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Folly's breath still hadn't settled.

He should have laughed. Should have scoffed, thrown Alder's words back in his face, or at the very least, rolled his eyes and pretended he wasn't affected. But he was. Because Alder had said it—

I think I like it too.

Folly's stomach twisted violently, his tail lashing behind him. That was too much. Too honest. Too—

"You're joking," Folly blurted, and it came out a little wild, too quick, too sharp. "That was a joke. You don't—"

Alder tilted his head, unbothered. "I do not joke."

Folly's pulse slammed against his ribs. "Oh, fuck you."

Alder blinked at him. "Is that an invitation?"

Folly choked on air. "That's—gods, you're doing it on purpose now."

"I am only answering your questions honestly," Alder said, golden eyes flickering in the dim light, unreadable. "Do you not prefer honesty?"

Folly couldn't handle this. Couldn't handle him—his voice, his glow, his absolute and infuriating certainty about everything. His hands itched to do something—

So he turned, kneeling in the soft earth, dragging his fingers through the dirt in familiar strokes. Glyphs curled under his claws, constellations tracing lines through the soil, and with every whispered word, the stars in the sky echoed him, tiny fragments of light drifting into his hands.

This is what I know.

The ritual settled into his bones, an old rhythm, something methodical, something safe.

He needed this. Needed the repetition of muscle memory, of control. His hands moved in steady, precise strokes, clawtips carving careful glyphs into the dirt. The act was simple—map the stars as they are, so you do not forget where you stand beneath them.

Not a call. Not a plea for recognition.

A centering. A way to align himself before attempting anything more complex.

His breath slowed as the symbols took shape. Magic stirred in the air around him, a quiet hum, responding to his familiarity. It was stabilizing. It was his.

Until Alder moved.

Alder did not mean to intrude. At least, that was what he told himself.

But Folly—Folly glowed when he did magic, not with light, but with focus, with something deep and knowing, something Alder recognized but had long forgotten how to feel.

Alder lowered himself beside him, watching, his glow subtly shifting. "You are stabilizing the pull incorrectly."

Folly stiffened. Too close. "Excuse me?"

"You are rushing the connection. It is not wrong," Alder mused, tilting his head. "But it is… limited."

Folly exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's fine."

"It is not." Unbothered. Absolute.

Alder lifted a hand, fingers ghosting over the floating glyphs—not touching, not yet—and something in him ached. A pull, ancient and intrinsic.

Magic should not be done alone.

He did not think as he whispered something old, something that had once been written in the movement of planets, in the gravity between stars.

The magic shifted. Expanded.

Folly sucked in a breath as the light between them changed. What had been small, contained, and carefully balanced suddenly stretched outward, wider, fuller, richer. It was a tide, and Folly was standing at its edge.

"What did you just do?" His voice was too quiet.

Alder's glow pulsed—warmer, deeper. "Only what you were already asking for."

Folly's stomach twisted. He should stop this. He should move. But Alder was still watching, his gaze dark and thoughtful, golden eyes flickering like starlight, and Folly couldn't breathe around it.

And then, Alder shifted closer.

Not enough to touch, not quite. But his knee brushed against Folly's, his breath warm against Folly's skin, and when he reached out to adjust a glyph, Folly nearly jolted at the sensation of his fingers ghosting over his own.

The spell hummed between them. Something was happening.

"Here," Alder murmured, voice low, guiding Folly's hand with barely-there touches. "Like this."

Folly couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

He is in my space.

Too close. Too warm. Too much.

Folly's mind spiraled in two directions at once—one screaming at him to move, get away, protect himself before this went too far, and the other begging Alder to press even closer, to close the unbearable inches between them and let this tension break.

He could feel Alder's breath, slow and steady, while his own was coming too fast, too shallow. The heat of his body, the way his muscles tensed as he hovered just barely out of reach—Folly's eyes flickered down, traitorous and greedy, catching the faint flex of his jaw, the tight coil of restraint in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as if he were holding himself back from touching more.

He looked devastating like this.

Like something barely leashed. Like something that would ruin him if Folly gave him the chance.

Folly swallowed hard, his tail curling in against himself as if that would keep the want from spilling out of him. His ears flicked back, his breath hitched, and somewhere deep in his chest, he thought, please go away.

And just as quickly—please don't stop.

Alder hadn't meant to push this far. He had not meant to let his power spill—but being this close, watching Folly move, feeling the tension in the air between them, he could feel something inside himself straining at its edges. His glow flickered—too much. He could hear his own breath, uneven, caught between restraint and instinct.

He should stop. He should pull back. But Folly was looking at him now, eyes dark with something Alder could not name, and gods, he wanted. He wanted in a way that was not celestial, not distant, not holy. He wanted with the full, raw hunger of something that had never been allowed to take.

Something inside him gave.

The power between them did not just ripple—it ruptured, flaring outward in a burst of raw energy, and suddenly, the world was gone.

Light. Movement. Stars upon stars upon stars.

And Alder was everywhere.

Not just vast. Not just infinite.

Folly could feel him—pressing against the edges of his mind, his body, his soul. It was not touch, but it was not distant either. It was consumption waiting to happen. A presence that wrapped around him like gravity, heavy and inevitable, pulling him deeper, deeper—

Not a man. Not a god. A presence. A force. A hunger.

For one unbearable moment, Folly felt it—

The ache of Alder's want. And for the first time, Folly understood—

Alder was starving.

This was not human desire. This was not need as Folly had ever known it. This was something cosmic, something endless , something that had existed long before him and would exist long after. And yet, all of it was focused on him. The way the infinite curled around him, reverent and consuming.

Alder would take everything, strip him bare, open him, and in return—

He would give him the cosmos.

And Folly—Folly did not know if he could survive it. He did not know if he wanted to survive it.

And he wanted it all the same.

Then, the moment collapsed.

Alder ripped them back, magic slamming into place like a door slamming shut. The clearing reappeared, the cold night air rushing back in, and Folly gasped, knees weak, body trembling from something he was never meant to witness.

Alder was panting, his glow still flickering wildly, erratic, like he was reining himself in too fast, too hard.

"I—" Alder's voice broke. "You weren't supposed to see that."

Folly stared up at him from his place on the ground, claws curling into the dirt as if he were afraid he'd be launched into the cosmos again if he didn't. You weren't supposed to show me.

"But I did."

Alder exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. His glow flickered, dimming and flaring like he was wrestling it under control. He took a step back, then another, but it did nothing to create distance between them. Not really. Not after what had just happened.

This was wrong. He had let something slip—no, he had torn it open, bared himself in ways he didn't understand, in ways that should not have been possible. And Folly had seen it. Had felt it.

Alder's hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair, frustration creeping into his movements. He did not have words for what had just happened. Did not know how to classify the raw, frenzied pull that had overtaken him. This should not have happened.

And yet, his body still remembered—the way Folly had looked in that moment, standing at the precipice of something divine, something his. The way Folly's breath had hitched, the way his pulse had pounded, the way he had almost reached for it.

Something inside Alder recoiled at that realization. Something inside him wanted to chase it.

"You weren't supposed to see that." The words came out raw, uneven, like they had been scraped from his throat. His voice did not sound like his own.

Folly, still kneeling in the dirt, still breathless, stared at him like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or run. His pupils were blown wide, his ears flicking back, his tail curling in on itself.

And gods, Alder could smell it— the lingering scent of arousal, of adrenaline, of something fevered and wanting, tangled with the sharp tang of shock.

Folly wet his lips. "You say that like I could possibly forget."

Alder let out a harsh breath. "You need to forget."

Folly let out a sound—something breathless and wrecked—that might have been a laugh. "Not a chance."

Alder clenched his jaw, his hands still tight fists at his sides, every muscle in his body drawn taut. He had to leave. Now.

Folly was still looking at him, golden light reflected in his dark eyes, his breath unsteady. And there, beneath the dazed shock, was something worse—

Folly had liked it.

Folly had wanted it.

Alder turned sharply on his heel, tearing himself away before he could confirm it, before he could let himself be tempted. His glow flared one last time before he forced it down, buried it.

Folly did not call him back.

But then—

"Stay."

Alder stopped like the word had reached inside him and wrapped around his ribs, stilling him where he stood. His pulse—if he could call it that—was still erratic, his body still bracing against something that wanted out.

He turned, slowly, his glow flickering in hesitation. "Folly—"

"Stay," Folly said again, more breath than voice, his own hands curling into fists in his lap. His ears twitched, uncertain, but his gaze was unwavering. "I don't—" A sharp breath. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Alder's throat tightened. He did not move, did not trust himself to step closer. "I shouldn't have let that happen."

Folly huffed, something between amusement and disbelief. "You say that like either of us had a choice."

Alder clenched his jaw, struggling to find the words for something he did not understand. "It was more than—" He hesitated, looking away. "It wasn't just—"

"Lust?" Folly finished, and gods, the way the word curled from his tongue nearly undid Alder again.

Alder exhaled sharply. "No. Not just."

Folly swallowed. Do not push. His mind screamed at him to let it go, to let Alder retreat into his composure, to let this moment die before it became something he couldn't take back. But his chest was tight, his breath still uneven, and—

Alder didn't know.

That was the most terrifying thing of all. Alder, who always spoke in absolutes, in unshakable truths, was standing before him lost.

Folly's fingers curled in his lap. No one has ever been lost over me before.

"Then what was it?" His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. "What was that?" He should retreat, let this become another moment he shoved behind a locked door in his mind, never to be examined. But his heart was still racing. His fingers still tingled. His body still remembered that overwhelming, rapturous pressure of Alder's desire, of being at the center of something impossible.

And now Alder was standing there, looking like this—his chest rising too fast, his glow barely contained, his golden eyes still dark with something unfathomable—and Folly felt like a fool for ever thinking he could keep this casual.

Alder opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw tensed, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grip something—Folly, maybe, or himself, to keep from unraveling further. The words would not come. He had spent eons knowing exactly what he was, what he was meant to be, and yet here, with Folly watching him, expecting an answer, he had nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was unsteady.

"I don't know."

And that—that was what finally made the breath leave Folly's lungs. Alder, who always spoke with certainty, with authority, who always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, did not know what this was.

Alder shook his head, frustrated, as if even admitting it was painful. "I have never—" His fingers flexed, like he wanted to tear something out of himself. "I do not know what to call it. I do not know how to stop it."

Folly wet his lips. "What if you don't?"

Alder's breath hitched. His glow pulsed again—just for a fraction of a second—before he strangled it down, forcing himself into stillness.

"Then I will break every rule I have left." His voice was too quiet. Too honest. It was a confession Folly had not been prepared for.

Folly's stomach flipped, heat curling in his spine, his tail wrapping tightly around himself. He should not like that as much as he did.

He had no response. None at all.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and waiting.

Finally, Alder spoke again, softer this time. He hesitated first—longer than he meant to. His glow flickered, dimming just slightly, like he was trying to contain something too large for his body to hold. His throat bobbed, his hands flexed at his sides, and then, finally—

"You wanted rules."

Folly flinched at the reminder. "Yeah."

Alder hesitated, then met his gaze, something unguarded there now, something hesitant and vulnerable in a way Folly had never seen. "Then we need to set the right ones."

Folly exhaled, running a hand through his fur, still feeling the residual shiver of what had just happened. He licked his lips, searching for some kind of foundation to stand on, something solid to grab onto. "Okay, so…" He dragged in a breath, then released it, too fast, too tight. "No falling in love."

Alder blinked, expression unreadable. "You say that as if it is something one can choose."

Folly's stomach twisted. "It is something you choose. You keep things light, you keep them fun, and you don't…" His voice faltered, fingers curling into the dirt. "You don't let it become something real."

Alder studied him for a long moment, his gaze slow, searching, as though he were considering whether or not to dismantle that belief here and now. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded once. "No falling in love."

Folly should have felt relieved. He did not.

"No expectations," he added quickly, needing to push forward, needing to remind himself why this was a good idea, why this—whatever this was—was still something he could control. "No grand declarations, no—"

"No strings," Alder murmured, tilting his head. "Like before."

Folly nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. Like before."

Alder was quiet for a beat too long. "You do not believe that will work."

Folly scowled. "That's not true."

Alder didn't challenge him. He only watched, and that was so much worse.

Folly pushed forward before he could think too hard about the way his chest ached. "No more losing control."

Alder exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. "That rule is for me, I assume."

"You think?" Folly shot him a look, exasperated. "I just saw that—" he gestured vaguely at the sky, at Alder himself, at the residual heat still curling under his skin.

Alder's jaw flexed. "It will not happen again."

"Good." Folly didn't want to believe him.

Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of the rules they were pretending they could follow.

Alder shifted slightly, barely perceptible, but Folly felt it. The tension between them was too much. Every breath was a decision, every inch a battle, and Alder—

Alder looked like he was still fighting himself.

Folly's eyes flickered down, tracing the tension in Alder's jaw, the way his fingers curled like they wanted to hold onto something, anything. Like restraint itself was something that physically hurt him. Folly curled his fingers in his lap, flexing them against the urge to reach, to close the inches between them that felt wrong now.

Alder cleared his throat, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. There was something in his face now , something so unbearably human—uncertainty, hesitation, like he was afraid of what the answer might be.

"Is that all?"

Folly swallowed. No.

But he didn't know what else to say. Didn't know what other rule would keep him safe, would keep this from breaking apart in the way he already felt happening beneath his skin.

So instead, he forced a smirk, something easy, something practiced. "I'll let you know if I think of anything else."

Alder did not look convinced. But he nodded anyway.

And Folly told himself that was enough.

Except it wasn't.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unresolved, and Folly hated it. Hated the weight of it, the knowing that neither of them truly believed the words they had just spoken. The rules had been set, and yet—

So what now?

Folly exhaled sharply, raking his claws lightly through the dirt. "Alright," he muttered, glancing at Alder. "If we're doing this—this thing where we pretend we can keep this simple—then we need a reason to keep seeing each other."

Alder frowned slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. "A reason?"

"Yeah, a reason," Folly said, stretching his arms overhead like this conversation wasn't unraveling him from the inside out. "You said before that you don't understand what this is—what you're feeling. You don't know how to stop it. That's because you don't know enough about being here—about being on the material plane. You're still figuring out what it means to be… what's the word?"

Alder tilted his head. "Mortal?"

Folly snapped his fingers. "That's the one. You want to learn, right? About this world? About physical pleasures? About what it means to exist here?" He let the suggestion hang in the air, baiting Alder into taking it. "I could be the one to show you."

Alder's glow flickered slightly. "You would teach me."

"Sure," Folly said, keeping his voice breezy. "Nothing complicated. Just… experiences. The kind you can't have if you spend all your time floating around between realms, watching from a distance." He shrugged, trying to seem unaffected, even though the weight of the moment pressed at his ribs. "You said you wanted to learn. So let's make that the reason. No strings, no… expectations. Just curiosity."

Alder studied him carefully, expression unreadable, but Folly could feel the shift in the air. The tension between them had not disappeared, not really—it had only curled itself into something quieter, something waiting. Neither of them had let go of it, but for now, they would pretend. The slow acceptance, the silent agreement. And gods help him, he wanted him. Wanted any excuse to keep Alder close, even if it was built on the flimsiest foundation possible.

Alder inhaled, slow and measured, before nodding once. "Very well."

Folly let out a breath, tension rolling from his shoulders, though the feeling never quite settled. "Alright, starlight. If we're doing this whole 'learning how to be mortal' thing, we're starting small." He flashed a grin, forcing lightness into his voice. “You're coming with me to the market."

He had no idea if this would work. He had no idea if this was even better than admitting what they were both circling around. But for now? It would do.

Alder blinked. "The market?"

"Yep. You ever bought fruit before?"

Alder's brow furrowed. "Why would I have ever—"

Folly clapped a hand over his shoulder. "Exactly! Which is why you're coming with me." He turned on his heel, tail flicking behind him as he started walking. "Come on, celestial wonder. Time to experience the thrill of capitalism."

Alder hesitated, then sighed, expression somewhere between bemused and deeply, deeply resigned. But he followed.

And if their arms brushed as they walked, neither of them acknowledged it.

Folly exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the sky, the stars still steady above them.

This is fine. I know what I'm doing.