves whispered solace, and the branches offered shade like a mother’s arms. But now the tree twisted. Its roots cracked through the earth like veins splitting beneath bruised skin. The bark bled dark sap, and the leaves no longer swayed; they hung limp and rotted at the edges, dripping with blackened dew.

Chance still couldn’t move.

He tried—desperately. Screamed inside his own head. He willed his fingers to twitch, his chest to rise. But nothing responded. The nightmare pressed closer. It didn’t need to touch him to feed. The paralysis was the meal. The fear, the hopelessness—it feasted on that.

Above him, the sky throbbed darker with every beat of his heart. Rain began to fall—cold, heavy. It soaked through him instantly but didn’t wash the dread away. It only sank it deeper. The smell of the field changed from wildflowers and sun-warmed grass to copper, like blood and wet metal.

Even Spade was gone now. Chance hadn’t seen him vanish, but he was no longer nearby.

He was alone.

The nightmare’s form shifted, rippling like ink in water. It didn’t look like Elliot anymore. It looked like everyone he’d failed . Every decision he’d regretted. Every time he’d shut someone out, or let them down.

“ You’re wasting away here ,” it whispered, voice wet and soft like breath fogging glass.

“ The dream can only hold you so long before it turns on you. ”

Something cracked inside Chance’s chest—like a dam finally failing. A sob? A gasp? He didn’t know. But it was real. And as if reacting to it, the nightmare leaned in, blotting out what little light remained.

Then—

A snap .

A sudden pull .

And he could breathe again.

The nightmare recoiled—momentarily.

The air surged back into his lungs like a slap. His body didn’t move yet, but the sensation returned in hot flashes. Pins and needles, electricity along his spine.

The willow groaned above him.

Not in comfort.

In warning.

The nightmare lunged—swift now, its form unraveling into jagged limbs and flickering shadows. Chance couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. His own mind was a prison locking him in place, the apparition of Elliot bending toward him with twitching, malformed limbs.

“ Let us end the ache ,” it whispered in that echoing, mouthless voice.
“ Let us unmake what hurts. ”

Its fingers—long, oily shadows—reached for Chance’s temples.

A rupture split through the dreamsphere.

A violent tear. The sound of fabric shredding across a canyon. The air distorted—warped—and with it came a pressure. A force.

The nightmare froze.

And then stepped back.

From the plants beyond, the tall figure emerged—fedora low, coat dragging wind in its wake. The blade in Mafioso’s hand shimmered like a crack in reality, already drawn, already humming.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t hesitate.

A clean arc of silver tore through the space between them. Not at the nightmare itself—but through the very dream around it. The willow groaned as light, sharp and ancient, flooded into the cracks.

The nightmare screamed .

It recoiled and shuddered and evaporated , unwinding like a thread pulled from the hem of the world. Its limbs shattered. Its false face split. And then—it was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Chance gasped—his breath finally returning in shallow, ragged bursts. The paralysis lifted, but his limbs felt like lead. Sweat clung to his skin. Spade had vanished from view. The willow branches above had stopped moving, as if they too were holding their breath.

Mafioso stood at a distance, sheathing his blade without looking at Chance. Not a word.

No eye contact.

No gesture.

Only the sound of the wind returning, the grass rustling again.

He turned.

Started walking away.

Chance swallowed, barely able to lift his voice. “...You’re not going to say anything?”

Mafioso paused mid-step.

Then without turning back:

“Don’t be an idiot.”

And just like that, he vanished—melting into the dream like fog in the morning sun.

The dream didn’t brighten.

It didn’t return to warmth.

It just held still—quiet and cold—while Chance stared up at the branches, haunted more by the silence than the nightmare itself.

The dream was slow to resume its rhythm.

The willow above him hung limp, its once-reaching arms heavy with a silence that felt thick and old. The golden light that used to filter gently through its branches now cast strange shadows, stretching long over Chance’s trembling frame.

He sat up slowly, his breath catching as the tension in his body finally unwound. His hands were cold. His shirt was damp with sweat. The place where the nightmare had reached—just nearly touched—still burned with a phantom chill.

He was alone again.

Though, at least Spade had returned. Bumping his head against Chance to pull him out of the trance of thoughts.

But Chance’s fingers dug into the grass, trying to ground himself, but even the grass felt unfamiliar now—too short, too brittle. Like the dream had cracked slightly and hadn’t figured out how to put itself back together.

Mafioso’s blade had torn more than just the nightmare. It had sliced clean through any sense of safety Chance had left.

He came back just to kill the thing and leave.
No questions.
No comfort.
No acknowledgment of what had happened between them.

It hurt more than the nightmare ever could.

Chance pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in the fold of his arms. A choked sob shook loose, one that echoed into the vast, empty space around him.

He wanted to be angry.

He wanted to scream after him, to ask why he even bothered saving him if he was just going to vanish again. To demand what he had done to deserve this—this persistent, gnawing loneliness that no dream or language or lesson could erase.

But instead, he just sat there, shoulders trembling, barely breathing.

The dream was colder now. Not icy. Not winter. Just dull. Dimmed.

The longer he stayed, the more hollow it began to feel.

And in that stillness, the smallest whisper returned—not from a nightmare, not from a figure, but from his own memory:

“Debt catches up eventually. One way or another.”

He wondered what Mafioso had seen in his ledger. Wondered how far the number had fallen to pull him back like this. And more than that, he wondered what it meant that Mafioso hadn’t stayed.

Did he hate him?

Was this his punishment?

The questions circled endlessly, unanswered.

Chapter Text

The dream was less dreary now.

It had softened again, reshaping itself into something closer to what it once was—tranquil, slow, forgiving. The grass had grown taller, swaying gently in a wind that no longer stung. The willow tree stood proud once more, its long branches reaching lazily toward the earth like tired arms remembering how to hold.

From a distance, it might’ve looked like nothing had ever gone wrong here. As if the field had never echoed with cries, as if the air had never tasted of panic or metal. As if the nightmares hadn’t dragged his thoughts into hollows that still hadn’t closed.

But the shadows still lurked.

They just didn’t hover so close anymore. They weren’t as bold as they had been—no more twisted illusions in Elliot’s form, no more breath on the back of Chance’s neck. But they were there. Small flickers. Shifting silhouettes at the edge of the dream. Watching.

Waiting.

Chance sat under the willow, knees drawn to his chest, a half-finished notebook in his lap. A single phrase written in Eunoia’s language repeated over and over down the page, his shaky handwriting gradually becoming steadier as it scrolled toward the bottom.

You are not alone.

He didn’t even know why he kept writing it. Maybe because saying it aloud felt like a lie some days. But seeing it there, in ink and shape, made it real. Tangible. A reminder that he hadn’t disappeared.

The sun drifted above the willow’s boughs, filtered through leaves that whispered more than they rustled. Spade dozed in the grass nearby, no longer as jumpy as he once was. Even the bunny had relaxed somewhat, though never fully. Not since the shadows.

Chance exhaled through his nose, lying back in the grass with a soft thump , the notebook dropping beside him. His arms stretched out wide, welcoming the feeling of the earth pressing back against his weight.

He didn’t cry today.

That felt like progress.

Still, his chest ached with something unnamed. Not sadness exactly. Not quite fear. More like… echo. A memory still trying to be felt. That moment when Mafioso had appeared, only to vanish again—clearing the nightmare and leaving nothing behind.

Why did you bother? He had wanted to ask.
Why show up if you were just going to let me rot here again?

The willow creaked quietly above him. He stared through its canopy, watching the leaves tremble in a breeze that didn’t touch his skin.

Time passed differently in this part of the dream. He didn’t keep track of hours. Just movements. Shadows. The rare bird overhead. Spade twitching in his sleep.

Eventually, Chance sat up again, brushing bits of grass from his arms. He looked toward the horizon where the shadows used to gather, only to find them dispersed, more like dust than creatures now. Harmless. For now.

A soft hum caught his attention—one he recognized.

Eunoia.

She approached slowly from the path that barely existed anymore, a basket containing the flowers that bloomed in the field tucked in the crook of her metallic arm, and her dress bouncing lightly with each step. She didn’t speak right away. Just settled in the grass a few feet from him and set the basket down between them.

She didn’t need to ask if he was okay.

She knew the answer.

Instead, she pulled out a small folded paper—another phrase. A new lesson.

Chance took it in silence, smiling faintly when he read it aloud. “ The mind is a garden. Water it gently. ”

She nodded, watching him with eyes that knew more than they ever said. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke.

“You’ve been here a long time.”

Chance shrugged. “Feels safe here.”

“Even with the nightmares?”

He looked past her to the field. “They don’t scare me or get near like they used to.”

Eunoia tilted her head, observing him the way only she could. Then she gave a small smile. “That means you’re healing.”

Chance didn’t reply right away. He just leaned against the tree, watching the willow leaves sway above them.

Maybe he was.

Maybe not.

But for now, the dream was peaceful. And that was enough.

“Chance.”

He blinked slowly, the sound of his name cutting through the lull of willow branches and rustling grass. His eyes drifted toward Eunoia, their hazy distance narrowing just slightly as they met hers.

Chance hummed in response, a tired sort of sound—acknowledging her presence more than asking what she wanted.

Eunoia shifted her weight, the fabric of the dream rippling faintly with the motion. Her voice was soft and careful, like she knew what she was about to say needed to be handled with deliberate gentleness.

“I am going to tell you something that might help you.”

He tilted his head a little, curious despite himself. The weariness never quite left his face, but there was a flicker of attention in his eyes now.

She reached forward and took his hands into hers. Her fingers were cool, metallic, but not cold. There was something comforting in her touch—a stable pulse that traveled up his arms, like static, like warmth. A soft glow bled into his skin, faint and nearly invisible unless one looked closely.

Chance tensed. “What… what did you just do?”

“I gave you something both me and him have,” she said gently. “Manifestation.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You…what?”

Eunoia gave his hands a small squeeze. “Since you technically own this dream— your dream—you should be allowed to shape it. Maybe not everything, not in every detail… but if you can learn to still your thoughts, focus, and want something here, you can bring it into being. At least, simple things. An item, a tool, something that brings you peace.”

Chance opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brows furrowed.

“I don’t understand. I’ve been here all this time and never been able to do anything like that.”

“That’s because you didn’t know you could. You weren’t given the key.”

“And now you’re just… giving it to me?”

“Yes,” Eunoia said simply. “You’re not helpless here, Chance. I want you to know that. To feel it.”

He looked down at his palms as if something there would be different now. They looked the same—just hands. But something felt different. It wasn’t warmth or energy or light. It was something quieter, like an unlocked door he hadn’t noticed before.

Eunoia smiled gently, the willow leaves whispering above them. “Clear your mind,” she said. “Imagine something familiar. Something that once made you feel safe. Not too big… just something personal. A memory you’d want to hold.”

Chance’s breathing hitched, uneven.

His eyes slipped shut.

At first, there was white noise—broken memories, sharp flashes of fear, faces blurred, and names that felt like old bruises. The shrieking of nightmares. The sting of regret.

But beneath it all, buried under the noise—

A memory stirred. A warm light.

White and clean. The ivory keys cool beneath his fingers. The sound, rich and echoing. A grand piano, nestled in the center of his casino. One he used to play when tables and rooms were full. When people listened. Back when he still believed in something soft.

He had sold it. Was forced to by him . But he had loved that piano.

Chance exhaled slowly, letting the image root itself in his chest.

The dream shifted.

The air around him grew thick with static, buzzing at the edges of his awareness. A shimmer passed through the grass, warping the world like heat on asphalt. Then, gently, the ground beside him pressed inward, forming a shallow cradle.

Piece by piece, it rose.

Ivory white. Edges gleaming faintly. The frame appeared first, then the legs, then the polished lid—and finally, the keys. Shimmering with residual energy, humming like a held breath.

A white grand piano.

The one from his past. The one he thought he’d never see again.

He stared.

It was perfect. Just as he remembered it.

His throat tightened as he whispered, “I… did that?”

Eunoia stood beside him, eyes wide, awestruck. “You did.”

He reached out with shaking fingers, brushing the surface of those ivory keys. Solid. Cold. Real .

A low note rang out as he pressed one gently. It echoed across the dream like a ripple across a still lake.

He nearly cried.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just surviving—he had something . Something he chose. Something he brought back .

Eunoia placed a hand on his arm. “It takes energy,” she said softly. “So don’t push yourself. But now you know you can do it.”

Chance nodded, barely able to breathe.

The shadows at the edge of the willow glade watched, but they didn’t come closer.

They stayed quiet—for now.

He sat on the bench, placing both hands over the keys, and let his fingers drift. The chords were clumsy at first. His hands trembled. But the music came back to him like an old friend. Melancholy, meandering, imperfect—but real.

Eunoia said nothing. She simply sat in the grass, letting him play.

And for a moment, the dream breathed with him. Not haunted. Not broken.

Just… melodic.

The willow branches swayed gently in the breeze, casting long dappled shadows over the clearing. The piano sat just beneath them, pristine and elegant, its ivory keys glowing faintly in the dreamlight.

Chance rested on the bench, fingers ghosting above the keys without pressing down. They hesitated to play it too much, fearing the burnout would undo everything. Just touching it felt like enough. Like remembering something sacred.

Eunoia stood nearby, observing them quietly. After a long silence, she spoke.

“What does it mean to you?” she asked softly, nodding toward the piano.

Chance blinked, not quite startled, but pulled out of a deep, still place.

“This?” They looked at it for a long moment, a wry smile tugging faintly at the corner of their mouth. “It was a Christmas gift. From my mother.”

Eunoia tilted her head, curious.

“She was... is... the kind of person who always knew things before I did,” he continued. “I was just a kid. She took me to this concert once—strings and piano, dramatic lighting, the whole thing. I didn’t say anything about it afterward, but apparently she saw something in my eyes. Knew I was hooked.”

They paused, letting the memory play out behind their eyes.

“She didn’t want me involved with the family business. The casino, the suits, the games. Said it chewed people up. She wanted me to have a different kind of noise in my life.”

Their hand settled gently on the piano lid.

“This was her way of offering me an escape. A quieter world. One that didn’t have stakes and smoke and loaded dice.”

Eunoia’s gaze softened.

“But I still ended up there anyway,” They added, a dry laugh in their throat. “Guess I was too much like her in the wrong ways.”

“She saw something good,” Eunoia said gently. “She gave you this because she wanted to protect that.”

Chance didn’t reply, but they nodded faintly, running a single finger across the top of the keys.

“I just wish she could have protected me better.”

The willow swayed gently in the windless dream. Shadows clung to the edges of the field, too shy or too fearful to step into the light.

The piano sat beneath the tree now; white, timeworn, elegant in its stillness. Like it had always belonged there.

Chance sat at it with hunched shoulders and a distant expression. His fingers, trembling at first, rested on the keys. He inhaled slowly through his nose, let his chest rise and fall once, and began to play.

Soft notes drifted into the dream.

“Days seem sometimes as if they'll never end…”

His voice, quiet and almost ghostly, clung to each lyric like a memory. This song. It had been hers. His mother’s lullaby hummed in dimly lit bedrooms and half-remembered dreams. He hadn’t heard it in years. But somehow, the dream knew. Or maybe it was just him—his memory finding ways to root itself in reality again.

The piano hummed beneath his touch, gently guiding him through the ache he barely knew how to name. It wasn’t for anyone else. It wasn’t a performance. It was mourning. For the peace he’d lost. For the versions of himself he couldn’t get back.

“Sun digs its heels to taunt you…”
His eyes never left the keys. His lips trembled. The melody wavered, but he didn’t stop.

Behind him, the grass rustled—not from the wind, but from someone approaching. Footsteps. Very familiar ones.

“Chance—” came a voice.

But he didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. His hands kept playing.

“Memories swim and haunt you…”

Mafioso stood just a few paces behind, watching the shape of Chance’s back—tense, smaller than he remembered. He took a hesitant step forward.

“Chance, I need to—”

Still nothing.

The piano answered for him. Its voice was stronger than Chance’s, and yet still fragile. A language of memory.

Mafioso’s throat tightened. He stepped forward again, but Eunoia appeared at his side, raising one hand gently—not to stop him, but to say wait.

He opened his mouth again, wanting to speak, but the look she gave him was patient, firm.

Let him have this.

Mafioso stayed still.

The final words spilled from Chance’s lips in a soft murmur, his voice barely holding together.

“To steal each dream you keep..”
He pressed the last chord and held it with aching care. His breath was shaky. His eyes never left the ivory keys.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; rather, it was full of everything he hadn’t said. Everything Mafioso was too late to hear.

Mafioso took a step closer anyway.

“I came back,” he said quietly, “I was wrong. I left when I shouldn’t have. I thought it would help.”

Still nothing.

Chance didn’t move. Didn’t turn. His shoulders were rigid. The space around him might as well have been a wall.

“I’m sorry,” Mafioso said again, his voice cracking just enough to betray how hard it was to say.

But Chance simply adjusted the fall of his hands and began to play again—something new this time, improvised. Cold. Distant. A wall of sound between them.

Eunoia placed a hand on Mafioso’s arm. “He’s not ready,” she whispered.

Mafioso nodded once, though the regret in his face was obvious.

So he stepped back, further from the willow, further from the piano. The dream didn’t push him away—but it didn’t invite him closer, either.

And Chance kept playing.

Not to be heard.
Not for comfort.
Just so he didn’t fall apart in the silence.

Chapter Text

Chance couldn’t help it. A new ability meant new possibilities. From cards, a coin for flipping, to a whole bench accompanied by a small table underneath the willow. But those accomplishments lasted for a short while after exhaustion hit him like a truck.

Now, he lay sprawled out across the bench, one arm draped over his eyes to shield them from the soft dream light filtering through the leaves. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, drained but oddly satisfied. Creating things—real things—still felt unreal.

A deck of cards sat messily scattered on the table beside him. A few had fallen into the grass. One stuck to his sleeve.

“You overdid it,” came a voice from nearby—warm, steady, hesitant.

Chance tensed under his arm. His hand twitched, but he didn’t move it.

Mafioso stood a few feet away. Not too close, but close enough to be real. He wore a tired expression, something frayed around the edges, like he hadn’t slept—if sleep even existed in the dream for him. One hand was tucked into his coat pocket; the other hung uselessly at his side.

Chance didn’t respond.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” Mafioso said, quieter now. “And you don’t have to say anything. I just… I needed to show up this time.”

Still, no answer. Only the distant chirp of something in the field, and the soft rustle of leaves.

Mafioso took a breath. “I messed up.”

Chance let out a dry sound—something between a laugh and a scoff. His arm dropped away from his face slowly, revealing his tired, unimpressed eyes.

“You think?”

“I know,” Mafioso said quickly. “I know what I did. I bailed. And I thought… I convinced myself it was to help you. That if I gave you space, it’d fix something. But that wasn’t why I left.”

Chance sat up slowly, his posture guarded. “Then why?”

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, and he looked away, as if ashamed to meet Chance’s gaze. “Because I was scared.”

Chance narrowed his eyes.

“Not of you,” Mafioso added quickly. “Of me. Of what I was doing. What I was feeling. Every time I got close to you, I stopped making sense to myself. And instead of dealing with that, I ran. I hurt you. I know I did. And if I could go back and change it—”

“You can’t,” Chance interrupted. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“No,” Mafioso said. “I can’t. But I want to try to make it right anyway. Even if it’s just… staying. Not disappearing when things get hard.”

There was a pause.

Then Chance spoke, low and measured. “You don’t get to just walk back here and expect everything to be fine.”

“I don’t expect that.”

Chance stood, moving slowly as the exhaustion still weighed on him. He kept the piano in the corner of his vision like a lighthouse—something to ground him.

“So why now?” he asked. “Why come back?”

Mafioso’s voice broke, just a little. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. About how you felt as if everything you did was wrong. And… because I missed you.”

That word lingered in the air between them.

Chance didn’t soften. Not yet. But his shoulders lowered, and some of the sharpness in his gaze dulled.

Mafioso took a step closer, watching his face carefully.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he said. “Not from you. Not from this.”

Silence again.

Then Chance shook his head slowly. “You’re a bastard.”

Mafioso cracked a tired smile. “Yeah. I know.”

The tension thinned, just a little. Enough for Chance to look at him without wanting to shatter something.

“…Sit down,” Chance muttered, nodding toward the bench. “Before I change my mind.”

Mafioso obeyed quietly, lowering himself onto the bench beside him.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was something.

They sat side by side on the bench, the willow leaves swaying overhead like they were listening in.

Chance leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the uneven deck of cards still scattered across the table. Mafioso sat upright, hands clasped together in his lap, as if he moved too quickly, the moment would shatter.

Neither spoke for a long while. But the quiet wasn’t hostile. Just heavy.

“You used to make it look so easy,” Chance finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “All that power. All that control. I thought you knew everything about how this place worked.”

“I didn’t,” Mafioso murmured. “Still don’t.”

Chance turned to look at him. “Then why act like you did?”

Mafioso hesitated. “Because if I didn’t pretend, I’d have to admit I was scared too. And… people like me don’t get to be scared.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Chance let out a breath, this one softer. He watched the sunlight ripple through the leaves and pool at his feet like liquid gold.

“I hated you for a while,” he admitted.

Mafioso didn’t flinch. “I deserve that.”

“I thought if I could just stop caring, I’d be okay. But you kept showing up in my thoughts even when you weren’t here. Like this stupid ghost I couldn’t exorcise.”

“I wasn’t trying to haunt you.”

“I know.”

Something in the air shifted. Chance leaned back again, this time closer. The distance between them closed by inches. Mafioso noticed but didn’t comment. Didn’t move.

“I don’t know what this is,” Chance said. “Whatever we’re doing. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t mean something.”

Mafioso turned toward him, eyes searching his. “Then don’t pretend.”

The quiet deepened again—this time thicker, softer, like velvet.

Their shoulders were touching now.

“I’m still angry,” Chance whispered.

“I can take it.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I’ll wait.”

More silence. Then, in a blink, a bottle appeared on the table behind them, glinting gold and glasslike, labeled in a language neither of them could read.

Chance blinked at it. “That wasn’t here before.”

Mafioso raised an eyebrow. “Did you just summon that?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He reached over, picked it up, and twisted the top. The scent hit them both — fruity, sharp, smoky.

Chance looked down at it, then back at Mafioso. “Want to see what regret tastes like?”

A faint smirk. “I’m already familiar. But sure.”

They passed it back and forth in quiet swigs, shoulders slowly lowering, nerves melting into something looser. Laughter started to slip between sentences — hushed, unsure, but real.

The world around them shimmered slightly, as though the dream was giving them space.

And then it happened. Not dramatically. Not with music swelling or stars exploding.

Just Chance, leaning in. Eyes half-lidded. Heart pounding.

And Mafioso didn’t pull away.

The kiss was soft at first — more curious than passionate. Then deeper, slower. A sigh between them. Fingers brushed over collars and hips, tugging at shirts just enough to feel warmth beneath fabric.

But never enough to expose.

Mafioso’s hand faltered near his sleeve. His thumb drifted too close to a spot he didn’t want touched.

Chance recoiled.

“Sorry—” he breathed, voice hoarse.

Mafioso pulled back immediately, brows drawn. “No. No, it’s okay. I’m not trying to—”

“I know,” Chance said quickly, voice cracking. “I just… I can’t.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

They lay down beside each other, half dressed—if you could count being coatless that—breathless, drunk on more than just whatever was in that bottle.

Above them, the willow branches swayed gently. The dream, for once, didn’t press in with metaphor or consequence. It simply let them be .

And for a moment, that was enough.

When Chance woke up, the dream felt quieter.

Not faded. Not warped. Just… still.

The willow still stood tall above him, its branches unmoved by any breeze. The bench and table remained exactly where they'd been, undisturbed. Even the empty bottle he’d conjured — its glass catching slivers of light — sat untouched at the edge of the table like a silent witness.

Everything was where it should be.

Except for Mafioso.

Chance blinked against the afternoon haze in his skull, his mouth dry and cottony. A dull pounding throbbed behind his eyes — the dream’s interpretation of a hangover, maybe, but it felt real enough. He slowly sat up, groaning as his balance shifted and the ache sharpened.

Still dressed, mostly. Shirt twisted, but still on. Jacket half-flung over his side. His arms—thankfully—were still covered.

He looked around, expecting a presence, a voice, anything.

Nothing.

No Mafioso sat nearby. No scribbled apology. No excuse. No trace.

Just him. Again .

Chance rubbed at his temples, letting out a slow breath that turned shaky halfway through. What the hell happened earlier?

Had it meant anything?

Or had it just been... heat. Sadness. Regret, dressed up in alcohol and old wounds.

He remembered how close Mafioso had been. The way his voice cracked when he spoke. The desperation in his hands. And then the moment they’d caved—barely held together by alcohol and restraint, teeth gritted between almosts and not-quites.

It hadn’t gone far. Not all the way. At least not really. Just enough to confuse things.

Had he run?

Chance’s throat tightened. Did he wake up, look at me, and just… leave?

He stood too fast and stumbled forward before catching himself against the edge of the table. His breathing stuttered. The silence of the dream felt heavy now, not serene but suffocating, like it was watching him scramble and choosing not to help.

He hated that.

He hated feeling like this.

Alone, not in the way he’d grown used to — but in that new, awful kind of aloneness that comes after someone’s been here , and then isn’t . Someone had looked at him, had touched him, had seen parts of him no one was supposed to.

And then left without a word.

Chance’s fists clenched.

The bench stayed. The bottle. The table. The willow. All still. All waiting.

He turned away from them.

If Mafioso wanted space, fine.

Let him have it.

But Chance wouldn’t sit here waiting for an answer that might never come.

He hadn’t meant to leave without saying anything.

That was a lie. He had , actually.

It was easier that way — to slip out while the world still held the hush of early dream hours, to avoid Chance’s eyes, that wounded confusion already written somewhere behind them. Mafioso had paced in front of that willow for far too long before leaving, torn between staying beside the man he’d almost touched in ways he knew neither of them were ready for… and running before he ruined it more.

So he ran.

The dream bent around him in wide swaths of gold and shadow, spiraling him through a quick-formed corridor of arches until he stepped into the familiar place.

The lights buzzed overhead — steady, but always seconds from flickering out. The dying mall wasn’t dead yet. It pulsed with a strange sort of stillness, like something holding its breath.

Mafioso stepped into the convenience shop, boots quiet against the grimy tile. The store smelled faintly of static and old things refusing to fade.

Eunoia was leaning against the counter, mid-conversation.

And perched atop that counter like she owned it, was Nashatra Bealdhild .

Her expression never changed. That flat-eyed look she always wore — neither amused nor bored, just vaguely unimpressed with everything. She turned to him as he entered, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her face.

“Mafioso,” she said like a sigh. “You’re just in time. We were having a very interesting chat.”

He didn’t respond at first, just looked between her and Eunoia.

Nashatra let her legs swing slightly over the edge of the counter. “Did you know,” she began, casual as ever, “that your boss is really bad at keeping secrets?”

Eunoia glanced away, face tense.

Mafioso narrowed his gaze. “Leave it alone.”

“But I'm curious,” Nashatra continued, undeterred. “Another dreamwalker in the sphere? One who doesn’t even realize how rare that is?” She leaned forward slightly, mock whispering. “Sounds like someone I should meet.”

“But you won’t,” he said flatly.

“Oh, come on. I don’t get to pick where I land, remember?” she teased. “If the dream wants us to cross paths—”

“You’ll stay away from him,” Mafioso snapped.

Her smile tilted. “Ah. Him , is it?”

There was a beat of silence.

Nashatra’s expression sharpened with interest. “That important, huh?”

And that’s when Mafioso moved.

The blade was out before she could finish blinking, slipping into her side with surgical precision.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t even look surprised. Her body jolted once — a small, involuntary spasm — before the Dreamsphere yanked her out of existence, severing the connection in a flash.

Gone.

The shop fell into a deeper quiet.

Eunoia shifted behind the counter, eyes wide but silent.

Mafioso exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders like poison.

He slid the blade back into his coat and turned to leave without a word.

The buzz of the overhead lights followed him out.

Eunoia’s voice cut through the silence that followed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mafioso stopped mid-step, spine tightening. He didn’t turn around.

“She would’ve found him eventually,” he said.

“She wasn’t threatening him,” Eunoia replied, walking around the counter. “You just didn’t want her to know anything more. That’s different.”

“She’s in debt. A runner. She talks to too many things that listen.”

Eunoia’s expression twisted, frustration bleeding through her usual composure. “She talks to me,” she said. “She’s not our enemy, Maf. She’s just… stuck. Like the rest of the walkers.”

Mafioso finally turned his head, just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Stuck people still make choices.”

“She didn’t deserve to be stabbed just for asking questions.”

His gaze hardened. “She would’ve asked the wrong ones.”

Eunoia’s mouth parted like she wanted to argue more, but something about the sharpness in his tone made her stop. Her hands balled at her sides.

“You think you’re protecting him,” she said quietly. “But you’re not letting him breathe .”

He didn’t respond.

“She deserves to be curious,” she added. “You remember what it was like to wake up here without anyone explaining a thing? Without knowing what was real? You’ve just made her more desperate.”

“She’ll be fine. She always is,” Mafioso muttered.

Eunoia took a step forward. “And what about him ?”

At that, Mafioso faltered. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“He woke up alone today,” Eunoia pressed. “Hungover. Confused. And you left.”

“..How did you know that?” Mafioso turned to glance at her, confused.

“I know everything, Mafioso.”

“I had to handle this.”

“No. You just didn’t want to stay. You call her a runner, but deep down, you are too.”

Silence settled between them again, thicker now.

“He’s just like us,” Eunoia finished. “He feels everything. You’re either going to have to meet him halfway… or let him go.”

Mafioso said nothing.

Eunoia waited — then turned back toward the counter, murmuring something under her breath he didn’t quite catch.

He stood there, still for a long moment, the weight of his own silence finally catching up to him.

The dying mall echoed with the sound of Chance’s footsteps, each one sharp against the quiet, dream-stilled air. He wandered past the weathered walls and blinking ceiling lights, weaving through empty storefronts as he called softly for Eunoia.

No reply. Just the hum of the two creaking escalators.

Frustrated, he pivoted, only to suddenly crash into someone rounding the corner.

“Ah—!”

The impact nearly knocked him off balance. Standing in front of him was a girl with a tilted hat and a neutral expression that didn’t quite match the faint amusement in her eyes.

She blinked. He froze.

A dreamwalker.

Before she could get a word in, panic overtook instinct — and instinct reached for his escape. His mind yanked at the key, and with a pull of thought, a ripple opened behind him, his own dream space calling him home.

He dove through it without thinking—

—only to hear a surprised “Wait—!” and feel the brush of a hand—or maybe a foot—before he landed hard on the dirt path beneath the sweltering sun of his dream. The willow loomed nearby, ever watchful.

Then came the second thud.

He turned sharply.

There she was, Nashatra, sitting up in the center of his space, looking dazed and a little winded.

She blinked again. “Ow.”

“What the hell —” Chance shot up. “You followed me?!”

“I— what just happened ?” she interrupted, eyes scanning the space. “Where… is this? That wasn’t a normal transition.”

“This is my dream,” Chance snapped, not hiding his alarm. “How did you even—how are you here?”

Nashatra’s brows furrowed. “ Your dream?”

“Yeah,” he said, chest still rising and falling quickly. “As in, mine . I made this place.”

There was a beat of silence as she stood slowly, her eyes drifting over the familiar surroundings, from the willow to the faint shimmer of sky above. Confusion bloomed across her face.

“That’s… not possible,” she muttered. “Dreamwalkers don’t get personal spaces. Not ones like this. We wake up wherever we land, and we can’t control where we go. We don’t exactly get to pick.” Her gaze snapped back to him. “You opened a portal.”

Chance stiffened but said nothing.

“You’re not a regular dreamwalker,” she concluded, taking a step toward him, voice soft with a new curiosity. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Nashatra studied him a moment longer, then folded her arms. “Well, this is awkward,” she said, half to herself. “Because if this place is really yours… I might be trapped here for the night.”

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Chance muttered.

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t even know it was a portal.” She gestured vaguely at the spot behind her where the air had already stitched itself shut. “You act like that’s a normal thing for people like us. But it’s not.”

Chance looked away, lips pressed into a thin line.

“And now that I’m here,” she added, her tone more careful, “maybe you could explain how you managed to build a dream. Because this? This isn’t something anyone I know can do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I just appeared here, and this place was here. …Who—who are you, anyway?”

Chance wearily backed up a step, gaze flicking to the tree, the path, anywhere but her. She didn’t feel threatening, not exactly, but he wasn’t sure what she was capable of — and that uncertainty buzzed under his skin.

Nashatra tilted her head slightly but didn’t advance. “Nashatra,” she replied simply. “Dreamwalker. Though I get the feeling that title means something very different between us.”

Chance didn’t answer.

She let out a soft breath through her nose, folding her arms again. “I’ve seen some strange things in the dreamsphere — labs in the ocean, a big volcano thing, the infinite void. But I’ve never seen anything like this. Not with the… permanence.”

Her eyes slid over the bench under the willow, the worn path Chance had walked into being, the faint shimmer of breath hanging in the air. “This place doesn’t feel borrowed. It feels lived in.”

Chance flinched.

“So,” she continued, her voice still even, “either you’ve got a secret no one else has figured out, or you’re something else entirely.”

“I didn’t ask to be anything,” Chance muttered, stepping back again until his heel nudged the edge of the willow’s root — a subtle pulse warning him not to panic.

Nashatra raised a brow but didn’t press. “Fair enough. Not like I chose this either.” She sighed, glancing up at the unreal sky. “Look, I didn’t come here to bother you. I was just—” she stopped herself, then gave a quiet laugh. “No, never mind. That’s not true. I was curious .”

“No kidding.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You’re scared,” she observed. Not accusing. Just… noticing.

Chance’s jaw tensed.

“I’m not here to hurt you, alright?” she added softly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I got pulled through. But whatever this is—” she motioned around them, “—I’m not going to break it. Or you.”

His gaze flicked back to hers, unsure how to respond.

Nashatra didn’t push further. She sat down cross-legged on the path like she had no intention of doing anything else. “So, Chance,” she said, like testing the weight of his name, “are you going to kick me out? Or are we just going to sit here and keep pretending this isn’t weird?”

A pause.

"...How do you know my name?"

The field around them bloomed in a sharp, instant burst — hundreds of deep violet aconites flaring to life, their curved petals like tiny hoods under a pale sky. The air felt colder. He hadn’t meant to do that, but fear had a way of speaking faster than he could.

Nashatra blinked, gaze briefly flicking down to the flowers, then back to him. “That’s… new,” she said carefully.

Chance didn’t answer, hands curling into his coat sleeves. He stepped back again, just once — not enough to flee, but enough to keep her at arm’s length.

“You said my name. How?”

Nashatra held up her hands slowly. “Relax. I didn’t mean to spook you. Your name slipped from Eunoia yesterday — by accident. I didn’t press. I just… remembered.”

The aconites didn’t disappear. If anything, more of them stirred up across the grass, brushing against her shoes, but she didn’t flinch. Her voice stayed calm.

“I thought maybe you were a long-term construct or a tethered walker. I didn’t know you’d be like this — lucid. Aware. And clearly territorial.” Her eyes scanned the dreamsphere again. “This dream belongs to you, doesn’t it? That’s what you meant.”

Chance stayed silent, but his posture gave him away.

“You’re not like the others,” she said softly. “Not even close.”

That stung more than it should have.

“I’m not trying to expose anything,” she added, gently brushing the edge of a blossom with her fingers. “But… this? You’re unique, that’s for sure.”

He hated how that made his heart hammer harder. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

“Maybe not.” She tilted her head. “But you pulled me in. Doesn’t that make you responsible for what happens next?”

That landed like a stone in his chest.

He looked away again, voice low. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know I could .”

A silence stretched.

"...I'm not what you think I am... a dreamwalker. That is, if you can wake up."

Chance’s voice was barely above a whisper now, but the truth in it rippled across the field louder than anything else had. The aconites seemed to shiver in place, reacting not to fear now, but revelation.

Nashatra’s brows drew together. “What do you mean— if I can wake up?”

Chance didn’t answer immediately. He turned slightly, gaze trained on a far-off willow tree, its branches swaying gently despite the still air. A place of safety, distant and unreachable.

“You guys… You fall asleep, and this place just borrows you for a while,” he murmured. “You blink and you’re gone. Back to your body. The waking world.”

“And you don’t?” she asked, watching him.

Chance gave a short, bitter laugh. “No. I don’t.”

He didn’t say it, but the silence after was heavy with: I’m stuck here.

Nashatra was quiet now. No teasing, no clever remarks — just the slow realization dawning behind her half-lidded stare. “So this is more than lucid dreaming,” she said. “More than tethering. You’re…”

“Dead,” Chance finished, not looking at her.

She stared at him, and something softened in her voice. “How long have you been here?”

He closed his eyes. “Long enough to stop counting.”

The wind picked up gently through the field. The flowers bowed. And still, Nashatra didn’t move toward him.
Instead, she just asked, quietly, “Do you want me to leave?”

Chance hesitated.
“I…”

A harsh rip tore through the dream, splitting the sky like paper. Before either of them could move, the dream around them cracked—splintered like glass under pressure. A blur of white and black streaked through the portal that opened behind Nashatra, and then—

Steel sank into her back.

She gasped, eyes going wide with a stuttered breath. Her body shimmered, distorting as the rules of the dream bent. The aconite field flared bright once, the petals scattering as if caught in a windstorm.

“Nashatra!” Chance shouted, stumbling forward as her body flickered in his arms—weightless, glowing, and then—

Gone.

Only Mafioso remained, blade still lowered, posture tense but calm, like this was routine.

“What—” Chance’s voice broke. “What the hell did you do ?!”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Mafioso said. No apology. Just assertion.

“She didn’t even do anything!” Chance’s voice rose. “She was just talking to me! You didn’t even ask , you just— you stabbed her! ”

“She’s a runner,” Mafioso said, jaw tight. “And she was in your dream. I’m not going to let someone like her get that close to you. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“And you do? ” Chance snapped. “You barely even let me exist without acting like I’m going to fall apart! She treated me like a person. You treat me like—like some kind of burden that you’re obligated to protect.”

Mafioso said nothing. The wind moved between them.

Chance’s hands were shaking. He looked away, back to where Nashatra had vanished.

“I just…” his voice cracked low. “I just wanted someone to stay. Someone who wouldn’t disappear. Someone who wouldn’t leave me without a reason I’ll never understand.”

The silence after that felt bottomless. Heavy.

Mafioso didn’t walk away this time.

But he didn’t move forward either.

Mafioso’s jaw tightened, but his eyes dropped—just for a second—as if the weight of Chance’s words had struck a chord deeper than either of them expected.

"You... You keep doing this!" Chance’s voice broke, caught between anger and the ache behind it. "Running! Abandoning me after I keep thinking that everything is fine!" He took a step forward, hands clenched at his sides. “I thought you were done with that—but I guess not.”

Mafioso didn’t respond. The only sound between them was the whisper of wind against the flowers, still rippling from Nashatra’s disappearance.

Chance’s breath caught, the rawness in his throat making every word sting.
“Is it so bad to just want a friend ?”

Still silence.

“You show up, get close, then vanish again like none of it meant anything. You say you’re protecting me, but from what? Other people? Or from yourself ?”

That landed.

Mafioso looked up slowly. His expression wasn’t angry—it was tired. Regretful. But quiet in a way that felt like a dam holding back too much water.

“I never meant to leave,” he finally said, voice low. “But I… I don’t know how to stay either.”

Chance turned his back on him, fists trembling.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come back at all.”

Chapter Text

The dream pulsed with tension. The field around them, once vibrant and serene, had twisted with Chance’s fury—flowers curling in on themselves, the colors bleeding together like watercolors left in the rain. The sky above turned a bruised violet, heavy with static. The air felt too tight, like it was bracing for something terrible. Chance’s rage was becoming its own weather.

"You always do the same thing!" they screamed, voice cracking on the edges. "You fucking vanish! You leave me alone with nothing ! No words, no reason, no goodbye—just fucking gone!"

Wind whipped suddenly across the dreamscape, rustling the tall grass, scattering petals into the air like torn confetti. The temperature dropped, the sky deepened to near-black.

Mafioso stood rooted, lips parted. “Chance, I—”

"No!" Chance cut him off, voice sharp and ragged. “No, you don’t get to talk right now!”

Rain began to fall in cold, biting sheets. Harsh. Unrelenting. The droplets slapped against the ground and soaked Chance’s clothes in seconds, clinging to their form like a second skin. They didn’t even seem to feel it.

“You think you can just drop in and out like a fucking… storm cloud or some cryptic shadow on a rooftop? You think I’m supposed to just wait around with open arms, hoping today’s the day you give a shit?”

They were pacing now, erratic and wild. The flowers underfoot twisted into thorns as they stepped, the dream wilting and contorting with each word.

“You act like I’m supposed to be grateful when you show up! Like your presence is some favor ! But where the fuck were you when I was screaming into the grass so hard I couldn’t breathe? Where were you when I broke , Mafioso?”

Lightning forked through the sky, this time with sound—a sharp crack that made the ground tremble faintly beneath them.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Mafioso said, quiet but firm, voice strained as he fought to stay steady against the downpour.

“Oh, spare me ,” Chance spat. “You always say that. You didn’t mean to. You were just trying to protect me. You thought distance would help. Blah, blah, bullshit !”

Mafioso flinched but stood his ground.

“ Do you even hear yourself?! ” Chance shrieked. “You act like you’re some noble fucking martyr when all you are is scared ! Scared of caring! Scared of being known!”

Chance’s hands were trembling, their soaked hair plastered to their face. Their voice cracked again, but louder this time. Raw.

“I am so tired of being abandoned by people who claim to protect me!”

Mafioso opened his mouth, but Chance wasn’t done.

“You wanna talk about fear? Fine. I was terrified. Every single day you were gone after that fucking kiss. Not just scared— terrified . That you left because I wasn’t worth the effort. That maybe I’d said one wrong thing and you decided I wasn’t worth the mess. You made me feel like I was something to be endured. Not something to stay for.”

They pressed their fists to their temples, squeezing their eyes shut. “Do you know what it does to someone? Waiting. Every day and night. For a shadow at the edge of your dream, hoping maybe this time it’s you?”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” Mafioso said, barely audible over the thunder.

“But you did! ” Chance screamed, lunging forward a step. “You made it so much worse ! Because you left me thinking you’d be back—so I kept waiting! I kept hoping like a fucking idiot !”

Rain lashed around them like nails. The wind howled. Trees in the distance bent like they were pleading to be spared the storm.

Chance’s eyes were wide, bloodshot. Their whole body shook—not from cold, but from the uncontainable energy of too many buried feelings rupturing all at once.

“You want to know what I think, Mafioso? I think you left because you did care. And that scared you more than anything. Because I was starting to matter . And you don’t know how to handle that, do you?”

Mafioso didn’t respond.

Chance laughed bitterly, almost unhinged. “You don’t get to say you care when you keep leaving. You don’t get to want me if all you do is run the second it’s not convenient!”

“I don’t know how to stay!” Mafioso shouted suddenly, his voice breaking through the storm like a flare. “Okay?! I don’t know how to stay without fucking things up!”

Chance froze.

Mafioso’s voice was shaking now, too. “Every time I got close, I could feel the cracks forming. In you. In me. I didn’t know how to be part of something without breaking it .”

“You didn’t have to fix anything,” Chance said, voice quieter but just as fierce. “I never wanted perfect. I just wanted you. ”

They turned away for a second, a hand over their mouth, trying to steady their breathing. Then turned back.

“I thought I was hard to love,” they said. “But you made me hope . And that was the cruelest fucking thing of all.”

Thunder rolled low and long. The clouds above churned, black as spilled ink. The dream was unraveling—grass dying, light fading, the edges of the sky flickering with static and color distortion.

“I waited for you,” Chance whispered, almost to themself. “Over and over. I built my healing around a return that never came.”

The rain was coming down harder now—like punishment.

And then Chance said it.

“If I knew killing myself would put me here, maybe I shouldn’t have done it in the fucking first place.”

The storm froze.

The dream held its breath. The secret was out.

It was as if the rain stopped midair. Wind paused. Sound died.

Mafioso’s expression shattered into something unreadable.

“What?” he whispered.

Chance didn’t answer. Their eyes were empty. Rain clung to their lashes like tears.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Mafioso said again, stepping forward, slow, deliberate. “You didn’t tell anyone that.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Chance mumbled.

“It matters, ” Mafioso said, firm and loud, almost a plea. “It fucking matters. You—God, Chance—”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Chance laughed hollowly. “Not like I got to stay dead anyway. So just go. You’re good at that.”

Mafioso reached out, hand trembling.

“Don’t say that. Don’t say I don’t care.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Chance muttered.

And then, in a quick, almost angry motion, he pulled out the dreamsphere key—his portal key—and shoved it into the air. The dream hissed at the action, spatial threads cracking open like glass. The portal tore sideways, unstable and shimmering, colors unfamiliar and flickering with static.

“Chance—” Mafioso took a step forward.

But Chance was already stepping through. “I’m done waiting for you to care,” he said without looking back.

And just like that, he vanished through the portal.

Mafioso stared at the rift, knuckles white, throat tight, the echoes of Chance’s words still ringing in his head.

“If I knew killing myself would put me here, maybe I shouldn’t have done it in the fucking first place.”

The portal snapped shut with a sound like thunder folding in on itself.

And then…

Stillness.

The rain no longer pelted the ground in fury. It softened, like it, too, was stunned. The wind eased into long, shuddering exhales through the broken field. Flowers lay flattened and bruised in the grass. The dream was half-collapsed now, colors dimmed and shapes bent, as if mourning.

Mafioso stood there in the quiet wreckage.

He didn’t move.

Rain rolled down his face. His breath came slowly. Shallow. Like each inhale hurt.

He looked at the place where Chance had vanished, at the lingering static still bleeding from the air. The portal’s wound was closing, but the scar it left behind felt carved into his ribs.

“Fuck,” he said softly. It came out like prayer. Like defeat.

His hands clenched at his sides.

The silence pressed in on him—heavier than the storm ever was.

He could still hear them yelling.

He could still hear what they didn’t yell.

And worst of all, he could still feel the space Chance had left behind.

It hurt.

It really hurt.

And for the first time in a long time, Mafioso didn’t try to push it away. He just stood there, letting it hit him.

Letting it drown him.

Letting himself feel it all.

The cold bit into Chance’s skin and damp clothes the moment they stumbled out of the portal.

Snow, silent and endless, swallowed the ground beneath their feet. Everything felt blank—untouched—save for the distant creak of frozen trees and their own shallow, trembling breath.

They had no idea where in the Dreamsphere they’d landed. They didn’t care.

Their shoes crunched forward, aimless and angry. Their hands were clenched, nails digging into their palms. Fuck him . Fuck everything . They were done begging to be seen. Done asking not to be left behind.

They staggered through the forest like a phantom—lost, unraveling, raw—until they weren’t alone anymore.

A presence.

Chance turned, stiffly.

There, standing between the trees, was a figure. Broad-shouldered. Familiar. Unnervingly so.

The figure stepped forward through the flurry. Snow clung to his sleeves. His hair was soaked with frost.

“...ITrapped?”

The thing smiled.

It was his smile. The exact same tilt of the head. The precision of his appearance. “Still got that bratty mouth, huh?”

Chance’s entire body tensed.

The voice in front of them. Smooth. Familiar. Wrong.

It had his voice. His posture. His clothes. The crooked smirk that always made Chance want to throw up or run.

But his eyes were flat. No fire. Just endless, mirrored black.

Chance’s heart dropped into their stomach.

“No,” they whispered. “You’re not—”

“Oh, I am,” the nightmare said, stepping forward. “I’m what’s left of me… inside of you. You don’t stop thinking about me, do you, sweetheart?”

Their mouth went dry. The snow seemed to freeze mid-air.

“I didn’t bring you here,” Chance said, backing away. “You’re just—just a memory. You’re not real.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” The nightmare’s grin widened with something almost pitiful. “Between dreams? When you wake up shaking and no one’s there? That it’s just a memory?”

Its boots didn’t crunch in the snow. It glided forward like it owned the forest. Like it owned them.

“Tell me then, Chance... why am I the one that showed up when you cracked?”

“I said shut up—”

“Hit a nerve, did I?” The nightmare chuckled. “God, you really haven’t changed.”

Chance stepped back again, nearly tripping on a hidden rock beneath the snow. Their breathing picked up, fast and ragged.

“You’re not supposed to be here—not again,” they whispered, shaking.

The nightmare tilted its head, mock confusion written across its too-familiar face.

“Neither are you.”

Chance blinked, confused. “What…?”

“You think you belong in this dream?” it said, beginning to circle them like a slow, circling vulture. “Like it welcomed you with open arms? That the second you killed yourself, the universe thought, ‘Hey, you know who deserves a second chance? That pathetic little bundle of nerves who couldn't even hold on long enough to be missed.’”

Chance froze.

The nightmare's voice dropped, lower now. Slick with venom.

“You’re an accident. A suicide. An intrusion. A puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.”

Its shadow shifted with the wind, warping on the snow around them.

“You think the dream loves you?” it asked. “No one does.”

“I—” Their voice caught.

“Not your parents. Not Eunoia. Not even your so-called ‘lover.’” It snorted. “What was his name again? Oh right. Mafioso. The brooding killer with a soft spot for wounded puppies.”

“Stop.”

“No wonder he keeps leaving,” the nightmare said, eyes flicking with delight. “You’re exhausting.”

Chance flinched.

“One minute you’re kissing him, the next you’re screaming and crying like a kicked dog. Always clinging. Always begging to matter.” It leaned in, lips near their ear. “How long do you really think he’s going to put up with that?”

“Shut up—”

“He’s tired of you,” it said, grinning. “Just like I was.”

Their eyes widened. That voice. That line.

The snow blurred. Their stomach turned. Their thoughts spiraled violently inward. The nightmare’s grin deepened as it saw the shift in their posture. That exact moment of collapse.

“Oh yeah,” it cooed. “There it is. That little face you used to make when I’d corner you. God, I missed that.”

“You’re not him,” Chance hissed. “You are not him.”

“No, I’m the part of him that still lives in you. Every insult, every guilt trip, every shove down the stairs of your own mind—you kept all of it.” The nightmare's voice was gentle now. Deceptively so. “You never stopped hating yourself. You just stopped calling it my name.”

Chance shook their head. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Then why did you come here? Why’d you run?” it asked, stepping close enough for them to see the faint black smoke leaking from its pupils. “Because you thought maybe— just maybe —someone else would care enough to chase you?”

It laughed.

“He didn’t follow you fast enough, huh?”

Chance clenched their fists. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“Oh, I know everything about him,” the nightmare said, eyes glinting. “He’s exactly your type. Dangerous. Detached. Distant. But you don’t really love him. You love the idea of being chosen by someone like him. Like that would fix the hole in your chest.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Because if someone like him picked you,” it continued, “maybe you’d stop feeling like a disposable afterthought.”

“Shut up shut up shut up—”

“Because you know what I think?” the nightmare continued softly, leaning in. “I think you let me die.”

Chance froze. Their eyes widened, breath catching violently in their throat.

“I—I didn’t—”

“You watched,” the nightmare whispered. “You watched me bleed out. You stood there and watched.”

“No,” Chance whispered, shaking their head, eyes stinging. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“You could’ve helped,” the nightmare said, voice soft as snow. “But you were too scared. Too small. So you let me die alone.”

Chance fell to their knees in the snow, clutching their head.

“I’m sorry,” they gasped out, the words falling raw from their lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to die—I didn’t—I just— I was scared—please, please —”

The nightmare’s grin widened. “Oh, you’re sorry? That’s cute.”

“I’m sorry,” Chance whispered again, tears streaming, shoulders shaking. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let you die.”

The nightmare crouched down in front of them, inches away, watching them fall apart in the snow.

“You think your sorry means anything?” it asked, tilting its head. “You think you deserve to be forgiven? For what you did?”

Chance sobbed, breath clouding in the cold air. “I’m sorry—please—”

The nightmare’s smile dropped. Its eyes, black and endless, reflected Chance’s shattered face back at them.

“No,” it said. “You’re not forgiven.”

It straightened up, looking down at them like a broken thing.

“Because deep down, you don’t even forgive yourself.”

And then its voice sharpened, sliding back into that venomous calm:

“You know why I showed up when you shattered?” it asked.

Chance didn’t answer, only trembling in the snow.

“Because I’m not just a memory. I’m the part of you that keeps telling you: this is your fault. That no one’s coming. That even if they do—”

It crouched lower, its face inches from theirs.

“They’ll wish they hadn’t.”

Chance was still kneeling, frozen, quivering, unable to breathe.

“You’re so afraid of being alone,” the nightmare said. “But you’re so much worse when people stay. You’re possessive. Pathetic. You smother people with your need until they can’t breathe.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? Tell that to Eunoia. Or that new girl. Or Mafioso. They all saw it. Hell, even I saw it.”

“No…You’re not him!” Chance shouted.

“No, I’m the version of him you never stopped listening to .”

They flinched.

“Every time you looked in the mirror and hated what you saw?” it said softly. “That was me. Every time you talked yourself out of asking for help? That was me. You gave me a fucking house in your head, Chance. With a beautiful fucking view.”

Its voice sharpened.

“And you fed me. Every time you let yourself believe you were unlovable. Every time you cried yourself to sleep and whispered that you deserved it.”

Tears streamed down their face rapidly. Silent. Shaking.

“You gave me power,” the nightmare said.

“I didn’t mean to,” they whispered.

“But you did.” It leaned closer, its face inches from theirs. “And now I’m going to give you what you really want.”

“What—?”

“An ending.”

Then came the sword.

Fast. Brutal.

A single thrust—right into their gut.

The blade twisted.

And their voice gave out.

They collapsed into the snow, eyes wide, hands clutching the wound as warmth bloomed across their stomach.

Blood soaked their fingers. Dark red against white.

“I always said you were too soft,” the nightmare murmured, kneeling beside them. “But this? This is a mercy.”

It leaned close, its mouth unhinging slightly, stretching impossibly wide—black mist leaking from its throat as it exhaled over the wound.

Chance screamed as something pulled. Like threads being ripped from their chest. Like something essential was being stolen.

Their soul.

Their vision blurred. Their fingers numbed.

The nightmare drank greedily—then recoiled suddenly, wiping its mouth with its sleeve.

“Half a soul's enough to last a lifetime,” it muttered.

And then it stood.

And left.

Just like that.

Leaving Chance gasping, trembling, bleeding into the snow.

Their arms were too weak to move. Their voice barely made a sound. They could feel themself fading.

They blinked up at the sky, flakes falling like ash.

They were going to die here.

Alone.

Unless—

The crunch of hurried steps in the distance—

The moment the trail went cold, Mafioso knew.

There was no map to follow, just the instinct clawing at his ribs, the same one that had always pulled him toward Chance in the dark. But now… it was too quiet.

Too still.

By the time he reached the frozen grove of Ten Mou, he saw the snow painted red.

And Chance—curled into himself, blood soaked into the white around him—was already still.

The wind held its breath. So did Mafioso.

“...No.”

He dropped to his knees, the snow crunching beneath his weight. Hands shaking, he pulled Chance close. The body was too cold. Too limp. The stab wound in his gut hadn’t stopped bleeding. There was no pulse.

Not even the Dream could lie about this.

Mafioso squeezed Chance’s shoulders, shaking them. “Chance! Please… wake up.” His voice cracked. He slapped cold hands against Chance’s cheeks. “Wake the fuck up.”

His breaths came ragged and short. He flipped Chance over, checked for reflexes, pinched an already icy fingertip. No reaction. He swallowed hard, panic flaring in his chest.

He pressed his ear to their chest. Fingers to the neck. Nothing. Ghost-quiet. Pulse still.

He shook him again. “I—don’t—understand. You're supposed to… come back.” His words trembled over the frozen air.

His voice hitched on the last word and broke completely. He let out a roar and punched the ground beside Chance’s head, snow and slush flying.

“This isn’t fair. You don’t get to leave like this. You don’t get to just disappear while I’m still—while I didn’t—” He choked, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me behind.”

He bent over Chance again, resting their foreheads together, rocking slightly. The storm roared around them now—snow falling sideways with the force of the wind, trees groaning under the pressure.

“I didn’t get to say it,” he whispered, voice cracked and soaked with something worse than grief. “I didn’t get to tell you. I was going to tell you.”

Nothing.

No twitch. No spark.

Only cold skin and heavy silence.

The wind screamed, and Mafioso screamed with it, into it, his voice tearing through the forest like a wounded animal. He gripped Chance’s coat like it was the last thread tethering him to something real.

“I can’t lose you,” he cried. “I won’t . This isn’t how your story ends. You’re not done. You still owe me another drink. You still have so much to see. You can’t just quit.”

There was no answer.

And for the first time, truly and finally, he felt it in his chest—the thing that wouldn’t rewind this time. The weight that didn’t lift.

He stared down, eyes wide and wet, at the face that never blinked. The mouth that never smirked again.

He collapsed over Chance fully now, curling around him like a shield

Then he stood.

And he ran. But this time towards the place he always ran from.

The Willow had always been warm. 

Now it groaned beneath a coffin of snow. Its branches were bare, stripped of vibrant leaves. Everything was bone-white. The once-green clearing now bloomed with fire-red spider lilies— danger . Death . They burst defiantly through the snow, as if trying to scream.

Mafioso stumbled to the tree’s roots, falling to his knees with Chance still in his arms. He laid him gently into the drift.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Do your thing. He’s supposed to respawn— you kept bringing him back. ”

Silence.

“ Why isn’t he coming back?! ”

The willow didn’t move. Not even a breeze.

“You listen to me!” His fist pounded the frozen earth. “He wasn’t supposed to stay dead! He’s part of this world now! I thought that was the whole point!”

His voice cracked—loud and raw. “He belongs here! With me! ”

Still nothing.

Mafioso crumpled forward, forehead pressed against Chance’s. “Don’t do this. Not like this.”

The lilies rustled.

The snow shuddered.

Then, the ground beneath Chance began to open—quietly, tenderly—and his body was slowly drawn down into the frost.

Mafioso reached for him, choked out a panicked, “ No! ” but it was too late.

The frozen Earth closed.

Gone.

And where Chance had been…

A single flower bloomed.

Small. Delicate.

Powder blue.

A moonflower.

Mafioso fell back into the snow, numb. His breath came in clouds, but he barely felt the cold now. Only the silence. Ringing in his ears.

Only the ghost of warmth.

And for the first time in decades.

He wept.

The snow was falling harder now, but Mafioso didn’t flinch.

He sat with his back against the Willow’s trunk, his coat half-open, the bitter cold gnawing at his skin. But he didn’t feel it. Couldn’t. His gaze stayed locked on the moonflower blooming, swaying in the snow.

Chance was gone.

The scream had hollowed him out. His hands rested in his lap, still stained red, but they didn’t move. Not even to wipe his face. His breathing was shallow. In and out. Mechanical.

The wind carried the soft crunch of approaching footsteps, but he didn’t look up.

Eunoia burst into the clearing.

Her pale blue strands were windswept, her cheeks flushed from running. “Mafioso!”

She saw the flower first, then the blood, and then him.

“Oh—oh dear—” Her voice caught in her throat.

Still, he didn’t blink.

Eunoia dropped to her knees in front of him, reaching out to touch his arm, but stopped when she saw his expression. Glassy-eyed. Pale. There—but not.

“Mafioso,” she said gently, crawling closer. “Maf—”

“I didn’t make it in time.”

The words were flat. Lifeless. They spilled from him like breath.

“I tried to follow. I—I knew he was hurting. I knew he’d run. But I thought I’d find him, yell at him, drag him back like always and… he’d be okay.” His lips trembled, but his voice stayed monotone. “He’s not supposed to die here. No one is. Not like that.”

Eunoia slowly placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in shock. It’s okay. I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

He didn’t.

His eyes flicked once toward the blue flower.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he whispered.

Eunoia’s mechanical heart broke in her chest.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. At first, he didn’t react. But eventually—slowly—his body leaned into hers, heavy with weight he didn’t know how to carry. He didn’t cry. Just breathed, shallow and ragged against her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“We’ll figure it out,” Eunoia replied softly, brushing the snow from his hair. “But not alone.”

The wind carried through the lilies, their crimson petals flickering like flames across the white.

And beneath the Willow, the dream did not speak.

But it listened.

They stayed under the willow long after the wind had started to bite. Snow blanketed the ground, soft and pale, only broken by the vivid red of the lilies and the single blue moonflower where Chance had vanished.

Mafioso sat, still as stone. Eunoia knelt beside him, quiet for a long while.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said gently. “But I know you’re thinking a lot. Too much.”

Mafioso’s voice came low, flat. “He killed himself.”

Eunoia stilled. Her head turned toward him slowly. “...What?”

“Before all of this,” he murmured. “Before he ran. He said something—about regretting it. Said if he’d known that dying would put him here… maybe he wouldn’t have done it.”

Her breath caught. “I didn’t know.”

“I thought you knew everything,” he said, not accusing—just tired.

Eunoia looked down, snow melting against her metal hand. Her voice was thin. “I didn’t. I swear, Maf, I didn’t know.”

He nodded faintly, but didn’t look at her. “He kept that part buried deep. It wasn’t something he believed anyone was ready to hear.”

Stillness fell again—thicker this time, more fragile. Eunoia didn’t press further. She just reached out, gently resting a hand over his.

His eyes didn’t move from the flower. “I thought he hated me.”

Eunoia blinked. “Why would you think that?”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Because I kept leaving. Escaping . I knew it upset him, and I kept doing it anyway.”

She didn’t argue. Not right away. She just wrapped her arms around her knees and looked toward the distant snow.

“He didn’t hate you,” she said eventually. “He waited for you. That’s not hate.”

Mafioso swallowed.

“He just wanted someone to choose him,” she added softly. “Not when it was convenient. Not when it was easy. Just… to be there.”

“I was trying to protect him.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know how to be close.”

Eunoia smiled faintly, sadly. “Then maybe don’t think of it as being close. Think of it as staying. He didn’t need you to be perfect. He just needed to not be alone.”

Mafioso closed his eyes for a long moment. The breeze stirred the snow around them, whispering through the dream like a distant breath.

“You think he really didn’t hate me?” he asked, voice quieter now.

She looked at him—truly looked—and said, “I think he liked you more than he thought he should. And when you left, it made him feel like he’d been wrong to hope.”

He didn’t respond. She reached over and took his hand, lacing her mechanical fingers through his.

“You cherish your space,” she continued. “And he tried not to ask for too much of it. But he was lonely. I knew that. That’s why I tried staying close as much as I could, even when you wouldn’t.”

The words hit gently, but they didn’t soften the ache in his chest.

“I don’t know what he is now,” he murmured.

“We’ll find out,” Eunoia said. “And if there’s even a piece of him left in this dream, we’ll bring it back.”

He turned, finally, to look at her. His eyes were raw, not from tears—he hadn’t cried—but from exhaustion, from silence, from everything he couldn’t fix.

“Thank you,” he said. Barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she replied. “Just… don’t leave him wondering next time. If— no– when he comes back, let him know he mattered.”

Mafioso squeezed her hand.

A soft crunch disturbed the quiet behind them.

At first, Mafioso didn’t move. He thought it might’ve been the wind shifting the snow again, or just another echo of the dream trying to settle around their grief. But the sound came again—heavy, deliberate. A steady, familiar rhythm.

Eunoia turned her head first.

Across the pale white expanse, Spade came into view—his massive ash-colored frame distinct against the snow covered dreamscape. The continental giant rabbit hopped slowly, his movements careful and quiet, as though he already sensed the weight in the air.

His nose twitched, ears angled downward with a somber sort of awareness. He paused a few feet away, scanning the field with his deep black eyes, searching.

Mafioso turned, hands plunging into the snow.

Spade took one last hop forward and stopped. Then he lowered his head gently, as if he understood.

Mafioso reached out, and Spade nudged his hand with a soft grunt.

“I know,” Mafioso whispered, his voice barely holding together. “He’s not here right now, bud.”

Spade made a low, almost questioning noise, then settled beside him in the snow—massive, warm, and unmoving. His fur picked up the drifting flakes, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just sat there, ears drooping, waiting. Like he was still expecting Chance to reappear, bounding across the field with some sarcastic quip or crooked grin.

Eunoia wiped at her eyes. “He was looking for him?”

Mafioso gave a slow nod. “Always does.”

Together, they sat—Mafioso, Eunoia, and the silent, loyal rabbit—as the dream held still around them. Waiting. Hoping. Mourning.

And the dream around them stirred. Above them, for just a second, the willow branches fluttered—barren still, but swaying with purpose. As if the willow too was hopeful for its tether to return with his warm presence.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since the snow swallowed the blood in the forest.

It came quietly at first, thin flurries dusting over the dark stain where Chance had fallen, where Mafioso had fallen to his knees in the cold. Clutching the still body of the person he yelled at. He didn’t leave that forest for a long time. Not really. Even after the body was gone, the wound in the snow remained, a stark, frozen reminder that something living had been there before it was silenced.

Then the snowfall thickened, layer upon layer until the blood was hidden entirely. Only Mafioso knew exactly where it was, the shape of it, the way it had sunk into the ice. He would stand there, gloved hands in his pockets, his breath fogging in the cold, watching the blank white where Chance’s warmth had seeped out of them forever.

Denial came first, stretching on in heavy, numb hours. He kept expecting to hear Chance’s voice ring across the landscape, or for a key to churn open a portal, spitting them back out with that infuriating, stubborn smirk. He’d see flashes of that pale hair in the trees, the way Chance’s shoulders hunched when they were cold, the quick, bright flicker of their eyes when they saw him. For a moment, it felt real, and his chest would loosen as if air were finally reaching his lungs.

But the snow kept falling, and they never came back.

Anger was colder, biting through the denial when the reality sank into the marrow of his bones. He hated them for running away. For leaving him with nothing but a stain in the forest and a moonflower blooming alone in that willow dream. For always needing to be saved, and for being so reckless to be so far into debt to where he couldn’t reach them in time. For making him care enough to shatter when they were gone.

He kicked through the snow where they’d fallen until his shoes were soaked and his feet were numb. He tore the branches off the low pines until needles littered the white, telling himself it was their fault for leaving, that they should have fought harder, that they should have known he would come for them. That they should have just waited. 

When the anger burned itself out, he found himself at the willow, standing beneath the heavy, sleeping branches. The moonflower was still there, growing near the roots, luminescent even in the dark of that dream. He hated how fragile it looked, how it had survived when they hadn’t. How it was the last piece of them left, and it wasn’t enough.

Bargaining came like a quiet, poisonous thought at the edge of sleep. If he hadn’t argued with them, would they have stayed? If he hadn’t left after they fell asleep from drinking, if he had just stayed by the bench under the willow where Chance’s breathing was soft and even, would he have noticed something was wrong? Would he have been there to stop the moment it cracked open beneath them? If he hadn’t let himself care, would it hurt this much?

He remembered the grand piano he had manifested in the dream once, the way his fingers hovered uncertainly over the keys before they played. He’d stood at the edge of the willow, arms crossed, hiding the way his heart was pounding at the sound of them singing and playing. The melodies that showed how Chance was feeling. He should have noticed.

He never told them he was proud of them for that. That he thought it was great, the way they had managed to do something so grand and having the power, despite everything that haunted them. He should have noticed. That pain behind their movements. The emotional toll Mafioso had unintentionally placed on them.

He never got to say it.

Depression was the easiest stage to slip into because it was quiet. Heavy. Familiar. The world moved on around him while he stayed in that forest, in that willow dream, in the memory of Chance’s voice laughing at some dry joke only they would find funny. He stopped going on missions unless forced and stopped arguing with Eunoia when she told him to leave the dream and rest. He would sit in the dark, listening to the wind through the branches, waiting for a voice that never came.

The snow continued to fall, hiding the last place Chance had been. The moonflower glowed softly beneath the willow, untouched, the only proof left that they had existed at all.

And Mafioso sat beside it, week after week, unable to leave, unable to let go, unable to stop waiting.

Mafioso sat under that tree for what felt like years, though in truth, only three weeks had passed since Chance had vanished beneath that sudden frost. The moonflower shivered in the wind while the snow kept falling, unending, day after day. Mafioso had grown numb to the cold, to the passing of time, to everything except the bitter reality that settled in his bones each morning he opened his eyes. The red flowers mocked him, whispering that he had been too late. Again and again, he tried tearing them out of the frozen earth, ripping them from his sight, but each time they returned—faster, stronger, more relentless than before.

Until, one day, they didn’t.

They began to wilt, collapsing into themselves with a desperate finality. Their once-vivid petals shriveled, turning brittle and brown, scattering on the icy wind until nothing was left but fragile stems. The snowfall, too, began to slow, drifting down in softer, uncertain flakes before ceasing entirely. Mafioso lifted his head, confusion and a low, gnawing dread prickling at the edges of his exhaustion.

“...what..?”

The willow’s branches groaned, heavy with ice, bending lower as if bowing to some unseen force. The cold remained sharp in the air, biting against his skin, but the snow began to melt in a single patch beneath the branches—right where the moonflower had been rooted.

Mafioso’s heart stuttered when he saw the moonflower itself wilting, and despite himself, he lurched forward, hands outstretched, trying to save it. Too late, again. The petals fell away, leaving behind only damp earth steaming faintly in the cold.

But what the melting snow revealed next stole the breath from his lungs.

Beneath that earth lay a face he thought he would never see again. Peaceful. Pale. Lips tinged with a faint, terrible blue. Mafioso’s mind reeled, convinced that grief had finally broken him, that he was seeing ghosts in the frost.

Hand shaking, he tore off his glove and pressed his fingers against Chance’s pulse point, desperate for something—anything—to cling to. There. Faint, but present. Then, lowering himself, he pressed his ear to Chance’s chest, holding his breath.

A beat.

A few seconds.

Another beat.

Slow. Fragile. Struggling.

But alive.

Chance was alive.

For a moment, Mafioso could only stare, the world around him silent except for the slow, steady drum of a heartbeat he had thought he had lost forever. The snow, the cold, the endless nights of sitting beneath the willow, all of it felt like a distant echo as warmth—real, living warmth—radiated beneath his touch.

Without another second wasted, he pulled off his coat, wrapping it around Chance’s still body, shielding him from the cold that lingered like a ghost around them. He gathered Chance into his arms, cradling him as gently as he could, and stood, holding him close as he turned toward the path home.

He would not lose him again.

The mall felt unfamiliar somehow. It had been a while since Mafioso had stepped foot inside, all his days recently spent in the numbing cold, mourning the one person he regretted ever abandoning. Chance’s limp body in his arms was a warmth he never thought he’d feel again, but not like this. This wasn’t how he wanted to hold him.

His eyes flicked around, catching glimpses of memories in every shadow. Chance’s wide eyes pressed against shop windows, the way he would light up at the sight of food in the dusty stalls, the soft excitement in his voice. All of it felt bitter now, reminders of how much he had lost. But there was no time to sink into that. Mafioso was on a mission. The climb he had made countless times before would be different now, carrying dead weight in his arms, each step a promise that it would be worth it in the end. At least, he hoped it would be.

—

The climb was excruciating. Mafioso’s breaths came ragged, each step burning in his legs, while Chance remained still, almost peaceful in his arms. The cold air bit at his face as he moved, but finally, he reached the floor of the main hideout.

The squires didn’t dare give him any odd looks. Instead, they scrambled out of his way as he passed, rushing toward his office with urgency. His gloved fingers fumbled for his keycard, rifling through his pants pockets. Nothing. Only the familiar shape of his portal key met his touch.

He carefully sat Chance against the wall, the coat draping around him, before patting down the pockets. Relief hit him as he found the keycard, slipping it out and hoisting Chance back into his arms in one motion. The scanner beeped, the metal door hissing as it unlocked and swung open. Mafioso pressed through the threshold without pause, cutting through the quiet office toward the bedroom he hadn’t truly used until recently.

He laid Chance down on the bed with the care of handling glass, pulling the blankets up to their shoulders. His hands shook as he reached for the radio on his desk, the plastic cold against his fingers as he switched through the channels, holding in a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“...Eunoia?” His voice cracked, throat tight with the weight of everything he was holding back. “Are you there...?”

Static, then a sharp beep.

“Mafioso? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

She sounded worried, the sound grounding him for a brief moment.

“Maf’?”

He pressed the radio closer, swallowing hard. “Can you...come to my office...? I—he’s—Chance is—”

“Maf’, take a breath, okay? Slowly.”

Mafioso obeyed, forcing himself to take slow, trembling breaths, his eyes locked on Chance’s still form beneath the blankets.

“It’s Chance,” he managed, voice hoarse. “He’s...he’s alive, just barely... I have him in my office. Please, if you could just...be here.”

Silence.

On the other end of the radio, Eunoia was frozen, absorbing the words. Then her voice returned, calm but urgent.

“I’ll be there.”

The hiss of the metal door pulled Mafioso from his daze. His thumb kept tracing circles over Chance’s hand, as if the motion alone could bring warmth back into their cold skin. Eunoia rushed in, her hair messy and dress rumpled from climbing the mall floors in a hurry.

Her eyes scanned the room before settling on Chance’s still form. Frost clung to their lashes and hair, lips tinted blue, but their face looked peaceful, like they were simply asleep and untouched by pain. Eunoia opened her mouth to speak but found no words at first. She swallowed, forcing herself to move as she stepped around Mafioso’s stiff form, kneeling beside the bed. Her hand hovered before gently brushing Chance’s cheek, testing the cold clamminess of their skin. She checked their pulse with careful precision, eyes narrowing as she counted the faint beats.

“What happened?” she asked, voice low.

“I… I don’t know.” Mafioso’s voice was hoarse, weighted with fear. “One moment I’m sitting there, and then the snow melts and he’s… there. I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought him here.”

Eunoia glanced up, a tired but small smile crossing her face. “Well, it’s a good thing you did. You need to think fast if you want to save the love of your life, after all.”

Heat flushed to Mafioso’s face, the tips of his ears burning as his mouth opened, caught off guard by her words. He exhaled, looking away. “I just hope he sees me like I see him…”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, standing up and pulling her hand away. “Right now, he just needs warmth. His body’s too cold, and if we don’t warm him up carefully, he won’t have a chance to wake up.”

Mafioso nodded and turned toward the closet, pulling out every blanket he could find. One by one, he draped them over Chance’s fragile body, tucking them in carefully. Eunoia adjusted the thermostat, warming the chilled air in the room while ensuring it didn’t get too hot.

They worked in quiet urgency, the only sounds the rustle of blankets and the low hum of the heater kicking on. Eunoia placed a hand on Mafioso’s shoulder, grounding him as he finally sat back down, his hand slipping under the layers to find Chance’s again.

His thumb resumed its slow, comforting circles.

“We’ll bring him back,” Eunoia said softly.

Mafioso didn’t take his eyes off Chance’s peaceful face. “Yeah,” he whispered, holding on. “We will.”

Eunoia looked at Mafioso’s features: tired eyes dry of all tears, bunny ears drooping lower than usual, and hair sticking out in every direction, uncombed and dull. She sighed. “Drink some water, and get some rest. When he wakes up, he won’t want to see you self-destructing.”

Mafioso nodded, slipping off his fedora and running a hand through his tangled hair. His fingers caught in knots, and he could feel the oily strands clinging to his skin. It was getting gross. Eunoia took one last look at Chance, brushing a stray hair from their forehead before stepping away.

“I’ll be back soon to check on him,” she promised.

Mafioso told himself everything would be okay. It was all over now.

–

A few minutes away from Chance wouldn’t hurt, he tried to reassure himself. Just a few minutes.

He stepped into one of the hideout’s showers, letting the warm water pour down over him, soaking his hair and trailing down the planes of his body. The steam fogged up the mirror, heat hugging the cold out of his bones. How long had it been since he last showered? The cold of grief had eaten away at any routine, and depression was a mean thing, he thought bitterly.

He ran his hands over old scars and fading cuts, the water running in small rivers along the marks of past battles and reminders of nights he didn’t care if he woke up the next day. His fingers traced one near his hip, the memory of how it happened coming back, but he pushed it away.

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool tile. His thoughts kept drifting back to Chance’s peaceful face under the blankets, frost still clinging to his lashes. The fear that this was false hope gnawed at him. What if Chance didn’t wake up? What if he’d brought him back only to lose him again?

Mafioso dug his nails into his palms. No. He was here now. Alive. Mafioso could at least give him warmth, a soft place to wake up, a place where he could smile again, even if it was small.

He shampooed his hair carefully, working the suds into the roots, pulling out loose strands that tangled around his fingers. The warm water cascaded over his back, washing away the dirt and sweat that had stuck to him during weeks of grieving in the snow. Each rinse felt like a layer of guilt and sorrow being lifted, even if only slightly.

He didn’t rush. For once, Mafioso allowed himself to take the time to care for himself, scrubbing his skin until it felt raw but clean, letting the warmth lull his tense shoulders into relaxing, even if it was temporary.

When he finally shut off the water, he stood in the steam for a moment, breathing in the warmth and clutching the towel against his chest. Mafioso stared into the fogged mirror, wiping a streak clean to see himself. His hair was dripping, sticking to his cheeks, and his eyes were red but clearer.

Chance would wake up. And Mafioso would be there, ready for him.

He dried off and dressed in a clean shirt and sweatpants, combing through his damp hair with slow care. His ears were still drooping more than usual, but they flicked lightly, as if remembering what it was like to perk up somewhat.

He filled a glass of water and drank it, then filled another and left it by Chance’s bedside.

A few minutes away obviously didn’t hurt. And when Chance eventually wakes up, Mafioso wanted to be someone worth seeing.

There was something he had to do urgently, something that had completely slipped his mind. Mafioso glanced back at Chance before opening the portal, muttering softly,
“Thirty seconds, Chance… thirty seconds.”

Stepping through, the cold air shifted to the gentle hush of the willow dream. Mafioso sprinted across the frost-bare ground, eyes darting around the tree until he found what he was looking for. Spade was curled up on the bench, sleeping soundly, his large frame rising and falling with each slow breath.

“C’mon, bud,” Mafioso whispered, lifting the fat weight into his arms. Spade only cracked open an eye before sighing, accepting the fact that he was being whisked away somewhere.

Mafioso rushed back, portal humming, the world of the willow dream folding away just as he stepped through. He did not want to do that climb again. The portal snapped shut behind him, the warm air of the hideout washing over them as Spade chuffed, immediately perking up when he saw Chance on the bed.

“There we go, bud…”

Spade wasted no time, lumbering over and settling next to Chance, head butting his shoulder firmly before curling up, eyes fluttering closed as if nothing else mattered except being close to him. Mafioso couldn’t help but smile, the sight warming something in his chest.

He climbed into the bed too, careful not to jostle Chance too much, the blankets rustling around them as he found a spot next to him. The room felt calm, the soft hum of the heater in the background, the comforting scent of what could be called home settling into his bones.

Mafioso nestled closer, pressing his forehead lightly to Chance’s temple. His voice was barely above a whisper in the darkness,
“...I know you can hear me, so just wake up, will you? We miss you… I miss you.”

His voice cracked, but he pushed through.
“I want to make more memories with you. Positive ones. But I can’t do that unless you wake up, okay?”

He pressed a soft kiss to Chance’s forehead, lingering for a moment as if hoping it would seal the promise between them. Pulling back, Mafioso draped his heavy arm across Chance’s chest, feeling the slow, fragile rise and fall of their breath beneath his palm.

“Goodnight, Chance.”

The room fell quiet, the only sounds the soft snores of Spade at their side and the steady hum of the heater as Mafioso let himself finally close his eyes, holding them close, willing warmth and hope into the darkness.

…






Chance’s finger twitched in the night. 

Chapter Text

The hours slipped by faster than Mafioso realized. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the bed, his arm still draped over Chance as if letting go would take them away again. The gentle light from the office lamps spilled through the cracked door, brushing across Chance’s features. Their lips had lost that cold, bluish tint, and the frost that once clung to their lashes had melted away. They looked as alive as they could—just asleep, caught in a quiet, stubborn slumber.

Mafioso couldn’t help but brush the back of his hand along Chance’s cheeks and forehead, feeling the warmth finally returning to their skin. Carefully, he worked out the knots in Chance’s hair, the strands having slipped free from their ponytail while they lay there. It felt strange to show this much affection toward someone, letting himself care like this. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. No, not at all.

He hugged Chance tighter as if any moment they might slip away again, and he buried his face against Chance’s waist, breathing in the quiet scent of them, grounding himself in the soft rise and fall of Chance’s breathing. The room was still, save for the low hum of the AC, the world narrowing to just this—holding them, and letting himself hope.

At first, he thought he imagined it—a slight shift beneath the blankets. Mafioso lifted his head, heart thudding, eyes darting down.

Chance’s finger twitched again, a small, trembling motion that seemed to echo like thunder in the quiet room. Mafioso’s breath caught, and he carefully reached to hold their hand, brushing his thumb over cold knuckles that were no longer icy.

“Chance…?”

A soft, strained groan slipped from Chance’s lips, their brow pinching, eyes still shut. Their chest rose shakily, another breath coming, stronger this time. Mafioso’s throat tightened, his eyes glistening.

“It’s okay… I’ve got you.”

Chance’s fingers twitched again around his, and a weak sigh left them, but they didn’t speak. Their breathing evened out, the soft warmth of it brushing against Mafioso’s wrist as he held their hand against his cheek.

He stayed there for what felt like forever until Chance’s eyelashes fluttered, then slowly lifted, unfocused eyes searching before finally settling on Mafioso’s face. They blinked, confused and tired, lips parting.

Mafioso’s breath trembled, tears slipping free as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Chance’s forehead, then another on their cheek, and another, careful not to overwhelm them.

Chance’s gaze flickered, a hint of a smile at the corner of their mouth before their eyes slid shut again, their voice soft, almost slurred with exhaustion:

“...I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

A small laugh, broken with relief, fell from Mafioso’s lips as he pulled them gently into his arms, cradling Chance close against his chest, his chin resting on their head.

“Yeah… that’s okay. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The hum of the AC returned as the room settled into quiet again, Spade shifting closer to curl against Chance’s other side. Mafioso closed his eyes, letting himself finally breathe, holding them like they could disappear any moment—but knowing they were here, alive, safe, and finally, finally warm.

“…’s fucking hot in here, Maf’.”

A small, breathy laugh slipped from Mafioso, relief softening his features for the first time in weeks. “I know. It was Eunoia’s idea. Want me to turn it down?”

“…please?”

Carefully, Mafioso untangled himself from Chance’s grasp, feeling their hand slip down his arm as he stood. He crossed the room, turning down the AC a few degrees before glancing back. Chance had an arm thrown over his eyes, their chest rising and falling in tired breaths.

“…and the fan…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Mafioso flipped on the standing floor fan, angling it toward the bed in silent understanding before crawling back in, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Chance immediately shifted, scooting closer, hooking a leg around Mafioso’s and pressing their forehead against his chest, eyes heavy but open just enough to watch him.

Mafioso let out a quiet breath, one hand brushing through Chance’s hair, working through the tangles carefully.

“I missed you,” he said softly, voice cracking despite his attempt to keep it steady.

“…I know…”

The words were barely a whisper, but they were enough to ease something in Mafioso’s chest as he held them tighter. The quiet hum of the fan filled the room, and they both settled, the warmth now comforting instead of suffocating.

They were here, and that was enough.

Eunoia returned the next morning, the metal door hissing open. She paused when she saw Chance sitting up in bed, blankets pooled around his waist, hair tied loosely to keep it out of his face. He was awake, though tired, his eyes half-lidded as he sipped from a mug Mafioso held for him.

“Morning,” she greeted softly, setting her bag down.

Chance managed a small wave with his fingers before settling back, and exhaling. “Morning.”

Mafioso gave a quiet laugh, “He’s been up since dawn, stubborn as ever.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Chance mumbled, voice still hoarse, “I just… don’t want to sleep all day.”

Eunoia stepped closer, checking the warmth in his cheeks before gently pressing her hand to his forehead, careful not to startle him. “Your color’s better,” she said, her tone light but relieved. She pulled out her stethoscope, listening to his breathing and heartbeat, nodding in approval. “How’s your head?”

Chance grimaced slightly, touching his temple. “Hurts sometimes. Arms feel heavy. But I’m okay.”

Eunoia smiled gently, “That’s normal. You’re recovering faster than I expected, honestly.” She glanced at Mafioso, “Keep making sure he drinks water and eats something, even small bites.”

“I’ve been trying,” Mafioso said, glancing at Chance, who rolled his eyes playfully.

“He’s hovering,” Chance teased, though there was a fondness in his tone.

“Damn right,” Mafioso muttered, looking away with pink cheeks.

The days passed quietly, the kind of quiet that felt safe instead of empty. Chance spent most of his time propped up against the pillows, Spade sprawled across his legs or curled at his side, chuffing whenever Chance moved too quickly. He could drink water on his own now, though Mafioso still hovered nearby, ready to steady his hand if it shook.

Sometimes, Chance would trace idle patterns on Spade’s fur while Mafioso read aloud, the steady rhythm of the words filling the room. Other times, they would sit in comfortable silence, Mafioso fixing small repairs around the office while Chance watched, occasionally offering sarcastic commentary that made Mafioso snort.

Eunoia came by every few days, checking his pulse and listening to his breathing, making small adjustments to his diet, and occasionally forcing him to walk a few slow laps around the room to keep his strength up.

“You’re doing well,” she told Chance during one of these visits as she checked his vitals. “You just need to take it slow, okay? Don’t push yourself.”

Chance nodded, eyes flickering to Mafioso. “He’s not letting me do anything anyway.”

“Good,” Eunoia said with a firm nod, giving Mafioso a quick, approving glance.

Chance would sometimes get headaches that made him press a hand to his eyes, the world tilting slightly when he tried to stand too fast, but he was alive, and he was here. Mafioso would steady him when it happened, murmuring a soft, “Sit down, I’ve got you,” before Chance could protest.

At night, Mafioso would lay beside him, their breathing syncing as the hum of the fan filled the room. Chance would roll over, resting his head on Mafioso’s chest, his hand finding Mafioso’s and squeezing lightly.

“I really enjoy this,” Chance whispered once, eyes closing as he melted into the warmth.

“Yeah,” Mafioso replied, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head, “Me too.”

The days were slow, but they were gentle. Chance’s laughter began to return, even if it was quiet and short-lived. Mafioso found himself memorizing each sound, each eye roll, each moment Chance teased him for hovering, grateful for every second of it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Mafioso allowed himself to hope that this quiet, slow recovery could be the start of something new—something soft, safe, and worth holding onto.

“Do you remember anything from that day?”

Chance hummed in confusion, fingers stilling for a moment on Mafioso’s chest before realization dawned. “...I do. Why?”

Mafioso’s eyes flickered, searching Chance’s tired expression. “...What happened? After you ran, I mean.”

Chance fell quiet, their gaze drifting to the ceiling as they resumed tracing absentminded shapes on Mafioso’s chest, the silence stretching.

“One of those nightmare things... it took shape of him—of that traitor.” Chance’s voice was quiet, distant. “It argued with me. Said things about me that I’d been trying not to think about. I guess I broke down enough for it to... swoop in.” Their fingers clenched lightly into Mafioso’s shirt. “It said something about a soul. Or half a soul. I think... I think I fueled it by being so weak.”

“You weren’t weak.” Mafioso’s words came out low, heavy with empathy and anger that wasn’t aimed at Chance. His hand came up to rub slow, grounding circles on Chance’s back. “There isn’t a way to track that thing down and get that piece back. What happened, happened.”

“So I’m just... half a soul-less now?” Chance’s voice cracked slightly, trying to keep it as a joke, but it didn’t quite land.

Mafioso’s thumb brushed against Chance’s side, his jaw tightening before he softened, pulling them a little closer. “Not for long. Plus it shouldn't affect you too much, at most just changing your mood. You can build it back up. I know you can. It takes time, but... I believe in you.”

Chance let out a small breath, eyes fluttering shut as they tucked their face into Mafioso’s shoulder, letting the quiet hum of the room settle around them as they tried to believe it too.

Eyes still closed, Chance decided to ask a question.

“What did you do?”

Mafioso glanced down, his gaze meeting Chance’s as those tired eyes finally opened.

“I... what do you mean?”

“Well—first, how long was I gone?”

“Three weeks and three days.” The answer came without hesitation.

“...You were counting?”

Mafioso sighed, and Chance’s head lifted slightly with the breath, the rise and fall grounding them both in the moment. Mafioso ran a hand through Chance’s hair, pausing to untangle a knot.

“It was the only thing that helped me stay sane,” Mafioso admitted quietly. His thumb brushed over Chance’s temple, as if to reassure himself he was really there. “I never thought I’d say this, but losing you... It felt like everything was coming crashing down. It was hard. Grieving like that.” His eyes softened, remembering. “Eunoia kept telling me everything would be fine, but... it didn’t feel fine. The willow wouldn’t reach down like it would for you. The sky wouldn’t clear up, it just... kept snowing. Like a tundra after you went under.”

Chance stayed quiet, processing his words. It felt like a confession, soft and raw, and they let the warmth of it sink in as their fingers found Mafioso’s hand, holding it gently as they closed their eyes again, allowing themselves to breathe in the moment, safe.

“...Thank you.”

Mafioso froze, blinking in confusion. Thank him? For what? All he had done before that day was cause Chance to spiral, to argue, to leave. To turn a place meant for peace into something ugly. Why should he be thanked? Why was Chance forgiving him so easily?

A dream, that’s what this was. It had to be. A cruel, beautiful dream.

“...Maf’?”

He snapped out of it, “Sorry— Why the sudden ‘thanks’?”

Chance’s eyes softened, looking up at him with that familiar, tired light. “For grieving over me when I thought no one would.”

“...Oh.”

Mafioso let out a small, awkward laugh at himself, silently cursing for overthinking. That wasn’t what he expected.

“Eunoia grieved too, y’know. I can’t take all the credit for that.”

“But I think it’s more special that you did.”

Mafioso’s heart stuttered, warmth flooding his chest. Chance didn’t need to say anything else for him to understand what was truly meant in those words. All he could do was squeeze Chance’s hand, trying to keep his composure, his lips tugging into a quiet, relieved smile.

The next morning was quiet, save for the soft scratching of Mafioso’s expensive pen as it moved across the ledger. Spade was sprawled on the bed, taking up the empty space Chance couldn’t.

“Hey, Maf’.”

“Hm?” Mafioso hummed, not looking up, the pen still moving fast.

“Am I still in debt?”

Mafioso’s eyes snapped up, worry flashing across his face. “Why? Are you seeing nightmares again?”

“No,” Chance huffed softly, “that’s why I’m asking, dummy.”

Mafioso let out a small sigh of relief before flipping to Chance’s page. His name wasn’t in red anymore, and the balance showed a clean, even 5,000 studs. His brow furrowed, finger swiping over the ink like he expected it to bleed back into red at any second.

“It reset when you…uhm…died.”

Chance let out a dramatic “whew,” flopping back into the pillows. The nightmares were gone, the urge to steal was gone, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like he could breathe.

Mafioso let the pen hover for a moment before setting it down, glancing over at Chance with a faint smile. “Guess that’s one good thing, huh?”

Chance turned his head, looking at him with tired but bright eyes, “Yeah…one good thing.”

Chance dozed on and off, waking up for food and water like clockwork. But they wouldn’t lie—their legs ached from the constant bed rest, and the itch to move around gnawed at them. They felt weak, but strong enough to try walking with support. Eunoia’s orders were clear: no wandering off without Mafioso.

So, they decided to plead their case.

“ ‘Oso ,” they clasped their hands together dramatically, pressing them to their chin, “when can we visit the willow?”

Mafioso closed his ledger with a quiet thud , shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping and sinking Chance a little lower with his weight.

“You sure you want to go in your condition?” he asked, one brow arched.

“Oh, pshh , you know I’m fine. See?” Chance flashed him the brightest, cheekiest smile they could manage, their legs wiggling under the blankets.

Mafioso couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head at them. “Why do you want to go so bad?”

“I...miss everything about it,” Chance admitted, eyes glancing toward the ceiling, searching the memory of warmth. “Don’t get me wrong, Maf’, I love this comfy-ass bed, but my back is killing me. I miss the sun, the tree shade, the smell of the grass, the flowers—”

Their hands moved, mimicking a clumsy piano melody in the air, fingers pressing invisible keys with a small, wistful smile.

“—and my piano . I want to play it again.”

Mafioso studied their expression, seeing the softness there, the longing. The way the shadows of exhaustion still clung under their eyes, but the light was returning, piece by piece.

“…Alright,” he said finally, ruffling their hair gently, “but we’re taking it slow. We’ll go tomorrow if you feel up to standing and practicing a few steps today.”

Chance’s eyes brightened, and they gave him a thumbs-up with mock seriousness. “Deal.”

“Don’t get cocky now,” Mafioso teased, but a small smile tugged at his lips, seeing them so alive again.

Chance settled back into the blankets, fingers still tapping silent notes, their mind already at the willow under the dappled sun, waiting.

The willow was waiting for their return patiently.

Chapter Text

Mafioso hadn’t even been back at his desk for twenty minutes before a loud, concerning thud shook the quiet of the hideout. He set his pen down, sighing, already knowing exactly what happened without having to check.

Pushing open the bedroom door, he looked down—and there was Chance, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor.

“A little help?” Chance mumbled, looking up at him with a sheepish, red-faced expression.

Mafioso sighed, stepping forward to offer a hand. “You couldn’t have just waited for me?”

“I just wanted to see if I could stand on my own. Doesn’t help that my legs are wobblier than a baby deer’s right now.”

Chance’s gloved hand grasped his, the grip weak, and Mafioso noticed how much effort it seemed to take. Without a word, he reached his other arm around Chance’s waist and carefully lifted him, treating him like glass.

Chance’s legs trembled, struggling to stabilize under his own weight as if the floor was shaking beneath him. Mafioso kept his hold steady, eyes searching his face.

“Are you sure you still want to go to the willow?”

“YES—yes.” Chance caught himself, breathing out shakily. “Sorry. I just… I just feel like a burden right now.”

“You’re not a burden, Chance.” Mafioso’s voice was firm, unwavering. “You’re recovering, slowly but surely. Let me help you get there.”

Chance took another careful breath, stepping toward Mafioso in a hesitant shuffle, his boots dragging slightly on the floorboards. Another step, then another—and he stumbled forward, catching himself against Mafioso’s chest. His arms wrapped around him, a stabilizing hug more than anything.

“Will you?” Chance’s voice was small, muffled against his coat.

Mafioso gently rocked them where they stood, his hand resting on Chance’s back. “What?”

“Help me.” Chance’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt. “Help me walk.”

Mafioso huffed softly, pressing a hand to the back of Chance’s head. “You know, I could just carry you. You weigh nothing. Which, by the way, is concerning.”

Chance scoffed, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the ghost of a smile.  “I don’t…I just…ugh-I—I want to get strong again. I can’t do that if you just give me the easy way out y’know.”

Mafioso pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, giving him the smallest, reassuring smile. “Then I’ll be there for you,” he said, shifting his hold to support Chance’s waist fully, “ every step of the way.”

Chance nodded, breathing out a laugh that was more relief than humor, before taking another small step forward. Closing the small gap between them for a real hug.

Silence.

Then Chance lifted his head away from the very sleep inducing body heat radiating off of Mafioso.

“Where’s my hat and stuff?”

“Oh. I put them away awhile ago after I found them in the…forest.”

Mafioso walked Chance to the bed and sat him down gently, swiveling on his heels towards the closet. There on a shelf were Chance’s signature accessories: fedora, headphones, and sunglasses. He picked them all up and handed them over to Chance who quickly pulled everything on, except for the headphones which rested around his neck. It was like nothing happened. He looked like he did when he arrived. He was just missing his coat and shoes. He gave him a toothy smile, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m ready to go!”

“Without your shoes and coat?”

Chance glanced down, wiggling his socked toes. “I, uh… actually have no idea where my shoes ended up.”

Mafioso let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Do I have to do everything for you now?”

“Uh, yeah? Eunoia’s orders, remember?”

Rolling his eyes, Mafioso bent down, fishing Chance’s dress shoes out from under the bed despite the protest in his back. He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound catching Chance’s attention.

“Foot.”

“I can put them on myself, you know.”

“Oh? And here I thought you were under strict Eunoia supervision.”

Chance pouted, crossing his arms before letting out a small huff, reluctantly lifting his leg toward Mafioso.

Mafioso slipped the shoe on with brisk precision, tightening the laces just enough before giving Chance’s foot a small pat. “Other one.”

Chance lifted it, muttering under his breath, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Mafioso ignored him, finishing the laces before standing, brushing his hands on his pants. He grabbed Chance’s familiar black suit coat from the back of a chair, helping him slip it on, followed by the heavier coat with the light fur collar. It smelled faintly of pine and old cologne, comforting despite the stiffness of the fabric.

“There. You look like you again,” Mafioso said, adjusting the collar.

Chance straightened his sunglasses, giving Mafioso a small, bright grin that didn’t quite hide the nerves underneath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Mafioso held out his hand for Chance to take, and Chance grabbed on quickly, doubling up by clutching his hand and forearm for extra stability. With a shaky breath, Chance eased himself off the bed, legs wobbling the instant they hit the floor.

Mafioso moved in close, his right arm wrapping firmly around Chance’s waist, pulling him in just enough to keep him steady. His left hand stayed in front, clasping around Chance’s hand as an anchor. Chance sighed, bracing himself as he took a cautious, weary step toward the door.

Mafioso’s eyes tracked every unsteady shuffle, ready to catch him if he slipped. They stepped out of the office and into the hallway, the sterile quiet pressing against Chance’s ears, reminding him how long it had been since he last saw this hallway.

They moved slowly down the hall toward the exit, the squires stationed near the doors noticing them immediately. Without needing to be told, the squires scrambled to open the heavy metal door, letting in a draft of warm, dusty mall air.

They stepped out into the dying mall, the scent of old food and shops filling the air, lights flickering above hollow storefronts. Chance’s eyes flicked around, the emptiness echoing beneath the scuff of his dress shoes as they made their way toward a quiet corner near a boarded-up kiosk.

Mafioso let go of Chance just for a moment to fumble in his pocket, pulling out the portal key. His fingers moved quickly, inputting the familiar sequence until there was a soft click and a bright pulse of light.

The portal opened, and the willow stood on the other side, swaying gently, leaves catching the light of the dream’s eternal afternoon. The world beyond was green, warm, alive—a sharp contrast to the dusty mall behind them.

They stepped through together, Chance’s feet sinking into soft, sun-warmed grass. Bright yellow dandelions bloomed instantly around his steps, mirroring the quiet relief on his face.

“All right—” Mafioso swooped down and lifted Chance into a bridal carry with ease.

“Woah! Hey! I was doing fine—”

“You did enough today. I want you to relax here.”

Chance puffed his cheeks in a playful pout before giving in, wrapping his arms around Mafioso’s neck for balance as he was carried forward. Each step Mafioso took sent ripples through the grass, bright dandelions blooming in their wake, the willow ahead swaying its branches like it was waving them closer.

When they reached the bench beneath the willow, it gave a soft creak as Mafioso lowered Chance onto it with care. A stray vine from the tree drooped down, brushing against Chance’s cheek like a gentle hand, as if the willow itself was happy to see him.

“I missed you too,” Chance whispered, his fingers twirling the vine around in a small, absent-minded circle. Mafioso sat down next to Chance, the vine leaving his cheek to wander over and bother him instead. Chance giggled, watching as the vine gently patted at Mafioso’s cheek like a curious cat.

“It likes you.”

“I like you.”

The words slipped out before Mafioso could stop them, and he immediately turned away, face flushing a deep red that crept all the way to the burning tips of his ears. He had been showing more affection lately, sure, but he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—at least not like that.

Chance’s eyes went wide, jaw dropping as he processed the words, ears going red to match. For a moment, he was just staring, silent, before he burst out:

“You… what!? The Mafioso likes me?! As in like-like?”

“You’re making this way more embarrassing than it needs to be,” Mafioso grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to hide how flustered he was.

Chance’s grin was unstoppable, teeth flashing as he leaned closer, nearly nose-to-nose with him. “You liiike me~”

Mafioso groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m starting not to—”

“Aww, c’mon, don’t say that.” Chance’s tone softened, sincerity shining through the teasing as he bumped his forehead lightly against Mafioso’s shoulder. “I like you too, Maf’. Honest. I like-like you.”

Chance poked at Mafioso’s warm, red cheek with a smirk.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t, actually. Someone who kissed my face when I woke up and took care of me these past few days should like me at least a little.”

Mafioso finally turned to face him, his expression caught between sheepish and amused. “Was it that obvious?”

“You suck at being subtle.”

Before Mafioso could retort, Chance leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft, careful kiss. Mafioso froze for a moment before his hand lifted to cup Chance’s jaw, leaning into it. When they pulled away, Mafioso was smiling, just a little crooked, just a little dorky.

“I wasn’t ready for that one… can I get another?”

This time, Mafioso kissed him, and Chance laughed against his lips, a small, breathy sound, before kissing him back. When they broke apart again, Chance was grinning, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Another?” Mafioso asked, leaning in again.

Chance didn’t answer, pulling him in for another, and another, laughter bubbling between kisses that were soft, warm, and endless. For the first time in a long time, Chance felt wanted, cherished, and alive in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

And he was going to savor every second of it.

After Chance managed to peel themself away from Mafioso’s warmth, they gathered enough strength to walk toward the piano that was quietly calling to them. The ivory keys were clean, delicate, fitting beneath their fingers like they had been waiting just for them.

“Anything you want to hear?” Chance asked, glancing over their shoulder.

Mafioso hummed lightly, crossing his arms. “Play what you want to. It’s your piano, after all.”

Chance nodded, pressing down the first notes, letting the soft melody drift into the breeze. The willow branches swayed as if dancing to the tune, dandelions pulsing with each gentle chord, the dream itself responding to the notes echoing from their hands.

A few minutes passed before Mafioso stood and moved to sit beside Chance on the cushioned bench. Chance scooted over, looking at him with a raised brow.

“Clingy or…?”

“I’d like to play with you.”

Chance blinked. “Ah—wait, you play ?”

Mafioso gave a small smirk. “I am skilled in many things, Chance. You should know this if you’re going to be my partner.”

“Partner, huh? I like that,” Chance said, grinning, “Makes sense since I’m not a guy.”

“What?”

“What—oh, shit, did I never tell you?” Chance rubbed the back of their neck, laughing awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m like non-binary. He or they pronouns. That shit. I guess I never had the chance to tell ya. Didn’t think much about it since I never brought it up.”

Mafioso was quiet for a moment before nodding. “I appreciate you telling me what to refer to you as, Chance.”

Chance nudged Mafioso with their shoulder, letting out a small laugh before pressing down another gentle chord. “Yeah, yeah.”

They began to play a light, breezy song, smiling to themself as the melody swelled. Mafioso listened quietly, fingers hovering before joining in, pressing keys on his end of the piano. It was obvious the song was improvised, yet the notes fell into place like they had always belonged together.

They glanced at each other as they played, the corners of their mouths lifting in quiet acknowledgment of the soft symphony they were creating, together, under the willow that swayed above them like a silent witness to the moment neither of them would ever forget.

The music came to a gentle stop, the final notes drifting away as they lifted their hands. They clapped softly for themselves, exchanging a bright, content look before Chance leaned over to press a kiss to Mafioso’s cheek, humming as their fingers rested on the keys again.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the lovebirds.”

Both of them turned at the exact same time, shoulders stiffening, startled by the voice that cut through the calm dreamscape.

Standing there, hand in hand, were Nashatra…and Eunoia, who looked a bit sheepish while Nashatra wore a smug grin.

Chance brightened immediately, waving excitedly. “Nashatra! Long time no see!”

“I haven’t seen you around for a while, Chance. I’ve been looking for you.”

Chance chuckled, rubbing the back of their neck. “Yeah, well, I’ve kinda been ‘dead’ for a couple weeks.”

Nashatra froze, her eyes going wide, her jaw slack. “YOU WHAT ?!”

“Long story,” Chance said quickly, dismissing it with a wave, before clearing their throat and shooting Mafioso a look, elbowing him lightly. “But I think there’s something else that’s in order right now.”

Mafioso groaned, looking away. “For what.”

“You know what.”

Mafioso let out a sigh, turning to Nashatra, who now stood with her arms crossed, her eyebrow raised as she stared him down like a cat ready to pounce.

“I am…very, very sorry for stabbing you just for being in the vicinity of Chance,” Mafioso said, his voice strained, “and I will never do it again.”

He added under his breath, “Unless I have to.”

The last part was quiet enough Nashatra didn’t catch it, and she nodded, uncrossing her arms, accepting the apology for now. Beside her, Eunoia had crouched down, carefully gathering up the dandelions and the newly bloomed red tulips, inspecting them with a quiet fascination.

Chance turned fully to face them, clasping their hands together as the breeze caught their hair. “So, what brings you two here?”

Nashatra shoved her hands in her pockets. “Ah, well, Eunoia was looking all worried—muttering about you being missing—and dragged me along.”

“I did not drag you,” Eunoia snapped, hugging her growing bouquet tighter. “You grabbed my hand and pulled me here!”

Nashatra tilted her head, smirking. “Huh. I remember you giving me your hand.”

Eunoia’s ears burned red. “That’s— that’s not—!” She huffed, crouching down to aggressively pick more flowers, trying to hide her face.

Nashatra snorted before turning her gaze back to Chance, eyes scanning them quickly. “Anyway, our last meeting got cut short, so I thought I’d check in. But seeing how cozy you look with him …” she jerked her chin toward Mafioso, “looks like you’re doing just fine.”

Mafioso, arms crossed, shot Nashatra a cold glare. “You’re the one interrupting our date.”

Chance’s jaw dropped, and they whipped their head to look at Mafioso, ears flushing pink. “Date…?”

“Oh, so it is a date,” Nashatra teased, raising a brow with a grin. “Never thought I’d see Mr. Mafia Boss out here playing house and falling in love.”

Chance covered their face with their hands, muffling a squeak as their shoulders shook. They hadn’t expected Mafioso to actually admit it, much less so casually.

Nashatra’s grin widened as she leaned over to Chance conspiratorially, stage-whispering, “So, what’s it like dating Mafioso the Big Bad Boss ? Does he cry when you kiss him?”

Mafioso’s eye twitched, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Watch it.”

Chance, cheeks pink, sputtered, “He does not cry—”

“Oh, so you have kissed—”

“Nashatra!” Eunoia yelped, nearly dropping her bouquet as she yanked on Nashatra’s sleeve. “Stop it! We’re guests here, remember?”

Nashatra cackled, allowing herself to be dragged back a step, still calling over her shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, lovebirds!”

Mafioso’s lip curled as he flipped her off without looking back, his other hand automatically moving to Chance’s lower back to steady them. “Ignore her.”

Chance laughed despite themselves, hiding their smile behind their hand. “She’s… a lot.”

“She’s annoying,” Mafioso grumbled, but a faint smirk cracked through his scowl.

Eunoia shot Chance an apologetic look as she struggled to drag Nashatra, who was still waving teasingly. “I was worried, by the way,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Chance’s smile softened. “Thanks, Eunoia.”

Eunoia nodded quickly, face pink, before Nashatra shouted, “C’mon, babe , I wanna get some tacos before I wake up!” and pulled her fully through the portal they had arrived in, their bickering fading into the breeze.

The clearing was quiet again, the willow swaying gently as dandelions glowed near the piano. Mafioso let out a sigh, looking down at Chance, the earlier tension fading.

Chance bumped their shoulder into his, smiling. “A date , huh?”

Mafioso’s ears burned, but he didn’t look away this time. “Yeah. A date.”

They found themselves sitting on the soft grass beneath the willow, its branches hanging like a protective curtain around them. The piano stood a few feet away, silent but not lonely, surrounded by yellow dandelions and the occasional red tulip.

Chance sighed contentedly, leaning back until his shoulder touched Mafioso’s. “Feels nice here,” he murmured, eyelids fluttering.

Mafioso glanced down at him, the way the filtered green light kissed his tired face. “You’re falling asleep again.”

“Mm… maybe.” Chance shifted, trying to fight it, but his head drooped forward.

“Tch.” Mafioso clicked his tongue, but his arm snaked around him, pulling Chance gently until he was guided into his lap, his head resting against his chest. He adjusted him with careful hands, ignoring the dull ache in his back, letting him curl against him comfortably.

Chance mumbled something, half-asleep, his breath warm against Mafioso’s neck. Mafioso brushed a strand of hair out of his face, studying him for a long, quiet moment.

Usually, this would be the moment he would slip away—before anyone noticed, before attachments could tighten around his throat like a noose.

But he didn’t move.

He shifted slightly to get more comfortable, resting his cheek against the top of Chance’s head, letting his eyes close, listening to his soft breathing and the rustling leaves above them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mafioso whispered into the warm hush, a promise to him and to himself. For once, he didn’t want to run. Not when he finally had something worth staying for.

As Chance settled fully, a quiet sigh leaving his lips, the earth around them responded.

Soft lavender sprouted gently in the grass near Mafioso’s boots, followed by clusters of white and yellow daisies weaving themselves into the dandelions already scattered in the willow’s shade. The calming scent of lavender carried on the breeze, a hush of peace wrapping around them both, and the daisies turned toward the filtered sunlight like tiny suns, steady and alive.

It was quiet, and it was safe.

Mafioso glanced down at the small blooms pushing up around them, brushing the petals with his fingertips before resting his hand back against Chance’s side. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

Yeah, he thought, letting his eyes close, this is good.

everyone say “thank you Nikko” for drawing this 

and go commission him !

Chapter Text

Chance stirred first, blinking away the haze of sleep as sunlight filtered through the soft curtain of willow branches above. A trail of drool clung to the corner of his lip; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, then glanced down to see just what he’d been resting against.

Mafioso. Of course.

The man lay beneath him, arms loosely wrapped around Chance’s waist, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His hat had been abandoned in the grass nearby, and the wind had tousled his dark hair into a messier version of its usual slicked back self. His long bunny ears drooped peacefully over his shoulders, the tips twitching now and then with the breeze.

Chance reached out and gently brushed his fingers through the impossibly soft fur, letting them linger. Mafioso shifted faintly but didn’t wake—too deep in sleep, too relaxed.

Chance let out a small breath of a laugh, quiet and fond.

Turning his gaze outward, the dream stretched infinitely in all directions, painted with rolling grass and bright patches of lavender swaying in the wind. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with the sweet scent of wildflowers and something warm and nostalgic. Daisies were scattered through the field now too, tucked between blades of grass like shy smiles from the earth itself.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed this—missed the safety of this place, the warmth of it. It wasn’t just a dream anymore. It was a shared sanctuary. And more than that… it wasn’t empty now. Not just a memory. Not just a retreat.

Mafioso was here. With him.

His Mafioso.

His partner .

Chance shifted slightly, careful not to wake the other man, and nestled himself more firmly against his chest, resting his head over his heart. That steady heartbeat, which was a grounding comfort, was one he didn’t want to give up anytime soon.

He closed his eyes again, allowing himself to melt into the silence. Into the warmth.

And as the wind danced over the field, more flowers bloomed—lavender and daisy and now soft blue forget me nots—spilling outward in delicate waves around them, gentle proof of the peace and comfort Chance hadn’t felt in far too long.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But right now, here in this moment?

He felt loved.

He felt safe.

It was almost too perfect—like a dream. Technically, it was a dream, but that was besides the point.

Nearly two years trapped in this place, and for most of it, Chance wandered around aimlessly, grieving, empty. But now? Now he had a reason to be glad he stayed. It wasn’t so bad, not compared to the nothingness he thought he’d be thrown into after swallowing those god awful pills.

Clovers had started growing in bunches, thick and wild, their stems stretching long with leaves spread wide. From where he was still curled up partly on Mafioso’s chest, Chance sifted through the patch, hands skimming through green until he spotted it: one with four leaves.

Bingo.

He grinned and gently lifted the clover to Mafioso’s nose, brushing it against the skin until Mafioso stirred with a quiet groan, hand groggily swatting at the air.

His eyes cracked open to find Chance leaning in far too close, holding a clover way too close to his face.

“Look what I found!” Chance beamed.

“A clover?” Mafioso muttered, still adjusting to the light that came through the willow’s branches. “There’s hundreds.”

“Yeah, but this one has four leaves! They’re rare, y’know. Like good luck.”

Mafioso squinted at it for a moment, then leaned forward and—without warning—bit the entire leafed end clean off.

Chance sat there, frozen, mouth hanging open as Mafioso slowly chewed with way too much satisfaction.

“I—what—HUH?!” Chance’s voice pitched up. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!”

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. He just plucked the bare stem from Chance’s stunned hand, brought it to his mouth, and leisurely slurped it in like spaghetti. The whole thing disappeared behind a smug grin.

“They’re good,” he said between chews. “A little tangy. Kinda sweet. You should try one.”

“You are actually a rabbit,” Chance muttered, eyes wide in disbelief.

Mafioso just smirked, already plucking another from the patch and holding it up to Chance’s lips.

“I’m not eating that,” Chance said flatly.

The clover tapped his mouth.

Chance narrowed his eyes at him but gave in and took a small bite. His expression shifted almost immediately.

“…Wait. Why is it actually kind of good?”

“Told you,” Mafioso said, already chewing another.

Chance let out a small laugh, leaning in again and resting his forehead against Mafioso’s shoulder. The stems rustled quietly around them as more clovers popped up in the grass—another little sign that maybe luck, and love, were finally on his side.

“Wait… I thought you only grew flowers,” Mafioso said, plucking a nearby clover and turning it between his fingers. “How did you grow clovers? Aren’t those technically weeds?”

Chance shrugged, still half-curled against him. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about my time here, and… they popped up.”

“They’re tied to your emotions, yeah?”

“I think so… Why?”

Mafioso gave a thoughtful hum. “Grow me something.”

Chance tilted his head, confused. “There’s already a ton of flowers around just from being with you, Maf’. I—”

“Your favorite flower,” Mafioso interrupted, turning to look at them. “What is it?”

“I—uh… Gardenias, I guess? Why are you asking?”

“Can you grow them at will?”

Chance blinked. “I don’t know… I’ve never tried.”

Curious now, he sat up a little straighter and stared out at the endless field. Closing his eyes, he focused hard—focused on the soft white petals, the waxy leaves, the heavy, sweet scent that clung to memory.

But when he opened his eyes… nothing.

Not a single gardenia in sight.

“Damn,” he muttered. “No use.”

Mafioso watched him silently, a faint smirk tugging at his lips—not mocking, just quietly amused.

“You’re trying too hard,” he said simply. “Let it come to you. You’ve already bloomed more than you think.”

Chance got to thinking.

At first, it was just about gardenias—how soft they were, how their petals always looked like they were on the verge of wilting but never quite did. How they carried this sweetness that wasn’t overbearing, but lingered just enough to make you breathe in deeper. They were delicate, but not weak. Quiet, but never really silent. The kind of flower that people underestimated until it was right in front of them.

But the more he thought, the more it slipped into something else. Into Mafioso.

He chuckled quietly to himself, resting his head back against Mafioso’s chest. He was so damn stupid. How long had it been obvious? The soft glances, the lingering hands, the way Mafioso always hovered close but never too close—like he was afraid of breaking something. Chance had been so busy stewing in old anger, wrapped up in what-ifs and almosts, he hadn’t seen it for what it was. Or maybe he had, and just didn’t want to admit it.

It was kind of poetic in a way. The same guy he once shouted at until his voice cracked, who he swore he’d never forgive, now held him like something precious. And even more wild—he wanted to be held. He wanted to stay. He didn’t want to run anymore, didn’t want to be alone again, didn’t want to be angry just to feel something.

Mafioso had changed. Or maybe Chance had. Or maybe they both had, in small ways, like shifting tectonic plates. Quiet but irreversible.

A soft movement caught his eye. Just near Mafioso’s hand, nestled among the grass and clovers, a single bud opened.

A gardenia.

Pure white, slightly curled, glowing faintly in the warm sunlight. Mafioso noticed it too. He gently plucked the flower, brought it to his nose and inhaled the fragrant scent, then reached over and tucked it behind Chance’s ear without a word.

Chance looked up at him, heart warm and full in a way he wasn’t used to.

Mafioso’s eyes narrowed playfully. “So what were you thinking about, hm?”

Chance leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Mafioso’s lips. He smiled, just a little, and said:

“You.”

They were transported back to the mall in a soft shimmer of color. And after the exhausting climb, Chance was the first to move, flopping face first onto the big bed like gravity had tripled on the way in. They wrapped their arms around Spade immediately, cuddling the huge creature to their chest before pulling a few clovers from their pocket and feeding them one by one.

Spade crunched happily, unbothered by anything beyond the greens in his paws. Chance remained bent over the edge of the bed, arms tangled in plush blankets, feet still planted on the floor. They winced when they adjusted, a small twitch in their back betraying them.

Mafioso, who had quietly watched the whole display, stepped closer. His hands hovered briefly before settling lightly over the ridges of Chance’s spine through their shirt. Chance flinched, glancing back at him.

“What was that for?”

“How’s your back?”

“I—I mean… it could be better,” they mumbled, trying not to sound too defensive.

Mafioso’s hands moved again, this time slower, pressing in deeper.

“Ow—what are you doing?”

“Massage. Calm down.”

Chance groaned into Spade’s fur but let it happen, petting the little creature as he flopped over with a blissed-out squeak.

“Hey,” Mafioso said quietly.

Chance hummed, only turning slightly.

“Can I… lift your shirt a little?”

Chance hesitated, their eyes flicking to his and then away. Then a nod. “...Sure.”

Mafioso gently pushed up the fabric, just enough to get better access. His fingers stopped when they met something rougher—raised skin, thick and pale. A scar. Right along the lower center of Chance’s back. He brushed over it instinctively, softly.

Chance flinched.

“Sorry—does that hurt?”

“No… just tickles. Don’t look at it. It’s ugly.”

“It’s not ugly,” Mafioso murmured, “It shows you lived.”

“It shows that I was weak.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, more firmly now. “I like it.”

Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the scar.

Chance jerked slightly, arching away. “Ack—I said that tickles!”

Mafioso only chuckled under his breath and went back to kneading their back, fingers expertly finding and working through the tense spots. Every so often Chance let out a small groan when he hit a knot, but mostly, they were quiet—melting slowly under the attention. Their eyelids drooped.

By the time Mafioso paused to shake out his hands, Chance was barely awake, fingers still tangled in Spade’s soft fur, breathing even.

Mafioso gave one last, firm press to the small of Chance’s back before letting his hands fall away. The tension under his palms had eased considerably. He smiled softly at the way Chance lay still—cheek squished into a pillow, arms curled loosely around Spade who had since dozed off as well.

Leaning down, Mafioso pressed a light kiss to the curve of Chance’s neck, then one to his cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered, lips brushing their skin. “Up, lazybones.”

Chance stirred with a tired noise, squinting at him. “Mm—why. I was so warm…”

“You need a bath,” Mafioso replied simply, tugging gently on the back of their shirt. “You’ve been stuck in bed for days. Time to get cleaned up.”

Chance groaned softly but didn’t argue. “Alright, alright…”

Mafioso helped them to their feet, hands steady at their waist until he was sure they were balanced.

They walked out to the hideout’s showers, where inside there was an extra room attached that was more private. In the room was just a regular bathroom but with a curtained tub that seemed to have better days. The room was for the injured who couldn’t stand for the showers, but Chance could stand and Mafioso just assumed they’d want to be comfortable.

Upon seeing the tub, their heart dropped into their stomach. A sharp pang cracked through their ribs, cold and vivid. The sight of the water brought it all back—the silence, the weight of it, the way it had felt to sink, to hope it’d be over. Their throat closed up.

They couldn’t do this.

“…Can I take a shower instead?” Chance’s voice was quiet. Strained.

Mafioso paused, turning back to look at them. There was something clouded in Chance’s eyes—something he wasn’t about to dig into.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation.

He gently steered them away from the large tub and back towards the shower room, guiding them towards one built into the far side of the room, slightly tucked into the corner behind a half-wall of soft gray stone. It was more private than the rest—quiet, away from the center.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” Mafioso added, stepping across to a wooden shelf stacked with linens. He returned with a plush white towel in one hand and, after a quick snap of his fingers, a neatly folded change of sleep clothes in the other.

“Here,” he said, offering both to Chance. “There’s a basket over there for your clothes. I can take care of laundry later. Soap and everything’s already stocked in the shower.”

Chance accepted the towel with a small nod, arms wrapped loosely around it.

Mafioso lingered for a second longer, then nodded toward the door. “I’ll, uh…give you some privacy. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door shut quietly behind him.

Left alone, Chance exhaled. Slowly, he set the folded clothes aside, placed the towel on a hook, and began to undress—hands moving more carefully than usual. Their fingers trembled slightly as they reached for the buttons of their shirt, working them loose one by one with unsteady hands. The fabric parted down the middle, revealing the pale skin beneath—faintly damp from nerves or memory, they couldn’t tell.

When the shirt slipped off their shoulders, the scars caught the cold air.

One deep mark ran across their lower abdomen, the entry point. Another mirrored it on their back, where the blade had gone clean through. The third, smaller but still cruel, sat above their heart. Where the blade they held with shaking hands was pushed down in an act of desperation.

They lingered, fingers brushing over the old wound on their stomach. The skin there was ridged, faded to a dull pink, but still so present. Their throat tightened.

No. Not now.

They moved to the shower door and opened it with a soft click, stepping inside and pulling it closed behind them. The frosted glass was a small comfort—enough to blur the details, enough to make it feel like the past couldn’t look in.

They twisted the knobs, adjusting the temperature with care until the water showered in steadily and warm.

And then, slowly, they stepped under the stream.

It struck their shoulders first, soaking their hair and crawling down the curve of their back, wrapping them in heat. The steam clung to their skin. The pressure of the water wasn’t harsh, but it was grounding. Real.

A breath slipped out of them—half sigh, half something else. They let their head rest against the tiled wall, letting the warmth work its way into their bones, into the places that still remembered pain.

They reached for the soap, working it into a lather between trembling hands before spreading it across their shoulders and down their arms. The motion was slow, methodical, as though scrubbing could erase more than just the grime. But when their fingers passed over the lines carved into their forearms—thin, long-healed, but unmistakable—it was like scrubbing over grief itself.

These were different than the one on their abdomen. That one—the stab wound—wasn’t theirs. It didn’t carry the same weight. It didn’t scream like these did.

They dipped their body under the water, rinsing the suds away, then braced their palms on the cool tile as their thoughts wandered again. Would Mafioso still think they were beautiful if he saw these? The scars they gave themselves ?

He’d kissed the one on their back. Told them it showed they lived.

But what about these? These weren’t survival. These were from shame. These were desperation and quiet, aching hopelessness. Would he still kiss these too?

Would he even want to look?

They ran a hand over their chest again, halting briefly at the smaller scar above the heart. Their own doing. Not as deep as the others, but sharp in a different way—intentional. Final.

Back then, they didn’t think anyone would miss them. Not enough to stay.

Now there was someone who’d held them . Massaged their aching back. Kissed the parts they wanted to hide.

And yet, the fear lingered. That if Mafioso really saw them, all of them, he’d pull away. See a cracked, broken thing and think, how could anyone love this?

Chance swallowed, hard. Let the water rinse their face clean, even if it couldn’t reach everything that hurt.

But still… Mafioso hadn’t run yet. Even knowing what he knew. Even seeing the scar on their back.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d stay. Even if he saw the rest.

Chance rinsed once more, watching the suds swirl down the drain and disappear, taking some of that lingering weight with them. They turned off the water, the sudden absence of noise ringing in their ears. Steam clung to the air, warm and thick, wrapping around their skin like a fog that didn't want to let them go.

They stepped out carefully, grabbing the towel from the hook and dragging it slowly across their body. They avoided the mirror. They weren’t ready for that yet. One step at a time.

The clothes Mafioso had given them were soft and fresh—clean cotton, a simple sleeved shirt and loose pants. Easy. Comfortable. They dressed slowly, tugging the shirt down over the scar near their heart, letting the fabric hide what the water hadn’t quite washed away.

Their hair was still damp when they padded quietly down the hall, bare feet making little sound against the tile. The air was cooler outside the bathroom, a contrast that made them pull their sleeves down a little further, fingers toying with the hem as they stood in front of the office door.

They paused.

Then pushed it open.

Mafioso was seated behind the desk, one leg crossed over the other, scribbling away in his ledger with that same sharp focus he always had when doing paperwork. Except this time, there was one very key difference:

Little, rectangular, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Chance stood in the doorway, blinking.

“…What.”

Mafioso didn’t look up, just kept writing, flipping a page with his gloved fingers. “What?”

“Since when do you wear those?”

“They help,” Mafioso said simply, adjusting them with one finger. “I don’t use them often. You weren’t supposed to catch me.”

Chance leaned against the doorframe, a grin tugging at the corner of their lips. “You look like you belong in some kind of classy library. Or like a very smug professor .”

Mafioso looked up at that, raising a brow over the rim of the glasses. “Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?”

“Depends,” Chance replied, stepping into the room, “Are you gonna read me a bedtime story or assign me a forty-page essay on economics?”

Mafioso huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, setting the pen down. “Depends. Are you going to interrupt my work again?”

“Maybe.”

They flopped lazily onto the long chair across from his desk, arms tucked behind their head, hair still dripping just slightly onto the upholstery. But Mafioso didn’t complain.

He just looked at them for a moment longer, like he was checking—measuring—before going back to scribbling.

Chance stared up at the ceiling, heartbeat quieter now. The smell of ink and old wood grounded them. “Hey Maf’”

“Hm?”

“Can I get another massage?”

“...”

“Sure.”

Chance was snoring softly, still face-down from the massage earlier. Mafioso, careful not to wake him, gently scooped him up and shifted him so he lay properly on the pillows. Chance stirred halfway through, letting out a small, content sigh and turning his head just enough to breathe easier.

Mafioso tossed on a spare set of comfortable clothes and, before crawling into bed, flipped on the fan—an essential for Chance’s sleep, he’d learned. The steady hum filled the quiet room. He slid under the sheets and nudged closer, spooning him gently. Chance hummed sleepily at the warmth and settled into it without a word.

That peace didn’t last long.

With a dramatic little chuff, Spade launched himself onto the bed and wedged himself firmly between them. Mafioso blinked, now holding nothing but a rabbit loaf with attitude. He sighed, resigned, as Spade gave one victorious thump of his foot before settling completely still.

Chance groggily flipped over, blinking blearily. When his eyes focused, he immediately broke into a sleepy giggle at the sight of Mafioso just… hugging Spade with a deadpan look on his face. Still half-laughing, Chance reached over and wrapped his arms around both of them, effectively squishing Spade in the process.

Mafioso followed suit, arms curling around them both. The three stayed like that, warm and tangled under the hum of the fan.

Spade was very squished, and very happy about it.

Chapter Text

Eunoia came in unannounced, the office door letting out a soft hiss as her keycard slid through the reader. Mafioso didn’t bother looking up—his fingers were buried in his hair, frustration mounting as the numbers in his ledger continued to rise.

She strode toward the desk with practiced elegance, her skirt swaying with each step. Without a word, she extended her arms and dropped something small onto the center of his paperwork.

By “something small,” of course, she meant a literal cotton puff of a rabbit.

The bunny twitched its nose at him, flicked one long ear, and then—very matter-of-factly—hopped straight into his arms.

“Ah,” Mafioso murmured, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth, “you brought her back?”

“She missed you,” Eunoia replied, watching as he gently adjusted the pink bow tied around the bunny’s neck. Princess leaned into his touch like she’d never left.

He raised an eyebrow without looking at her. “Let me guess—you also brought Principessa here as a distraction before that talk you’ve been putting off?”

“Hm. Maybe.” She gave a little shrug, her eyes still following the rabbit as Princess tried to steal his pen. “But more importantly—how can you be dating Chance without ever introducing him to sweet Princess ?”

“I just haven’t had the chance,” Mafioso muttered, adjusting the bow on Princess again. “A lot’s happened, y’know?”

“Yeah… speaking of Chance, where is he?”

“Asleep.”

“It’s two o’clock.”

“Don’t judge.”

Eunoia hummed, then promptly scooped up Princess and made her way to the bedroom. Inside, she found Chance sprawled across the bed, completely knocked out. Spade was loafed up on his back, snoring softly, chest rising and falling in sync with Chance’s. Without hesitation, she dropped Princess onto the bed.

The tiny bunny twitched her nose and began sniffing around the new terrain. She seemed particularly interested in Spade, their fur colors starkly contrasted—pure white against his deep grey. Chance didn’t even stir as Princess tickled his cheek with her whiskers; he just mumbled something incoherent and rolled over.

Eunoia smiled to herself, watching for a moment longer before quietly backing out and shutting the door behind her.

“Chance can’t live here,” she said firmly as she returned to the desk.

“I know,” Mafioso replied with a tired sigh, “I want him to be comfortable.”

“Well, he finds the willow dream comforting, doesn’t he?”

“Of course. It’s his.”

“Then we start there.” She already had her notepad out, flipping to a blank page. “I don’t know if we can terraform it, but we can try. Maybe a lake, or a stream. Or—oh! What about a mansion? His attire practically screams—”

“Eunoia.”

She stopped mid-sentence, pencil hovering in the air, eyes meeting his.

“Hm?”

“We don’t even know what he wants. Best not to assume and waste time building something that doesn’t suit him. That’d just cost us energy… and delay everything.”

She let out a breath and slowly set her pencil down. “You’re right. I got too excited. I just want to do something big for him… so he has a place here. Something that feels like it’s his .”

Mafioso leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, the low rustle of papers filling the space between them. “I get it,” he said, eyes lingering on the closed bedroom door. “I want to do something for him too. But if we’re gonna build something for him, it has to be right. Something his . Not just what we think looks nice.”

Eunoia’s expression softened. “Yeah… something that feels like him.”

She glanced down at her notepad, the half-scribbled mansion idea now feeling embarrassingly out of place. She flipped the page, tapping the pencil against her chin. “Maybe something cozy, then. Quiet. Tucked away from the noise.”

“That’s more like it,” Mafioso murmured.

A faint thump came from the other room, followed by a brief rustling. Eunoia smiled at the sound, picturing Princess investigating Spade’s giant ears or trying to climb onto Chance’s chest. She didn’t say anything about it, only tucked the notepad under her arm and crossed her legs.

“I’ll ask him,” Mafioso said after a moment. “I’ll find a way to bring it up naturally. No pressure, no hint that we’re planning anything.”

Eunoia raised a brow. “You? Subtle?”

“I can be subtle,” he said flatly.

She laughed, but it was gentle. “Alright, alright. I trust you.”

“For now, rest and get your energy up for the project. It’s going to take days just to recharge between phases.”

Eunoia nodded, slipping the notepad into her pocket. “That goes for you too, Maf. No messing around with Chance, alright?”

“…What are you talking about?”

She only giggled and drifted out of the office, her heels tapping softly against the floor. Outside, the nearby squires straightened the moment she passed, their spines stiff as fence posts.

Mafioso exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before turning back to the ledger. Numbers and names stared back at him, but his mind wasn’t on them.

It was on Chance.

What would he want? Something tucked away in the trees? A quiet cabin by a river? Would he want to live alone—or with him? Would he prefer wood, stone, something warm and lived-in?

The questions piled faster than he could chase them. It was pointless to guess without Chance there to guide him. All he knew was that he wanted to get it right.

Chance mattered to him. More than he’d admit out loud.

A sanctuary. A place where he could be safe. Somewhere, Mafioso could stay close, watch over him—not as a shadow or an enemy, but as someone he… cared about.

The same Chance who, not so long ago, he was certain despised him.

And yet, here they were.

“MAFI!!”

Mafioso was through the bedroom door in seconds, pulse spiking at the panic in Chance’s voice.

“What’s wrong?!”

Chance, sitting up on the bed, pointed accusingly. “Why is there a random, extremely adorable bunny on the bed??”

Mafioso’s shoulders dropped, relief washing over him. “She’s not random, Chance. She’s mine.”

Chance scooped up the little fluffball, grinning like a kid. “This tiny, ridiculously cute thing belongs to big, scary Mafioso?”

From his loafing spot, Spade hopped closer, sniffing at the newcomer before giving a gentle headbutt.

“Hey, Spade, easy,” Chance murmured, petting them both without looking away from the new arrival.

“I thought I’d mentioned her before,” Mafioso said, tilting his head.

“Well, a lot’s happened since then, Maf’,” Chance replied, still distracted by the soft fur in his hands.

Mafioso stepped closer, taking the bunny gently from him. “Then allow me to reintroduce her properly. Chance, meet Principessa—Princess.” He lifted her closer to Chance’s face until her tiny nose brushed his.

Chance laughed softly. “So this is the really spoiled bunny?”

“The one and only,” Mafioso smirked. “Possibly more spoiled than Spade."

Chance held Princess again, cradling her like she was something made of spun sugar. “She’s so tiny… I feel like if I breathe too hard, she’ll blow away.”

“She won’t,” Mafioso said, amused. “She’s tougher than she looks. But don’t tell her that—she prefers to be treated like royalty.”

Princess gave a tiny kick of her back legs, hopping from Chance’s lap to the bedspread before nosing her way over to Spade. The two touched noses, then Princess started circling him like she was inspecting a new servant.

Chance laughed quietly. “I think she’s judging him.”

“Probably. She judges everyone,” Mafioso replied, watching the rabbits interact. “You’ve officially passed, though. She doesn’t let just anyone hold her for more than a second.”

“Wow… guess I’m special.” Chance’s voice was playful, but there was a flicker of warmth in their golden eyes that Mafioso caught.

They both watched in silence as the two bunnies settled beside each other, Spade loafing again while Princess nestled against his side like she’d always belonged there.

Mafioso broke the quiet, his tone casual but careful. “Chance… if you could live anywhere, what would it look like?”

Chance blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… I dunno. Why?”

“Just curious,” Mafioso shrugged, though his gaze stayed steady.

They thought for a moment, absently stroking Princess’s fur. “…Honestly? Something small. Cozy. Like a cottage in the middle of nowhere. I never really liked big, fancy places. Even when I lived in them.”

Mafioso tilted his head. “Why not?”

Chance let out a quiet breath, still watching Princess’s tiny ears twitch. “Grand houses feel… cold. Empty, even when they’re full of people. There’s too much space between walls, too much echo. You start to feel like a guest in your own home.” They paused, thumb brushing the soft fur on Princess’s back. “I like places where the walls feel close, like they’re keeping you safe. Somewhere with a fireplace that actually smells like smoke, not some fake electric hum.”

Mafioso’s lips quirked faintly, his eyes studying Chance’s expression. “Go on.”

Chance thought for a moment longer, eyes drifting as if picturing it. “It’d have to have big windows—so I can see outside without stepping out. Maybe a garden, nothing fancy, just enough to grow flowers and a few things to eat. Wood floors that creak, but not too much. A kitchen small enough that you can reach everything without moving more than a few steps. And… maybe a spot to sit outside where it’s quiet enough to hear the wind in the leaves.”

Mafioso didn’t respond right away, but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind that made it clear he was already imagining how to make that vision real.

Mafioso let the image linger in his mind before asking, his tone softer than before. “Would you… want to share that home with me?”

“Yes.” The answer was instant, almost cutting him off.

Mafioso blinked, a little caught off guard. “That quick?”

Chance smiled faintly, still petting Princess as she squirmed in their lap. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re… you. I wouldn’t know how to sleep peacefully without you there. Plus, you’re a great cuddler—bonus points for that.”

Mafioso huffed a quiet laugh, though his eyes stayed warm on them. “Then it’s decided.”

Princess gave a small twitch of her ears as if agreeing, and Chance only hugged her closer, already picturing that little cottage with Mafioso at their side.

“In all honesty, I thought you’d want something grand. Like a mansion or a large house. Not something so… quaint.”

Chance sighed, his gaze drifting to the bed where Princess and Spade were curled up together, breathing in sync.

“It was my mother’s dream,” he said quietly. “She always wanted something small and cozy… somewhere quiet, safe. A place where she could raise me without the noise of everything else. But my father—he never let her. He thought if you had money, you had to show it. Fill your life with big rooms and bigger statements.”

A faint, almost wistful smile tugged at Chance’s mouth. “But she used to tell me every night that her blessing wasn’t the house or the wealth—it was me. And she meant it. She even picked out a spot once, in the middle of nowhere, just for us. But… it never happened.”

Mafioso’s expression softened, eyes dimming into something warmer. He leaned back slightly, letting the weight of Chance’s words hang in the air.

“She was right,” he said at last, voice low but steady. “You are the blessing.”

Chance’s golden eyes flicked toward him, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. Mafioso didn’t give him the chance to wave it off. 

He reached over, resting his hand over Chance’s before lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to their knuckles.

Chance chuckled. “You’re cheesy.”

“You like it, no?”

“I do. Now come to bed, it’s bedtime!”

Mafioso raised a brow, glancing at his watch—the little hand sat squarely on the bold four tick.
“It’s four o’clock, Chance.”

“So? Anytime is bedtime if you put your mind to it.”

“A nap?”

“…Fine…”

With a quiet sigh, Mafioso shrugged off his coat and shoes, moving to the bed. He eased himself down beside Chance, mindful not to disturb the two loafing bunnies. Chance immediately wriggled into his arms, breathing in a deep lungful of his cologne.

“You are a very lazy, snoozy person,” Mafioso murmured into their hair.

“At least I’m not out causing trouble.”

“…I guess you’re right there.”

Mafioso slipped out of bed without waking Chance, sliding his coat over his shoulders and pulling on his shoes. A quick note—short, neat handwriting—was left on the nightstand beside a fresh glass of water. Hat on, he left the office and made his way out of the hideout in search of Eunoia.

If she wasn’t at the mall, she’d be at Ten-Mou. He almost hoped for the latter; after that nap, a coffee wouldn’t hurt.

Thirty minutes of wandering the mall turned up nothing but chattering dreamwalkers who seemed far too eager to strike up conversation. He ignored them, kept his hands in his pockets, and finally opened a portal to the tundra.

Cold air bit at his cheeks the moment he stepped through. He climbed the snowy hill toward Ten-Mou, spotting Eunoia behind the counter, chatting with a customer while Nashatra hovered nearby in some quiet ploy for her attention.

Mafioso came up behind the dreamwalker without a sound. When they finally turned, they nearly jumped out of their skin before bolting off without a word.

“One coffee,” he said flatly.

Eunoia grinned. “One coffee coming right up! Where’s Chance?”

“Asleep.”

“AGAIN?!”

He only nodded, accepting the steaming cup when she slid it over. The heat seeped into his hands, the rising steam curling into the frozen air.

She sighed, casting a quick glance at Nashatra, who only sipped her coffee in silence—pointedly ignoring Mafioso’s presence.

“Did you ask him?” Eunoia leaned over the counter, her voice dropping to a whisper.

It wasn’t much of a whisper. Nashatra had already leaned in, ears practically perked.

“Ask him what? Are you proposing?”

Mafioso nearly choked on his coffee, the hot liquid threatening to go down the wrong way. “What? No— I— never mind. This isn’t something you need to know.”

“Oh, please,” Nashatra pouted, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m his friend. That means I’m entitled to know anything about him.”

“You’re entitled to mind your own business,” Mafioso muttered into his cup.

She scoffed, hopping off the stool in one smooth motion before swinging herself over the counter with the grace of someone who’d clearly done it before. “Fine, keep your little secrets,” she said, waving lazily as she wandered off. “Bye, Eunoia!”

“Bye,” Eunoia replied without looking, her attention already snapping back to Mafioso.

He cleared his throat, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I know what he wants.”

Eunoia arched a brow. “Alright, but maybe try not to sound like you’re about to reveal a murder plot.” She slid her notepad from her pocket onto the counter.

With a faint smirk, he reached forward, tapping the edge of her notepad. “Something small. A cottage… nothing grand, nothing loud.”

As he spoke, the image began to unfurl across the page, not by pen or pencil, but by the deliberate pull of his will. Lines curved into walls, windows, and a sloping roof. A chimney rose from one side, smoke already curling in the half-finished drawing like it had always belonged there.

Eunoia’s lips parted, impressed despite herself. “You’ve already thought about the details.”

“I’ve thought about him,” Mafioso corrected. His dark eyes flicked up from the forming sketch to meet hers. “This isn’t about what looks impressive. It’s about what feels like him.”

Her gaze softened. “Then we’re building more than a house.”

Eunoia tapped the edge of the drawing thoughtfully. “A small cottage is nice, but… we can give it more soul. Somewhere that feels alive when you step onto the property.”

Mafioso hummed in agreement, his fingers brushing the page, letting the scene expand. “A stream. Narrow, clear. It curves just enough to catch the light… and feeds into a pond near the house.”

“Good,” she said, sketching in the water’s edge. “To reach it, you’d need a bridge—something simple, wood, maybe painted white. It’ll make the approach feel… personal.”

His hand lingered near the drawn bridge before drifting toward the cottage’s front yard. “And here… the willow. It should be wide and strong enough for a swing hanging from one of its thicker branches.”

Eunoia smiled. “That’s very… peaceful. I like it.”

Mafioso hesitated only a second before adding, “And his piano stays outside. The white grand one. Right here under the willow’s shade. So he can play without walls keeping him in.”

“That’s a nice touch,” she said softly. “It’s not just a home; it’s a place for him to breathe.”

The cottage on the page was small, but it seemed so alive now—water glinting in the sunlight, the willow’s branches trailing like fingers toward the ground, the swing swaying gently. The piano, untouched in the sketch, seemed to promise music on a wind that didn’t exist yet.

Eunoia closed the notepad slowly. “Alright, Maf. I think we’ve got something he’d never want to leave.”

He leaned back, hiding the faintest of smiles. “That’s the point.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow. I will secretly confiscate Chance’s portal key so he can’t access the willow while we work.”

“He’s not going to like that.”

“I know, but it’s something he’ll overlook when the whole place really becomes his .”

Chapter Text

The day had started like the others, quiet and work filled on Mafioso's side and boring on Chance's side. 

Chance was perched sideways on the long chair in front of Mafioso’s mahogany desk, legs propped up by one of the arms, flipping lazily through a small book he’d found on the desk not knowing the information on it nor was he really reading it either. Mafioso stood nearby, jacket slung over the back of his own chair, sleeves rolled up as he organized the multiple ledgers stacked in carefully placed piles. The office had been quieter than usual, Spade being loafed on the cushion on the floor near Chance with Princess nestled in next to the big blob.

“Do you ever stop working?” Chance asked suddenly, peering at him over the rim of his book.

Mafioso didn’t look up, only turned a page with the tip of his pen. “Do you ever stop lazing about?”

“Har har, very funny. I meant you never get a good break.”

“I have to take care of you, of course, I don’t get a break.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man who literally fell asleep sitting up last night from exhaustion,” Chance shot back, grinning.

He finally looked up at him then, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “I didn’t hear you complain when you used me as a pillow. You aren’t exactly as light as a feather.”

Chance shut the book with a snap, cheeks warming. “That was—different. I always do that.”

“Mm. Was it?” Mafioso set the pen down at last, leaning against the desk. His gaze lingered, steady and dark, until Chance fidgeted under the weight of it.

The air shifted, softer, thicker. Chance turned away, trying to hide his burning face behind the book again, but Mafioso was already reaching forward, plucking it easily from his hands. 

“Hey—”

“Stay still.” His voice was quiet but firm, and Chance froze when he leaned in, close enough that he could smell the faint spice of his cologne.

“...Maf’,” Chance whispered, but didn’t pull away.

Mafioso’s hand brushed against Chance’s jaw, calloused thumb grazing his cheekbone before tilting his face up. Chance’s golden eyes flicked toward his, wide, uncertain—but there was no room left to retreat.

“You always look away when I get close,” Mafioso murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them.

“Because you make it hard not to want to do things with you,” Chance admitted, half a laugh, half a plea.

That was all it took. Mafioso leaned in and closed the distance, lips pressing against his with a certainty that made Chance’s head spin. His hands shot up instinctively, grabbing at his collar as though anchoring themselves, while he tilted his head deeper, tasting his smile when he finally gave in.

The kiss was slow at first, testing, deliberate, but it didn’t stay that way. Mafioso pressed closer, one hand cupping the back of Chance’s neck, the other braced against the arm of the chair to cage them in. Chance melted, his sharp wit gone, replaced with soft sighs that slipped between them as he matched his pace.

Mafioso’s lips were warm against Chance’s, steadying but overwhelming all at once. Chance clung to him, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding so loudly they almost didn’t hear the hiss of the office door.

Almost .

“Mafi—”

The voice hit like a gunshot. Both of them froze instantly, Mafioso jerking back, Chance’s eyes wide as they whipped toward the doorway.

Eunoia stood there mid-step, mouth open, eyes wide as saucers. For one excruciating heartbeat, no one moved.

Then she snapped her head away, hand flying up to shield her eyes as her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Oh for heaven’s sake—! I… I’ll give you five minutes!”

The door slammed shut behind her with a hiss, leaving them both in stunned silence.

Chance’s chest rose and fell, breaths quick and uneven. He swallowed hard, his hands still clutching the fabric of Mafioso’s shirt. Slowly, he let go, fingers trembling as though he’d only just realized what they’d done.

“…That just happened,” Chance whispered.

Mafioso was still frozen, jaw tight, his own breath uneven. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “…Unbelievable.”

Neither of them could look at the other for more than a second without remembering the kiss—how close they’d been, how much they wanted to close the gap again despite the interruption. Chance stared at the desk, Mafioso at the far wall, both pretending to steady themselves when the tension only thickened.

The door hissed open again, cautious this time. Eunoia poked her head in, eyes narrowed but carefully avoiding their faces. Her voice was clipped. “Business. Now. Don’t make me come drag you out myself, Maf.”

Mafioso cleared his throat, slipping his coat back on like armor. “Right. Of course.”

Chance pressed their lips together, still avoiding his eyes. “Business,” they echoed quietly, as if the word itself could erase what just happened.

Mafioso adjusted his cufflinks like it was just another routine, though Chance could see the edge of seriousness in his movements.

“Me, Eunoia, and a few of the boys are heading out,” he said, slipping his coat on with a sharp motion. “There’ve been debtors roaming too freely in the dreams while I’ve been stuck here. You know what happens when a debt stacks too high—nightmares start feeding. And if they get too much from a single debtor…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “They twist into something else. Something bigger. We can’t risk that.”

Chance sat forward on the chair, twisted over the back cushion, brows furrowed. “So you’re going to… hunt them down?”

“Deal with them before it escalates,” Mafioso corrected, voice low but firm. He reached for his hat, tilting it over his dark eyes. “We’ll be gone most of the day. Get some rest, read, go find Nash at the mall if you’re restless.” He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. “But stay out of the willow. If someone slipped in once, someone else might try again. I’m not taking that risk with you.”

The words hit Chance harder than expected—not a command, but a shield. Mafioso’s way of saying he worried. They wanted to smile at that, but the memory of the kiss still buzzed through their chest, making it impossible to look at him without their pulse stuttering.

“Okay… stay safe, Maf’.”

Mafioso gave a small nod, tipping the brim of his hat before slipping through the doorway. The door shut softly behind him, leaving the room in a hush.

Chance sat there, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. The silence only made the heat on their lips more unbearable as if the ghost of Mafioso’s kiss was still there, stubborn and lingering.

The willow dream was quiet, its branches swaying as though the dream itself breathed in rhythm with the two figures beneath it. Mafioso stood at the edge of the clearing, sleeves rolled back, eyes locked on the stretch of grass where the river would cut through.

Eunoia stood beside him, hair pinned neatly but with a few strands loose from the effort already spent. “You sure about this? A river isn’t a small thing, Maf.”

“I’m sure.” His voice was steady, though his jaw tightened. “It will be worth it.”

They pressed their palms outward, focus aligning, and the ground began to groan. The soil cracked, pulling apart in slow tremors as a deep channel carved itself from one side of the field to the other. Water surged in, clear and glittering, rushing along the path they set. It looked effortless, but the strain showed—on his furrowed brow, on her trembling hands. By the time the current steadied, half their strength had gone with it.

Eunoia dropped her arms, catching her breath. “Halfway dead already.”

“Not dead.” Mafioso flexed his fingers, shaking out the ache. “Just halfway done.”

Together, they turned to the next piece: the bridge. Stone rose from the ground at their will, arching in elegant lines across the water. Each block shimmered into existence, fitted neatly, until the arch stood solid and beautiful. But when the final stone sealed into place, both of them collapsed onto the nearest bench beneath the willow, drained.

Eunoia leaned back, exhaling hard. “I think I might actually pass out.”

“You’ll live,” Mafioso muttered, though his chest rose and fell too fast to be casual.

She gave him a sidelong glance, a smirk tugging at her lips despite the weariness in her posture. “You and Chance. Earlier.”

Mafioso’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “…What about it?”

“The kiss.” Her smirk softened into something teasing but not unkind. “Not the smartest move, doing that out in the open where I could just walk in on you.”

His brows furrowed. “I didn’t think you’d barge in—usually you knock. And…it was just heat of the moment.”

Eunoia chuckled, shaking her head. “Heat of the moment, huh? Either way, I’m glad for you. Truly, Mafi’. I never imagined I’d see the day you found love. And to think you’re even willing to spend your energy manifesting for someone else…that says a lot.”

Color rose in his cheeks, and he quickly averted his gaze, pretending to study the new stone bridge instead.

Mafioso cleared his throat, the warmth in his face betraying him. He stood abruptly, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. “We should…start on the base for the cottage.”

Eunoia arched a brow, clearly amused by the sudden change of subject. “Mafi’, you’re terrible at dodging conversations.”

He kept his back to her, already eyeing a patch of ground near the stream. “We’re here to work, not gossip.”

Her soft laugh followed him as she rose to join him. “Fine, fine. The base it is.”

They crossed the newly constructed bridge together, the sound of rushing water beneath them filling the quiet. The stream caught the light of the dream sky like scattered glass, small rivulets breaking around rocks in gentle cascades. Every few steps the faint creak of stone underfoot reminded them how much energy they had already poured into this place, the bridge still humming faintly with fresh manifestation.

Eunoia stole sidelong glances at Mafioso, her grin persistent. He, however, was resolute in keeping his gaze forward, jaw set, refusing to give her the satisfaction of eye contact.

Once they stepped onto the grassy plot where the ground had already been flattened, Mafioso exhaled and raised a hand. The air shimmered faintly. With a deep, steady focus, blocks of stone and foundation lines began pulling themselves together, rising up from nothing as if the dream itself had been waiting for permission to take shape. Slowly, the ground outlined a quaint rectangular shape with wings of stone jutting outward. The walls remained low, but from above the whole arrangement was clear.

The design was simple, yet intentional. At the front corner, an open square space stretched out—enough for a small kitchen, with room for shelves and a breakfast table. Next to it, the stones curved into a wider square, designated for a living room that seemed to already invite warmth and quiet nights by a fire.

A narrow hallway stretched beyond, straight and purposeful, like a spine. To the left, the beginnings of a bedroom unfolded: wide enough for a large bed and more, but not extravagant, still keeping that modest coziness Chance had described. Across the hall, an office mirrored the size, its clean shape implying shelves, a desk, maybe a reading chair tucked near a window.

And then, at the end of the hall, another room bloomed into being—a deliberate extra space, set apart but connected. Small, but special. Mafioso let the foundation settle before speaking.

He brushed a hand along the air, smoothing the edges of the stonework. “The kitchen here—” he motioned to the square front, “—something modest. A stove, a counter, enough for two people to cook together without getting in each other’s way.”

Eunoia folded her arms, nodding along, her grin softening. “Cozy. He’d like that. And the living room?”

“A fireplace. Not a large one. Just enough to warm the place, and a couch near it. Maybe a rug.” He paused, thoughtful. “I’ll put a small window here. The kind you can see the river through.”

She leaned closer, peering at the lines of stone. “And these two opposite rooms?”

“Bedroom, office.” His tone lowered with a hint of warmth. “He needs both—a place to rest, and a place to write or brood or…whatever Chance does when he gets lost in thought.”

Eunoia smirked knowingly, but didn’t tease him this time. Instead, she pointed toward the room at the end of the hall. “And this?”

Mafioso allowed a small smile. “For the bunnies. Spade, Princess. Maybe even more, if he finds another straggler or two. It’ll be their little space.”

Eunoia laughed quietly, running her hand along the invisible lines as though she could already feel the walls rising. “You really thought of everything.”

His dark eyes lingered on the foundation, his voice softer now. “It’s not finished. Not even close. But it’s a start. A real place for him. Somewhere he doesn’t have to pretend.”

The last stones of the cottage base settled into place with a faint glow, the hum of their work fading into the quiet of the dream. Mafioso’s chest rose and fell heavily, and Eunoia bent over with her hands on her knees, both drained from the sheer effort.

“That’s… enough for today,” Mafioso said, his voice rough.

She nodded, brushing sweat-mussed hair from her forehead. Together, they crossed back over the little stone bridge, the sound of water rolling over rocks soothing in their exhaustion. When they finally reached the willow bench, both sank down almost in unison, the cool shade wrapping around them.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“…He’s going to lose his mind,” Eunoia said finally, a tired laugh breaking the silence.

Mafioso hesitated, glancing sideways before correcting softly, “…They are.”

She probably didn’t catch it, just smiled at the distant foundation. “Chance isn’t going to believe you did all this for them. He’ll probably cry. Or laugh. Or both.”

Mafioso's ears perked up at the pronoun switch, indicating she knows now what Chance prefers. He leaned back against the bench, tugging his hat low as though hiding the flush in his face. “…I just want them to feel like they belong. Like this place is theirs. Not a room I’ve given, not space borrowed. Theirs.”

Eunoia tilted her head at him, the teasing edge from earlier fading into something gentler. “Mafi’, they already belong. You know that. You’re just giving him proof.”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared at the cottage foundation across the water, jaw tight. Then finally, quietly: “…I hope you’re right.”

The willow branches shifted above them, whispering like an agreement.

The hours dragged.

They really did want to go to the willow, despite Mafioso's warning not to, but apparently, they lost their key. They had searched every drawer, coat, pocket, and crevice. Anywhere where the key could have fallen or gotten into. But it was nowhere to be found.

Chance lay on their back at first, staring at the ceiling as though it might eventually offer them answers. The patterns in the plaster blurred the longer they looked, shifting into shapes their mind twisted into worse and worse possibilities. Mafioso had left hours ago, shutting the door with that careful quietness he always used when he didn’t want to wake them. He’d said it was business. Debtors. Nightmares waiting to happen. Dangerous work.

That was all. No real promise of how long, no reassurance he’d be back before the night arrived. Just gone.

They rolled onto their side, hugging the pillow tighter, trying to breathe against the creeping tightness in their chest. Princess snuggled closer, nose twitching as she burrowed into the blanket, while Spade loafed by their feet like an aloof sentry. Their presence should’ve been grounding. It wasn’t.

What if Mafioso wasn’t coming back?

No, no, he wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. He wasn’t that cruel. But then again… hadn’t he avoided eye contact before leaving? Hadn’t his words been clipped, his tone tired? Maybe it wasn’t the debtors at all. Maybe it was them.

Chance chewed on the edge of their nail until the sharp sting of skin breaking snapped them back, but not enough to stop. The next nail followed, then another, little half-moons gnawed down to nothing as their thoughts spun.

They were too much. Too needy. Always clinging to him, curling into his arms, stealing comfort like they were entitled to it. What if he realized he didn’t want that? What if that kiss earlier—what if it hadn’t meant what it had meant to them? What if it was just… heat of the moment, like he’d said to brush off other things before?

Their stomach flipped, bile bitter in their throat. They dragged the pillow over their face and groaned into it, muffling the sound before Spade decided to scold them with a thump of his foot.

“Idiot,” they muttered, though they didn’t know if they meant Mafioso or themselves. “Why do you always… care this much?”

Because they did. They cared too much, loved too much, wanted too much. And maybe Mafioso had finally noticed. Maybe that was why he’d taken off without so much as a hint of when he’d return. Maybe that was why he’d gone hunting for debtors—because it was easier than being here with them.

Chance pressed their bitten nails into their palm, grounding themself in the sting, but the thoughts still clawed at them, circling tighter and tighter. What if they’d already ruined everything?

Princess nosed at their arm like she could sense the storm brewing inside them. Chance curled around her protectively, whispering half a prayer, half a plea against her soft fur.

“Please come back, Maf’. Please don’t leave me alone with this.”

The silence that answered was unbearable.

Every minute felt stretched into an eternity, each second making their chest heavier and their mind sharper with ugly thoughts. They were chewing down at their nails again, past the white tips and into skin, tasting iron on their tongue before realizing what they were doing.

Their thoughts spiraled so fast they didn’t notice the door creak open until a familiar, ragged voice broke through the fog.

“I’m back… darling .”

Chance whipped their head up, startled, nails slipping from their teeth. A tad bit confused at the new nickname. Mafioso stood there in the doorway, and he looked wrecked . His shoulders sagged beneath his coat, his hat barely hanging on, his voice hoarse from gods-know-what. His eyes, half lidded, rimmed in shadows, found them, softened briefly, and then closed as if even keeping them open was too much.

“Mafi…” The word came out small, shaky.

He didn’t answer with words. He just stumbled forward, tugged his coat off and let it crumple onto the chair, kicked at his shoes half heartedly, and then collapsed face first onto the bed. Onto them.

Chance let out a muffled oof as Mafioso’s weight pinned them into the mattress. He was heavy, solid, like someone had thrown a warm, giant weighted blanket over them. He didn’t move again, didn’t shift to the side. His head found its way to the crook of their neck, his breath hot and uneven against their skin.

For a heartbeat, Chance just lay there, wide eyed. Then, slowly, their lips quirked up.

“You’re dumb,” they whispered, their voice shaky but touched with something fond. “I can’t believe I thought you’d avoid me. You can’t even make it to your side of the bed without crashing on me, huh?”

Mafioso grumbled something into their shoulder — incoherent, but it almost sounded like agreement. His ears twitched faintly, catching their breath, before settling down again.

Chance’s chest squeezed, but this time not with fear. With something warmer, gentler. They lifted a hand and scratched lightly at his scalp, the now blunt nails brushing through his dark hair. His bunny ears flicked slightly under their touch, so they soothed them too, stroking the soft fur the way they knew calmed him.

“There we go… yeah. Just go ahead and sleep on top of me, I guess. I’ve got you,” they murmured, their own breathing beginning to slow.

The weight of him was grounding, his warmth seeping into their bones, making all those ugly, spiraling thoughts shrivel away. Mafioso wasn’t gone. He wasn’t avoiding them. Of course not. He wasn’t hurt. He was right here, sprawled on top of them, trusting them enough to collapse without fear.

Chance pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lips brushing over soft strands of hair. “I’m dumb too… for thinking I could ever lose you.”

They kept petting him, their blunt nails massaging slowly and steadily until his breathing evened into sleep. Each rise and fall of his chest pressed against theirs like reassurance, like a steady reminder: he was still here. He wasn’t leaving, he never would.

Chapter Text

Chance woke up feeling crushed. The weight wasn’t just Mafioso sprawled over them, but something deeper. As if the heaviness in their chest seemed not to want to let up. Sleep had been restless, haunted by thoughts that refused to quiet even when Mafioso’s warmth pinned them into place.

They blinked into the dim light of the room, groggy and drained, realizing that going to bed with their head full of spirals only left them more exhausted in the waking hours. Mafioso could have been hurt out there. Worse—he could have been killed. And Chance would have been none the wiser, left to wonder and worry and rot under the silence.

The thought ate at them: was it fair? Was it fair for Mafioso to leave them with that kind of dread, gnawing at their ribs until it hollowed them out, while he went off to be reckless?

What Chance didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, was that Mafioso’s absence hadn’t been carelessness at all. He had been doing something bigger, something meant for them—something rooted with so much love. And yet, in the process, he’d shattered the very well-being he was trying so hard to protect, leaving them to face the long day alone with their thoughts yesterday. But Mafioso didn’t know this, and he’d unintentionally do it again.

The faint hiss of the office door reached Chance through the steady hum of the fan. They stayed still, curled under the heavy warmth of Mafioso, who was still dead asleep on top of them like a living, breathing weighted blanket.

“Mafioso! You have a job to do today!”

Eunoia’s singsong voice cut through the quiet, muffled by the door at first before her heels clicked across the office. Mafioso groaned low in his chest, nuzzling deeper into Chance’s neck like a stubborn child. His breath puffed against their skin, warm and ticklish, making them squirm.

The bedroom door creaked open without warning.

Eunoia stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes narrowing at the sight. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—”

She marched right in, ignoring the way Chance stiffened in embarrassment, and jabbed two fingers into Mafioso’s ribs.

“Agh–!” Mafioso jolted, ears shooting straight up before drooping again.

“Get up, you big rabbit!” she scolded, hands on her hips. “You’re crushing poor Chance—look at them! And in case you forgot, you have a job to do today!”

Mafioso lifted his head slowly, dark eyes hazy with sleep, a faint crease pressed into his cheek from where he’d been leaning against Chance. His voice was hoarse, low.
“Five more minutes.”

Chance, red in the face, gave him a light shove. “Maf’, seriously—you’re heavy.”

Instead of moving, Mafioso just flopped right back down with a satisfied sigh, burying his face against Chance’s collarbone like he had every right in the world to stay there.

Eunoia huffed dramatically. “Unbelievable. The great Mafioso—dream terror, mafia boss—reduced to a lazy, clingy bunny. Get up, or I swear I’ll drag you out myself.”

That finally earned a chuckle from Mafioso, muffled against Chance’s skin. He slowly sat up, running a hand through his messy black hair before reaching for his hat on the nightstand. His voice, though tired, carried its usual weight.
“Fine. But this better be important.”

Eunoia smirked, already turning toward the door. “Oh, it is.”

Chance frowned, watching him gather himself. The heaviness from last night returned as soon as Mafioso stood, hat casting his eyes in shadow. Whatever this “job” was, it would take him away again.

“Do you have to..?” Chance’s voice was small, almost swallowed by the fan’s steady hum.

Mafioso paused as he adjusted his coat, then bent down enough to take their hand in his own. His thumb brushed gently over their knuckles. “I’ll be back soon, my dear. Maybe even earlier than yesterday.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” Chance pressed, golden eyes glinting with stubbornness.

A sigh left him, heavy but fond. “Because I don’t want you to get hurt because of some reckless dreamwalkers.”

Chance frowned, grumbling under their breath. “So you can get hurt instead? Do you even know how worried I was yesterday, thinking you might’ve died?”

That earned a low chuckle from him, quiet and warm despite the exhaustion still clinging to his voice. “I respawn. Just like you.”

Chance narrowed their eyes, not convinced. “If I find out you got hurt tonight, I will force you to sleep on the couch.”

Mafioso smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to their temple before straightening again. “Alright, if you say so, bunny.”

Chance stayed seated on the edge of the bed, watching as Mafioso slipped on his gloves and gave one last tug to straighten his coat. He still looked tired—dark eyes heavy, shoulders weighed down with something Chance couldn’t name. Still, he managed to flash that small smile of reassurance before heading to the door.

The hiss of it closing behind him left the room far too quiet. Chance pulled the blanket tighter around themselves, lips pressed into a thin line. They told themself not to overthink, but the hollow feeling in their chest disagreed.

The willow dream was alive with movement. Eunoia was already sketching more lines in her notepad when Mafioso stepped through the portal, his silhouette sharp against the glowing meadow.

“You’re late,” she teased, not bothering to look up as the paper shimmered faintly under her touch.

“I was busy being smothered.” Mafioso rolled his eyes, though there was no bite in his voice. He crossed the new stone bridge with practiced ease, boots echoing faintly against the current rushing below. “What’s first?”

“Foundation’s settled. Now we move up. Walls, windows, framing.” She tapped her pencil against her lips, gaze flicking to him knowingly. “You’ll want it sturdy. Something that won’t give no matter how much Chance leans on it.”

Mafioso’s mouth tugged into a faint smile despite himself. “Yeah. Something permanent.”

Together, they extended their hands, concentration tightening the air between them. Stone and wood sparked from nothing, beams driving upward and locking into place. The cottage began to rise slowly, warmly, like it had always been meant to sit nestled in that dreamscape.

By the time they paused, sweat dampened their temples, and the air around them buzzed with spent energy.

Eunoia flopped onto the willow’s bench, catching her breath. “He’s going to lose it when he sees this.”

Mafioso remained standing, eyes on the budding structure. His chest rose and fell with steadier breaths, though his mind was far away. “…He deserves to.”

–

The cottage stood quietly beneath the dreamlit sky, its roof shimmering faintly as though dusted with starlight. A squat chimney leaned just slightly, lending it the charm of something already well-loved. Across the river, the willow swayed with the breeze, its curtain of vibrant leaves sweeping low and whispering against the water’s surface. The stone bridge arched gracefully over the stream, leading to a pebble path that wound up to the front porch, where a wooden swing hung in welcome. In the yard, the pond shimmered with life, its surface rippling as fish darted through water that had only moments ago come into being.

It was complete.

Mafioso stood a step back, chest heavy, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He couldn’t take his mind off what Chance’s reaction would be.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Eunoia murmured beside him, though she looked half-ready to collapse.

“Not bad at all,” Mafioso said, voice quieter than usual.

They hadn’t been able to decorate much. The foundation was done—yes—but it was going to be Chance’s job to furnish the house with whatever he wanted.

The cottage was whole, but bare. Its bones stood strong with the walls, the roof, and the stonework all complete, but the warmth of a home had yet to take root. There were no curtains on the windows, no books on the shelves, no rugs to soften the wooden floors. That, however, was never their task. The foundation was laid, the space carved out of dreamstuff and willpower, but the spirit of the house would be Chance’s to shape. Every chair, every painting, every scrap of fabric, and little trinket would be his to choose.

Eunoia dusted off her hands, sighing as she sank onto the willow’s bench. “That’s it. The hard part’s done. Now it’s his turn.”

Mafioso stood at the edge of the bridge, eyes fixed on the front porch. A soft smile tugged at his lips despite the exhaustion weighing heavy on him. “He’ll make it beautiful. Better than anything we could’ve put together for him.”

Mafioso padded quietly back into the hideout, the weight of the day’s work still tugging on his limbs. He didn’t allow himself to rest, though. Not yet. Instead, he made his way to the bedroom where Chance lay sprawled, still half tangled in the sheets. Their hair was mussed, sticking every which way from their nap, silver strands catching the faint light of the fan’s hum.

“Chance,” he murmured, kneeling beside the bed. His voice was hoarse with fatigue, but there was a hidden warmth beneath it.

“Mmf…?” they groaned, golden eyes blinking open sluggishly. “Mafi’? What time is it…?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mafioso whispered, leaning down to brush his lips against their temple. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

Chance squinted at him, confused but too sleepy to argue. “You sound suspicious…you didn’t go get killed did you…”

“Trust me,” he chuckled, already sliding his arms beneath them. Before they could properly protest, they were scooped up against his chest, cradled like something fragile.

“Hey—! I can walk, y’know,” they mumbled, cheeks heating.

“Not yet,” he said, tone final. One hand slipped over their eyes, blocking their view. “No peeking.”

“Maf’…” Their voice was both tired and amused. “This is cheesy.”

“You like cheesy.”

They couldn’t argue with that, so they let their head rest against his shoulder, pouting in mock annoyance. He carried them through the hideout’s quiet halls, the faint hiss of a portal opening filling the air. The moment they stepped through, Chance’s nose twitched—familiar scents rushed in: the faint sweetness of willow leaves, the clean water of the river, the hush of grass that always felt softer than anywhere else.

“…The willow dream?” They stirred, wriggling in his arms.

“Wait—” Mafioso tried, but it was too late. Chance squirmed free and landed lightly on their feet, rubbing their eyes. “You weren’t supposed to—”

Their gaze lifted. And froze.

The cottage stood proudly across the bridge, bathed in dreamlight. Its roof sloped warmly, chimney tilted just so, like it had stood here for years. The little bridge arched gracefully over the sparkling river, leading to the pebble path that wound toward the porch. The willow swayed behind it, its branches brushing the ground in a soft curtain, and just beyond, the pond glimmered with lazy ripples.

For a moment, Chance said nothing. Their golden eyes went wide, hands trembling slightly at their sides. Then—

“Oh my god.” Their face flushed, their stomach twisted, and before they could stop it, they gagged. A small, sharp cough, and they bent over, half-laughing, half-heaving.

Mafioso rushed to their side in alarm. “Chance—?! Are you—”

“I—” They held up a hand, breath hitching as they laughed through their nausea. “I just—oh my god—I’m so excited I actually threw up a little!”

Eunoia, leaning against the willow bench and watching with folded arms, cracked up. “That’s a first. Never seen someone get that excited over a house before.”

Chance wiped their mouth with the back of their sleeve, still doubled over but laughing uncontrollably now. Then they shot up, golden eyes sparkling like molten sunlight, practically glowing. Without a second’s hesitation, they hurled themselves at Mafioso, arms locking around his torso like iron bands.

Mafioso staggered, nearly losing his footing as his breath left him in one harsh grunt. “Agh—! Chance—!”

“You’re insane—I can’t believe—oh my god—this is mine? This is actually mine?!” Their voice tumbled out in a blur, words overlapping and tripping over each other. Half of what they said was lost in the sheer speed of their excitement, but the emotion was clear enough.

Mafioso tried to steady them both, chuckling despite the ache in his ribs. “Eunoia helped too, you know.”

Chance froze. Then whipped their head around, eyes landing on Eunoia like a hawk spotting prey.

“Wait—YOU?!”

Eunoia barely had time to lift her hands in mock defense before Chance barreled toward her. The ground thudded with each eager step, and she braced, planting her heels firmly, arms out just in case. Still, when Chance collided with her, the impact rang out like two worlds clashing.

“Oof—!” She winced, metal frame humming faintly with the force, though her smirk betrayed no real pain. “Careful, bunny, I am made of steel but you just might dent me!”

Chance buried their face against her shoulder, practically vibrating. “Thank you- thank you- THANK YOU—this is—this is everything!” Their voice cracked, too full of joy to keep steady. “You helped make this real for me—I don’t even know how to—oh my god!”

They pulled back only to squeeze her tighter again before finally releasing her, spinning away with frantic energy. In an instant, they were sprinting across the stone bridge, laughter bubbling out as they darted around the yard. Their hands skimmed the willow leaves, then dipped into the pond, scattering dream-fish in shimmering ripples. They hopped up the porch steps, tested the swing with a squeal of delight, then darted back down to the pebbled path as if they couldn’t stand still for more than a heartbeat.

Mafioso leaned his elbows on the bridge rail, exhausted but smiling softly, watching them run wild. His ears flicked once at the sound of their laughter.

“You know,” Eunoia muttered beside him, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, “I’ve seen dreamwalkers get gifts before. Never seen anyone almost throw up from happiness.”

Mafioso huffed a laugh, eyes never leaving Chance. “That’s Chance for you. They feel everything… too much. It’s what makes them who they are.”

Eunoia tilted her head, gaze softening at the sight of Chance darting across the porch like a kid in a toy shop. “Well… then I think they’re going to love every inch of this place.”

Mafioso’s chest swelled with quiet pride, his fatigue forgotten for a moment as he watched Chance press their palms against the front door like it was the most sacred thing in existence.

Chance’s hand hovered over the door for a long moment, trembling. They pushed it open slowly, as though afraid it might vanish if they moved too quickly. The hinges creaked, and the warm glow of the dreamlight spilled across the little cottage interior.

The moment their eyes landed on it—the bare wooden floors, the cozy shape of the living room, the way it all felt alive already—Chance’s throat closed. Their breath hitched. And then the tears came.

Silent at first, then unstoppable.

“Chance?” Mafioso’s voice was sharp with concern as he stepped closer, ears lifting, tail flicking. “Hey—what’s wrong? Does it not—do you not like—”

Before he could finish, Chance whirled around and launched into his chest, arms locking tight around him. Their tears wet the fabric of his shirt, but their laugh rang out, bubbling and broken. “You idiot—I love it—I love it so much!”

Mafioso froze, blinking in disbelief. “…You’re crying because—”

“Yes!” Chance shouted, voice cracking. “Yes, you stupid, perfect man! This is—this is everything! You—” They couldn’t stop themselves—they grabbed his face in their hands and pressed a frantic kiss to his cheek, then another to his jaw, then his lips. “You’re amazing. You’re unbelievable. I can’t believe you did this for me—”

“C–Chance—” Mafioso stammered, his face flaming red, ears twitching wildly as his composure shattered. He tried to speak again but was cut off by another desperate kiss, this one square on the mouth.

Eunoia leaned against the doorframe, trying (and failing) to hold back a laugh at the sight of the flustered rabbit man. “Well,” she muttered to herself, “that answers the question of whether they like it or not.”

Mafioso could barely breathe as Chance pulled back only to kiss him again, smiling through their tears. “I can’t believe this is mine,” they whispered against his lips. “I can’t believe you did this. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And Mafioso—despite the heat crawling all the way up his neck and the way his heart thudded—let himself smile softly, resting his forehead against theirs. “…Then it was worth every ounce of energy.”

Chance sniffled, wiping their face with the heel of their palm before darting away from Mafioso’s arms. They practically skidded across the floor, peeking into the little kitchen, then the bedroom, then the extra room. “This—this is a bunny room, isn’t it?! Oh my god! Spade and Princess are going to love this!”

Before Mafioso could answer, Chance spun in a circle, laughter spilling out of them. Their hands twitched with the urge to make. And suddenly, the plain wooden floors weren’t plain anymore— a rug spread out across the living room, embroidered in deep blues and golds. In the kitchen, shelves blinked into existence, lined with dishes that clinked faintly as if they’d been there for years. A table sprouted in the center of the room, already set with mismatched chairs.

“Chance—wait—” Mafioso started, but it was too late.

The bedroom came alive with sheets—white, soft, embroidered faintly with vines. A bookshelf stacked itself taller than Chance’s head, brimming with titles. Frames appeared on the walls, filled with painted landscapes they hadn’t even consciously chosen.

They darted from room to room, half-sobbing, half-laughing. “This is—this is everything—I can finally make it how I wanted—”

Mafioso caught up to them just as the extra room filled with little rabbit toys and low shelves of treats and hay baskets. But then Chance stumbled, catching the doorframe as their knees gave out. The last shelf flickered unsteadily, barely manifesting before fading away.

“Chance!” Mafioso rushed forward, arms circling their waist before they hit the ground. He felt how limp their body had gone, their chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“I’m fine—” Chance wheezed, sweat sticking their silver hair to their forehead. Their golden eyes fluttered, exhaustion pulling them down hard.

“You burned yourself out.” Mafioso’s voice was low, firm, but there was worry beneath it. He scooped them up easily, cradling them against his chest. “You can’t do it all at once, my love. This place isn’t going anywhere. You need to rest.”

“But it’s—” Chance’s voice cracked, their hands clutching weakly at his coat. “It’s my home. I just—I couldn’t stop—”

Mafioso softened, nuzzling his cheek against their damp hair. “I know. I know you’re excited. But let me take care of you. The cottage will wait.”

Eunoia, standing quietly at the door with her arms crossed, sighed but her lips curved into a faint smile. “He’s right, Chance. Dream energy runs on your emotions. You overdid it. Rest now—decorate later.”

Chance pouted weakly but finally let their head drop against Mafioso’s chest, their body melting into his hold. “…Only if you promise to stay right here with me.”

Mafioso chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to their temple. “Always.”

Mafioso carried Chance out to the porch, the boards creaking faintly under his weight. The swing swayed gently as he lowered them onto it, then sat beside him, keeping an arm wrapped around his shoulders so he could lean against him. Chance nestled in close, still flushed and tired, but his lips curved into a sleepy smile as the swing rocked with the breeze.

The willow across the bridge stirred in rhythm with the river’s song. Chance let his eyes half close, lulled by the movement and the warmth at his side. Mafioso pressed his cheek against his silver hair, his ears twitching every now and then as if catching things the wind whispered.

“I didn’t think it was possible to see you this happy,” he murmured.

Chance hummed, golden eyes hazy with drowsiness. “…It’s ‘cause of you.”

Before Mafioso could reply, a faint shimmer appeared near the bridge. Eunoia stepped through, carrying a small bundle in her arms. When she reached the yard, she crouched down and set both Spade and Princess on the grass.

The two rabbits wasted no time—Spade bounded forward with clumsy hops, Princess more dainty but eager as she scurried after him. They darted through the tall grass, disappearing between lavender stalks, reappearing again by the pond where their noses twitched at the fish.

Chance sat up a little straighter, their tiredness giving way to joy. “Look at them, Maf’! They’re—they’re actually jumping for joy!”

Mafioso chuckled at the excitement in his voice, letting him wiggle free to lean forward on the swing’s edge. Chance watched as Spade chased Princess in playful circles, his ears flopping comically, while Princess binkied into the air, her little bow bouncing.

“See?” Eunoia said with a grin, brushing off her skirt as she stood. “Now it’s not just your home—it’s theirs too.”

Chance’s throat tightened, though this time it wasn’t exhaustion; instead, it was gratitude. He turned, burying his face against Mafioso’s chest again, laughing quietly. “This is perfect. I don’t… I don’t deserve this, but it’s perfect.”

Mafioso stroked the back of his head, eyes soft as he whispered, “Yes, you do. More than anyone.”

The swing creaked, the willow swayed, and the rabbits played in the field, their tiny bodies darting through the flowers as though the dream itself had made room just for them.

Chance’s laughter softened into small hums as he slouched deeper into Mafioso’s side. His head lolled against his shoulder, silver strands tickling under his chin. The porch swing creaked and swayed, a lullaby all its own.

Spade and Princess had settled down near the pond, stretched out side by side in the grass as the last of the day’s dreamlight scattered in soft glimmers across the field. Eunoia lingered by the edge of the bridge, watching the scene with her arms loosely folded. There was a faint smile on her face—gentle, approving.

She caught Mafioso’s eye and nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that her part was done. He dipped his head in return, careful not to stir the dozing Chance. Without a word, Eunoia slipped back across the bridge, her figure fading into shimmer as she disappeared through the portal, leaving the two alone with the quiet.

Mafioso adjusted slightly, pulling Chance closer so he wouldn’t slump uncomfortably against the swing’s armrest. One arm rested firm around his waist; the other hand brushed over his knuckles, soothing even though he was already asleep. His breathing was steady now, golden eyes closed, mouth parted just enough to let out tiny sighs with each exhale.

“Rest easy, my love,” he whispered into his hair, ears twitching once before flattening. His own eyes burned from exhaustion, but he stayed awake, gaze fixed out across the glowing pond, the willow, the rabbits—all of it.

It was his turn to keep watch, to make sure the peace they’d built here stayed untouched, at least for tonight.

The swing swayed gently, the world around them alive and safe. And as Chance dreamt in his arms, Mafioso simply held on, listening to the sound of his quiet breaths like the most precious melody he’d ever known.

Chapter Text

When Chance finally rested, Mafioso found himself with a new kind of assignment—not from debtors, or from territory disputes, but from Chance. They’d pressed a neatly folded list into his hand before yawning themselves to sleep, insisting he not try to do everything alone.

“Bedroom’s mine,” Chance had murmured, eyes half-shut. “You take the office. You probably know what you’re doing better than I.”

The problem was, he didn’t.

Now Mafioso stood in the bare office, list in hand, staring at four empty walls and a floor that echoed with every shift of his boots. A desk. Sure. A chair. Obvious. But beyond that? His mind was blanker than the room itself. The truth was, the office in his old hideout had been Eunoia’s doing—he hadn’t chosen a single thing. All he’d done was sit in it and pretend he belonged.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before looking at the paper again. Chance’s handwriting looped across the page: make it cozy, not stiff. Not just for work but for a place to be together.

His chest tightened. It wasn’t just an office to Chance—it was theirs. A shared space. Which meant maybe two desks? Or maybe one big desk where they could sit across from each other. Bookshelves, perhaps. Somewhere Chance could tuck their silly little trinkets while Mafioso buried himself in reports.

He set the list down on the bare floor, crouching beside it. “What the hell goes in an office, huh?” he muttered under his breath. His ears twitched, catching the faint creak of the house as if it were listening in on his struggle.

His mind began piecing things together, bit by bit. A large wooden desk—solid, not gaudy. Two chairs, one on either side. Shelves that lined the walls, filled with both books and… well, whatever Chance wanted. A rug, something soft underfoot. And light. He wanted warmth in this room, not the stiff coldness of his old one.

“Cozy,” he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue like he was testing it. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought an office should be. But for Chance, maybe it could. He added a few more details to the office, like subtle things, nothing too loud. A tall bookshelf appeared against the wall, its dark wood matching the desk he’d already placed. It stood empty for now, waiting for Chance to decide what filled it: books, records, maybe trinkets they collected together. A small lamp appeared on each deskside, their glow warm and steady. A coat rack manifested by the door, simple but sturdy, in case Chance wanted to hang their hat or jacket there.

The rug underfoot was already laid out neatly, a deep weave of muted tones grounding the space. Everything was balanced, practical—yet it still felt like something was missing. Mafioso frowned, scanning the room. He didn’t want to overstep. Chance had made it clear this office was meant for both of them, a space they’d share. Too much of his influence might drown theirs out.

Maybe that was enough for now. The shelves, the lamps, and the frame of the room itself were done with the intention of leaving the rest for Chance to have some input. With a quiet nod to himself, he stepped back into the hall, satisfied enough for the moment.

He crossed the hall into the bedroom, leaving the office behind with its waiting shelves and empty spaces. The moment he opened the door, his breath softened.

The bedroom was already half-lived-in and half-waiting for Mafioso’s touch. A queen-sized bed sat square in the center, its frame dark and sturdy, the sheets tucked neatly but loosened just enough by use. Nightstands stood sentinel on either side, each with small lamps that hadn’t been switched on. The walls held frames, still bare, waiting for pictures or paintings—memories yet to be chosen. Shelves waited for books or trinkets, little markers of life that would eventually crowd them.

On either side, closets gaped slightly open, ready to be filled with their clothes. Drawers lined one wall, polished wood waiting for the things people didn’t talk about but always needed. The room wasn’t finished—but it was beginning to look like a home.

And there, in the center of it all, was Chance.

They were sprawled across the bed, one hand curled loosely near their face, the other resting on the pillow. The golden light from the window stretched across the room, catching their silver hair and turning it into something radiant, almost glowing. Their cheek was bathed in sunlight; their chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Mafioso stood still for a long moment, just watching. The quiet of the house, the faint whisper of the breeze outside, the gentle warmth of the dream—it all centered on this one figure. His shoulders dropped, the tension from his work easing as he finally let himself breathe.

“…My love,” he whispered under his breath, voice so soft it barely carried across the room.

He crossed quietly, careful not to let his shoes creak against the floorboards, and sat gently on the edge of the mattress. The weight of him dipped the bed, and Chance stirred, sighing faintly but not waking. Mafioso reached out, brushing his fingertips across their hair, pushing a stray lock from their face. The golden strands slipped through his fingers like silk.

For a moment, he forgot about the unfinished house, the debtors, the long days of manifesting. All he could think about was how much he wanted to keep this—this quiet, this warmth, this home with his partner.

The front door creaked softly as two figures slipped inside. Eunoia guided Nashatra in first before closing it behind them with deliberate care. Her eyes swept over the cottage’s interior, and she smiled faintly at how far it had come since the last time she’d seen it—back when it had been nothing but bare walls and emptiness. Now, it felt like a home.

Nashatra lingered in the entryway, her brown hair catching the light as she tilted her head this way and that, studying the space with quiet awe. But envy tinged her voice when she finally spoke.
“Why does he get a whole house while I’m stuck wandering?”

“Because he’s a permanent resident,” Eunoia whispered back smoothly, “and you are not.”

Nashatra frowned, brows furrowed. “Then how can I become a permanent resident of the sphere?”

Eunoia’s expression softened, but her tone dipped lower, as if even the walls shouldn’t hear it. “Definitely not the way Chance did.”

A low, deliberate throat-clearing broke the hush. Both of them turned to see Mafioso standing near the archway, arms crossed and ears angled back, his eyes narrowing like a hawk’s.
“Can I help you?”

Eunoia only brightened, unbothered by the sharpness in his tone. “Why yes! Make me some tea—”

“Hush—!” Mafioso hissed, his whisper-shout sharp enough to cut through the air. His head snapped toward the bedroom, listening for any stir from inside. The soft rhythm of Chance’s breathing still carried faintly to his ears, undisturbed—for now. He exhaled a tense breath and glared back at them. “Chance is napping. And I’d rather not wake him. He hates being woken up from naps.”

Eunoia wrinkled her nose but made a show of zipping her lips. Nashatra, knowing all too well that Mafioso wouldn’t hesitate to haul her out by the collar if she made a peep, tucked her arms behind her back and tiptoed deeper into the room without a word.

“Besides,” Mafioso continued, lowering his arms but not his guard, “the kitchen’s not even ready yet.”

Eunoia hummed, undeterred. “Then I’ll help with that.” She glided across the room, moving so lightly the floorboards didn’t creak, and examined the empty space with a practiced eye. “Any idea what Chance wants in here?”

Mafioso shook his head. “No. Just…essentials, if you must. The rest is for him to decide. It’s his house.”

Eunoia glanced back over her shoulder with a knowing smile. “It’s your home too, Maf’. You get a say in things.”

He didn’t answer, only exhaled through his nose and leaned against the doorway like a silent sentinel. Eunoia tapped her chin, then began weaving her hand in slow circles. One by one, pieces manifested out of thin air: a sturdy stove, a tall refrigerator, cupboards lined neatly along the walls, a polished sink set into counter space. Each object settled into place with a soft hum, as though the house itself accepted them.

“Oh—one more thing.” She twirled her finger, and a delicate kettle appeared atop the stove with a row of tea boxes beside it. She flashed him a victorious grin. “Now, make me some tea.”

Mafioso rolled his eyes but stepped forward, filling the kettle at the new sink before setting it on the lit burner. The fire flickered, quiet and controlled.

While the water heated, Nashatra drifted through the living room and down the hall, her steps careful and deliberate. She paused near the wide-open bedroom door, tilting her head as she spotted a glimpse of the bed inside: Chance curled beneath the blankets, sunlight spilling over his face, with two lumps at his side—Spade and Princess, both snoozing. The sight tugged at something wistful in her chest.

Still, she didn’t dare linger too long. If she breathed too loudly, Mafioso would be at her back in an instant, dragging her away by the scruff. Instead, she backed off and returned to Eunoia, whispering ideas she’d been storing up. “We could put shelves here…maybe a rug, something warm. And—oh! A clock, so it feels lived in.”

Mafioso glanced at them from the stove, his dark eyes shadowed with the weight of exhaustion but sharper than ever. “Quiet,” he muttered. “If you wake him, you’re both out.”

Nashatra clamped her lips shut instantly.

Eunoia only smirked. “You’re protective.”

“Of course I am,” Mafioso replied without hesitation, turning back to the hiss of the kettle as steam began to rise.

The kettle whistled low, and Mafioso lifted it carefully off the flame. The sharp hiss of steam filled the small kitchen as he poured the hot water into three cups lined neatly on the counter. The scent of black tea mingled with the faint sweetness of the leaves, a calming contrast to the wariness still buzzing in his chest.

He slid a cup to Eunoia, then one to Nashatra, before finally pouring his own. They all sat at the small table, the wood still fresh, the legs creaking faintly under the weight. Mafioso took the first sip, savoring the warmth on his tongue—when Nashatra, of course, chose that moment to tilt her head and ask:

“So… when are you going to propose?”

The tea nearly went down the wrong way. Mafioso froze mid-sip, coughing into his sleeve as his dark eyes snapped toward her in disbelief. “What?!” His voice cracked slightly from the hoarseness he still carried.

Eunoia, the picture of grace, didn’t so much as blink. She lifted her cup, blew gently at the rising steam, and sipped delicately. “It’s not that absurd of a question, Maf’. If Chance is already fine with living here permanently with you… Then they’re certainly comfortable enough to trust you won’t leave. A ring would only make him feel more assured.”

Mafioso sputtered, setting his cup down too hard. The porcelain rattled against the wood. “Eunoia—”

She cut him off with a small, sly smile. “I’m just saying. You’ve been given the chance to give them the stability they’ve never had before. A home. A partner. Something safe.” She shrugged as if it were obvious, her metal fingers clicking faintly against the teacup as she adjusted her hold. “It doesn’t have to be now. But if you want to ease his doubts, a promise like that speaks louder than words.”

Mafioso’s jaw tightened. His ears flicked back, betraying the fluster creeping up despite his best effort to stay composed. “It’s… too soon.”

“Maybe for you,” Nashatra chimed in with a mischievous grin, swirling her tea lazily. “But Chance? I bet they’d melt if you asked.”

Mafioso glared at her, ears twitching. “You know nothing about it.”

Eunoia just sipped again, utterly unbothered. “I know enough. And I know the way Chance looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”

The silence that followed made Mafioso’s pulse pound louder than the kettle had. He gripped his cup tighter, staring into the dark liquid as if it would provide an escape from the subject. His face burned, and for once, he didn’t have a clever retort.

The tension still hung heavy in the room when the soft pad of bare feet broke through it. Mafioso’s ears perked first, swiveling toward the sound. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Chance shuffle out of the bedroom, hair mussed, sweatshirt wrinkled, and a very drowsy bunny cradled against his chest like a pillow. His half-lidded eyes blinked slowly, squinting at the three of them gathered in the kitchen.

Before he could rise, Chance trudged over and wrapped his arms around Mafioso’s shoulders from behind the couch, pressing his cheek against his back. The bunny squeaked faintly, squashed between them.

“Maf’,” Chance mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “come back to bed. I’m lonely.”

Mafioso froze under the sudden warmth, his face heating as both women across from him fought not to grin. He coughed, trying to sound casual. “Chance… It’s four in the afternoon.”

Chance cracked one eye open, peering at the window. Then, with a faint frown, they lifted their free hand. The air shimmered, dreamlight twisting—and outside, the sun fell in an instant. The room dimmed to dusky blues, crickets chirped beyond the glass, and a lazy crescent moon perched itself high in the sky.

They yawned, deadpan. “No, it’s not.”

Eunoia actually snorted into her tea, trying to stifle it behind her hand. Nashatra nearly choked on her sip, laughing under her breath.

Mafioso sighed, burying his face in his hands. “You’re unbelievable. You shouldn't be allowed to do that.”

Chance only tightened their arms around him, muffling a small laugh into the back of his shirt. “‘S my dream. I do what I want… Bed. Now.”

The girls exchanged glances, both rising from their seats. Eunoia set her empty cup down and gave Mafioso a knowing look as she headed for the door. “We’ll let you two rest. Think about what I said, Maf’.”

Nashatra waved cheekily as she followed. “Yeah, don’t keep him waiting too long.”

The door shut behind them, leaving Mafioso in the dim glow of a dream-night, Chance clinging to him like a sleepy shadow. His ears drooped, but he couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out as he stood, scooping both Chance and the bunny into his arms.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, carrying them back toward the bedroom. “To bed we go.”

Mafioso changed into a loose pair of sleep pants, discarding his shirt entirely. If “tonight” was going to be spent resting, he wanted the least restrictive comfort possible—never mind that his sleep schedule was now thoroughly ruined.

Chance, lying on his side, peeked over his shoulder to confirm he was actually coming to bed. What he wasn’t expecting was the sudden view of Mafioso’s bare chest. Even in the dim dream-night, the ridges of scars were visible, cutting across skin that was firm and faintly toned. He wasn’t a sculpted statue, but he carried a solid strength, the kind born of years surviving more than his share of fights.

Mafioso raked a hand through his hair to loosen it from its usual neat comb, and the movement made his arm flex just slightly. Chance’s breath caught. His face burned hot, thankful the low light disguised the crimson spread across his cheeks. Mafioso never slept shirtless—this was rare, and dangerously distracting.

“Are you okay, Chance?” His voice was casual, but there was a faint tilt of curiosity in his tone as he caught the way they stared.

“‘M fine—yeah—I’m good! Good—yep!” Chance blurted, words tumbling over himself as he snapped his gaze back to the blankets.

Mafioso quirked a brow, but he let it go without comment. With a low sigh, he slid into bed beside him, settling onto his side of the mattress. The covers shifted as his broad frame disappeared beneath them.

Chance hesitated only a moment before scooting closer, nestling into Mafioso’s warmth like it was magnetic. Without missing a beat, Mafioso’s arm came around him, drawing his shoulders snug against his chest. His scent—faint cologne, smoke, and something familiar—wrapped around Chance until his racing heart slowed to a more comfortable rhythm.

“…Better?” Mafioso’s voice was low, half-drowsy already.

Chance hummed, burying his face into him, too flustered to answer properly. “Mmhm.”

A comfortable silence settled over them, despite the buzzing fan in the corner, the kind that carried weight without being heavy. The bunnies shuffled somewhere at the end of the bed, curling into tiny loaves, as if guarding the two. Mafioso shifted only enough to rest his chin against the top of Chance’s head, letting his breathing fall into a slow, steady rhythm.

Chance lay quietly for a few moments, listening to the steady rise and fall of Mafioso’s chest. The warmth pressed against him should’ve been enough to quiet his restless thoughts—but his eyes kept wandering, tracing the pale lines that crisscrossed Mafioso’s skin. Some were faint, long-healed marks, while others were fresher, still pink against his chest and shoulders. They weren’t just battle scars, no, instead they were stories to be told.

“…Maf’?” Chance’s voice was small, hesitant.

“Hm?” Mafioso cracked open one eye, the deep rumble of his chest carrying into the sound.

“Your scars. Where… did you get all of them?”

Mafioso was silent for a beat, then tilted his head so he could glance down at them. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

That earned a quiet laugh, though there was no mockery in it. “That would take a while.” He shifted slightly, his thumb absently stroking Chance’s shoulder while he spoke. “Knife fights. A few bullet grazes. One from getting caught in barbed wire on a job. That one—” he gestured vaguely to a diagonal scar that cut across his ribs, “—was from a debtor who turned nasty. Some are… older. Some are just from being careless.”

Chance’s fingers brushed gently across the nearest mark without thinking, tracing the rough texture. His chest tightened. He’d survived so much—lived through things most wouldn’t. And he carried them all openly, right here, like proof he refused to fall.

Mafioso tilted his head again, studying them. “What about you?”

Chance stilled. “…What about me?”

“You’ve got that big one—” he gestured lightly to his lower abdomen, where he knew the scar cut through to his back. His voice was careful, softer than usual. “But… are there others?”

Chance hesitated, teeth worrying at his lip. “…Yeah.”

Mafioso’s brows furrowed slightly. “Can I see?”

The silence stretched. Chance curled in a little tighter against him, shaking his head just once. “…Not yet. I’m not… I’m not ready to show you those.”

Mafioso blinked, then exhaled slowly through his nose, the weight of his arm pressing more securely around them. “…Then I won’t ask again. Not until you’re ready at least.” His voice was low, steady, almost protective.

Chance buried his face in his chest again, biting back the sting in his eyes. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. Just accepted. And somehow, that meant more than anything.

To say it was a perfect first night in the cottage would’ve been a lie. Even with the fan humming on the dresser and blowing a steady breeze across the bed, the air inside felt thick and stifling. The bunnies, curled at the foot of the bed like two little space heaters, didn’t help. And neither did Chance. For someone so slender, they radiated warmth like a furnace and squirmed endlessly, searching for comfort in a sweatshirt far too heavy for sleeping.

Mafioso endured it with grit, sweating through the night and clutching the very edge of the mattress for dear life. By the time morning light seeped in through the curtains, painting the room in pale gold, he looked like he’d survived a war.

And there Chance was—spread out across three-fourths of the mattress, limbs tossed in every direction like they’d claimed the land in their sleep. Mouth open, snoring softly, utterly peaceful. Their sweatshirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of pale midriff and the faint scar carved across it. Mafioso, bleary-eyed and bone-tired, couldn’t help but huff a laugh.

“At least someone slept,” he muttered, voice gravelly from exhaustion.

He rolled his shoulders, a few joints popping from the contorted positions he’d been forced into, and leaned back toward Chance. His gaze wandered from their scar to their arm, where the sleeve had slipped up to reveal more than he’d expected. Mafioso’s hand hovered a moment, then carefully tugged the fabric higher. His thumb brushed faintly over the skin—faded pink lines, uneven and rougher than the rest. Not an accident. Not random.

His chest tightened. Chance had scars he hadn’t been ready to share, and here they were, plain as day. Mafioso let out a slow breath, dragging the sleeve back down, tucking it carefully like nothing had ever happened. He bent to press a soft kiss against their cheek.

Chance groaned, turning their face deeper into the pillow, mumbling incoherently. Mafioso brushed stray strands of hair from their eyes and allowed himself one last lingering look before pushing himself off the bed.

The hallway felt cooler, and he welcomed the quiet as he slipped into the bare room meant to be their bathroom. Empty, waiting. Mafioso rolled his sleeves up and started working, summoning the basics with a wave of his hand: a toilet against the far wall, a sink beneath a mirror cabinet, a sturdy shower-and-bathtub combo tucked neatly in the corner. He conjured a narrow closet for towels, filling it with a stack of soft ones that smelled faintly of lavender when he pressed them into place.

He yawned, dragging a hand down his face as he turned the shower handle, steam beginning to curl in the cool air. While the water heated, he opened the cabinet and pulled a toothbrush into existence, scrubbing his teeth with sluggish motions.

The mirror above the sink caught his reflection—hair tousled, dark circles bruising beneath his eyes, shoulders heavy with the night’s unrest. He grimaced, spitting into the sink before rinsing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been tired, but the weight in his chest wasn’t from lack of sleep. It was from the scars on Chance’s arm that he wasn’t supposed to see yet, the pieces of pain they carried but weren’t ready to share. He couldn’t ask, not yet.

And so he sighed, stepping into the hot spray of water, letting it roll down his back like it could wash the thought away.

–

By the time Mafioso finished toweling off and tugging some casual clothes on, Chance was still sprawled across the bed like they owned it, hair wild and sweatshirt twisted. He crossed the hall, arms folded, and leaned over the bed.

“Up,” he muttered, nudging them in the side.

Chance groaned, flopping an arm over their eyes. “Five more minutes…”

“No.” He grabbed their wrist, tugged them up, and half-guided, half-shoved them toward the bathroom. “Your turn. Go shower before you pass out again.”

Chance shuffled into the small room with their eyes barely open. Mafioso shut the door softly behind them. But when they turned around, their sleep-fogged brain jolted awake.

The tub.

It was sitting there innocently, part of the shower combo. White enamel, polished chrome faucet, harmless to anyone else. But Chance’s stomach turned so fast it nearly buckled their knees. Their throat tightened, a rush of nausea boiling up like bile. Images crawled into their mind—cold water, the weight of stillness, the choice they’d made once. Their hands trembled.

“No. No, no, no—” they whispered, panic spiking.

With a desperate flick of their wrist, the bathtub warped and vanished, reshaping itself into a plain upright shower stall. Simple. No curves. No reminder of what they’d tried to do. Just clean water, nothing more.

Their chest heaved, but relief poured through them the moment the tub was gone. They braced their forehead against the cool tile for a few breaths before stepping under the stream. The water was grounding, washing away the clammy sweat of both fear and sleep.

When they were done, they dried off quickly and dressed in fresh clothes before stepping back into the hall. Mafioso was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, waiting. He gave them a once-over, then slipped inside the bathroom to tidy up.

He froze.

The tub was gone. In its place stood only the shower stall, neat, modestly decorated with a rack of soaps and a hanging towel that Chance must’ve grabbed from the closet. Mafioso frowned, glancing back into the hall.

“…Where did the tub go?”

Chance stiffened, their shoulders curling inward. For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then, voice low but steady, they spoke:

“Maf’ Just cause I really want to be honest with you now..I… I may have committed in one of those. Before I ended up here. I don’t… I don’t want to see one ever again.”

Mafioso’s chest tightened, the weight of their honesty striking harder than he expected. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd them, and rested a large hand over their shoulder.

“Chance…” His voice was quiet, softer than usual. Not pitying—just steady. “Thank you for telling me.”

Chance stared at the floor, embarrassed, but Mafioso gently tilted their chin up until their golden eyes met his.

“You don’t ever have to explain yourself more than you want. If you don’t want tubs here, then there won’t be tubs. Simple as that.”

Chance blinked rapidly, their throat bobbing as if trying not to cry. But instead of tears, they gave a small laugh, shaky but real.

“You’re… too good to me.”

Mafioso shook his head. “No. I’m just making sure you can breathe here. That’s all that matters.”

Mafioso pinched Chance’s cheek gently, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “Want coffee?”

Chance’s eyes lit up instantly. “Please?”

He chuckled at the eagerness in their voice, nodding before padding barefoot into the kitchen. His heavy steps were muffled by the rug as he reached for the counter. Chance trailed after him, still tugging at the hem of their sweatshirt, curiosity bubbling.

It was the first time they’d properly stepped into the kitchen since it had been manifested, and the space still had that new, untouched quietness about it. Chance drifted to the cupboards, pulling one open, then another. Empty. They turned to the fridge, opening it wide—also empty.

Their shoulders sagged. “Seriously?”

Mafioso was already filling the kettle at the sink. Without looking back, he answered flatly, “Dream rules. We can only manifest the ingredients, not the finished stuff.”

Chance groaned dramatically, dropping their forehead against the cupboard door. “So no cake, no ramen, no pizza, unless we actually cook it?”

“Correct,” Mafioso said, lips quirking as he set the kettle on the stove. “Lazy shortcut meals are a mortal privilege.”

Chance grumbled under their breath, but then lifted their head and, with a small flick of their hand, manifested a neat stack of white plates and a row of bowls into one of the cupboards. The porcelain clinked softly as they settled into place.

“There. At least it looks less depressing.”

“Mm,” Mafioso hummed in agreement, checking the stove flame. “We’ll need utensils next. Knives, forks. And maybe a pan, unless you want your eggs cooked over a campfire.”

Chance snapped their fingers again and a drawer slid open, already filled with silverware. Another small flick, and a pan appeared on the counter, gleaming new.

“There. Domestic bliss achieved,” they said with a little smirk, though their golden eyes were still soft with lingering sleep.

Mafioso finally turned to glance at them, one brow raised. “Don’t burn yourself out just filling cupboards.”

Chance puffed out their cheeks. “You sound like Eunoia.”

“And she’s right.” His voice gentled as he leaned a hip against the counter. “One step at a time, bun. We don’t have to make this place perfect all at once.”

Chance rolled their eyes but stepped closer, bumping his arm with theirs. “Fine. But at least make me coffee first so I can pretend to function.”

Mafioso smirked faintly, reaching up to ruffle their hair. “Coffee coming right up.”

As the kettle began to hum, Mafioso lifted a hand and, with a thought, manifested a plain wooden dining table in the center of the kitchen. Nothing extravagant—just sturdy, with two matching chairs across from each other. The wood grain gleamed faintly in the dreamlight, simple but grounding.

“Temporary,” he muttered, sliding one chair out with a creak. “Until you decide what kind of table you actually want.”

Chance flopped into the other chair, bouncing lightly against the backrest before fishing around for paper. They found a notepad left over from Eunoia’s visit and flipped to a clean page, tongue poking from the corner of their mouth as they began to sketch.

“Alright…” they mumbled, scribbling lines. “Table bigger. Four chairs. Maybe six, if you invite people over. Kitchen island here. Barstools. Plants… definitely plants.”

Mafioso set two mugs down, steam curling lazily from the coffee, and sat across from them. His heavy hand rested on the table as he leaned forward, watching their pen dance over the page.

“You’re decorating like we’re hosting dinner parties every week,” he teased, voice low and hoarse still from lack of sleep.

Chance didn’t look up, only grinning as they shaded in a square. “Maybe we will. Imagine it—you at the head of the table, all serious, while everyone else is talking over each other. It’d be like a mafia movie dinner scene, but with more… bunnies.”

Mafioso huffed a laugh through his nose, taking a long sip of his coffee. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm, and you love it,” Chance said offhandedly, jotting down a little doodle of a potted plant in the corner.

He glanced at them, the corners of his mouth softening despite himself. “…Yeah. I do.”

Chapter Text

Over the next few months, the cottage had finally grown into something that felt well-lived-in. The walls that once stood bare now carried pieces of both their worlds—photos, framed sketches, and small trinkets that reflected them equally. Shelves brimmed with books Chance had manifested, each one promising to be read “soon,” though Mafioso knew better than to believe that.

The bunnies had long since claimed the place as their kingdom, hopping freely from room to room, napping under furniture, or leaving little messes that Chance grumbled about while secretly finding them endearing. When they weren’t cleaning or fussing over decorations, Chance would wander around the sphere, often messing with his portal key. Sometimes visiting Eunoia in the mall, sometimes dropping by Ten-Mou for coffee, just to feel connected to something beyond the walls of their dream-home.

Mafioso’s days were busier. He drifted between patrols and assignments, dealing with debtors that roamed too far or broke too many rules. Now that Chance finally understood what “debt” truly meant in the dreamsphere, they didn’t argue about it anymore. There was no point. Mafioso did what he had to do, and Chance had learned to accept that without fear or guilt.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Chance figured out how to bring music into the dreamsphere. Physical media worked—records, CDs, even cassettes—but he’d settled on vinyl. There was something about the soft hiss, the gentle pops between notes, that made the cottage feel warm and human. Jazz, old love songs, the smooth pulse of the 80s—they filled the rooms like a heartbeat.

No matter how many times he tried, though, anything from the 2000s and beyond simply refused to manifest. The dreamsphere had its limits, apparently. So he learned to live in nostalgia, spinning old records until the cottage pulsed with sound, golden and timeless.

The door creaked softly as Mafioso stepped inside, shutting it behind him with a low sigh. His coat was dusted with dirt, sleeves torn, and faint bruises lined his jaw and knuckles. The exhaustion in his movements was almost palpable—he’d clearly been through something—but the moment he caught sight of the kitchen, his breath hitched.

Chance stood there in an apron, their hair tied back loosely, a wooden spoon in hand as they stirred something in a skillet. The scent of garlic, herbs, and cream filled the air, wrapping the house in warmth. On the counter beside them, pasta boiled gently in a pot, and the record player in the corner spun a soft tune—a slow, dreamy melody from the 80s, crackling faintly in the air.

Mafioso leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just… watching. The scene was almost surreal. After everything—after blood, debts, and sleepless nights—this felt like another world. Like a dream within a dream. Obviously, it was, but for it to truly feel like it was surreal.

He approached quietly, his heavy steps softening as he neared. When he reached Chance, he slipped his arms around their waist from behind, resting his chin on their shoulder.

Chance startled slightly, then relaxed instantly, the tension in their shoulders easing as they leaned back into him. “You’re home early,” they murmured, voice barely above the music.

Mafioso hummed low in his throat, his breath ghosting against their neck. “Couldn’t stay away,” he said softly, pressing a light kiss just beneath their ear. He inhaled deeply, the scent of the food mingling with Chance’s shampoo. “Pasta?”

“‘Marry Me’ chicken pasta,” Chance replied with a little smirk. “It’s supposed to be good enough to make someone propose on the spot.”

Mafioso let out a soft, husky laugh. “You tryin’ to tell me something, bunny?”

Chance chuckled, turning the heat down on the stove. “Just trying to feed you before you collapse.”

But Mafioso didn’t move away. Instead, he tightened his arms slightly, swaying side to side in time with the music. His bruised cheek brushed against their temple, his breath slow and deep as he relaxed into the rhythm.

Chance froze for a moment—caught off guard by the intimacy—then smiled softly and let themself move with him, one hand resting over Mafioso’s arm where it wrapped across their middle.

The world outside didn’t matter. The record’s gentle crackle, the dim kitchen light, the faint bubbling of pasta—all of it melted into one quiet moment of peace. Mafioso’s heart thudded against Chance’s back in slow sync with the tune, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he let himself just be.

“Maf.”

He hummed in response, still holding Chance loosely by the waist as the last notes of the record faded.

“Go take a shower. You smell like sweat and blood.”

He smirked faintly. “That’s just my natural scent.”

Chance snorted. “Then your natural scent sucks. Go. Shower. Or I’m eating your share of dinner.”

Mafioso groaned dramatically, though the fondness in his eyes gave him away. “You wound me, amore mio. Threatening to starve a man who’s just come back from battle.”

“Battle my ass,” Chance teased, giving him a gentle shove toward the hallway. “Shower, or no pasta.”

He sighed in defeat, leaning down to press a final kiss to their forehead. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Yeah, yeah. Move before I change my mind.”

With a quiet chuckle, Mafioso trudged off toward the bedroom, tugging off his gloves and loosening his collar as he went, already imagining the feel of hot water on sore muscles.

–

In truth, Mafioso hadn’t spent most of his day chasing debtors or handling paperwork as Chance might’ve assumed. Instead, he’d spent most of it in quiet conversation with Eunoia—and, unfortunately, Nashatra, who tagged along and spent more time sighing dramatically than being useful. He didn’t really pay her much attention until Eunoia caught him zoning her out mid-sentence and smacked his arm to focus.

The topic? Rings.

The kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at just a few months ago. But now, after sharing a home, laughter, and the comfort of silence with Chance… he couldn’t deny it anymore. The thought of solidifying what they had—of giving something lasting in a place where time didn’t mean much—felt right.

Eunoia had been surprisingly invested in the process. She’d manifested half a dozen prototypes, each sitting on the coffee table in a soft glow between them as Mafioso weighed the options. He wasn’t flashy, and neither was Chance, at least not in the traditional sense. They liked little, quiet things that meant something.

He remembered how Chance always seemed drawn to gold tones, how their eyes shimmered against that warmth. Mafioso himself preferred silver—cool and understated—but he wanted this to be theirs, not his.

So he settled on a simple design: a smooth gold band, light yet sturdy, with a small ruby set neatly into the surface—deep red, like the faint flush that always spread across Chance’s face when he got flustered. Inside, engraved in faint, looping script, was a single word in Italian: sempre (Always).

Eunoia had smiled softly as she placed it in a small red velvet box. She tucked it neatly into Mafioso’s coat pocket, patting his chest once before stepping back.

“I wish I could be there when you do it,” she’d said. “But something like this… it’ll be better when it’s just the two of you.”

Mafioso had only nodded, running a thumb over the box through the fabric of his coat. He could already picture the way Chance’s golden eyes would light up—and the thought alone was enough to make his heart ache in the best way.

–

The hot water hissed as it hit Mafioso’s back, steam filling the small bathroom until it was hard to tell where air ended and mist began. He leaned one hand against the tile wall, letting the warmth seep into his sore muscles. A day of fighting debtors and playing pretend exhaustion for Chance had taken its toll, but the fatigue wasn’t what weighed on him now.

It was the box.

The little red box sat innocently on the counter beside the sink, catching stray droplets of condensation that rolled down its velvet sides. He didn’t want to risk Chance finding it in the bedroom. Mafioso glanced at it through the fogged glass of the shower door, his mind racing.

How was he supposed to do this?

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his wet hair. The traditional image popped into his mind—getting down on one knee, ring in hand, Chance gasping in surprise. It was sweet, sure, but it didn’t feel like them. They weren’t the type for grand gestures or rehearsed romance. They’d built their connection on quiet things; shared glances, unspoken understanding, sleepy mornings and soft laughter over burnt toast.

He imagined slipping it onto their finger mid-dance, maybe while some lazy jazz song played on the record player. Or maybe he’d just hand it to them while they were sitting at the table, saying something like, “Here, this belongs with you.” Too casual? Too stiff? He couldn’t decide.

The water ran hotter, the air thicker, and still he couldn’t find the perfect image. He tilted his head back under the spray, closing his eyes as it poured over his face.

Would they cry? Laugh? Would they even believe it was real?

He smiled faintly at that. Chance had a way of doubting the good things that came their way as if waiting for them to crumble. Mafioso wanted to change that. To make this place, this life, feel real and secure.

He could already picture the way they’d look in the soft golden light of the kitchen, hair messy, hands still smelling faintly of soap or dinner. He’d take their hand, maybe not kneel, but look them in the eyes—really look—and tell them,
“I don’t need anything more than this. Just you. Always.”

That sounded about right.

The water began to cool, and Mafioso finally turned the water off. He stood there a moment longer, letting the last droplets fall before stepping out, grabbing a towel, and glancing again at the red box.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured to it with a small, nervous chuckle. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

But even he knew—he’d been saying maybe tomorrow for weeks now.

A month had passed since Mafioso first got the ring. He hadn’t meant to wait this long—it just never felt like the right moment. He knew Chance wouldn’t reject him; marriage didn’t change much in the dreamsphere, after all. There were no legalities, no possessions to bind together—just a promise. Still, every time he thought about asking, his chest tightened, and the perfect moment slipped away.

With a quiet sigh, he set his hat on his head, adjusted it just so, and reached for his sword. The familiar weight at his hip was grounding. A quick glance at his pocket watch confirmed what he already knew—he was running late. Eunoia had specifically requested him to handle the debtors running wild through Vulcanic Heights and the Pink Swamp. Apparently, they’d been stirring up chaos again, and she didn’t trust anyone else to handle it cleanly.

He opened the front door, closing it softly behind him as the porch windchime tinkled in the gentle breeze. His gaze fell immediately to the side of the house, where Chance was humming quietly to himself, kneeling in the small garden patch he’d started months ago.

Mafioso leaned against the railing for a moment, just watching. He never understood why Chance gardened—why he spent hours tending soil when he could just will plants into existence—but Chance always said, “It’s about the process, not the result.” And somehow, Mafioso couldn’t argue with that.

Chance was currently feeding Spade and Princess, the two spoiled bunnies who lounged lazily beside him. He was offering them some fresh clover, plucked straight from the little bed he’d grown just for them. Mafioso smiled faintly—he’d never admit it out loud, but seeing Chance so gentle always made something warm stir in his chest.

“Amore,” he called softly. “I’m heading out now.”

Chance looked up, a small smear of dirt on his cheek, and grinned. He plucked a long clover stem from the patch and held it up.

“Take a snack for the road.”

Mafioso chuckled, taking it and twirling it between his fingers before tucking it between his teeth like a piece of straw. “You spoil me.”

Chance laughed quietly, brushing off his hands. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Hard to say. Eunoia wants me to hit at least two dreams today, and you know how unpredictable walkers are.”

Chance hummed in acknowledgment, turning back to his garden. “Alright then. What do you want for dinner?”

Mafioso stepped closer, resting a gloved hand on the top of Chance’s head and leaning down just enough to press a kiss there. “Anything you make is perfect, my dear.”

Chance huffed a laugh, swatting his hand away with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t come home too late.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He lingered for a moment longer, watching as Chance bent back over the clover patch, sunlight catching in his hair. Mafioso’s fingers brushed against the small, square outline of the ring box in his coat pocket before he finally turned away.

Soon, he promised himself as he crossed the arched stone bridge.

The portal key felt heavier than usual in his hand, its faint hum pressing against his nerves. He took a slow breath, glancing back toward the cottage.

Chance was still in the grass, humming softly as he fed the rabbits a handful of clover. The gentle way he smiled made Mafioso’s chest ache. He turned back toward the bridge, ready to keep walking—until something bright caught the corner of his eye.

At his feet, small orange petals peeked through the grass in the field. Marigolds.

He froze.

That… wasn’t right.

Lavender was the normal flower here—it usually sprouted all the time around Chance when he felt at peace. But marigolds? Those were rare, and never at his feet. This was Chance’s dream, not his. Flowers didn’t grow for Mafioso. They couldn’t. Yet there they were, little bursts of orange flaring to life wherever he stepped, trailing after him as he walked.

He crouched, brushing his fingers gently across one of the blooms. The stem was warm, pulsing faintly like it was alive with some heartbeat that wasn’t his own. The marigolds trembled when he touched them, as if acknowledging the anxiety curling in his chest.

He let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “Marigolds, huh?”

He’d read enough about flowers to know they were said to mean anxiety—or worry. A fitting flower for a man about to propose and terrified of doing it wrong. Even after months of living together, after everything, he still found himself uneasy at the thought. Not because he doubted Chance—but because he wanted it to be perfect.

Still, it unsettled him. The dream shouldn’t be responding to his emotions. That was Chance’s domain. Maybe Eunoia would have an explanation.

He straightened and continued toward the portal, the marigolds trailing faithfully behind, blooming with every step. When he reached the center of the ring, he turned the key in his hand. The air shimmered, opening to the portal’s swirl.

He looked back once more. Chance was still kneeling in the grass, smiling softly as the wind played with his hair.

“I'll be back,” Mafioso murmured.

Then he stepped through, and as the light swallowed him, the marigolds faded into dust—disappearing as though they had never been there at all.

After a while, the quiet became too much. The sun hung low and warm over the field, and Chance sighed, brushing the dirt from their hands. Gardening was peaceful—sure—but after a few hours, the satisfaction dulled. The sprouts were lined up perfectly, the lavender still bright near the porch, and the bunnies had long since wandered off to nap in the shade.

“Alright,” they muttered, standing and stretching until their spine popped, “that’s enough pretending to be productive.”

The grass brushed against their ankles as they walked back inside. The air was cooler in the cottage, carrying the faint scent of Mafioso’s cologne from that morning—smoky and warm, like cedarwood and faint tobacco. It lingered in the hallway, clinging to the walls as if he’d never left.

Chance wandered into the bathroom, peeling off their shirt and tossing it into the hamper before stepping under the shower. They let the hot water hit their shoulders and sighed, closing their eyes. The routine was comforting, grounding in a way that almost made them forget how empty the cottage felt without him there.

By the time they finished, steam clouded the mirror, and their hair stuck damply to their neck. They towel-dried it roughly before padding barefoot into the kitchen, the wood creaking softly beneath them.

Dinner, they decided, would be something simple. Something warm at least.

…Beef stroganoff it was.

They pulled Mafioso’s gifted cookbook from its spot on the counter—a big, leather-bound thing that looked way fancier than it needed to be—and flipped it open to the page he’d bookmarked for later. “For when I’m not here to cook for you,” he’d joked when he gave it to them.

“Well, I guess that means you get to eat my version,” they murmured, smiling faintly.

They set a pan on the stove, the click of the burner echoing softly in the otherwise quiet room. Ground beef sizzled as it hit the pan, filling the air with a savory smell that made their stomach growl. They stirred it idly, watching the fat bubble around the edges, their mind drifting.

Mafioso would probably be home late again if Eunoia had sent him out to deal with debtors. Still, they couldn’t help glancing toward the front door every few minutes, hoping to hear the faint jingle of the windchime outside.

They decided to stop at browning the beef, leaving the rest for later. The seasoning and pasta could wait until Mafioso got home—they wanted it to be fresh when they ate together.

Chance wiped their hands on a towel and leaned against the counter, the smell of sizzling meat filling the kitchen. They smiled faintly, staring at the half-finished dish, imagining the look on Mafioso’s face when he came home to dinner already started.

It was silly, maybe, but it made their chest warm.

The sizzling quieted once they turned off the burner. The cottage was still again. Maybe a little too still. The kind of quiet that made Chance restless. They drummed their fingers on the countertop, glancing at the clock. Mafioso had only been gone a few hours, but time stretched differently here, especially when it was just them.

Their eyes flicked toward the window. The sunlight had shifted, filtering through the trees in soft, golden beams that danced along the bridge outside. The willow’s leaves shimmered faintly in the breeze, and from this angle, they could just make out the shape of the white piano sitting beneath its canopy.

They smiled a little. “Guess I could practice,” they murmured to themself.

After rinsing their hands, they stepped outside, the door creaking quietly behind them. The air was warm and smelled faintly of grass and wildflowers. The bridge stones were cool under their bare feet, the sound of water trickling beneath filling the silence.

When they reached the willow, they let their hand brush against the low-hanging leaves before settling on the piano bench. The surface was smooth, the keys faintly cool under their fingertips. For a moment, they just sat there, breathing in the stillness—the sound of the stream, the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

Then they started to play.

The notes were soft at first, uncertain, then smoothed into a gentle melody. Something wistful and wordless. Mafioso had shown them a few chords ages ago, but they’d since made their own patterns—little things that came out of how they felt rather than what they knew.

The willow swayed above them, keeping rhythm as if the dream itself were listening.

Chance closed their eyes as they played, leaning into the sound, into the calm. Though it wasn’t the same as when Mafioso sat beside them, humming quietly or resting a hand on their shoulder, but it was close enough to fill the space he left behind.

As Chance played, the dream responded softly around them. Petals began to unfurl in clusters beneath the piano bench and along the riverbank—lavender first, tall and delicate, followed by daisies and pale blue forget-me-nots. Flowers that meant peace, trust, and quiet contentment.

They didn’t notice it right away; the music had them lost somewhere else entirely. Each note seemed to breathe through the soil, stirring life with every chord. The air grew sweeter, carrying that faint floral scent that only appeared when Chance was at ease. The willow’s branches swayed gently, like it too was sighing in relief.

Their fingers danced across the keys, no sheet music in sight—just instinct, emotion, and a melody that belonged to no one but them. The sound echoed softly through the dreamscape, carried over the water and back toward the cottage, where it faded into a hum.

For a moment, they leaned forward, resting their forehead on their hand as the last note lingered. A calm weight settled over them. They hadn’t felt this kind of stillness in weeks—not since Mafioso started working longer hours.

When they finally lifted their head again, the field surrounding the willow was a soft riot of color—lavender swaying with the rhythm of the breeze, tiny white blooms curling around their ankles.

Chance smiled faintly. “Guess I’m not the only one enjoying the music,” they murmured.

They stayed there a while longer, playing whatever came to mind—songs that didn’t need words, because the dream spoke them for them.

Behind them, the air shimmered faintly—the telltale ripple of a portal opening and closing. Mafioso stepped through quietly, boots brushing against the soft grass. The moment he entered, the dream shifted around him. Flowers began to bloom again, silently, like a whisper carried on the breeze. The lavender leaned toward him, the petals turning ever so slightly as if acknowledging his presence. It was subtle, almost reverent.

He froze halfway across the field, hand brushing against the ring box in his coat pocket. For a moment, all he could do was stand there.

Chance was absolutely radiant.

They sat at the white piano beneath the willow, sunlight slipping through the curtain of leaves to paint them in streaks of gold and green. Their eyes were half-lidded in focus, mouth slightly parted as they swayed gently with the rhythm of the song. Each note they played seemed to bloom a new cluster of flowers, a slow wave of lavender and daisies rippling outward in response. The willow itself moved in time—graceful, dipping low, almost as if it were dancing along.

Mafioso’s breath caught in his throat. His chest ached—not with nerves, but with something softer, heavier. This was everything he has ever wanted. A lover. A home. Something to want to stay for. 

He moved closer, careful not to disturb the music, until he was standing beside them. The faint sound of his boots against the soil disappeared beneath the hum of the piano. For a long heartbeat, he just watched—the way Chance’s fingers curved, the sunlight glinting off the keys, the quiet joy that radiated from them.

Then, with hands that trembled only slightly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. The red velvet caught the light as he opened it, the gold band inside gleaming with a soft warmth.

No words. Just that small, steady motion.

He placed it on the piano where the sheets would be in front of Chance. He straightened, still silent, his heart pounding in his ears. He simply waited for Chance to stop playing naturally, still admiring how graceful they were.

Chance didn’t notice at first, too lost in the melody—until the sun caught the ruby just right and reflected straight into their eyes.

The song faltered, fingers pausing mid-note as their gaze shifted, confusion flickering before realization set in.

Their hands froze above the keys. The last note lingered in the air, trembling faintly before fading into silence.

Chance blinked once. Twice. Their gaze fixed on the small red box sitting neatly in front of them, the gold inside glimmering faintly under the filtered sunlight. The ruby winked at them like a secret waiting to be told.

Their lips parted, but no words came out—only a shaky breath. Their heartbeat filled the quiet that followed the music, loud and uneven in their ears. They turned slowly, eyes wide, meeting Mafioso’s dark gaze.

He looked… terrified. Not the kind of fear Chance ever saw when Mafioso faced debtors or nightmares—this was something far more fragile. Vulnerable. His hat shadowed half his face, but his trembling hands gave him away.

“Maf’…” Chance’s voice came out soft, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Is this—”

“Yes.” Mafioso’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. He exhaled slowly and knelt down beside the piano bench, one gloved hand steadying himself against the keys. “You don’t need to answer right away, amore. I just—” He stopped, searching their face for a moment before continuing. “I couldn’t imagine my eternity here without you. I didn’t even want to try.”

Chance’s breath hitched. Their fingers brushed against the edge of the piano, grounding them. “You’re serious?”

Mafioso gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

For a long, suspended moment, the world seemed to still. The willow’s leaves rustled gently above them, carrying a soft wind that made the flowers sway in rhythm. The air shimmered faintly with dreamlight.

Then Chance moved—quick, decisive. They rose from the bench and dropped to their knees, wrapping their arms around Mafioso’s neck and nearly knocking him backward into the grass. Their laughter was wet, breathless, breaking between words.

“You idiot,” they whispered against his shoulder. “You absolute idiot—of course I’ll marry you.”

Mafioso’s arms came around them instantly, pulling them tight as he buried his face in their shoulder. His laugh came out broken and low, half a sigh of relief, half disbelief.

The world responded to their joy. Flowers burst open around them—lavender, daisies, morning glories—all blooming at once in waves of color. The willow swayed lower, its branches curling around them protectively, as if the dream itself was embracing them too.

Chance pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. Their eyes shimmered with tears and sunlight both. “Put it on me,” they whispered.

Mafioso’s hands trembled as he retrieved the box and slid the ring onto their finger. The gold glinted, perfect and warm against their skin.

“Looks better on you than I imagined,” he murmured, smiling softly.

Chance leaned forward and kissed him—slowly, deeply, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.

And when they finally pulled apart, the air around them glowed faintly, as if the dream itself was humming with happiness.

—

Chance was still grinning when they pulled away, their forehead pressed to his, both of them still catching their breath. The piano had gone silent, but the air felt full of music anyway—flowers swaying, dream light flickering, wind whispering through the willow’s curtain of leaves.

Mafioso looked entirely too smug for a man who had nearly collapsed from nerves five minutes ago. He reached up and brushed a stray petal from Chance’s hair, thumb lingering at their cheek. “You know,” he said offhandedly, tone maddeningly casual, “the flowers bloomed for me this morning, too.”

Chance blinked.








“...WHAT!?”

Chapter Text

Eunoia took a slow, thoughtful sip of her tea before speaking, her tone as calm as ever. “So, what you’re telling me,” she began, lowering her cup with a faint clink, “is that the flowers no longer follow just Chance…” She gestured delicately toward Mafioso with one perfectly manicured finger. “They follow you as well?”

Mafioso inclined his head. “Yes. And neither of us has the faintest idea why.”

Eunoia hummed, the sound soft and considerate. She stood from her seat in that graceful, unhurried way of hers and drifted over to the massive bookshelf lining the wall. After scanning the spines for a moment, she plucked out an old tome and blew off the thick layer of dust coating it—sending a dramatic cloud into the air that made Chance cough and wave their hand.

“Still as theatrical as ever,” Mafioso muttered.

Eunoia ignored him, setting the book down on the coffee table and flipping it open to a specific page. “Here,” she said, gesturing for them to lean in.

Chance did so immediately, eyes bright with curiosity. The page displayed an intricate illustration of a massive tree with roots curling into the chest of a shadowed figure—an artistic depiction of a life and a dream intertwined.

They squinted and pointed. “Wait, is that supposed to be me?”

Eunoia gently nudged their hand away before turning a few more pages. “In a sense, yes. Long ago, it was prophesied that a dreamwalker—someone not born of the dreamsphere—would arrive carrying a ‘seed’ that would grow into a dream of their own. The willow, as you know it, is part of that so-called prophecy. In truth, none of us have ever believed such a thing to happen. The man who wrote the book was crazy, I tell you. Ahem. There are no other records of dreamwalkers creating dreams, so you’re quite unique. In fact, stories of you have already begun circulating in dreams you’ve never even entered.”

Chance blinked, equal parts flattered and horrified. “Oh… great.”

Mafioso cleared his throat. “And what about me?”

Eunoia’s eyes glinted knowingly as she flipped to another section and rotated the book to face them. She tapped the page with a slender finger.

“Here. It says that if—and only if—the dreamwalker forms a true bond with another being, whether it is another dreamwalker or a native inhabitant of the sphere, the dream may choose to tether itself to them both. In essence, it merges their souls.”

Mafioso frowned slightly. “So you’re saying—”

“Yes,” Eunoia interjected smoothly, smiling like she’d been waiting to say it. “Your souls are now linked to each other and to the dream itself. The flowers are simply a visible manifestation of that connection. It may even extend to other aspects—the weather, the atmosphere, and small environmental changes. Though,” she added, glancing at Chance with a teasing look, “I suspect only you can alter the big things, like time or seasons.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, satisfied. “So congratulations, you two. You’re not just partners anymore—you’re officially soul-bonded dream cohabitants.”

Chance and Mafioso stared at her in unison.

“…That sounds like a headache waiting to happen,” Chance muttered.

Eunoia only smiled serenely. “Yes, but a beautiful one.”

“But I thought I was still missing part of my soul? How could I share it if it isn’t whole?” Chance asked, brows furrowing slightly.

Eunoia tilted her head, a soft smile playing at her lips. “Chance, that was a good while ago. I’m sure by now you’ve rebuilt it—just by resting, and spending time with your new fiancé here.”

That one word—fiancé—made Chance’s cheeks bloom pink. Their gaze dropped to the ring on their finger, a smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

Eunoia, of course, noticed immediately. “Speaking of fiancé… when’s the wedding, hm?”

Mafioso nearly choked on his tea, quickly bringing his handkerchief up to his mouth as his eyes widened. “Eunoia—!” He coughed, trying to maintain composure, his ears beginning to burn. “We haven’t— I mean, it’s not that soon—”

Chance, however, practically lit up like a lantern. “Well, I wanted to do it as soon as possible, but Maf’ wants to let the engagement marinate for a bit, for some reason,” they said, shooting Mafioso a teasing grin before launching into a full-on, excited ramble.

“I already have so many ideas though! Like—who the ring bearer would be, the weather, the flowers—definitely lavender, maybe some daisies too—and Maf’s ring! Oh, and our outfits—I was thinking a white suit for me with lace and little blue accents for my ‘something blue,’ —no idea what that is, but I know it’s for something—maybe a ribbon or a patch? Oh! And—”

They turned to Eunoia suddenly, eyes sparkling, hands clasped together. “Eunoia, would you—would you want to be my maid of honor?”

Eunoia blinked in surprise before her expression melted into a delighted smile. “I would be honored, Chance.”

Mafioso leaned back with a quiet exhale, shaking his head with a faint, fond smile. “You haven’t even picked a date yet, and you already have the guest list…”

Chance turned to him with a proud little grin. “What? You said you didn’t want to rush—but someone’s got to keep the excitement alive.”

He chuckled softly, eyes warm. “You’re doing an excellent job of it, amore.”

Eunoia visibly grimaced, setting her cup down with exaggerated care. Then, with a hand pressed dramatically to her chest, she groaned, “Ugh—if I was able to throw up, I absolutely would, because of how disgustingly lovey-dovey you two are.”

Chance blinked, then snorted mid-sip of tea, nearly spilling it on themselves as Mafioso chuckled quietly beside them.

“Oh, come on,” Chance laughed, playfully bumping Mafioso’s shoulder, “we’re not that bad.”

“Yes, you are,” Eunoia deadpanned, though the corners of her lips twitched upward. She grabbed the teapot, giving it a graceful little tilt as she refilled her cup, steam curling in soft tendrils between them. “Every time I look at you both, it’s like watching the final scene of a romance movie. I swear, if violins start playing out of nowhere, I’m leaving.”

Chance giggled, kicking their legs slightly under the table, clearly unbothered by the teasing. Mafioso, meanwhile, just leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. “You’re just jealous, Eunoia. It must be hard watching true love up close.”

Eunoia rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Oh, please. Spare me the poetic nonsense, Mafioso. You’ve gone soft ever since this one showed up.”

“Soft?” Chance teased, turning toward him with an amused look. “Is that so?”

Mafioso only smiled faintly, brushing his thumb along the rim of his teacup. “Maybe just a little.”

Eunoia made another exaggerated gagging noise, then sighed and sipped her tea with exaggerated grace. “Alright, fine. You’re sickeningly cute, but I’ll allow it.” She paused, then added with a faint smirk, “And for the record, I’d be honored to assist with the wedding. Maid of honor suits me—though I’ll probably regret it once you two start arguing about flower colors and guest lists.”

Chance beamed, nearly bouncing in their seat. “Really? Thank you, Eunoia! You won’t regret it, I promise—well, maybe a little, but still!”

Eunoia waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure I will. But for you two idiots, I’ll survive.”

Mafioso chuckled quietly at that, looking between them both with a rare, content softness in his eyes.

Within the next few weeks, Eunoia was glued to Chance’s side far more often than Mafioso was. The two of them were an unstoppable force—Eunoia with her meticulous attention to detail and Chance with boundless enthusiasm and a sketchbook full of ideas that somehow all had to fit together. Mafioso, meanwhile, mostly watched from the sidelines, offering quiet smiles and the occasional approving nod when asked his opinion (which, admittedly, wasn’t often).

Since the guest list was small—mainly a bunch of Mafioso’s squires—there wasn’t much stress over seating or catering. That alone made things far smoother than either of them expected.

The piano, once a permanent fixture under the willow, was moved carefully to the side to make room for rows of benches facing a newly constructed arch. It wasn’t overly grand, but it was breathtaking in its simplicity—a woven canopy of vines, blossoms, and silken ribbons that shimmered faintly in the dreamlight. The trunk of the willow framed it perfectly, standing tall and protective like a silent witness.

And then, as if it too were celebrating, the willow responded. Its blooms shifted hue, petals deepening into the colors that matched the wedding’s theme. The branches lowered ever so slightly, their flowers swaying gently in a breeze that carried the faint scent of lavender and sweetness.

From a distance, Mafioso watched the two with quiet fondness, one hand resting over the inside pocket of his coat—where, tucked safely away, lay the vows he’d been writing in secret.

Chance stepped back to admire the setup, his eyes shining with satisfaction—but only for a moment before he turned sharply toward Mafioso, who had been pretending to look very busy studying the willow’s branches.

“Maf’,” Chance called, hands on his hips. “You’re not getting away with being a background character at your own wedding.”

Mafioso blinked, straightening as if caught doing something scandalous. “I wasn’t— I’m simply observing the—uh—craftsmanship.”

Eunoia snorted behind her teacup. “Sure you were.”

Chance crossed the bridge, tugging on Mafioso’s sleeve until he was standing right beside him. “It’s your wedding too, y’know? I want your touch somewhere in all of this. Not just mine and Eunoia’s.”

He hesitated, glancing around at the floral arch and rows of benches. “Everything already looks perfect, amore. What could I possibly add?”

Chance grinned, poking his chest lightly. “Something you. Doesn’t have to be much. Just… a piece of you here. So when people walk in, they see both of us.”

Mafioso looked thoughtful for a moment, then removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Well… perhaps lanterns. Small ones. Hanging from the willow branches, maybe? Soft light—it would look good against the flowers.”

Chance’s eyes sparkled. “Lanterns! That’s perfect!”

With a flick of his wrist and a focused furrow in his brow, dozens of delicate paper lanterns appeared, glowing faintly with warm light as they floated up to hang among the willow’s branches. They swayed gently, casting a golden shimmer across the arch.

Eunoia clasped her hands together, smiling. “Oh, that’s lovely. Romantic. Very unlike you, Mafioso.”

“Ha-ha,” he muttered dryly—but even he couldn’t hide the small, proud smile tugging at his lips.

Chance beamed, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow. “Okay. I think that’s it. Just—maybe—” he raised his hands again to adjust the ribbons, fix the flowers, and—

His vision swayed. The sunlight around them pulsed strangely, and before anyone could react, Chance’s knees gave way.

“Chance!” Mafioso was at his side in a heartbeat, catching him just before he hit the ground. His head lolled slightly against Mafioso’s shoulder, eyes half-open but dazed.

Eunoia hurried over, her metal joints clicking softly as she crouched. “I told you he’d burn himself out,” she said, worry etched in her voice despite her calm demeanor.

Mafioso huffed, scooping Chance up with ease—one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back. “He never listens,” he muttered, carrying him toward the cottage.

“You’re not seriously going to just—” Eunoia started, but stopped when she saw how he was holding him—over one shoulder like a sack of rice.

“Efficient,” Mafioso said simply.

Eunoia rolled her eyes but followed after him. “He’s going to kill you for carrying him like that if he ever finds out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He gently laid Chance down in bed, brushing a few strands of hair from his face. His breathing had already steadied—just exhaustion.

Eunoia stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re lucky it’s just fatigue. If he keeps burning through his energy like this, it could start affecting the dream itself.”

“He’ll be fine,” came the calm reply. “He just needs a nap with the bunnies. Once he’s rested, he’ll be bouncing off the walls again.”

Eunoia sighed. “If you say so… I know this wedding means a lot to him—and to you, too. I just wish you showed the same excitement he does.”

“I am excited—”

“No, you’re not,” she cut in. “You’re not doing half as much as he is. It’s your wedding too, but it feels like Chance is carrying all the effort.”

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I just… don’t really know how to plan or decorate for something like this.”

“Then learn,” Eunoia said, her tone softening but still firm. “Chance is your future husband. He deserves to feel like you want this just as much as he does.”

Mafioso sighed and bid Eunoia farewell as she disappeared toward the designated portal area. The soft hum of the dream faded with her departure, leaving the cottage quiet once more. He turned back toward the hallway, his footsteps light as he made his way to the bedroom.

Chance was fast asleep, sprawled on his stomach with the bunnies nestled comfortably across his back. Mafioso couldn’t help but smile—softly, fondly—at the sight.

He shrugged off his coat, loosened his tie, and set his hat on the nightstand. His shoes landed with a quiet thud as he sat on the edge of the bed. The bunnies gave a few annoyed chuffs as he carefully scooped them up and set them aside, earning a twitch of ears and an indignant little stomp from one.

Sliding into the newly vacated spot, he let out a low sigh of contentment.

“...Maf’,” came Chance’s muffled voice. “I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can,” Mafioso murmured, settling an arm around him. “Be my pillow.”

Chance let out a sleepy groan. “I’m always your pillow…”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from Mafioso’s chest. “And you’re very good at it.”

By the time afternoon light filtered through the curtains, Mafioso was buttoning his shirt and adjusting his cuffs, the quiet rustle of fabric filling the room. Chance stirred faintly beneath the covers, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed while a bunny dozed against their side.

Mafioso paused by the mirror, glancing toward the bed with a small smile. “I’ve got to head out for a few hours,” he said softly. “Some things near the mall and the swamp need my attention.”

Chance blinked groggily, their voice still heavy with sleep. “You’re leaving already?”

“Only for a little while.” He stepped closer, resting a hand on the edge of the blanket. “You should stay here. Rest. You still look like you’ve been fighting your own shadow all week.”

They gave a tired smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Think I’ll stay with the bunnies… They make good nurses.”

One of the rabbits stretched, nose twitching before settling again. Mafioso chuckled quietly. “You three behave yourselves, then. No redecorating while I’m gone.”

Chance made a vague motion with their hand, somewhere between a wave and a promise. “No guarantees.”

Mafioso leaned down, brushing a few strands of hair from their face. “Get some real rest, amore. You’ll need your strength for the wedding chaos.”

They murmured something unintelligible but warm in response, already half-asleep again. Mafioso lingered a moment longer, just watching—the rise and fall of their breathing, the small bundle of bunnies nestled close, the soft dreamlight pooling across the sheets.

Then he straightened, slipping his coat back on and quietly heading for the door.

The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving Chance in the hush of the afternoon—safe, surrounded by the slow rhythm of the dream and the steady comfort of the bunnies’ warmth.

–

Sometime in the afternoon, after a much-needed power nap, they decided to grab a book to pass the time. They got through maybe two chapters before setting it down and just staring out the window.

The waking world came to mind. How long had it been since… then? Who found them? Did anyone call their mom?

They frowned, biting the inside of their cheek. They didn’t leave a note for her. They didn’t get to say sorry for not listening. She would’ve been so proud, knowing they’d settled down, that they were getting married. But she couldn’t be there for the wedding. She couldn’t be there for them.

They missed her.

Chance sniffled, a few tears slipping down their face as memories kept rising. If they hadn’t been so stubborn—so sure they knew better—maybe they’d still be there. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to lose her child.

The first drops of rain began to fall outside, soft at first, pattering against the leaves of the willow. The branches drooped lower, weighed down by water and sorrow. The harder they cried, the heavier the rain became, until it was pouring—steady and relentless. The air thickened with grief, the dream itself responding to Chance’s pain.

They pressed a trembling hand to their chest, voice barely a whisper. “I’d do anything to see you again, Mom…”

Just then, a flash of light burst across the field as the portal flickered open. The glow of it illuminated the rain for a brief, beautiful moment before sealing itself behind Mafioso.

He was busy glancing at his watch, muttering something under his breath, before the wet chill finally hit him. He stopped mid-step, furrowing his brow.

“…Rain?” he murmured, looking up toward the willow, whose once-golden canopy now hung in mournful silence. His heart skipped. He knew this wasn’t just weather.

His breath hitched as he broke into a sprint, crossing the bridge in record time. Water splashed up around his ankles as he hurried to the cottage, shaking off droplets the second he reached the door.

Inside, the sound of quiet sobbing filled the air. Chance was curled up on the couch, knees to their chest, blanket clutched tightly around them. Their eyes were red, cheeks streaked with tears.

“Amore!” Mafioso crossed the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the couch. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, ragazzo?”

Chance hiccupped through their sobs, trying to catch their breath. “I—I miss—m-my mom…”

Mafioso’s expression softened immediately. He reached out, brushing the hair from their face. “Oh, cuore mio…”

They couldn’t stop shaking, tears falling faster now that someone was there to see. “I didn’t leave her a note. I didn’t even say sorry. She probably thought I just disappeared. I just— I want her here.”

Mafioso’s heart ached. He gathered them into his arms without hesitation, holding them tight against his chest. “Hey… shh… It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

They gripped his shirt, their voice small and broken. “She would’ve loved to see this place… to meet you…”

He rested his chin on top of their head, his voice low and steady. “She knows, amore. Wherever she is in the waking world, she knows. And I think she’s proud. Of you. Of what you’ve built here.”

The sound of the rain began to soften, the heavy downpour easing to a slow drizzle. Mafioso stayed silent, just holding them until their sobs quieted into faint sniffles.

When Chance finally lifted their head, their voice was barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to make it rain…”

Mafioso gave a small, crooked smile and kissed the last tear from their cheek. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t melt, sì?”

They let out a shaky laugh that broke through the gloom. Mafioso chuckled too, pressing a soft kiss to their temple before standing. “Come on. Let’s get you something warm to drink. The rain can cry for you now.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, the soft clink of teacups following soon after. Chance leaned back against the couch, exhaustion washing over them, but this time it didn’t hurt so much.

Outside, the willow began to glow faintly again. The clouds thinned, letting streaks of dreamlight break through, shimmering across the raindrops that still clung to its branches.

When Mafioso returned, two steaming cups in hand, he sat beside them and pulled a blanket over both their shoulders. Chance leaned into him wordlessly.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while. The storm had passed, and in its quiet aftermath, the dream finally felt peaceful again despite there still being a small drizzle. 

The rain had faded completely by the time they finished their tea. Outside, the willow’s leaves still dripped gently, the sound slow and rhythmic—like a lullaby settling the world back into calm.

Chance sat curled against Mafioso’s side, their fingers tracing idle circles on the rim of the teacup. Their eyes were puffy but calmer now, their breathing steady. The faint, golden glow of the lanterns under the willow returned, flickering to life one by one as if the dream itself were exhaling after holding its breath.

“I wish I could just… see her again,” Chance murmured after a long pause. “Just once. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’m okay.”

Mafioso glanced down at them, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s not impossible.”

Chance looked up, brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, swirling the tea in his cup before setting it aside. “There are… ways. Rare ones. I’ve heard of dreamers who can bring someone from the waking world here—just for a short while—while they sleep.”

Chance blinked. “Like… actually bring them here? Into the dreamsphere?”

Mafioso nodded. “In theory, sì. I’ve never done it myself, but Eunoia might know how. She’s meddled with the boundaries before.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The idea hung in the air, fragile and beautiful. Chance’s heart began to race at the thought of seeing their mother’s face again, of hearing her voice.

“But…” Mafioso continued softly, “It’s not simple. The waking mind resists being pulled too far. It could go wrong if not done carefully. That’s why I’d ask Eunoia first to see if it’s even safe.”

Chance looked down, their hands trembling slightly around the teacup. “Do you think she’d say yes?”

He reached over, tilting their chin up gently. “For you? I think she might. Especially if she knew why.”

The hope in their chest flickered—small, cautious, but real. “You really think I could see her again…?”

Mafioso smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from their face. “If it’s possible, amore, I’ll find a way. I promise you that.”

Outside, a single ray of light broke through the clouds and filtered through the willow leaves, landing softly across their joined hands.

Chance leaned into him, closing their eyes as quiet tears—this time warm, not heavy—slipped down their cheeks.

“Thank you, Maf’,” they whispered.

He wrapped an arm around them, pulling them closer. “Always.”

The willow’s branches swayed gently above the cottage, as if listening. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the dream didn’t feel lonely anymore—just full of quiet promise.

“No.”

Eunoia sighed, her tone carrying that familiar weight of finality.

“...What?? Why not?” Mafioso’s voice rose in disbelief.

“It’s dangerous, Maf’.”

“It’ll be for just one day!”

“I can’t, Maf’. You know there are dangers.”

“You’ve done it once before.”

“That was a century ago,” she snapped, looking up at him sharply. “And you know how that one went.”

He hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Please? For Chance?”

Eunoia groaned softly, running a hand down her face. “You never make things easy, do you?”

The act of bringing a waking-world resident into the dreamsphere was easy enough in theory—open the veil, guide their sleeping mind through, let the dream hold them for a while. But the consequences… That was what haunted her.

If done incorrectly, the person’s consciousness could lose its natural rhythm of dreaming. They’d never sleep the same again. Each time they closed their eyes in the waking world, they’d be pulled straight back into the dreamsphere. No rest. No reprieve.

Someone like Nashatra could handle that—born a dreamwalker, naturally semibound to this realm. But to make one? To twist the fabric of a human mind into something it was never meant to be… that was rare, and dangerous.

Permanent visitors were uncommon for a reason. Most mortals only brushed the dreamsphere a few times in their life, if ever. That balance kept things stable. Kept the debt manageable.

Every new dreamwalker added more weight—more strain on the flow of dreams. Too many, and the debt would grow. The nightmares would follow, feeding on the excess energy, seeping into the waking world. More nightmares meant more casualties.

And that was something Eunoia could never risk lightly.

“Why would I ever want to put his mother through that?” she muttered, almost to herself. “It’s too dangerous, Maf’. You know it is.”

Eunoia’s hands curled at her sides. “How long?”

His eyes flicked up at her, tired and guarded. “How long what?”

“How long would she need to stay?” she said softly.

“Just for the ceremony. That’s all. Long enough to see him get married—to see him happy.”

Eunoia looked down at her tea, the surface trembling faintly with the hum of the portal behind her. “Tell me why again,” she said, voice quieter now.

He took a slow breath. “Because… he misses her. And never got a proper goodbye.”

That landed harder than he expected.

She stayed silent for a long time, staring into the reflection in her cup—her own face framed by the rippling glow of the portal. The truth was, she’d seen the way Chance worked, how much light he poured into this world, how much love. And she’d seen the cracks beneath it too—the grief that no dream could ever quite fix.

Finally, she sighed. “You always ask for impossible things, Maf’.”

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “And you always find a way to make them possible.”

She groaned again, muttering under her breath. “You owe me for this.”

“I already do,” he said with a small smirk.

Eunoia shook her head and turned to the console, fingers dancing over the controls. “Fine. But listen carefully—this is one night only. I’ll anchor her presence just long enough for the ceremony, and then she goes back. No lingering, no attachments, and absolutely no emotional tethering past the bridge. You both understand?”

Mafioso nodded immediately, relief flickering across his face. “Understood.”

Eunoia’s voice softened, almost reluctant. “If something goes wrong—if the tether doesn’t release—she’ll become a dreamwalker. And that debt will follow her into every sleep she ever has. Nightmares, distortions, maybe even worse.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Eunoia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze flicking toward Mafioso with weary fondness.

“I will do my best,” she said finally. “No promises.”

Mafioso smiled, bowing his head. “Grazie, Eunoia. Truly.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

He chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“...You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you keep helping me,” he said as he turned toward the door.

Her only answer was another sigh, followed by a faint, amused smile as the door shut behind him.

Her smile fell as she went to retrieve the book with the instructions hidden away.

And so, the wedding drew near.

The days leading up to it felt like a soft hum through the willow dream—quiet excitement strung between lantern light and the rustle of ribbons. Chance had spent the morning double-checking everything: the archway’s blossoms, the guest benches, the music, even the faint glow of the dreamlight that painted the air in gold.

Most importantly, they’d made sure Mafioso’s suit looked perfect. Every fold, every button, every polished edge of his shoes. He wasn’t allowed to see their outfit yet—something about a “first look” being sacred. Mafioso didn’t argue, though he’d made a dramatic fuss about it before finally giving in with a grin and a kiss to their forehead.

The ring bearer was set to be Spade, the giant ash-colored bunny who carried a calm dignity in everything he did. And the flower girl? Princess, Mafioso’s tiny white fluffball of energy, who had been trained—barely—to scatter petals instead of chew them.

Eunoia had enjoyed every minute playing dress up as a bridesmaid. Chance had insisted her dress fit perfectly, fussing over every fold of fabric until even Eunoia had to admit she looked stunning. Nashatra, on the other hand, had grumbled endlessly about wearing a gown at all.

“Why do I need to dress up for something that isn’t mine?” she had complained, adjusting the hem for the fifth time.

“Because,” Chance had replied simply, “you’re family. And family looks good together.”

That silenced her—mostly.

Then came the introduction Chance had been waiting for—Mafioso’s best squires.

They arrived through the portal together, their footsteps echoing against the grass as if they’d done this sort of thing a thousand times before. Each of them carried that unmistakable air of loyalty that surrounded Mafioso like a shadow.

Caporegime was the first to greet Chance—a broad, quiet man with calm eyes behind dark sunglasses. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was steady and respectful, like someone used to keeping order with just a look. Standing beside him was Consigliere, composed and sharp, his words careful and deliberate but never cold. He had a way of making even simple conversation feel like an agreement being drafted.

Contractee, by contrast, broke into easy smiles and casual chatter the moment he saw Chance. There was a spark of charm to him, the kind that made him seem disarmingly friendly despite the weight of his title. He teased Mafioso a little, earning himself a glare and a chuckle all at once.

And then there was Soldier—loud, talkative, the kind of person who could fill silence before it even had the chance to settle. He clapped Mafioso on the back like an old friend, then immediately turned to Chance with a grin wide enough to rival the dreamlight itself.

“So you’re the one he’s been going on about,” Soldier said with an approving nod. “Didn’t think anyone could actually keep him in line.”

Chance laughed. “You’d be surprised how much wrangling it takes.”

“Trust me, we’re not surprised,” Contractee chimed in, earning a few quiet chuckles from the others.

Chance looked them over, hands on their hips. “Alright, you four seem capable enough. Your mission is simple—make sure Mafioso looks perfect on the wedding day. That means pressed suit, neat hair, no weird marks or dirt, and absolutely no dramatic brawls before the ceremony.”

Mafioso groaned. “Amore, they’re not animals.”

“They’re men,” Chance countered. “Which is arguably worse when left unsupervised.”

Even Caporegime cracked a grin at that, and Consigliere muttered something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

“Don’t worry,” Soldier said, puffing his chest a little. “We’ll have him looking like the prince of the dreamworld by the time you walk down that aisle.”

“That’s all I ask,” Chance said with a satisfied nod.

Eunoia covered her laugh behind her teacup while Nashatra tried and failed to hide a smirk. Mafioso simply shook his head, but there was pride in his eyes—warm, quiet pride at the sight of his chaotic little world blending together so seamlessly.

—

The morning of the wedding dawned soft and golden beneath the willow’s sweeping branches. The air shimmered faintly with dreamlight—warm, weightless, and full of quiet anticipation. Even the breeze seemed to carry the hum of excitement as the guests began to gather on the other side of the meadow, their laughter distant and muted.

Mafioso stood near the willow, his gloved hands fidgeting in a way he’d never allow anyone but Chance to see. The suit fit him perfectly—dark, sharp, elegant—but he couldn’t shake the flutter of nerves beneath his ribs. Soldier had teased him half to death that morning, Contractee fussed endlessly over his tie, and Eunoia had practically dragged him out of the cottage with a sharp, “Don’t you dare peek before it’s time.”

Now he stood waiting, watching the willow’s lanterns sway softly above. Each one glowed in a warm golden hue—Chance’s choice.

He smiled faintly, then froze at the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Alright, don’t turn around yet!” Eunoia’s voice rang from the distance, stern as ever. “If you even try to peek, I’ll revoke your drink privileges for the entire night.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mafioso called back, though he couldn’t help the chuckle in his tone.

The footsteps grew closer—light, measured, careful. The air around him changed, that strange, familiar pull that always accompanied Chance’s presence. Even before he saw them, he could feel them.

“Okay,” Eunoia said quietly, now standing a few feet away. “You can turn around.”

Mafioso did.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

Chance stood there beneath the arch of blossoms, the dreamlight painting them in hues of soft ivory and gold. Their outfit wasn’t overly ornate—it didn’t need to be. Every fold, every shimmer, every piece of it looked right. Like it had been dreamed into existence just for them. Their long white hair fell over their shoulders in soft waves, catching the lanternlight as they smiled—nervous, shy, but glowing all the same.

Mafioso couldn’t speak. He just stared, his chest tightening with something fierce and tender all at once.

“Well?” Chance asked softly, voice trembling in that way it did when they were trying not to cry. “Do I look okay?”

Mafioso let out a low breath that might’ve been a laugh, stepping closer until they were face to face. “Okay? Amore, you look like the reason dreams exist.”

Chance’s face flushed crimson, and they laughed, brushing away the strand of hair that slipped down to their cheek. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only when it’s true,” he murmured, brushing a different strand of hair from their face.

They stood there for a long while, the world holding its breath around them. The rain from days before had left the air fresh, and the willow seemed to lean closer as if listening.

Chance exhaled softly, placing their hands over his. “You look perfect too, y’know. They did a good job.”

“I had a good reason to try,” he replied.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You.”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Chance laughed again, watery and real. They leaned forward until their forehead rested against his, the scent of lavender and dreamlight between them.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” they whispered.

“Believe it,” Mafioso said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m not letting you go.”

The first guests began to take their seats, and Eunoia’s voice called faintly from across the field. “Alright, lovebirds! Save the tears for the vows, not before!”

Chance laughed, pulling back reluctantly. Mafioso smiled, catching their hand before they could step away.

“After today,” he said, pressing a kiss to their knuckles, “nothing in any world—dream or waking—takes you from me.”

Chance smiled, eyes bright with light and love. “Then let’s go make that official.”

The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains, painting ribbons of gold across the cottage walls. Chance sat before the mirror, carefully fixing the last bits of their hair and dabbing on light makeup. Their hands trembled slightly—not from nerves, exactly, but from the quiet disbelief that today was real.

Eunoia stood nearby, pretending to straighten a vase of dream-blooms. There was something oddly deliberate about how she lingered by the doorway, glancing outside every few seconds.

“...What are you doing?” Chance asked without looking up, smoothing a lock of white hair behind their ear.

“Nothing,” Eunoia said too quickly. “Just… making sure the flowers are alive. You know how temperamental they are.”

Chance raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “They’re literally made of some kind of magic, Eunoia. They don’t even die.”

Eunoia ignored the comment and opened the door slightly, murmuring to someone outside. Chance turned in curiosity—then froze.

Standing in the doorway was a woman with dark curls streaked faintly with silver, her hands fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her dress. Her eyes—brown, soft, so achingly familiar—widened the moment they met Chance’s.

“...Mamá?”

Mrs. Fortunado smiled, her lips trembling. “Hola, mi corazón.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Chance shot up from the chair so fast the brush clattered to the floor. They nearly tripped over the hem of their outfit running to her, arms wrapping tight around her shoulders before they could even think.

“Mamá—I—I thought I’d never—”

She held them just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of their head like she had when they were a child. “Ay, mi amor… look at you. You’re here, you’re safe. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Chance’s breath hitched. Tears welled and spilled freely before they even realized, smudging the corners of their freshly done eyeliner. “Oh no, no—my makeup—”

Mrs. Fortunado laughed softly through her own tears, brushing a thumb beneath their eyes. “Don’t worry, cariño. You look beautiful. Always do.”

Chance sniffled, trying to laugh but only half managing. “You can’t—can’t make me cry right now. I’ll ruin the weather. It’s supposed to stay sunny for the wedding.”

Mrs. Fortunado blinked. “...The weather?”

Eunoia, watching quietly from the side, gave a small, knowing smile. “It’s a long story,” she said. “But it’s true. If they cry too hard, the dream does too.”

Mrs. Fortunado looked back at her child, bewildered and amazed all at once. “Mijo… you’ve always been dramatic—” She laughed, tears still in her lashes. “You made the whole sky your mood ring.”

Chance giggled through the tears, burying their face against her shoulder again. “I missed you so much. I didn’t think—”

“I know,” she whispered, kissing the top of their head. “I know, mi amor. I missed you too.”

They stood there for a long moment, the world outside hushed, the lanterns of the willow swaying gently as if holding their breath.

When they finally pulled away, Chance’s voice was soft, hesitant. “How long has it been… since I…” They couldn’t finish the sentence.

Mrs. Fortunado hesitated, her smile turning faintly sad. “It’s been one year, officially.”

“One year?” Chance repeated, their brow furrowing. “But I’ve been here for… years. I don’t even know how many.”

Eunoia’s gaze softened. “Time flows differently here,” she explained. “The dreamsphere doesn’t measure it the way the waking world does.”

Chance looked back at their mother, disbelief flickering across their face. “So only a year…?”

Mrs. Fortunado nodded. “A year without hearing your voice. A year of wondering if you were at peace.” Her hand cupped their cheek gently. “Now I know.”

Chance’s throat tightened. “I’m okay, mamá. I promise. I’m happy here.”

Mrs. Fortunado smiled through fresh tears. “Then that’s all a mother could want.”

Eunoia cleared her throat softly, breaking the silence before it turned too heavy. “You two should have a few more minutes before the ceremony starts. I’ll make sure no one barges in.”

When she slipped out, Chance turned back to their mother with a watery smile. “I wish you could stay longer.”

Mrs. Fortunado brushed a hand through their hair. “Then let’s make this day count, hm? No tears. Just love.”

Chance nodded, sniffling and taking a deep breath to steady themself. “Right. No tears. No rain.”

But even as they laughed, the willow outside shimmered faintly—tiny droplets of light falling like silver dew. The dreamsphere itself seemed to weep with them, quietly, joyfully.

For a while, they just sat together—Chance perched on the edge of the vanity bench, Mrs. Fortunado standing beside him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder. The glow of the dreamlight flickered softly, wrapping them both in warmth.

Chance’s fingers twisted in his lap, silent at first, then trembling. “Mamá… I’m sorry.”

Her brow furrowed gently. “For what, mi amor?”

They took a shaky breath. “For everything. For not listening to you. For not leaving a note. I—I should’ve told you how I felt. You didn’t deserve to find out like that.”

Mrs. Fortunado’s hand slipped from his shoulder to his cheek. “Oh, corazón…”

“I just…” Chance swallowed hard, words catching on every breath. “When I saw Spade’s body that day, I lost it. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It felt like everything in me just broke. All the noise, the panic—it was too much. And when I…” He paused, staring at the floor as if the memories themselves burned. “When I died, I felt relieved. I didn’t have to fight anymore. I didn’t have to pretend I was fine.”

Mrs. Fortunado’s hand tightened gently around his. “Mi amor…”

“But then I woke up here,” he continued softly, voice barely above a whisper. “And I thought—maybe it was heaven, or something close. But it wasn’t peace right away. I was scared. I was being chased—by the man who’s now my fiancé, actually.” He gave a small, fragile laugh. “Not the best way to meet your future husband.”

She smiled weakly, though the sadness in her eyes didn’t fade. “Ay, hijo… you went through all that alone?”

Chance hesitated, eyes flickering to her face. He wanted to tell her everything—the debt, the nightmare, the pain he endured before the peace he’d built now—but he couldn’t. Not here. Not when she had only just seen him alive again.

He shook his head gently. “It was… hard, but I made it through. I had help. And I have a good life here now. I’m safe. Really.”

She studied him for a long moment, then leaned down and pulled him into her arms again. “I don’t care where you are, or what it looks like. I’m just glad you found peace, mijo. You don’t have to say sorry for hurting. You were human. You are human.”

Chance clung to her tightly, eyes wet again despite his earlier promise not to cry. “I still wish I could’ve told you goodbye properly. Or at least told you I loved you.”

Mrs. Fortunado smiled through her tears, pressing her forehead to his. “You don’t have to say it now. I’ve always known.”

The room fell quiet. Outside, the willow’s lanterns swayed, casting ripples of light across the floor. The faintest drizzle began to fall beyond the windows—tiny beads of silver dreamlight that glimmered like tears, though none dared fall hard enough to ruin the day.

Mrs. Fortunado brushed her thumb beneath Chance’s eyes again, wiping away the streaks. “No more crying, mi amor. Not today. Today is for love. For you.”

Chance took a trembling breath, then nodded. “For love,” they whispered.

A soft knock at the door startled them both. Eunoia’s voice came through, calm but insistent. “It’s time.”

Mrs. Fortunado smiled, standing and straightening her dress. “Then let’s go, my beautiful dreamer. Let’s make this moment count.”

Chance rose with her, still holding her hand, still not entirely believing she was real. As they stepped toward the doorway, the rain outside eased into glittering sunlight once more—like the dream itself had decided to smile with them.

—

Eunoia—ever the reliable bridesmaid and maid of honor—sat perfectly poised at the piano, fingertips floating just above the keys. She waited for Mafioso’s signal, eyes sharp beneath her calm smile.

A few feet away, Mafioso tried—not very successfully—to fend off his squires as they made last-minute adjustments to his suit. Soldier tugged at his lapels, Contractee brushed imaginary dust from his shoulders, Consigliere straightened his tie with surgical precision, and Caporegime fussed with the boutonnière.

“Ragazzi—enough,” Mafioso muttered, batting Soldier’s hands away for the fourth time.

“You’ll thank us in the photos,” Soldier shot back, smirking.

Mafioso rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

In the benches sat several other squires, lined up in neat rows… though their focus wasn’t entirely on the ceremony. Many of them were staring directly—shamelessly—at Nashatra, who stood where the bridesmaids belong. She stared straight ahead, but one twitch of her eyebrow said she knew exactly what they were thinking. And that she was planning to deal with it later.

Eunoia glanced toward Mafioso. He gave a small nod.
She exhaled, placed her hands on the keys, and began to play.

Soft dreamlight notes filled the air, drifting through the willow branches and over the archway. It was serene, warm—like the dream itself was holding its breath.

A squire crouched at the end of the aisle, lifting the latch on a tiny basket. “Alright, Princess. You’re up.”

Princess burst out like a white puff of exploding joy. The bow tied around her ear was stuffed with flower petals, and with every hop, little bursts of petals spilled out behind her. She zig-zagged down the aisle, occasionally pausing to sniff a guest’s shoes before hopping again. Mafioso’s men watched her with the kind of silent awe only hardened enforcers can have for a bunny.

Then all at once, the air changed.

Heads turned. The guests rose. Even the willow’s lanterns flickered brighter.

Chance appeared at the far end of the bridge, bouquet in hand, veil glowing faintly in the dreamlight.

They looked ethereal.

The veil draped softly over their face, just sheer enough to catch the shimmer of the lanterns. Underneath it, Chance’s expression was soft, nervous, but shining. Their mother walked beside them, one arm linked with theirs, guiding them carefully since the veil made it hard to see their own path.

Mrs. Fortunado held her child with pride radiating from every step she took. She whispered something small to them—too quiet for anyone else to hear—and Chance let out a shaky breath, squeezing her arm.

Eunoia’s music swelled, perfectly timed. The breeze stilled.
Princess hopped off to sit proudly by Soldier’s feet. Mafioso’s squires straightened as if performing for inspection. Mafioso himself… stopped breathing.

Chance and their mother reached the beginning of the aisle.

And the entire dreamsphere seemed to hush for them.

Chance inhaled slowly, steadying the tremble in their hands. Their mother gave their arm one last reassuring squeeze, then guided them forward.

The petals Princess had scattered glowed faintly underfoot as Chance stepped onto the aisle.

Each breath felt like it echoed through them—soft, fragile, but full of meaning. The willow leaves rustled in a gentle wave overhead, almost bowing as they passed. Mafioso stood beneath the arch of woven branches and lanterns, his posture suddenly rigid, like he wasn’t sure if his knees were still working.

Soldier elbowed Contractee.
“Boss is gonna faint.”
“Bet 10,000 studs he does,” Contractee whispered back.

Consigliere hushed them with a sharp look, but even he had the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Caporegime remained still as a statue… though his eyebrows lifted as Chance got closer, which for him was practically an outburst.

Mrs. Fortunado guided Chance halfway down the aisle. Then she paused, lifted the veil slightly so she could kiss Chance’s cheek, and whispered, “Estoy aquí, mi cielo. Go on.”

Chance nodded, letting out a shaky breath that glittered in the dream air, and continued alone toward Mafioso.

When their eyes met, Mafioso finally remembered how to exhale. 

“Amore…” the word slipped out in a breath, barely audible.

Chance stopped in front of him, bouquet trembling just a little from nerves. Mafioso reached out instinctively, gently steadying the bouquet—and their hands. Then he unveiled their face gently, careful not to mess up anything that they tried so hard to make perfect.

Behind them, Eunoia’s music softened, then faded into silence. She closed the piano gently, stood, and moved gracefully to the officiator’s place beneath the arch.

Her bridesmaid dress swept behind her, shimmering at the hem where the dreamlight caught it. She adjusted her glasses, cleared her throat, and—despite being the picture of composure—gave Chance an encouraging little wink.

The guests sat. The squires straightened. Even Princess and Spade settled down, sitting like unusually well-behaved bunnies.

Eunoia smiled at the two standing before her.

“Welcome, everyone,” she began, voice steady and warm, “to this long-overdue union—one that has survived chaos, debt, dreams, nightmares, and… well…” She glanced knowingly between Mafioso and Chance. “Several dramatic near-death scenarios.”

Some guests snickered. Mafioso’s ears burned.

Chance squeezed his hand, trying not to laugh.

Eunoia placed her hands gently on the ceremonial book, the pages seeming to pulse faintly.

“As both maid of honor and officiator,” she said, “I am honored to stand here with you today. Before we begin, let us allow the dreamsphere itself to quiet and bear witness.”

The wind stilled. The leaves stopped rustling. The lanterns brightened just enough to frame Chance and Mafioso in a soft halo of warm light.

Eunoia looked between them.

“Are you both ready?”

Eunoia folded her hands, voice gentle.
“Then let us proceed to the vows. Mafioso, would you like to begin?”

Mafioso cleared his throat.
Caporegime discreetly handed him a small handkerchief, which he immediately pretended he didn’t need. Chance tried not to giggle.

Mafioso turned fully toward them, holding both of Chance’s hands now.

“Chance… when I first met you, you were running for your life, scrambling up this very same tree, and I remember watching you fall and hit the ground so hard. And I thought—‘this one’s going to be a pain in the ass.’”

A ripple of laughter among the crowd. Chance covered their face for a moment.

“But… then you cried over a giant bunny that was as carefree as you. And I realized you weren’t trouble. You were heart.”
He took a shaky breath. “You’re stubborn. You sleep a little too much. You forget to eat unless someone reminds you. You make every room brighter and every storm quieter. Even the ones inside my own head.”

Chance’s eyes filled.

“And even if the dreamsphere collapsed tomorrow,” Mafioso said softly, “I would still find you. I swear it. I vow to protect you—not because you’re fragile, but because you’re the one thing I can’t bear to lose. I vow to make you laugh, to hold you when you cry, and to argue with you only when you deserve it.”

Chance sniffled.

“And… I vow to love you for as long as dreams exist. And afterward, too.”

Eunoia blinked rapidly, pretending not to wipe a tear.

“Chance,” she said, “your turn.”

Chance inhaled shakily, wiping their cheeks with trembling fingers. Mafioso gave their hands a reassuring squeeze.

“Maf’… I wasn’t supposed to be here. But you—somehow—you didn’t let me disappear. You didn’t let me drown in nightmares or grief. Even when I thought I didn’t deserve anything good… you gave me good things anyway.”

Mafioso swallowed hard.

“You’ve carried me through panic attacks, fevers, storms—literal storms—because I can’t control the weather when I cry.”
The guests chuckled softly.

“You let me fill our home with trinkets. You held me when I couldn’t sleep. And you saw me before I ever saw myself. I vow to love you for that. I vow to love you for everything.”

They choked up, but continued.

“I vow to stand with you—even when you’re being dramatic, or grumpy, or when you refuse to admit you need help. I vow to give you peace… the same peace you’ve given me.”

Their lips trembled.
“I vow to stay by your side—happily, stubbornly, and always.”

Mafioso whispered: “Amore…”

Eunoia blew her nose quietly before straightening.

“Beautiful. Now—rings.”

A tiny drumroll began from Soldier, tapping his knees.
Then—out from behind the benches—Spade appeared.

The giant continental ash-colored bunny trotted proudly down the aisle, a miniature pillow strapped securely to his back, holding both rings.

Chance covered their mouth in delight.
Mafioso cleared his throat loudly, pretending he wasn’t touched.

Princess scampered beside Spade, cheering him on with tiny hops.

When Spade reached them, he sat up politely. Eunoia unfastened the pillow and presented the rings.

“Chance,” she said, “take the ring for Mafioso.”

They lifted the simple gold band—Mafioso’s request—and turned to him.

Mafioso extended his hand.

Chance gently slid the ring onto his finger.

A spark of dreamlight pulsed through the metal the moment it settled.

Eunoia smiled.
“And Mafioso—Chance’s ring.”

Mafioso took the bright gold band with the crown-set ruby and flanking diamonds. He held Chance’s hand very carefully—as though touching something sacred—and placed the ring where it belonged.

Another pulse of light shimmered across both their hands.

Eunoia closed her book.

“By the power vested in me by the dreamsphere, its rulers, and its bunnies—” Princess stomped lightly on cue. “—I now pronounce you partners in dreams and life.”

She grinned.

“Mafioso Sonnellino… you may kiss your partner.”

Mafioso did not hesitate.

He pulled Chance close and kissed them with the certainty of someone who had waited lifetimes.

The wind stirred.
The lanterns flared.
The willow tree seemed to glow in delight.

And somewhere behind them, Soldier whispered loudly,
“Told you he wasn’t gonna faint.”

The ceremony ended in a blur of applause, soft lantern-light, and Princess proudly chewing on a stray flower petal she’d “accidentally” scattered during her walk. Eunoia clapped her hands once—sharp, focused—and the entire wedding space shifted into a reception pavilion. Drapes unfurled overhead, lights warmed, tables arranged themselves, and the piano glided to the corner like it had a mind of its own.

But Chance barely noticed any of it.

Their mother was waiting near the base of the willow, hands folded delicately, eyes shimmering with awe and disbelief.

Eunoia approached the two of them, expression gentle for once.
“You get five minutes,” she said softly. “After that, I’ll have to wake her.”

Chance flinched. “Five? That’s so—”

“I know,” Eunoia murmured. “Time works differently between worlds. This is all I can manage safely.”

Mrs. Fortunado blinked between them, confused. “Wake me…? Mijo, what does she mean?”

Chance turned to her fully, veil removed, face still puffy from earlier tears.
“Mamá… you can’t stay for the whole party,” they said gently. “You won’t see the dance.”

Mrs. Fortunado’s face fell, but she cupped Chance’s cheek with warm, trembling hands.
“Oh, cielo… I am just happy I saw you today. Even if only a moment. I saw you alive. I saw you happy.”

Chance’s breath shook. They leaned into her touch like they’d been starved for it.

“I’m sorry again,” they whispered. “I’m really sorry I didn’t leave a note for the family. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about… ITrapped. I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I… I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Her thumb brushed away a tear.
“Shh, mi corazón. There is nothing you must apologize for. Nothing.”

Chance swallowed hard, voice breaking.
“I just—I really need you to know I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m in a place where I can be myself… where no one can hurt me anymore.”

Mrs. Fortunado’s eyes softened, sorrow melting into pride.
“That is all a mother wants,” she whispered. “For their child to be safe. To be loved.”

Eunoia stepped back to give them privacy, though her finger tapped anxiously against her arm—a silent reminder of the countdown ticking away.

Chance grasped their mother's hands tighter.
“Mamá… please remember this when you wake up. Remember that I’m not suffering anymore. I’m not scared. I’m… happy.”

Mrs. Fortunado pulled them into a firm embrace, burying her face in Chance’s shoulder.
“I will remember,” she promised. “I will tell myself every morning if I must.”

Chance held her like they were afraid she’d vanish—which, in truth, she would soon.

Behind them, Mafioso lingered quietly at a distance, giving them space but watching with soft, protective eyes. Even he looked a little misty.

One minute left.

Eunoia’s voice carried from behind them, gentle but firm:
“Time is almost up.”

Mrs. Fortunado stroked Chance’s hair one last time.
“I am proud of you, mijo. For surviving. For finding someone who loves you. For being brave enough to love again.”

Chance’s chest tightened painfully.

“Te quiero, mamá.”

She smiled—the same warm, tired smile Chance remembered from so many nights long ago.
“Te quiero más.”

Her outline began to fade, shimmering like a reflection on water. The dream was letting her go.

Chance reached for her hand one last time—felt it slip through theirs like mist.

And then she was gone.

Only the soft glow of lanterns remained.

The space where Mrs. Fortunado had stood slowly dimmed, the dream smoothing over the absence like a tide reclaiming sand. Chance stared at the empty air, trembling, hands still half-lifted as if hoping her fingers might suddenly reappear in theirs.

But there was only silence.

Then arms—strong, steady, familiar—slipped around their waist from behind and pulled them into a warm, grounding embrace. Mafioso rested his chin gently on Chance’s shoulder, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of their head.

The moment he touched them, Chance broke.

They turned into him, burying their face in his chest, sobbing so hard their knees nearly buckled. He held them tighter immediately, curling protectively around them like a shelter against the storm.

“Shh… amore,” he whispered, voice softer than they had ever heard it. “Come here. I’ve got you.”

Chance clung to him, gripping his suit with shaking hands.

“She’s gone—she just… she just left—” they choked.

“I know,” Mafioso murmured, kissing the side of their head. “I know…”

Chance’s tears came harder, soaking into his shirt. Mafioso kept rubbing slow circles on their back, letting them cry, letting them shake until the worst of the sobs finally loosened.

When they paused to gasp for air, Mafioso tilted their chin up gently so they would look at him.

“Amore… listen to me.” His thumb brushed their cheek. “You shouldn’t be sad on your wedding day.”

Chance’s breath hitched. “I—I know, but—”

“But nothing,” he said softly. “You did something beautiful today. You told your mother the truth that’s been tearing your heart apart. She heard you. She understood.”

He rested his forehead against theirs.

“And that? That is the best wedding present you could have ever asked for.”

Chance’s eyes flooded again, but this time with something gentler, lighter. The kind of tears that ease instead of crush.

Mafioso kissed their forehead, lingering.
“You got your message to her, amore mio. That’s what you wanted more than anything. She saw you. She knows you’re safe. She knows you’re loved.”

His arms tightened around them.
“And you’re not alone anymore. Not now, not ever.”

Chance melted against him, letting out a trembling exhale, letting themselves be held.

The pavilion lights glowed warmer—soft gold, like a heartbeat—mirroring the safety of Mafioso’s arms.

Mafioso brushed the last tear from Chance’s cheek and offered his hand, steady and warm.

“Dance with me, amore?”

Chance nodded, breath still trembling but smile returning. Mafioso guided them toward the center of the pavilion as the lanterns softened into a warm golden glow. Eunoia snapped her fingers, the piano shifting seamlessly into a slow, intimate melody.

Mafioso’s hand settled at Chance’s waist, the other holding theirs gently. Chance rested their hand on his shoulder, leaning closer as they began to sway slow, close, and breathing in sync.

The pavilion hushed around them, the willow’s branches lifting slightly as if watching over their first dance.

Off to the side, Mafioso’s squires watched in a rare moment of collective awe. Soldier wiped the corner of his eye discreetly. Contractee, caught in the emotion of the moment, took a deep breath while holding back tears he’d never admit to. Consigliere pressed a hand over his heart, while Caporegime maintained his stoic posture, though his expression softened behind his sunglasses.

Nashatra, champagne in hand, lifted a brow and smirked tiredly at the display, taking another sip as if the sweetness of the scene was somehow too rich for her tastes. She kept her distance, watching with a guarded fondness she’d never openly acknowledge.

Eunoia, standing by the piano, allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. She’d timed everything perfectly.

Chance leaned their head against Mafioso’s chest as they swayed, letting the warmth and sound of his heartbeat anchor them after the emotional whirlwind. Mafioso held them with quiet tenderness, guiding their movements with a careful, loving patience.

Chance’s grip tightened slightly, breath steadying, and Mafioso’s thumb brushed the back of their hand in a reassuring rhythm.

The world around them faded—the pavilion lights, the guests, even the passing time—until it was only the two of them moving together under soft lantern-light.

A first dance.
A beginning.
A promise held in the curve of Mafioso’s arms.

—--

The reception had quieted, lanterns dimmed to a soft glow, and the last of the champagne glasses had finally stopped clinking. After everyone drifted off—Eunoia ushering squires away, Nashatra stumbling back through the portal with a dismissive wave—Mafioso and Chance retreated into the cottage.

Now they sat curled together on the couch, wrapped under a blanket that smelled faintly of willow blossoms and home. A vinyl record spun in the background, its soft crackle filling the space with warmth and nostalgia.

Chance rested against Mafioso’s chest, still wearing the faintest remnants of their wedding glow. Mafioso’s arm draped around them, thumb brushing lazy circles along their shoulder.

“So…” Mafioso said casually, a teasing lilt slipping into his tone. “Ready to consummate the marriage?”

The record might as well have screeched to a halt.

Chance jolted upright, face exploding into a shade of red only rivaled by their ruby wedding ring.
“WHAT??”

Mafioso couldn’t help the slow, mischievous smirk that tugged at his lips.

“I’m joking, amore.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to their temple. “I’m waiting for your call.”

Chance’s blush deepened, and they swatted his chest lightly before sinking back against him, muttering something unintelligible but affectionate.

Mafioso chuckled, pulling them closer as the record continued to play—soft, slow, and endlessly patient.

Chance tucked their face back into Mafioso’s shoulder, still radiating enough heat to power the pavilion lanterns. Mafioso didn’t push—only held them, thumb tracing slow patterns along their arm as the record hummed softly in the background.

After a moment, Chance mumbled against his shirt, voice barely above a whisper:

“I’m not saying I’m not ready…”
They paused, twisting the wedding band nervously.
“But it’s a little early. That’s all…”

Mafioso’s smirk softened into something warm—something unbearably gentle.

He tilted his head to rest his cheek against Chance’s hair.
“Amore, we got married today. You think I’d rush you after everything we’ve been through?”

Chance bit their lip, the tension in their shoulders slowly unwinding.

“I just… want it to be right,” they admitted quietly.

Mafioso tightened his arm around them, pulling the blanket more snugly around their bodies.