Chapter Text
IV wasn’t the type to sweat the small stuff, especially if it didn’t directly involve him. He only noticed what demanded attention; a broken fret, a sticky string, II’s lack of sleep, or a new ring on Vessel’s hand. Tangible things, obvious, right in your face.
But scent?
Scent was just background noise. It was always there. It just existed.
He had a damn sharp nose—borderline obscene, maybe even unsettling, so he’d trained himself to tune it out. No point in giving himself a headache over it.
Until today.
The room was quiet, save for the steady tap of fingers on a keyboard and the muffled hum of the street outside. London went about its usual business, endless streams of cars, faint chatter from passersby, the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Rain hadn’t started yet, but the air already carried that familiar, electric tang of a storm, the kind that made IV feel both wired and oddly at ease.
He was sprawled on the bed, back propped against a pillow, one sock dangling off his foot. His head tilted back slightly, the faint taste of mint lingering from his gum. His guitar rested beside him, strings still faintly humming from the last careless strum.
IV flicked his eyes toward III.
He was hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed in that distracted way of his, the screen’s glow bouncing off his glasses. He didn’t wear them often—just for reading or working on texts, claiming it was “easier that way.” The glasses didn’t quite fit his vibe—too sleek, too thin-framed, which made them feel personal, almost private. IV had noticed how III would absentmindedly nudge them up his nose or rub his temples after staring at tiny text too long.
He was just doing that now, sliding the glasses down a bit before refocusing on the screen. IV knew that look: eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight, the telltale sign III was deep into something, borderline obsessed. Probably skimming some random article he’d later rave about like it was a groundbreaking discovery.
It was a familiar scene. They often hung out like this, sharing space, not really needing words.
Everything was fine.
IV blinked, his nose twitching faintly as it caught something subtle. He knew III’s scent down to its core, every layer, every shade. He could pick it out in a crowd of hundreds, no hesitation.
But now…
A slight shift. A tiny glitch in the pattern, like a sour note in a flawless riff.
He sat up straighter, focusing, inhaling deeper to peel it apart. No, it wasn’t someone else’s trace. Not food, not cologne. It was III himself. His natural scent had changed. IV frowned. It wasn’t bad, just… off. He squinted, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, studying III.
“Your scent…” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
III didn’t react right away, still glued to the screen, fingers brushing the back of his neck.
“Huh?” He finally turned his head, eyebrows lifting in a silent question. Without thinking, he pulled off his glasses, hooking them onto the collar of his hoodie.
IV stared at him, searching his face for any hint of awareness.
“Your scent…” he repeated louder. “It’s different.”
The bassist raised a brow, surprised. He lifted an arm, bent it at the elbow, and sniffed his pit with a quick huff. “Seriously? I just showered.”
“Not your sweat, dumbass.” IV rolled his eyes, pointing at the scent glands on III’s neck. “Your pheromones. Isn’t it too early for your rut?”
III froze for a beat, then his lips parted in a silent “oh” as it clicked. “Still a few weeks off.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
The guitarist watched as III snapped his laptop shut, sliding it off his lap onto the desk beside a stack of books II had left there the night before. His movements were smooth, almost lazy, like he hadn’t fully processed it yet. But then he moved slowly forward, and his lanky figure blocked IV from the light of the table lamp. Before IV could blink, III loomed over him, knees pressing into the mattress, face way too close. IV leaned back instinctively, shooting him a questioning look.
“Sniff me. See if you pick up anything,” III said casually, like he was asking for the guitar or a window cracked open. He tilted his head to the side, baring his neck—easy, natural, like it was no big deal.
IV swallowed.
That always got to him. The way III just handed himself over, that careless trust mixed with something else, something that made his pulse kick up a notch.
IV smirked, leaning in slow. “As you wish.”
He pushed aside the hoodie’s hood, definitely Vessel’s, soft and stretched out from days of wear, to get a clear shot at the scent glands. IV didn’t comment, just let his fingers trail down, gripping III’s hips to pull him closer.
Warm breath grazed sensitive skin as IV inhaled, slow and deep, letting the scent flood his lungs. There was a faint trace of another alpha, but beneath it, III’s own aroma cut through, sharp and clear.
If Vessel's odour was like the smoky incense that envelops space in a thick, mystical cloud, and II was like the electrical discharge before a thunderstorm - the same metallic, tense smell that hangs in the air before a storm then III smelled like a pine forest after rain. Despite the bassist’s playful streak, his scent always conjured quiet walks under a night sky or, corny as it sounded, cozy autumn nights. Maybe that’s why IV had been craving the wild lately, trading London’s noise for something rawer.
IVy unconsciously took another deep breath, pressing his nose harder into the scent glands. Knew it when III was calm - soft, slightly cool, like damp air after a night downpour. Knew it after concerts, when the scent absorbed the tartness of sweat and the residue of stage paint on his skin. Knew how it became harsher, more pungent when III was irritated, and how easily it could be softened simply by bribing him with something sweet.
Unable to resist, IV dragged his tongue over the scent gland, grazing it with his fangs, chasing that pine taste he’d grown to love. Suddenly the barely perceptible change that he smelled in the depth of the scent became more saturated. He pulled back reluctantly, eyes lingering on III’s neck. The skin was flushed, warm, slick with his spit. He exhaled slowly, as if shedding the excess tension, and forced his hands to let go. That scent clung to him now, hooking into his mind like a melody that wouldn’t fade.
III gazed down at him, eyes still narrowed, lips a thin line. Assessing. No alarm, no worry, just the same glimmer of curiosity with which he used to look at the desserts in the window of his favourite patisserie.
IV sat up abruptly, lacing his fingers together.
“You sure it’s not early?”
“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” III snorted, leaning back. He grabbed his glasses from the hoodie collar and slid them on, lenses catching the lamp’s light. He looked less focused now.
IV didn’t answer. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past him. III was clueless about himself half the time. He could dissect anything, details, songs, whatever—but when it came to his own body? Lights out.
IV wasn’t much better, could go days without eating until someone shoved a plate in front of him. But III was worse. He ran on vibes, impulses, and some weird logic only he got. If his cycle decided to jump the gun, he’d probably miss it until it was glaringly obvious.
“You should check.”
III tilted his head, shifting to get comfy.
“You’re acting like I’m broken.”
“Maybe you are.”
III chuckled but didn’t bite back.
This shouldn’t bug him. But it did.
He liked stability, knowing everyone in their little world stuck to their rhythms, chaotic as they were. He liked the scents he knew by heart. He liked III being… III.
Now something was off. Barely. Almost imperceptible. But enough to make the ground feel like it’d shifted an inch.
III reopened the laptop, flicking the book off the table. IV watched as he nonchalantly settled back in his seat, fumbled for a candy bar in his hoodie pocket, and put it behind his cheek.
It was as if nothing had changed.
IV stretched his legs out lazily, habitually pressing the heel of the guitar's fingerboard against the guitar so it wouldn't slide off the bed. He was still watching III, noting the way he absent-mindedly rubbed his lower lip with his fingers before he continued typing.
They sank back into their usual quiet, broken only by the muted sounds of the street. A car rolled by, headlights flashing briefly across the curtains. Footsteps clacked on wet pavement below. London kept moving. So did they.
IV forced his eyes to the ceiling, trying to convince himself this wasn’t a big deal. Bodies did weird shit sometimes, especially theirs. Maybe III just missed a signal, or his hormones were messing with him.
Still…
He scowled at his guitar, fingers brushing the strings, pulling a dull, off-key twang. The vibration buzzed in his fingertips but didn’t settle him.
“If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?” His voice came out softer than he meant.
III glanced up from the screen, peering over his glasses, thoughtful.
“Would you keep staring like that if you really thought something was up?”
“I’m serious.” IV’s face twisted in annoyance.
“So am I,” III grinned, scratching his temple. “If I start glowing in the dark or shedding, you’ll be the first to know.”
IV squinted skeptically but didn’t push. Fine. As long as he didn’t actually shed.
He tried to shift gears. Pulled up some forums about guitar pedals, scrolled a bit, but nothing stuck. His phone ended up tossed on the pillow, and his eyes drifted back to III, now half-sprawled with one leg on the bed, still reading, brow creased.
“What’s got you so hooked?” IV reached out, nudging III’s knee.
III wordlessly tilted the laptop so IV could see. He leaned in.
“Behavioral Patterns of Dogs in Urban Settings…” The guitarist raised an eyebrow, then shot III a look. “You getting a dog and not telling us?”
“Nah. Just stumbled on it. Got curious,” III smirked, pulling the screen back.
IV huffed, slumping into his spot. He felt the scent that had changed, even if only for him, fill the space, slip into his lungs, settle on his skin. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his mouth.
Something was clearly wrong.
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The next day, IV caught himself digging through articles about ruts. He knew it was a slippery slope, like googling symptoms and convincing yourself that every sneeze is fatal. But he couldn’t stop. III’s scent had changed, and not in the usual pre-rut way. Someone would say he's paranoid and get the middle finger back. IV just wanted to make sure of his hunches. Nothing more.
Which is how he ended up here: kitchen, 3 a.m., laptop, a cup of cold tea untouched beside him. The screen’s glare stung his eyes, and the garish text on an equally hideous background didn’t help. Whoever designed this site needed to be fired.
IV sighed heavily, scrolling with a flick of his finger, skimming for anything useful. Most of it was garbage or stuff he already knew, hormone swings, cycle glitches, stress, diet, sleep. The usual suspects that might explain a tweak, but nothing fit.
He grimaced and clicked on the screen in annoyance, scrolling through the text further, but the longer he read, the more he felt the emptiness of these words. None of the articles explained what he had noticed. None of them gave even a hint that something was wrong with III.
“Fuck.” IV leaned back, rubbing his face, pressing his fingers into his eyelids to ease the strain. Maybe he’d imagined it? Maybe he was overthinking?
“Thought III was the only one obsessed with weird articles.”
IV nearly toppled off his chair at the voice to his left. Turning, he saw Vessel perched across from him, calmly sipping his cold tea. How had he missed him? No footsteps, no rustle, not even a whiff. Normally, IV could clock any of them long before they got close.
“How long you been there?”
“Five minutes, give or take.” Vessel shrugged. “Had to piss. And then I saw the kitchen light on.”
Great. Now he had a witness to his 3 a.m. spiral.
Without thinking, IV lunged forward, grabbed Vessel by the edge of his ratty tee, and yanked him closer.
Vessel let out a short, startled grunt but didn’t resist, just tipped forward. IV buried his nose in Vessel’s neck, inhaling deep, letting the scent wash over him.
Warm, heavy smoke and incense. Rich, enveloping, with that familiar depth he always tied to Vessel. IV held it in, letting it seep into him, wiping away the night’s frustration.
“Missed me that bad, huh? You could’ve just asked,” Vessel murmured, voice low in his ear, teasing.
IV snorted, ignoring the jab. Not the time.
He breathed in again. And again. It was almost meditative. Vessel’s scent was steady, a rock in a storm. No trace of the subtle shifts that bugged him about III.
IV exhaled slowly, lingering close.
“It’s not paranoia.”
“Paranoia?” Vessel quirked a brow, fingers lazily tracing IV’s spine.
IV twitched, not from fear, just the surprise of it. Vessel’s touch was casual, pressing lightly here and there, like it was no big deal. But it carried that quiet care IV had gotten so used to, he only noticed it in moments like this.
“What happened?” Vessel’s tone was even, but curiosity peeked through.
IV paused, figuring out how to say it without sounding unhinged.
“III smells different,” he finally said, letting go of the shirt and pulling back a bit.
Vessel tilted his head, mulling it over.
“Different how?”
IV hesitated.
“Not like pre-rut. Not like he’s sick or tired. Not even a mood swing,” he frowned, replaying the scent in his mind. “It’s… something else.”
Vessel watched him, no judgment, just listening.
“II say anything?”
“You think I’d be reading shitty articles if he had?” IV smirked, rubbing his eyes.
“So, you’re the only one who’s noticed,” Vessel chuckled softly.
“So far,” IV crossed his arms. “But if it’s not in my head, you’ll catch it soon enough.”
Vessel nodded, glancing at the laptop screen still glowing with one of those awful articles.
“And? Any theories?”
“That whoever made these sites should be banned from touching a computer,” IV grinned, then sobered. “If it’s hormones, could be anything. Stress, maybe. Or… hell if I know.”
Vessel went quiet, then leaned in and brushed his fingers along IV’s neck, right over his own scent glands.
“Hey-” IV frowned but didn’t pull away.
“You haven’t changed,” Vessel noted calmly, like he was double-checking. “Though you smell sour right now.”
“And?”
“If he’s got a hormone spike, it’s not rubbing off on us. That’s something.”
IV huffed, but a flicker of relief or maybe unease stirred inside. Vessel leaned back, took another sip of the cold tea without much enthusiasm.
“III says he feels fine,” IV muttered, opening another eye-searing site. “Doesn’t sound like a hormone crash. But he should check.”
“He said the same thing before he spiked a fever of forty,” Vessel pointed out.
IV winced. The memory hit hard, III burning up, breath ragged, eyes glassy, stubbornly refusing a hospital. The three of them were taking turns at his bedside, swapping cold cloths, forcing meds down his throat until the fever broke.
IV skimmed the screen again, but the words blurred into noise. He wasn’t sure if he was still hunting answers or just killing time. Then fingers flashed in front of him, and the laptop slid away. He blinked, watching Vessel pull it closer and adjust the screen with a practiced flick.
“You’ve been at this too long. Keep going, and smoke’ll pour out your ears,” Vessel said, eyes on the text.
IV scowled but didn’t argue, just watched as Vessel clicked a tab and scanned it.
“Two heads are better than one,” Vessel added, tapping away.
IV didn’t fight it. He rubbed his neck, then dropped his head onto Vessel’s shoulder without a word.
“Tell me if you find anything.”
Vessel nodded, focus locked on the screen. Unlike IV, who tore into every line, he sifted through it, catching what mattered.
IV settled more comfortably on his shoulder, closing his eyes. He wasn't going to fall asleep, but fatigue was building up in his body, and sitting like this, feeling the warmth of another alpha next to him, was easier than falling into endless searches again. The clock ticked somewhere. Past four, probably.
“Nothing solid,” Vessel muttered, frowning slightly. “If it was bad, II would’ve sounded the alarm by now.”
IV just hummed.
II would’ve. He wasn’t as scent-sensitive, but he tracked their health like a hawk. If III was off, he’d be hovering with a thermometer and a scowl.
“What would I do?”
IV and Vessel turned toward the kitchen doorway. II stood there, hair a mess, cheek creased from the pillow, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. IV caught his scent—metallic, pre-storm sharpness mixed with pine. But underneath, that nagging note from III lingered. He held his breath, like that’d help.
“Speak of the devil,” Vessel teased, peeling his eyes off the screen. “Guess we’re having an impromptu night meeting. Just missing the guest of honor.”
II ignored them, shuffling barefoot to the cabinet. He grabbed a glass, filled it at the sink, the steady trickle cutting through the quiet.
“Why’re you up?” he mumbled, taking a sip.
Vessel stretched, cracking his knuckles.
“Sniffing out mysteries, debating conspiracies,” he said, smirking.
II shot him a flat look over the glass.
“Seriously?”
“Not quite, but close.”
IV stayed quiet, watching. II’s neck was pink—probably from III nuzzling it in his sleep.
“You notice anything off with III?” IV asked after a beat.
II didn't react at all, at least not before. He calmly finished the water, put the glass in the sink, and then turned to them, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not really,” he shrugged. “He’s kicking less in his sleep.”
A hint of relief crept into his voice, and IV caught the faint twitch of a smile.
“Though he’s glued to me now,” II added, brows furrowing, but not mad. “Is something wrong?”
“IV caught a shift in III’s pheromones,” Vessel cut in, no fluff.
II leaned forward, squinting at the laptop’s glowing headlines.
“So, you’re up all night reading about…” He snorted, scanning the text. “Hormonal shifts affecting alpha scents?”
Vessel shrugged, unbothered, rocking his chair back on two legs.
“Aren’t you looking in the wrong place?” II straightened, eyeing them skeptically.
“If you’re saying it’s all in my head, III beat you to it,” IV grumbled.
II shook his head.
“No, I mean you’re so deep in this you’ve lost the plot,” he paused, then started tracing invisible lines in the air, mapping it out. “Maybe it’s Egg of Columbus.”
Egg of Columbus.
Simple, but not obvious. And none of them could pin it down yet.
“Let’s break it down,” The smaller alpha leaned back slightly, resting his lower back against the counter. “What’ve we got?”
IV looked at him, waiting.
“Fine.” II held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “One: III’s scent changed. IV noticed first, but Vessel and I haven’t.”
“Two: III says he’s fine, though ‘fine’ for him’s a loose term,” IV snorted.
“Three?” Vessel prompted, spinning the empty mug in his hands.
“Three…” II hesitated. “He’s gotten clingy.”
He sounded unsure, like he wasn’t convinced it was new or just III being III, dialed up.
“That’s it for now,” he shrugged off the tension. “Any guesses?”
IV clenched his fists, running through it all, hunting for the missing piece. Nothing clicked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vessel frowning, staring at the countertop. He wasn’t faring better.
“Maybe it’s just him leveling out,” II offered, not sounding sold himself.
“Paranoia still off the table?” Vessel tilted his head, glancing between them.
IV smirked, drifting back into his thoughts, replaying the past few days for any overlooked clue.
“Four…” he said slowly, “it got stronger when I got close to his scent glands.”
He wasn’t sure how that fit, but his gut said it mattered. II tapped the counter, eyes shifting between them and the laptop’s lingering glow.
Then, a faint shuffle came from III’s cracked bedroom door.
“Someone’s missing their human pillow,” IV quipped.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” II muttered, pushing off the counter and heading back. He flicked the light switch as he passed, plunging the kitchen into darkness. The laptop's screen remained the only light source, but after a couple of seconds, its soft glow disappeared— Vessel simply slammed the lid shut.
“Tomorrow it is,” Vessel yawned, stretching, and stood. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Too late.”
Vessel shook his head, flicking IV’s forehead.
“You know, if III were an omega, I’d say he’s begging for a mark,” Vessel grinned, fully aware how ridiculous it sounded.
“That’d make it easier,” IV chuckled at the absurdity.
He sat there a moment longer, staring into the dark, tuning into the apartment’s quiet sounds. II was back in the bedroom, sheets rustling faintly, III probably clinging to him half-asleep.
Vessel didn’t wait, just headed off, glancing back once to check if IV followed.
IV stood, legs prickling from sitting too long, and trailed toward III’s room. Then Vessel grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t sniff him in his sleep,” he whispered, smirking close to IV’s ear.
“Piss off.”
“Too late.”
Vessel let go, clapping IV’s back, and shuffled to his spot in their makeshift bed, leaving IV at the threshold.
He paused for a few seconds, looking at what had once been a full-fledged sleeping place. Now, the floor was a mess of blankets, sheets, and pillows, carelessly crumpled in a pile. III called it a "temporary sleeping bag," although, it looked more like a failed attempt to build a rookery. The bed itself, more like a monument to an accident, still stood against the wall, with a lopsided frame and slightly cracked wooden slats. The legacy of their past rut synchronizations. They’d need a new one.
They could’ve slept in separate rooms, but no one suggested it. Somehow, they’d all ended up crashing together in this mess, like teens at a sleepover.
IV’s gaze settled on the sleeping alpha.
III was curled up near the center, breathing steady, red hair spilling over his face, a small drool patch on the pillow. II settled beside him, running a hand down bassist’s bare back, checking his temp.
IV sighed quietly and joined them, easing onto the edge of their weird nest. The mattresses and blankets softened the floor, but it was still firmer than a bed. Not that he cared, years with these guys had numbed him to makeshift fixes.
III twitched in his sleep, sensing him. His hair shifted, revealing a slack mouth and furrowed brows.
IV froze, watching III’s lashes flutter, but he didn’t wake. He just squirmed, nose wrinkling like something bugged him, then scooted closer. Warm fingers latched onto IV’s wrist, light but firm. III always sought someone in his sleep. Normal, predictable. But tonight, it felt different. Like his body knew what it wanted, even if his mind didn’t.
IV stayed still, letting III settle.
A soft laugh came from the side.
“What?” IV muttered, not turning.
“Told you he’s clingy,” II said, sounding more pleased than bothered.
Vessel mumbled something, already half-gone, his breathing deepening, arm flopped toward the nest’s center. IV shut his eyes, exhaustion finally hitting. His body unwounded, muscles loosening, thoughts blurring.
The air was thick with their shared warmth, a mix of homey scents, fresh sheets, faded shampoo, and faint woody pheromones. Even through it all, IV caught that odd note in III’s scent again.
But now, at this moment, in this dense, cozy night silence, broken only by the soft snuffling of III and the almost imperceptible snoring of the Vessel, it no longer mattered. IV could hear their breathing, feel their warmth, and that was enough.
The rest could wait until morning.
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Morning kicked off with muted kitchen clatter—dishes clinking, the coffee machine growling low. III stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan, while IV slumped at the table, elbows heavy on the wood, spoon dragging lazily through his mug. His hair was a wreck from sleep, eyes half-open, yawns cutting off every other word.
“Deep thoughts, huh? You look like you got flattened by a truck,” III drawled, pulling plates from the cabinet.
Ivy just silently gave him the middle finger, but the effect was questionable — the gesture turned out to be too slow and sluggish, which looked more like an attempt to move his hand than a real expression of indignation.
“So, what’s with the zombie vibe?” III pressed, smirking.
The guitarist yawned, hand over mouth, and mumbled, “Your bony ass kept jabbing me all night.”
III raised a brow, clutching his chest dramatically.
“Oh, forgive me for being so slim and refined. Didn’t know my delicate frame was such a burden,” he flailed, fake tears imminent.
“Spare me the damsel act,” IV grumbled, yawning again. “Your knee was in my side, elbow in my ribs. Felt like a punching bag.”
“Should’ve said something. I’d have rolled over.”
“Yeah, sure,” IV rubbed his eyes. “You’d roll, then latch onto someone else and start over.”
III stuck out his tongue like a kid, then turned back to the eggs.
IV cracked one eye open, scanning III’s lanky build, thin wrists, subtle shoulder muscles like faint sketches. A couple of pale scars snaked under his loose tee.
If III were an omega, I’d think he’s begging for a mark.
Vessel’s words popped up, tugging a quick grin from IV.
Egg of Columbus.
Before he could process it, his body moved. Next thing he knew, he was behind III, arms looping around his waist.
III stilled, then glanced back, stirring.
“Smell again?” he smirked, unfazed. “Told you, you’d be the first to know if something’s up.”
III's chatter passed his ears.
A bite.
The idea had never crossed his mind before. Even in alpha-omega pairs, it was old-school, a formality most skipped. Especially for them.
“Too tall,” IV muttered, mostly to himself. Even on tiptoes, he couldn’t reach III’s neck.
He pressed his hands to III’s shoulders, firm but not rough, pushing down.
III resisted at first, then relaxed, spreading his stance, sinking just enough for IV to level with his neck.
“Quick check-up, doc,” he teased. “My hamstrings aren’t up for a full split.”
IV ran his nose along the scent gland, feeling the heat pulse beneath. The change was still there, stable, not sharper or fainter. A weird consistency that nagged at him.
Up close, staring at pale skin, he licked his fangs, a strange anticipation tightening his chest. He’d nipped them before in the heat of the moment, but never the scent glands. Even in peak rut, instinct never pushed him there. Gently, barely grazing, he nipped the skin, more a scrape than a mark. Just to test, to see if the scent shifted, what would—
A jolt hit him, hot and sudden, crashing through his head. The scent flared, intense, spilling into the air.
IV tensed, not fully grasping it, but before he could speak, III straightened, slipping free.
“Time’s up,” he said breezily, rolling his neck. “Legs are cramping.”
IV bit his tongue, reeling himself in. He exhaled, meeting III’s gaze—same cocky, sleepy alpha, probably clueless about what just happened.
“Uh-huh,” IV grunted, swallowing.
III stretched, arms overhead, spine popping. He brushed his fingers over the spot IV had nipped, lingering near the scent gland.
“Not good?” he tilted his head, watching III’s face.
The bassist gave him a quick glance, narrowing his eyes, as if he was trying to sort out his own feelings.
“Nah,” he mumbled finally, fingers hovering. “Just weird.”
IV smirked, unable to stop it. Vessel would’ve loved this.
“Harder bite?” he tossed out, deliberately casual.
“Trying to mark me?” III arched a brow, half-skeptical, half-amused.
“I’d say you’re the one asking for it.”
He hadn’t expected it to sound so sure.
The air shifted fast. IV couldn’t place it at first—too caught up in III’s scent, his warm breath, his narrowed eyes.
Then a new smell hit. Burnt.
“Shit!” III spun to the stove.
IV stepped back, grinning as III scrambled for the spatula, trying to salvage the eggs.
“Well, chef, you’ve officially tanked breakfast,” IV drawled, arms crossed.
III elbowed him, annoyed.
“If you hadn’t distracted me with your bullshit…”
“My bullshit?” IV raised a brow, still smirking. “You’re the one who zoned out.”
III huffed, flipping the charred remains onto a plate. It looked rough, dry in spots, burnt in others, but he slapped it on the table like he wasn’t fazed. IV eyed the sad excuse for food and shook his head. The tension from minutes ago fizzled out.
“Think that’s a sign you should stick to takeout.”
“Shut up and eat,” III muttered, sitting down and shoving a bite in his mouth.
IV didn’t reply, still chuckling, but he slid into the seat across. The convo wasn’t done, but it could wait. He pulled the plate closer, eyeing the crispy edges and dark patches. III chewed with a look that said he was convincing himself it wasn’t awful. IV picked up a fork, poked a piece, lifted it, looked at it doubtfully, and then popped it into his mouth. It tasted as bad as it looked, salty, bitter from burnt oil, too dry to swallow easy. He grabbed his water, took a big gulp, and sighed.
“Sure this was meant to feed me, not kill me?”
III glanced up, mid-bite.
“I’m eating it, so it’s fine.”
“Fine’s a stretch,” IV grumbled, poking the plate again, hoping for a decent bite. “Takes a special taste.”
III shrugged, unbothered, finished his share, and leaned back, leg swinging, fingers tapping the table. IV watched him, the way he squinted slightly, lost in thought. The burnt smell faded, mixed with morning air filtering through the window.
“You didn’t answer,” III said suddenly.
IV blinked. “Answer what?”
“Would you bite harder?” III tilted his head slightly to the side, and his gaze became tenacious.
IV gripped his fork, face steady.
“If you asked.”