Prohibition  Inhibitions

      Fin can’t help pulling a face when he drinks the coffee. Lucian always makes it too strong. When they were younger, he used to say it helped him stay awake. Fin’s not convinced coffee actually does anything to help Lucian on that front, but perhaps it’s psychological. Lucian drains his coffee almost as quickly as Fin drained his shots earlier. Fin looks at his mug with distaste and sets it aside.

      “Does it actually help with your magic?” Fin asks. “The coffee?”

      Lucian looks at the residual coffee grounds at the bottom of his mug with a frown.

      “I like the taste,” he decides.

      “Then you have terrible taste,” Fin points out.

      Lucian scowls at him.

      “I must, if I consider you a friend,” he says.

      “You call me a friend?”

      “I call you a bastard too, but I don’t hear you complaining about that,” Lucian says.

      Fin stands up and wanders aimlessly over to the hearth. He examines the bricks thoughtfully.

      “Then I rescind my statement,” Fin says. “You don’t have terrible taste.”

      Lucian watches him dryly, waiting for the punchline. Fin flashes him a grin.

      “You have the worst taste of anyone I’ve ever met,” he finishes.

      “Bastard,” Lucian says flatly.

      “Always,” Fin says, giving him a little bow.

      Lucian gives him a hint of a smile, and Fin feels a flicker of pride. It’s a challenge, getting Lucian to laugh. He was always stoic, even as a child. Fin supposes that’s not the sort of thing you grow out of, but he’s since learned how to speak Lucian’s language. As prickly as he appears on the surface, there’s a warmth beneath it all, something he only shares with those he’s closest to. Fin counts himself lucky to still be considered among that small group of people.

      Lucian's smile falls away again, and he turns his attention to the puzzle box, rolling it around in his hands.

      “I think your taste is lacking too, Fin,” he says.

      Fin leans against the hearth and smirks.

      “Oh, undoubtedly,” he says. “If you could drink that whiskey in my office, I’m sure you’d agree.”

      Lucian doesn’t smile this time, keeping his attention on the box.

      “I’m a worse friend to you than you’ve ever been to me,” he says.

      Fin watches Lucian for a moment, considering that. He doesn’t believe it for a second. Fin’s had his fair share of terrible friends, if they could even be called “friends.” There are people who use him, and there are people he steps over to get what he needs. He’s met so many Lady Parlows in his life… And then there’s Lucian. He’s only met one of those. If either of them is a terrible friend, it’s not Lucian.

      “It’s been so long since we’ve talked…” Lucian trails off. “I should’ve-”

      “You were becoming a Blade, Lucian. I don’t hold you responsible for that,” Fin interrupts.

      No, that blame lies with the Moon Temple. Vaughn, Iris, the Priestess, they were the ones keeping him there, telling him that nothing else in his life matters more than becoming one of Luna’s Blades. Fin supposes he’s partially responsible for the rift between them as well, but he’s tired of shouldering the blame. Hasn’t he done that enough already?

      Fin feels the itch to activate his dampening magic again, just to make the feelings go away, but he would never do that with Lucian sitting right in front of him. He picks up the horrid coffee again. It’s a decent distraction, at least.

      Lucian absently pops open the little drawer in the puzzle box, then assembles it again.

      “Vaughn and Iris are gone now,” he says. “They left Auroris after Aaron and I were initiated.”

      Unlike Lucian, Fin was never as good at reading the fine movements and expressions of a person. Lucian also doesn’t make it easy to read him. But something about the rapid flick of his fingers as he opens and closes the box, or the quiet intensity in his eyes, and Fin gets the sense that he’s hurting. It’s almost the same thing he saw in him when he’d left the Moon Temple ten years ago. Lucian was convinced that Fin would never talk to him again after he became a noble. Obviously, he was wrong, but he knows Lucian deals poorly with goodbyes.

      A part of Fin is dying to know what happened. He’s surprised that Vaughn and Iris would just up and leave. From what he remembers of them, their dedication to Luna and her bloody work knew no bounds. But he knows that Lucian will refuse to speak on it if he presses too hard, so he lets the questions slide.

      “How long have you and Aaron been Luna’s Blades, then?” he asks instead.

      Lucian hesitates for a moment before responding.

      “It’s been a month,” he says.

      Fin sips at the coffee again.

      Gods, that’s awful, he thinks, choking it down.

      Lucian looks up at him, and a smirk plays on his lips.

      “You don’t have to drink it if it’s too strong, Fin,” he says.

      “It’s not too-” he coughs, then scowls into his mug. “It’s not too strong,” he mutters.

      Lucian sets aside the puzzle box, stands up, and holds out his hand expectantly. Fin stubbornly takes another sip of the coffee and screws up his face again.

      “Are you sure you didn’t poison this, Blade?” he says.

      Lucian rolls his eyes, then pulls the mug out of Fin’s hand. He drinks the rest of it himself, and Fin scowls.

      “Not poisoned,” Lucian says.

      “Easy for you to say, you have healing magic,” Fin says.

      “Being a noble’s made you more dramatic than usual, Fin.”

      “No, it just gave me an audience,” Fin says, giving him a side-eye. “And I’ve grown used to putting on a show.”

      Lucian pauses and searches his face for a moment. Gods, he hates when he does that. It reminds him of what Iris used to do when she was about to call him out on a lie.

      “You don’t have to put on a show for me, Fin,” Lucian says finally.

      It’s a simple phrase, and it’s said in Lucian’s particular, softer voice that somehow ascribes weight to the words without judgment. It shouldn’t hit Fin as hard as it does, but it feels like a gods-damned freight train. He doesn’t even know what to say.

      “I’m… Not,” he says carefully.

      It’s a clumsier lie than he would normally deliver. Lucian frowns, seeing right through it.

      At the Moon Temple, when Iris would get angry with him, she used to call him a “lying little rat.” Fin couldn’t even argue with the statement. At the time, he was all three of those things: a former street rat, scrawny and malnourished, and yet still a practiced liar, even at such a young age. Back then he was used to getting whatever he wanted in one of two ways: using his magic, or through deception. The law of the street rats was simple: either you’re big and strong enough to survive, or you’re quick and smart enough. Fin wasn’t the first option, so he became the second. He was able to dance circles around the other kids, and in return they gave no small amount of admiration for him and his magic. Putting on a show for them was fun, it made him feel powerful. But at the Moon Temple, the things that made him strong suddenly became an object of shame, something to be corrected and controlled. Iris took one look at him with her truth-seeking magic, and the only thing she saw was a “lying little rat.” It made Fin feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass, helpless as she burned away things like his pride, his agency, his very self. What was left was only the show, the ant writhing in agony. Even after he crawled away to the Sun Level, that show just didn’t stop.

      He doesn’t have to put on a show?

      “Lucian, I am the show,” Fin says, his voice cracking apart like the fragile pieces of himself.

      Fin feels something strange then, a sliver of calm weaving its way through his mind like a breeze on a hot day. He grips that feeling the moment he sees it, wrapping it tightly around himself like a ribbon. It settles comfortably, naturally. He sighs.

      Lucian takes a step back, wariness shadowing his face.

      “Fin, your eyes…”

      Fin glances at a nearby window, and in the dim reflection he can see a flash of light from his eyes. He stares at it for a moment.

      “Oh.”

      But he holds the magic anyway, unable to bring himself to let it go.

      “What… Ability is that?” Lucian asks slowly.

      He’s right to be cautious, but it’s of no danger to him. Fin responds with the truth because his magic says there’s no reason to lie to him.

      “Emotional dampening,” he says, his voice flat.

      “I don’t remember you having that ability.”

      “I know.”

      “How long?”

      “Ten years.”

      Lucian looks shocked and a little hurt. Fin imagines realizing that you’ve been lied to for ten years doesn’t feel very nice. But what does it matter to him? He doesn’t feel anything right now.

      “You don’t need to worry, Lucian. It only works on myself,” Fin says, examining the light of his eyes in the window.

      Lucian stares at him, then crosses his arms.

      “That’s not why I’m worried, Fin,” he says.

      Fin looks back at Lucian, not understanding. The magic has such a tight grip on him that he can’t even begin to fathom what his friend might be feeling. In fact, Fin almost feels like he’s no longer in control of himself. Normally, that would bother him, but at the moment he doesn’t care in the slightest. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

      “Why did you activate it just now?” Lucian asks.

      “I didn’t,” Fin responds. “It triggered itself.”

      “Then why are you still using it?”

      Fin blinks.

      “Why shouldn’t I?” he asks.

      Lucian narrows his eyes.

      “What are the side effects? We all have them,” he says.

      “The side effects only trigger when I release the magic, not before,” Fin says matter-of-factly. “It’s in my best interest to keep using it.”

      “You can’t just constantly use magic, Fin.”

      “Hypothetically, I could,” Fin points out.

      “Maybe, if you don’t mind all of Auroris knowing you’re a demigod,” Lucian says with a scowl.

      Sound logic. Fin may be buried deep in apathy with this ability, but the fear of others learning about his magic is rooted deeper still, carved into his very flesh. Fin’s hand drifts up to feel the webbed scar under his left eye, its ridges familiar, its source unforgettable. The glow in his eyes flickers out…

      …And the pain is instantaneous.

      Fin sinks into his chair again and grits his teeth, lowering his head into his hands. He thought the headache he’d gotten earlier when Mina arrived at home was the worst he could experience. That was nothing compared to this.

      Is it because my magic triggered itself?  he wonders frantically, thoughts barely able to form through the blurry haze of pain. It had never done that before. He didn’t even know it was possible.

      Fin’s vaguely aware of Lucian trying to speak to him, but he can’t process the words. He feels Lucian put a hand on his shoulder, and Fin blearily looks up at him, blinking away tears that had begun forming in the corners of his eyes. Leaking out from the pressure in his head, no doubt, nothing more.

      “Office…” Fin manages to say. “Bottle… Please…”

      Lucian’s gone. Fin curls back in on himself, as though he can just shrink away and cease to exist. The world is too big, and too loud, and too bright. For a moment, he feels like a child again, curled up and alone in a Moon Level gutter, covered in his own blood, waiting to die… But he managed to drag his sorry ass to the Moon Temple back then. Say what you will about rats, but they’re entirely too stubborn to just up and die.

      Lucian returns and hands Fin the bottle of whiskey. Fin wastes no time drinking as much as he feels like he needs. Lucian circles to the windows and draws the curtains, blocking out the sun’s angry glare, watching Fin out of the corner of his eye. The whiskey doesn’t work that quickly, but it takes just enough of the edge off that Fin can finally form a cohesive thought. He drops the now-empty bottle on the floor.

      “Fuck,” he mutters.

      Lucian snaps the last curtain shut, then turns on the lamp in the corner of the room, its soft, blue glow much more comfortable against the pain in his head. Fin can’t bring himself to look at Lucian.

      “You weren’t supposed to see any of that,” Fin says quietly.

      Lucian doesn’t respond beyond lightly taking a seat on the couch across from him. Fin wipes away what tears were left in his eyes.

      “You’re angry,” Fin says, more as a statement of fact than a question.

      Lucian leans forward and props an elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his hand.

      “No…” he says. “I’m worried.”

      “For me? You shouldn’t have,” Fin says wryly. He winces, but manages to give Lucian a smile anyway.

      Lucian doesn’t smile back. Fin hangs his head, staring at the empty bottle on the floor.

      “Dammit, Lucian, just tell me what you’re thinking. I hate the suspense.”

      Lucian’s quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. His voice is soft and cool, like usual.

      “Is this why you drink so much?” he asks.

      Fin nudges the empty bottle with his foot.

      “Liquor’s the only thing that takes the pain away,” he says.

      “You’re going to drink yourself to death.”

      Fin shrugs, giving Lucian a half smile.

      “There are worse ways to go.”

      Lucian watches Fin, his expression guarded.

      “If that ability hurts you so much, why even use it? It doesn’t seem worth it to me,” he says.

      Fin laughs, leaning back in his chair. He rubs a hand across his forehead, smoothing out the tension.

      “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Lucian. You can dampen your emotions naturally, without the help of magic. It’s just who you are. The rest of us aren’t so lucky.”

      Lucian tilts his head.

      “That’s not true. I feel things just as much as you do.”

      “Could’ve fooled me.”

      “If you’re done trying to change the subject, would you listen to me for a moment?” Lucian says. His voice remains calm, but there’s a hint of sharpness that snaps Fin to attention.

      Lucian’s gaze drifts to the floor, voice softening again.

      “I get why you do it. Sometimes it’s easier to shut yourself away and feel nothing at all, pretend like the world doesn’t hurt you, or like you don’t hurt it. There’s safety in anonymity, I know that better than anyone…”

      Lucian picks up the puzzle box again, looking at it softly.

      “But even if nothing matters to you, you still matter. You have people who love you, Fin. People who need you, all of you…”

      Lucian meets Fin’s eyes, and Fin flinches away from the raw honesty he sees there.

      “You can’t just shut that away,” Lucian finishes.

      Lucian’s words are like rain on the surface of Fin’s mind. While it was previously still, it disrupts the water just enough to send ripples across it, stirring up what’s underneath. All the pain from the last several months, the frustration, the grief that comes from simply being alive in a world that couldn’t care less, it drifts to the surface. For the first time in a long while, Fin allows himself to feel it. He takes a ragged breath, and tears spring unbidden to his eyes, much like his magic did earlier.

      “I’m tired of being needed, Lucian. Everyone wants something from me, needs something from me… I only have so much to give before I’m completely empty.”

      Fin clenches his fist, angry at the world.

      “Can’t I just be selfish for once? Is it so wrong to keep something for myself? What do I owe people, that they’re so deserving of my mind, of my magic, of… me?”

      Lucian’s brow furrows as he considers that, and something flickers deep in his eyes that tells Fin he feels the exact same way, even if he would never say it. He taps his fingers on the puzzle box absently.

      “I don’t believe there’s meaning to be found in selfishness,” he says. “It’s a temporary pleasure. Dive too deep into it, and you’ll drown in your own madness.”

      Fin wipes at his eyes again and holds his hand up to the light of the lamp, letting the soft, blue glow filter through his fingers.

      “Perhaps I’ve already done that,” he says.

      “Then I’ll learn to swim,” Lucian says, glancing at him.

      Fin lowers his hand and frowns.

      “Do you fancy drowning, Lucian? Because that’s what will happen if you tie yourself to someone like me.”

      “For someone who spends so much time in his own head, you don’t seem to know yourself at all, Fin.”

      Fin cracks a rueful smile. He’s so optimistic about his nature. But Fin knows the truth. There’s plenty that Lucian doesn’t know about him. The parts of Fin have been scattered so far to the wind that no single person knows each of his faces besides himself. No, Fin knows exactly who he is, and he knows what he does to people, no matter how much he might care for them.

      “Just remember that I warned you,” he says.

      Lucian raises an eyebrow and climbs to his feet.

      “Your warning has been considered and discarded,” he says. He tosses the puzzle box in the air and catches it again. “How’s your headache?”

      “I feel like someone tried to split my head open with a meat cleaver.”

      “Are you going to use that ability again?”

      Fin taps his fingers on his knee.

      “Only time can tell,” he says eventually.

      Lucian scowls at him, and Fin smiles smugly in return. Lucian sighs and shakes his head.

      “It’ll do,” he mutters.

      Lucian sets the puzzle box down carefully and turns to Fin, crossing his arms.

      “My sleep touch ability has the added effect of healing others as well,” he says.

      Fin looks at him curiously.

      “You have tandem magic now? Lucky bastard.”

      “If I put you to sleep, your headache should be gone. Theoretically.”

      Fin scowls.

      “You could have done that this whole time, and you’re only just telling me this now?” he says.

      Lucian gives him a deadpan look.

      “I can’t talk to you while you’re sleeping,” he says.

      Fin scoffs.

      “And I thought I was the asshole.”

      Lucian smirks.

      “I never claimed to be otherwise.”

      “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

      Lucian looks at his hand thoughtfully.

      “Fin,” he says.

      Fin frowns.

      “What.”

      Lucian’s eyes flash purple.

      “Don’t get on my bad side,” he says.

      Lucian taps Fin’s forehead, and in an instant, Fin feels sleep’s warm embrace. His eyes drift closed, headache fading into the background in the blissful quiet.

      “No promises…” he murmurs.