On his desk, in his office, Damian had only one personal item: a photograph of himself, Trevor, and Fred. It had been taken at an amusement park they visited during one of Trevor's tours.
When he was younger, Damian would have hidden such evidence of love—of weakness. He might have tucked it under his bed, somewhere only he could see it. Somewhere safe.
But he was no longer that weak, fragile boy. Now he had power. Power to keep what was his safe.
His old bravado had been replaced by well-earned confidence. And power had its price. He had duties. Responsibilities. He didn't begrudge them. He relished them. They were proof of how far he had come.
But to fulfill his duty, he had to leave the safety of The Enrichment Centre and go to Rome. Because if he didn't, Rome would burn—just as it had been prophesied.
Danger was no problem. The Rome assignment might take a little longer, but Damian had fought before. He had killed more Vril-ya than even the elder Witches—some of whom had lived for centuries. He was the Master's Apprentice. The Ringbearer. Demon Tamer.
This was but another trial he would triumph over, another step in claiming his rightful destiny.
His fingers lingered on the picture. He was supposed to pack it up, but he was hesitating.
They all looked so young in that photo. Fred had been just a little kid then, not the sullen teenager he was now. And he and Trevor... they had seemed more carefree back then. He supposed they had been.
The Vril-ya did not scare him. They were deceptive, cruel, and deadly—but Damian had their measure. He had slain lesser ones.
And he was ready to face a Named one. He had been ready before. It was Master who was too cautious.
He could lose a life or two—Master had granted him seven. Seven lives, seven seals to bind the demon. It was unpleasant, holding a ring-bound demon without the buffer of all seven seals, but he had endured that before.
Trevor had helped silence the voices before. He would help again.
But Trevor was also the problem here.
His love wanted to come with him. To Rome. To stand at his side. To fight.
It was selfish of Damian—to risk himself, but deny the same choice to Trevor. To indulge in the savage glory of righteous battle, and yet leave his love behind.
Then again, Damian had never considered himself a charitable man.
But he had trouble saying no to Trevor.
If only Trevor was strong enough.
That was the crux of it. Trevor had the gift—but not only was it much weaker than Damian's, it wasn't suited for combat.
There were ways around that. Power could be claimed, as long as one knew how and was willing to pay the price. Damian knew a way. It was just a matter of whether Trevor was willing to pay it.
It was a decision he had already made. Trevor could either take the deal and join him, or refuse and stay behind.
Damian picked up the picture, looking again at his own younger face. Why was he hesitating then? What was he afraid of—Trevor saying no, or Trevor saying yes?
He put the picture in the box that would be sent to his Rome office. When he was young, his instinct had been to hide his weaknesses. But Master had taught him better.
Showing vulnerability made him relatable.
It made people want to open up.
Made it easier for Damian to put them on the right path.
The one he had chosen for them.
Since Damian was the one to initiate the talk with Trevor, he could choose the exact time and place. It needed to be done today—on that point, he had no freedom—but otherwise, the choice was his.
Perhaps it was a sign of hesitation that he'd chosen the moment they went to bed, as was their habit, to start the discussion. But Damian was sure it was the best moment. Intimate. As private as it could get.
Like all things in the Enrichment Centre, it was monitored. But thanks to Damian's rank, only very few people had access to the records—and only GLaDOS actively monitored. He did not begrudge the lack of privacy. He had been used to it since he was a small child, even before he came to Aperture.
And here, in the Enrichment Centre, it was mostly for his benefit. After all, if something happened, it was nice to know help would come immediately. And the data collected made his life easier.
The lights were set low, casting a green-blue tone across the room. Calming. Suitable for relaxation, though not quite sleep. A soft waterfall sound played in the background, like a distant river running just beyond the walls.
Damian reached for Trevor, his hand sliding through his lover's red hair, fingers tracing the familiar softness.
"Can we talk?" Damian asked, his voice steady. "It's about Rome."
Trevor looked at him with those transparent, icy blue eyes—large and round, the irises rimmed with a thin line of black. Even after a decade together, Damian could still get lost in those eyes.
"So," Trevor said, "you made a decision."
"It's an unusual request from you," Damian said. He wasn't prevaricating; context mattered. And Trevor would expect no less.
"You've kept yourself on the sidelines of the fight with the Vril-ya." His thumb brushed along Trevor's temple, tracing the faint pulse there. The familiar gesture steadied him more than he'd admit.
Trevor's gift was a rare variation of psychometry. Visual rather than tactile. Oblique, by nature. He didn't see events as they happened. He drew them—usually as comics. Whether that was due to artistic preference or an extension of his psychic imprint remained unclear. Damian had theories, but this wasn't the time for them.
It also meant Trevor held unusually high clearance. It was difficult to keep secrets from him. Especially for Damian.
Orgasms disrupted psychic barriers. The phenomenon was well documented. Damian had contributed several classified papers on the subject. And after years together, they shared a low-level psychic bond. He knew that. He'd studied it.
But it wasn't data that made this complicated. It was Trevor.
"I told you why," Trevor said, catching Damian's other hand in his. His artist's fingers tangled with Damian's, sharing warmth. "Do I need to repeat it? Very well. When I try to draw you in the Vatican, I draw myself by your side. It's important."
"You see the past, not the future," Damian replied.
"You, of all people, Dr. Shepard, know it's not that simple," Trevor shot back.
And he was right. Postcognition and precognition sometimes seemed like mirror images of each other. It was like those theories in quantum mechanics, where time could run both forward and backward.
"The fact remains," Damian said, pronouncing it with all the gravity of a judge sentencing a murderer to be hanged, "that you're just too weak. You have your gifts—but in what's to come, you'll be a liability, not an asset."
Trevor didn't flinch at the words. Damian hadn't expected him to. He was weak in some ways, but strong in others.
"If you wanted to say no," Trevor said evenly, "you would have done so already. I suppose you have some sort of solution."
"If you are weak, become strong," Damian said, delivering the words like a defrocked priest preaching at a Black Mass. "But as you know—"
"All power comes with a price," Trevor finished for him. He squeezed Damian's hand, his tone dry. "Stop stalling. You have a way?"
"Yes," Damian said. "But there are consequences. Our bond would deepen. And since I'm so much stronger, you would be utterly at my mercy."
He let that settle for a moment, then added, "You could choose to back out. Stay here with Fred, in the Enrichment Centre. If I don't come back… at least he'll have one of us left."
"I was always at your mercy," Trevor said in a slow, gentle tone, as if reciting love poetry to Damien. "With a thought, you could break my bones. If you wanted to be subtle, you could burrow in like a worm through my brain, until every thought I had was yours. Or you could strip my naked spirit from my flesh and bind me into your ring—so I could be yours. Forever and ever."
"Or until I pass the ring," Damien countered. But he was distracted. And aroused. Such was always the case when Trevor spoke in that voice.
"No," Trevor went on, still in that same soft, relentless tone. "If you bind me to it, you won't pass it on. You'll keep it. You'll keep me. Until it consumes you."
"Will I?" Damien asked, but they both knew Trevor was right.
"So," Trevor finished, ignoring the question, "what is there to fear?"
"Well, you won't be able to use the sauna anymore," Damien said, matter-of-factly. It was even true. An annoying side effect of the process.
Trevor's gaze sharpened. "So you did it to yourself," he said, tone light but precise. "About two months ago. You were a regular. You liked the sauna. Then you stopped."
His hand slid to Damien's wrist, thumb pressing lightly over his pulse, as if feeling for something.
"If heat's a problem, it's physical," Trevor went on. "What is it? Surgical implant? Some kind of psychic amplifier?" He tilted his head, studying Damien's face. "Didn't know they made them that small. Something that links us. More permanently."
"You're half right," Damien replied, his lips curling into a smirk. "It is physical, but not mechanical."
Suddenly, he twisted, rolling them until he was on top of Trevor. Pressed groin to groin, chest to chest, the heat of Trevor's bare skin fed the fire inside Damien—fire that pooled low in his belly, heavy and aching.
"But it will take more than words to give it justice," Damien murmured as he lowered his head, lips brushing Trevor's ear. His breath was hot, a promise and a warning. "Tomorrow, after breakfast, I'll take you to my fertile fields. I'll show you my kingdom. And I'll show you the price you'll need to pay. Then I'll ask the question again. And if you say yes… we will be of one flesh."
"That's tomorrow," Trevor said.
He grabbed Damien's head, fingers tangling tight in his hair, and pulled him down into a searing kiss. "But tonight… let's be of one flesh another way."
Damien kissed Trevor like a man starved, like the last thing tethering him to humanity was the heat of his lover's mouth. Trevor met him with equal hunger, his fingers scraping through Damien's blonde hair, tugging hard enough to make him growl. Their bodies moved together with practiced ease, friction and heat building in slow, perfect waves.
Damien let himself feel. The perfect, dangerous surrender. Skin slick with sweat, Trevor's muscles flexing beneath him, their breath tangling as lips dragged over jaw, throat, shoulder. The psychic hum between them deepened, an old current rekindling, bright and fierce.
Trevor's legs wrapped around Damien's waist, heels pressing into his back. Damien thrust forward, slow at first, grinding into Trevor's hips, their cocks sliding together, trapped in the tight heat between their bodies. The friction sparked like a live wire, amplified by the thin sheen of sweat and the energy radiating from Trevor like a second skin.
The bond between them flared. Damien felt the sharp, bright edge of Trevor's mind open to him, his emotions raw and vivid: want, trust, hunger, love. It was a well-trod path that held no secrets, and yet each time remained fresh, unique.
He flooded the link with his own presence. Dark and potent, tempered by desire. Mine, the thought whispered through the connection, and he felt Trevor's shiver in answer. Mine, Trevor answered, an echo and an affirmation.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, the build-up relentless. Each grind, each gasp, pulling them tighter together. Damien bent low, teeth grazing Trevor's throat, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. Trevor arched beneath him, breath hitching, and the sudden spike of pleasure echoed back into Damien like lightning.
He bit again, lower this time, on the sharp edge of Trevor's collarbone. He wanted to mark him. He wanted Trevor known.
"Tomorrow," Damien murmured against his skin, "it won't just be this. We'll be more. Bound. Flesh and mind."
Trevor's breath caught. His hands smoothed down Damien's back, nails scraping, leaving faint red trails. "Then show me," he whispered, "what it's like tonight."
Damien thrust harder, deeper. Their groans mingled, sharp and desperate. The psychic current surged, flooding them both. There was no longer a clean line between whose pleasure was whose. Each sensation reverberated through their bond, magnified—an endless feedback loop of raw, consuming ecstasy.
Trevor was close. Damien could feel it in the tension coiling through his body, in the quickened pulse against his lips, in the open flood of sensation that sharpened through the link.
"Now," Damien ordered, voice rough and commanding.
Trevor obeyed.
Their climax hit like a storm breaking over open water—violent, cleansing, endless. Damien's body locked as he came, spilling between them, Trevor crying out beneath him as his release followed, hot and slick. Their minds merged in that moment, twin stars collapsing inward, and Damien felt the bond stretch, pulse, tighten into something stronger.
And yet, as they lay tangled together, chests heaving, skin damp and burning, Damien knew… this was nothing compared to what would come.
Tomorrow, when he brought Trevor into the field, when he showed him what true connection could be—that was when they would become something more.
He rested his forehead against Trevor's, the echoes of their shared pleasure still humming low between them.
"Sleep," Damien said softly, though his own eyes stayed open, watching Trevor's face as it softened, as his breathing slowed.
He relished the anticipation curling in his belly. Tomorrow, their bond would no longer be something as simple as love or desire.
Tomorrow, they would be one flesh. If Trevor said yes.
Sleep came easily to Damien, and if he dreamed, he didn't remember.
He woke alone. That wasn't unusual—Trevor almost always rose before him.
Thanks to his and Trevor's position, their apartment in the Enrichment Center was top of the line. Every bedroom—his, Trevor's, Fred's, and the guest suite—had its own private bath. A necessary convenience with a teenager in the house.
The minty freshness welcomed him as he stepped into the bathroom.
It came from the mint-moss framed on the wall like a piece of modern art. Genetically engineered for spaces like this, the moss served multiple purposes: it captured excess moisture from the air, refreshed it, and acted as a mild antibacterial and antiviral filter.
The bathroom was empty. Trevor had already finished his morning ablutions.
First, he dealt with bodily waste.
The bathroom was equipped with the latest model in the Aperture Throne Series, a system not due to reach the market for several months.
There were no urgent alerts about his urine or stool. A more detailed analysis would be logged in his medical file, with results used to fine-tune his diet as needed.
He stepped onto the podium in the center of the room and commanded, "Quick."
He didn't need to say more. The system was adaptive, responding to verbal commands and to the sensors observing him.
Panels slid open along the walls, and articulated robotic arms extended, each fitted with different attachments.
Water, air, sonic pulses, and fine lasers worked in precise tandem, scouring his body clean.
Damien opened his mouth wide, letting the micro-delicate jets cleanse his teeth and mouth.
Less than thirty seconds later, he was done. Clean, dry, and ready.
Of course, the system offered more than basic cleansing. There were additional configurations—from deep-tissue massage to a full hydrotherapy jacuzzi cycle—but Damien rarely used them. He preferred the Hydro-Relaxation Chambers for that.
He did use the full depilation mode, though, leaving only his eyebrows and the hair on his head untouched. Trevor liked him smooth.
As Damien zipped up his jumpsuit, he heard Fred's voice carry from the main room.
The bathroom had two exits—one back to the master bedroom, and one that led directly into the common space. Damien paused a moment, listening.
"Is that one of his paintings?" Fred asked. There was a note of incredulity beneath the curiosity, familiar enough to make Damien smile faintly. He didn't need psychic abilities to read Fred. Tone was enough.
"It's been hanging there since we moved in," Trevor replied, amused. "Why the sudden interest?"
"We studied Director Johnson's work in art class," Fred said. His voice had taken on the faint edge of teenage exasperation, the seriously? tone Damien recognized all too well. "But this one… it's not like the others."
"Why? Because it's not porn?" Damien asked as he entered the main room.
Fred turned around at the word, giving an embarrassed little giggle. The fuzzy Aperture mobile clinging to his shoulder—one of the latest models for teens and young adults—twitched its spider-like robot legs in response to the movement. Damien had never seen the point of carrying a personal mobile in the Enrichment Centre; everything was already connected, and there was always a screen nearby. But teenagers were teenagers.
"You know, the last one sold for five million dollars at auction," Trevor said, his tone amused.
"That just makes it well-made porn," Damien replied flatly. "Which is most of Ace's pieces. At least, the ones he sells. The others—the ones with different subjects—you can only get as a gift." His gaze shifted toward the painting in question. "Like this one."
"So, did you get that after Iron Wrought Hero got famous?" Fred asked, turning to Trevor.
"It's the other way around," Trevor replied, his gaze shifting toward the tortured boy in flames depicted on the canvas. "This was the inspiration for it."
"Enough of that," Damien interrupted. "We need to get to the cafeteria for breakfast, and then you have school. You don't want to be marked late."
Fred shrugged. "I figured lateness was just another data point."
"One you don't want to be added to your record," Damien replied dryly.
After breakfast, and after sending Fred to school, Damien took Trevor to his personal laboratory—where his private portal to the Hawkins Anomaly was housed.
Personal portals were rare, considering the cost. But for the critical work Damien was doing, it was more than necessary.
Even after a decade, the sight beyond the portal remained awe-inspiring.
The windowless skyscraper, forged from A.D.A.M.A.N.T., rose like a needle toward the boiling storm clouds above. From that churning mass, crimson lightning descended—not in random strikes, but in deliberate, fractal patterns. The branches of living electricity spread wide, a great crimson tree painted in lightning, its roots burrowing into the tower's ionic converters.
The everstorm raged endlessly, but here, its wrath was tamed. Every bolt fed the system. Every surge powered the design.
"It's a sight, isn't it?" Damien said, his voice quiet with something close to reverence. "And one few ever get to see. Most who work in the anomaly never leave sealed facilities."
"It looks like someone was trying way too hard to LARP a Tolkien fanfiction," Trevor said dryly as he followed Damien through the portal. "Like some elf in Eregion stumbled on Sauron's plans for Barad-dûr and said, 'Annatar, my dear friend, it's a nice tower… but it's missing something. Have you thought about putting a tree on top?'"
He gestured at the massive tower crowned by the branching arcs of crimson lightning. "And Sauron frowns and goes, 'It won't fit the aesthetic.' But the elf just smiles and says, 'It will if the tree is made of red lightning.'"
Trevor gave Damien a sidelong glance. "And that's how we ended up with this."
Damien chuckled. Not just because it was funny—but because if he replaced nameless elf with Rin, it sounded exactly like him. His fingers rubbed absently over his ring as the amusement faded. He sobered instantly.
Damien knew other worlds existed. He'd seen enough to know it wasn't just theory. And the ring was proof enough that Arda was among them. That Rin had been there.
And that led to a question Damien still hadn't found an answer to.
How had Rin become Alexander Johnson? Had he killed and replaced the original? Like the Vril-ya? Or was he Johnson from birth—a houseless spirit slipping into an unborn fetus? Or maybe… maybe all of Alexander Johnson was a lie. Maybe Cave had never had a younger brother. Maybe Rin had simply slipped in and adjusted everyone's memories.
But some questions didn't deserve answers.
"Efficiency dictated the design," Damien said flatly, shifting his focus with the ease of long practice.
Trevor snorted. "Sure. Tell that to whoever approved red lightning."
"Red lightning's natural here," Damien replied. "Side effect of exotic matter in the clouds."
"And when the clouds part… what color is the sun? Blue? Green?" Trevor tilted his head back, squinting at the endless storm above. "No, wait—pink."
"They don't part," Damien replied, flat.
"So, you don't know what's beyond them," Trevor teased.
"That's a bit of a philosophical question," Damien replied. Seeing the confused look on Trevor's face, he elaborated. "You know how, in ancient times, people believed the Earth was a flat disk? And the sky was just… a dome, with things painted on it?"
"Yes," Trevor said slowly. "But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, here, that's true." Damien let that hang for a second before continuing. "If you think of our universe as water, and Xen as oil… this anomaly is like a bubble stuck between them. Where the oil meets the water."
Trevor frowned, but he was listening.
"So, in one way, we could say Xen is beyond those clouds—just like we could say Earth is under our feet." Damien's tone stayed matter-of-fact. "And in another way… there is no beyond, or rather or rather there is nothing that is part of the anomaly."
"And the clouds?" Trevor asked.
Damien's gaze shifted upward. "Normal storms form where cold and hot air collide. This is… a bit similar." He let that hang for a moment. "We've found that universal constants are, in fact, universe-dependent. The laws of nature differ between our universe and Xen. Where two sets of laws clash… the storm forms."
Trevor frowned, thinking it over. "But why is it different for Earth? Or… is there a storm underneath too?"
"That's a good question," Damien said, his tone approving. "The answer is twofold. First, the difference between matter—between gas and solids. Second, this anomaly is closer to Xen than it is to Earth. That's why another name we use for the Hawkins Anomaly is Xen Borderlands."
Trevor's gaze lingered on the sky, as if trying to imagine it.
"There's more to discover," Damien added, stepping forward. "But I didn't bring you here for a field trip in transdimensional physics. Come. I have more to show you."
It was not far. That was by design. The portal was meant for his work. But it also opened directly into the field, to avoid contamination. Damien didn't mind. A brisk walk every time he visited was good for his health.
He glanced at Trevor, noting the heavier breathing. The atmosphere here was something you had to get used to. Damien was used to it—he'd been working here for nearly a decade. But after what he did three months ago, it had become something else.
Soothing.
The taste and smell of the air pleased him in ways that were hard to describe in human language. But he recognized the faint tang on the wind. Another ash fall was coming. Good. His fields needed fertilizing. Blood alone wasn't enough.
"There's little to see now," Damien said, slipping into his usual tour guide tone. "When the anomaly was created, it mirrored Earth. Hawkins and the surrounding area. But we cleared most of it to make space for the work."
They walked on. The ground was hard underfoot, but there was a faint give, like packed earth over something not entirely solid.
"There are some still working on replicating the phenomenon," Damien continued. "Matter duplication. Imagine it: no need for industry. Just make a prototype and copy it, like a xerox machine."
Trevor snorted. "It can't be that simple."
"Probably not." Damien gave a faint, dry smile. "Research isn't going anywhere fast. But it's fun to imagine."
Trevor gave a noncommittal grunt. "I suppose… no hunger would be good."
"It wouldn't work that way," Damien said. "Water and organics don't copy well. The lake was dry. All the trees were withered when it first happened. And there were no animals, no people. Not even corpses."
Trevor's expression tightened. "An empty city. Like in a horror story."
"Not completely empty," Damien replied. "There were immigrants. From Xen."
He took quiet satisfaction in the way Trevor's eyes widened as they crested the rise and saw the field below—thick with alien vines.
The ground was a writhing carpet of them, slick and dark, their surfaces glistening as if wet, though Damien knew they secreted no moisture. Their skins were tough, fibrous, like something between flesh and bark. Small, thorn-like protrusions jutted from the tendrils at uneven intervals, twitching faintly as if tasting the air.
Damien didn't need to look to be aware of them. Even before, it had required a psychic connection to properly cultivate the crop—but now, they responded to him without command. He was tied to them, and they to him. The vines curled and shifted in subtle patterns as he approached, the movements too deliberate to be swayed by mere wind.
They recognized him.
"Is it safe?" Trevor asked, a small treble in his voice.
Damien didn't like it.
"There's nothing to fear," he replied calmly, his voice steady as iron. "You're safer here than anyone else."
And it was true. He knew the vines would move to protect Trevor from any threat. Trevor was important to Damien. And so, by extension, he was important to them. And very soon, Trevor would be important to them by his own merit.
"What is that?" Trevor suddenly asked, pointing into the distance.
Damien followed his gaze. Shapes were moving among the vines—human figures, or close enough.
"Come," Damien said. "I'll introduce you to my farmhands." His tone was brisk, but not unkind. "I used to do all this alone. It's much easier now."
Without another word, he set off toward the figures. The vines parted smoothly before him—and, without a flicker of hesitation, they did the same for Trevor, opening a clear path.
"What are they?" Trevor asked, his voice low but sharp as he moved closer, squinting.
Damien didn't answer right away. He wanted Trevor to see first.
The figures ahead weren't human. At first glance, they might pass for humanoid—two legs, two arms, walking upright. But the similarity ended there. They were too thin, their limbs unnaturally long, each movement jerky but deliberate. Grey skin stretched tight over wiry muscle, the texture more like bark than flesh, tough and dry despite the slick sheen of their bodies.
And their heads… if they could even be called that.
No faces. No eyes. No nose. Just a featureless bulb that, as they moved, quivered slightly—until one shifted its burden and the mouth unfurled.
Petals of flesh peeled back in a slow, organic motion, revealing rows of jagged teeth slick with something too dark to be saliva. It looked like a flower blooming in reverse—less a thing of life, more a thing of consumption. A feeding structure. A weapon.
Each one cradled a piglet in long-fingered hands, handling them with disturbing care.
"In truth," he said, "they're the same as the vines. Like insects—eusocial organisms, divided into specialized morphs." A brief pause. "Though they're far more divergent than any morphs in Earth's eusocial species—no ant becomes a tree."
"What are pigs for?" Trevor asked, still vibli processing information.
"Food," Damien replied simply. He caught the slight widening of Trevor's eyes. "What? You like bacon too."
Mentally, he reached out, confirming this patch had already been nourished. Not optimal, but it would serve for demonstration. One of the farmhands moved without prompting, unnaturally fast for something so gaunt, and hurled the piglet into a knot of vines.
It squealed once—sharp and high-pitched—then fell silent. The vines reacted instantly, coiling with snake-like precision, binding the animal as needle-thorns pierced its hide. Its struggles ended in seconds.
"The ecology on Xen is far more competitive than Earth's," Damien said, watching the vines pulse faintly as they fed. "Most of the life forms there have adapted in ways that make them… difficult prey."
Trevor was still watching the vines. His mouth worked for a second before he spoke. "Isn't that a bit cruel?"
"No more than slaughtering pigs for meat," Damien returned, tone mild. "The venom in the thorns makes it painless." His gaze shifted toward the knot of vines. "On the other side of Hawkins, there's a pilot farm. Insects, designed to eat waste. Pigs, fed on insects. And pigs…" He nodded toward the writhing tangle. "Fed to them."
Trevor frowned. "And that works?"
"It works better than children going missing," Damien said glibly. Then, after a beat, his tone smoothed into something more measured. "And it's not without mutual benefit. See those egg-fruits?" He gestured toward a cluster of pale growths, swelling along one of the thicker vines. "They're sterile. Useless to the hive. But they're packed with chemicals and trace elements we need."
"Cooperation," Damien finished, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Trade. Symbiosis. Mutual benefit."
Trevor's frown deepened, though his eyes were bright with interest now. "But how did you make that kind of agreement? Are they intelligent?"
"Not in the same way humans are," Damien said. "They don't have specialized cells like we do. That makes them incredibly flexible—but less efficient." He paused, searching for a way to translate the concept into something more human-centric. "They don't have nervous systems. They react, but they don't plan."
Trevor's brow furrowed, but he was listening. Damien continued. "But they communicate. Telepathically, in a way. And they can understand mutual benefit."
His gaze drifted back to the vines, watching the slow, deliberate pulse of life within them. "More importantly, there are ways to become part of the hive. A trusted part. A part that can plan." He let that settle for a moment. "And they definitely see the benefit of that."
"And you want me to join you," Trevor said. There was no judgment in his voice. No hesitation. Just fact.
A slow smile curved Damien's lips. "There are other benefits," he said. His tone was calm, almost casual, but the weight beneath it was deliberate. "More than just gaining authority among our new friends."
Trevor said nothing. He didn't need to. Damien could feel the attention, the focus, like the weight of a scalpel poised above flesh.
"Your psychic talents would increase," Damien continued. "Especially in self-biokinesis. You'd be stronger. Harder. You'd heal faster."
He let that hang for a moment, watching Trevor's face, the faintest flicker of understanding passing through his eyes.
"You'd be capable of joining me in Rome."
"Self-biokinesis?" Trevor asked, cutting straight to the heart of it. "This is more than just Rome."
Damien almost winced. Trust Trevor to see it for what it was.
"Self-biokinesis is how psychics extend their lifespans," Trevor continued, his voice quieter now, but no less direct. "You're worried I'll die long before you. That I'll age faster."
Damien sighed. "I'm not worried," he said flatly. "I know."
He let the words settle. No point softening the truth.
"We both studied the records," Damien went on. "Some of the ancient Witches lived more than a millennium and a half. Some didn't make it past two hundred. It's unpredictable."
Trevor gave him a long, steady look. Not angry. Just… seeing.
"But it's not just about you," Damien added. His breath drew in slowly. Metal, rot, ash—sharp, but grounding. "Fred isn't Gifted. He'll live a normal human life. Unless this works for the ungifted too."
Trevor was silent. Waiting.
Damien rested his hand briefly over Trevor's, thumb tracing the bones in his wrist. "And the process… it's too intimate," he said. His voice dropped lower, something close to a confession. "I can't—won't—initiate anyone else. Not before you."
Trevor's mouth quirked. Sad, but understanding. "You've been thinking about this for a while," he said quietly. "Rome was just an opportunity."
"Is that a no?" Damien asked.
If it was, this whole experiment would likely die stillborn. Damien alone was enough to maintain cooperation with the hive. If something happened to him, the Twins were trained well enough to maintain telepathic contact as a stopgap. Who they chose to bond with after—well, he'd be dead. It wouldn't be his business.
And yet, there was an instinctive need to take Trevor—whether his answer was yes or no. Whether that need was his, or the hive's, Damien didn't know.
But he had self-control. He had discipline. If Trevor said no… that would be it.
"When you phrase it that way," Trevor said, his mouth quirking into a wicked little smirk, "you make my answer quite ambiguous. If I say yes, does it mean I've accepted the proposal? Or that I said yes to say no?"
Damien exhaled, sharp and tight, and then smiled. "Do you want me to beg for the answers?" he asked, voice low. "Because I will."
Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees.
He took Trevor's hand in his own—steady, reverent.
"Will you do me the honor," Damien said, each word precise, heavy with meaning, "of joining me in this endeavor? Of being one with me?"
"This sounds like you're asking me to marry you," Trevor said, his voice low, touched with a laugh he didn't quite feel.
Damien didn't answer.
He only looked up at Trevor from where he knelt, gaze unflinching, expectant. There was nothing playful in his expression—no irony, no detachment. Just absolute focus. As if this was a proposal. As if it meant everything.
Trevor's breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Yes. My answer is yes," Trevor said, with just a slight tremble. "Now what?"
Damien stood up and circled behind him, wrapping his arms around Trevor's waist in an embrace that was more restraint than comfort.
"It's a bit tight," Trevor said, dry as ever.
"So don't struggle too much," Damien whispered against his ear, his breath warm. "Now, open your mouth. Wide."
"Why?" Trevor asked—but he obeyed, parting his lips enough.
Faster than a snake, a vine struck. It slid into Trevor's mouth and drove deep into his throat. Damien felt it, the symbiosis threading through the connection between them. Trevor's body jerked instinctively, but Damien held him fast, arms like iron bands.
For a moment, Trevor fought. Then his body slackened, breath easing out in a sigh as he lost consciousness.
"Not over a threshold," Damien murmured to himself, shifting his hold to cradle Trevor more carefully, lifting him in his arms. "But it will do."
He carried Trevor to the waiting knot of vines. They were already flexing, the half-open cocoon pulsing softly, strands of organic webbing glistening with anticipation. Damien laid Trevor's limp body inside and stepped back as the cocoon closed, sealing him in.
At his silent command, the vines wove themselves into a throne behind him. Damien sat and waited, patient and still, watching the cocoon with steady eyes.
It wouldn't be long. Half an hour at most.
And then Trevor would wake.
And he would join him.