"Mmph—?!" Aeton tries to speak, but Cyril doesn't give him a chance. His hands scrabble clumsily for Aeton's shoulders as he deepens the kiss, his eyes squeezed shut beneath brows furrowed in anger, or maybe desperation.

Wide-eyed, Aeton only gawks until blue eyes fly open to glare at him.

"Aren't you supposed to be kissing back?" Cyril mumbles between their lips.

Aeton feels a jolt run through his body at the words. The next second his arms react and pull Cyril close, pressing their bodies together as he returns the kiss. His fingers race restlessly up and down Cyril's back, causing the scientist to squirm in his arms. He tries to hold his partner still, but Cyril resists until Aeton slips a hand under his shirt and pinches his waist.

"C-cold...!" Cyril opens his mouth in complaint, but Aeton soon silences him by entwining their tongues together, causing the scientist to stiffen before melting into soft pleading noises as he gasps for air.

Still relentless, Aeton kneads the tender skin beneath him with one hand while his other comes to circle gently around Cyril's nape in a sign of possession. The shorter male lets out a faint moan before Aeton simply flips him over to pin his body below him.

Heart thumping, he finally leans back to let Cyril take a breath while admiring his handiwork: flushed cheeks, crooked glasses, and a pair of very wet, slightly bruised lips. Cyril is looking at him in a mixture of embarrassment, helplessness, and a stubborn denial about them both; a faint trace of moisture lingers at the corner of his eyes, evidence of unwilling tears.

"Y-you," the scientist stammers, then trembles when Aeton leans down to suckle at the faint sheen of sweat gracing the section of clavicle exposed by his crumpled collar. "A-ahh...!"

His cries are music to Aeton's ears, but he pauses mid-suck to nestle his head in Cyril's neck, exhaling hot breaths against his skin.

"Sorry," he mutters hoarsely. "Didya want me to stop?"

"You. Absolute. Fool." Cyril grits his teeth and hits Aeton's chest, albeit weakly. "Are you a man or not? Don't quit something you started halfw—hnngh..."

He barely manages to finish the sentence when Aeton responds by licking his ear with his tongue.

"Yer awfully sensitive, Cyril," Aeton croons, the last word coming out more like a growl.

"As if, ah, you'd know—unngh!" Cyril suddenly arches his back as Aeton traces his fingers along one thigh. His movements are clumsy, but Cyril is inexperienced too, so the little sparks they made eventually build up to a blazing climax.

After their passions die down, Aeton scoops up a topless Cyril and princess-carries him gently to his bed, smiling the entire time. As soon as they hit the sheets, Cyril scowls at him.

"It's freezing," he complains, but even that sounds charming in his half-hoarse voice.

"I could warm ya up real quick again," Aeton grins as he traces the fresh hickies lining his lover—no, husband's neck.

Cyril punches him, his fist smacking soundly against Aeton's shoulder. "Five times is enough."

Aeton looks wounded. "Tha' was you. I only came—"

"Go to sleep!" Cyril all but croaks before scurrying under the covers, red and furious. Aeton's eyes curve like a satisfied cat before he scoots over to wrap his arm around the slim body next to him.

"Don't be like tha', Cyril. C'mon, I'll keep ya warm, promise~" And he spoons around his partner with a contented sigh.

Hours after Aeton succumbs to soft snores, Cyril lies awake to stare blankly at the wall.

I've done almost everything.

Is this enough?

His eyelids droop, but Cyril bites his lip and forces himself to stay awake. All he had these days were those pointless repeating nightmares. But circumstances are against him: Aeton's arm still holds him close, and the warmth of their shared bodies makes him feel irresistibly safe. Cyril's eyelids flutter a few more times before they drift off into slumber.

—

The next time he opens his eyes, the world is white.

Cyril grimaces as he picks himself off the spotless floor, scowling at the all white pants and long-sleeved shirt he's been stuffed into in this dreamscape. His hands empty, his feet bare, he can only ball his fingers into fists as he stares into the endless blank.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters.

"Over here."

The exact same voice sounds from behind him as Cyril turns to face...a copy of himself. But this Cyril looks older, his face thinner and sharper. His silver hair is tinged white with age as he stands with hands in the pockets of his white lab coat.

"Have you done what I asked?" the older Cyril asks.

"I've been checking off the list," his present counterpart replies.

"The bare minimum, then," Older pushes his glasses. "Try harder."

"Define that in exact terms," Cyril crosses his arms.

"That doesn't exist."

"Get me an estimate, then."

"There are no estimates."

"You're lying."

"Have we ever lied in our lives?" Older challenges him.

Cyril's face distorts in disdain. "I'm lying to him right now."

"Are you, though?" Older raises his brows. "You married him and rushed work so the two of you could run away. You even let him fuc—"

"Don't swear!" Cyril cuts him off. "You didn't give me enough time. I had no choice but to speed things up."

"I've bought you all the time I can," Older retorts coolly. "So answer me this: do you love him?"

"I don't have to tell you," Cyril turns frosty.

The older Cyril smiles. "You're right," he acquiesces and steps back. "Because I already know."

You don't.

Cracks appear in the sky in jagged streaks as sections of ceiling fall down. Cyril shields himself with his arms and squints as the older Cyril in front of him begins to splinter and crumble away. He clenches his jaw and stalks forward, hand intent on wiping the grin off that insufferable face.

"Don't pull this crap again you—!" His fingers touch and the world contracts violently on itself, shapes and colors bleeding into a menagerie of nausea-inducing waves that splash against the blank canvas, spreading and growing into new scenes and memories.

It's spring when he bandages a teen Aeton who's gotten the thrashing of a lifetime.

It's spring when he hands Aeton a carefully-worded contract to work at Aesir Research.

It's spring when he rejects Aeton's badly burnt steak to order takeout instead.

Slowly a city grows around him, covered in ash and grime. The weather is cool and the skies are heavy with rain that pelt like bullets against his skin. A single daisy grows out a crack in the sidewalk by his feet, its petals flecked with blood.

It's spring.

"Ya don't...do ya."

Like the other 48 times and counting since he's had this dream, Cyril looks down to see Aeton clinging to his leg with one hand. The correct thing to do, Cyril knows, is to gather the man in his arms and rest his head on his lap, but he can't move beyond sitting sprawled on the ground, his clothes drenched by the downpour.

These are his memories, but not now. Not yet.

"Why are you asking that?" His own voice, older and deeper, comes out of Cyril's mouth unbidden.

"Heh," Aeton chuckles before he ends with a cough. "Thought I'd try m'luck one last time."

"You're bleeding," Cyril's keeps talking at flash speeds. "You need to see a doctor."

"Yer funny, Cyril," Aeton mumbles back, "Ain'tcha a doc yerself?"

"I can't fix something like this." This time, a faint tremor accompanies Cyril's reply. He's shaking, but he compensates by digging his nails against wet asphalt. "I can't put you back together."

"Nah, it's fine," Aeton even grins. "Nothin' hurts anymore... Nothin' I can feel, 'nyways."

"I'll get help," Cyril finally decides, but the hand on his leg jerks reflexively as it holds him fast.

"Wait..."

"You don't have time to wait!"

"Need'ta tell ya...somethin' important," Aeton insists. "Don't got time...to do it again."

"Tell me later!" Cyril snaps, but Aeton holds on stubbornly.

"I'll pay," he protests. "I've still got, four 'undred thousan'. I'll pay, a 'undred thousand for a minute of yo' time. Just four minutes!"

"No—" Cyril begins, but widens his eye when Aeton tries to move. "Don't, you can't get up right now!"

"Then stay," Aeton's stare never leaves his face. "Please."

Cyril stiffens before he finally collapses. "...alright. But only four minutes!"

"Yeah." Aeton's eyes are shining bright, his hand still clutching Cyril's leg.

"Hurry up," Cyril presses him.

But Aeton is in no rush at all. He meanders along, sometimes pausing to just look at Cyril and smile an idiotic grin. He talks about small, inane things: how a certain section of Cyril's hair always sticks out when he steals naps at the table, how he'd saved up years and years of bonuses just to get those coveted date night rewards, how Cyril only smiles once in a blue moon, but what a beautiful moon that was.

He wants to cook him a meal at the apartment again, but Cyril never let him after the first failure. He would've liked to kiss him more, maybe even touch and fondle and other things, but he doesn't dare force it. Cyril is so heartless, he says. He never returns anyone's feelings. Still, that was fine because it means Aeton never has to share.

"Stop!" Cyril clutches Aeton's sleeve. "I don't need to hear these things!"

But Aeton won't stop. Cyril needs to know. He's dreamed of them getting married someday with matching rings. Then he'd convince Cyril to take a vacation so they could fly to Hawaii. He doesn't actually know if he likes beaches, only that they look nice and were advertised on all the honeymoon resort commercials. They could eat, sleep, and work together until Aeton was too old to move around and Cyril retired.

They might've died together too, but Aeton's glad he's going alone this time.

It's been seven minutes and 32 seconds. It wouldn't have mattered even if Aeton finished in one, because they both know he's done for.

For the 49th time, Cyril watches the short, sharp jerk that occurs before Aeton succumbs to his injuries.

"C-Cyril," Aeton tries to smile again, "Cyril, I—"

And he falls silent, still wearing that half-formed grin as he stares at Cyril from the asphalt. Framed in death, it looks more like a leer.

With the memory at an end, Cyril finally regains control of his body and climbs to his feet. Aeton's hand slides off his leg and splashes into a puddle with the movement, but Cyril only flinches before straightening up.

"Why do you always play this memory?" he asks the air, and only gets a laugh in response.

"Because I always remember it," Older Cyril appears at his side and kneels down to caress Aeton's unblinking face. "This was the impetus, you see? Without it I wouldn't have made it back to you at all. So I play it every night in case I forget."

"Then why show me?" Anger creeps upon Cyril's voice. "Mine isn't dead."

"I thought you could help me understand," Older reaches up to close Aeton's eyes. "People have reasons to live or die. Why did he choose the latter? I think a doctor could've made it in time, but still he..." He trailed off.

"You said he did it for your sake."

"So he claims." Older looks genuinely pensive. "If he really did, why would he choose to leave me alone? I thought he loved me." He turns to his younger self, eyes brimming with impatience. "Hurry up and find out. We don't have much time left."

"I've already done most of the things he wanted," Cyril retorts.

"That can't be all," Older reflects. "He only lasted seven minutes before he bled out. Ask him what else he wants and give it to him. You don't want to lose yours, right?"

Cyril only glares while the Older Cyril brushes his fingers over the dead body. "Look at what mine left us."

He doesn't want to look, but his eyes are drawn to his counterpart's movements anyways.

"This is where his spine broke, severing nerve endings to the brain. This is where the bullets cut through his kidney and pancreas. His left wrist is shattered in eight places and his right foot is twisted backwards. His leg—"

Cyril covers his ears but can't block the other's words. He squeezes his eyes shut and recites chemical formulas in his head to drown him out instead, but Aeton's half-leering smile and bloody corpse still haunts him in his head.

"Cyril...didya ever love me?"

"......"

"Ya don't...do ya."