A man sat at a polished wooden table for two behind a kitchen counter.

  The design was rustic, carrying traces of elegance and comfort. In contrast, his mind remained a knotted mess of muddled thoughts as he blinked slowly.

  Another man, with broad shoulders and a pleasant smile, was cooking with a black apron fastened around his waist. Vegetables sizzled and flipped expertly into the air, landing skillfully onto a ceramic plate. Oils and fresh herbs wafted, a mouth-watering temptation.

  In the background, music hummed, romantic and dreamy.

  The man strolled over and placed down an assortment of colorful dishes, beautifully spread. He pulled out the opposite chair and settled before the other.

  His smile remained soft and serene, but Ian's stomach churned.

  A fog trickled into his brain, a sense of disorder that rejected the familiarity. He reached out mechanically and added a few of the items to his plate, staring numbly at the tangle of colours, seasoned to perfection.

  "Not eating?" asked the blue-eyed man, regarding him closely. "You'll be late for work."

  Ian blinked and lowered his head, stabbing the golden eggs and spinach scramble, placing it in his mouth. Warmth spread across his tongue, buttery herbs expanding across his taste buds.

  Delicious. Yet all he sensed was disquiet, churning in his gut.

  "Eat more," said the man naturally, placing a few more pieces of meat onto Ian's plate. Ian glanced up. It was a devilishly handsome face that ate politely, but it made his fist a little itchy.

  But this wasn't the first breakfast they'd shared. Ian's eyebrows furrowed, a sharp prick of pain shooting through his temples.

  After enjoying breakfast cooked by this man, he would change and steal a ride to work. A plain office job where his fingers would tap mindlessly against the keyboard until the clock struck five.

  The sequence of his day played out before him, and when he blinked again, he was back at the table with a new assortment of food. Dinner. Outside the expansive windowpanes, overlooking a small city, the round moon hung against a scatter of stars across the infinite night.

  What was he doing? Why was he here?

  He quietly rolled a roasted tomato on his plate when a fork appeared before his lips. A piece of braised ribs pressed lightly, and he automatically opened his mouth.

  Never too sweet, a little salty, and a hint of spice.

  It was delicious, he thought as he chewed, briefly glancing up at the other man. The man's icy eyes curved faintly, and he lounged against his chair. His black shirt rolled up above his elbows, revealing powerful contours of his forearms.

  Ian's gaze swept sideways to the reflective glass windows, and for a second, a long and skinny shadow stared back at him.

  It flickered, and with a blink, disappeared.

  The phone on the table rang, and he slowly turned his head. His fingers hovered hesitantly before he flipped it.

  A name flashed on the bright screen. Six white letters that stole his breath.

  Faintly, his mind told him that he'd seen her only three days ago for a cup of coffee, listening to endless rants of sneaky and gossiping coworkers at her new research job. But for some reason, lead saddled his limbs, as if sand replaced his blood.

  He reached for the water and swallowed. It didn’t bring him any ease. After what felt like eons, he picked up the phone and raised it to his ears. His fingers trembled, and any words he longed to say lodged in his throat, a wedge preventing speech.

  A bright, pleasant voice quickly came from the speaker.

  "Ian," chirped a young woman eagerly. "I just watched this play on Greek Gods, and it was really fascinating! I thought of you immediately. I think you'd definitely like it! Do you have plans for the weekend?"

  His throat rolled painfully, stuck on a choked bundle of words untranslated. Sweat slicked his hand, and still he didn't speak.

  Worse, he didn't understand why.

  Why he felt such terror at hearing the voice of the person he loved the most.

  Eloise. The name of the woman continuing an endless stream of expressive words on the phone. The name of that baby among rows of children, swaddles of white in a sea of tiny bodies fated for imprisonment. A female researcher had taken his small hand and navigated through the incubators, stopping at one.

  "Number 31015." Her gentle eyes, hardened by the steel frame of her glasses, peered at him. "This child carries your blood. You will be assigned to take care of her."

  A sister.

  Ian learned of that concept at an early age, set before a baby who had just entered the cruel world.

  But she was his—his to protect, his sole family in the torrents of strangers bound by thick metal walls.

  He'd tentatively reached out a stubby finger, and the woman didn't stop him. His index poked the supple cheek, and the child sniffed the air with a wrinkled face before her eyes popped open, large and innocent, staring straight at him.

  He'd flinched in surprise, and a wide smile bubbled on the baby's chubby cheeks, giggling. This incredible impish, ugly thing—

  —His only family.

  "Ian," interrupted a low voice as a hand stretched before him, lightly prying away the phone. "I apologize, Eloise, your brother's falling asleep with his eyes open. I will remind him to call you back in the morning."

  Ian, dazed, lifted his chin and watched the man converse naturally into the phone, engaging in polite but familiar conversation with the woman on the other side. Her delighted laugh spilled from the receiver before the man hung up.

  The beep dragged on, ringing in Ian’s ears. The man glanced sideways, placed the phone down, and helped Ian to stand.

  His hands, large and smooth, interlaced Ian's slender fingers that carried old scars and calluses, lacking the perfection of the other.

  He drew Ian up and led them to the bedroom, where a rectangular lamp sat tall by the corner, emitting a warm light through its paper screens.

  There was clutter in the bedroom, random and strange artifacts displayed artfully on the wall, and a mixture of vintage and oriental decor. Somehow, the randomness fitted together, but Ian thought they didn't quite suit the man in the neat black shirt.

  But Ian liked them, the oddness of the masks lined on the wall, or the twisted, ornate octopus that curled in another corner. He liked how they filled the emptiness of the room.

  In this high rise apartment building that reeked of luxury, the insides had been carved into a cozy, crowded space.

  In his musing, the man had seated him against the plush of a dark grey duvet and stared for a few seconds. Seeing no response, he turned and grabbed a handful of clothes in his arm.

  Ian sat there, muddled. His memories told him that he lived with this man, had lived for so many routine days, and yet he couldn't name the other's favourite food, colour, or movie. The meals and design had been made to suit Ian, but the man left no marks beside his familiarity.

  Then, his arm was tapped, and he lifted it obediently as those clean hands slipped his tie loose and slowly began their trail down the buttons of his shirt.

  Ian's head was burning, overheated with confusion and disorder.

  Then the man's fingers brushed against the firm lines of his abdomen, and a spark, razor sharp, crackled across his skin. He jerked.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  His body reacted instinctively—to an Esper's touch flooded with chaos, his Guiding was reactive.

  An Esper. This man was an Esper—and he was a Guide. Ian’s gaze sharpened just as the man's hands grabbed his pants, and his fist flew towards that irritably beautiful face.

  The man shifted on his knees, evading sideways swiftly. His cold gaze swept up, and the curl of his lips quirked.

  Ian gritted his teeth; his empty punch hung in the air.

  "You took longer than I expected," remarked the Esper, who knelt between Ian's legs. Ian liked looking down on him, but it wasn't the right time.

  He sneered. "Staring at your face long enough is bound to make anybody ill."

  But memories twined, overgrown in his skull, a bundle of knotted strings pulled too tight. This was a man who disgusted him, pretty as he was. A liar in every sense.

  But in this apartment of two, there could only be him.

  Ian envisioned no other.

  His hands flung to his throbbing head, a hammer pounding against his skull. Then, he rushed out of the room and scrambled for his phone, nearly tripping over a chair. It clattered onto the ground as Ian swiped through desperately, staring at the bright screen in the living room, lit by only a lampshade.

  His eyes refused to leave that name, those five letters in his call log.

  A frequent name.

  He sank to his knees, staring dumbly. It was a half hour later when Victor emerged, hooking his arms under Ian and depositing him on the bed. A buzz hummed in Ian's head, and he remained pliant against the soft duvets.

  He sat on the edge, and Victor knelt once again, locking their hands. A familiar action.

  Ian hated its familiarity.

  The Esper spoke, his voice softened in the security of the bedroom, and the illusion of their life. But any kindness could only be an illusion. The face of this man he lived with—what was Victor doing? Why did he persist with these lies?

  The warm lamp on their bedside table glowed, casting a comfort to the harsh lines of Victor's cold face.

  "Is it so bad to continue?" wondered the Esper quietly. "You've already been so compliant for 162 days."

  162 days. Half a year.

  Ian's dark eyes trembled, and he jerked up. "How long?"

  "I do not believe your hearing is damaged yet, Guide."

  Ian’s heartbeat stammered. And then he was on his feet, darting to the connecting bathroom. He desperately groped for a light, and an onslaught of glaring white erupted. There, in the slightly fogged mirror, he saw his face.

  His once hollow and sharp face carried a slight fullness nourished by healthiness and comfort.

  It wasn't him.

  'But it is,' a voice echoed in his aching mind, 'this is your life.'

  Ian gripped the sink, wrenching the tap. Water surged into the marble sink. He splashed ice-cold water onto his face until it dripped down the ridges and lines that sculpted his identity. Victor came behind him with a small cotton towel and lowered his eyes.

  Ian watched in the mirror as the Esper quietly wiped away the freezing water, his gaze fixed on Ian's face. With his gaze lowered, his long eyelashes fluttered, lighter under the bathroom light.

  With a softness unsuited for his cold gaze, he muttered, "Are you awake yet?"

  Time dragged dully, pounding against Ian’s skull as he transitioned from one moment to the next. He didn't answer and slept muddled, woke muddled, and went to work muddled. Victor behaved normally—the norm of this illusion.

  He remembered last week, going to see a horror movie with Eloise, and her insistence on buying a large bucket of caramel popcorn that she never finished. He'd told her that the sugar would have her bouncing off the walls, and it did. It made her so restless that she kept squirming in her seat.

  He shared a smoke with a coworker outside the other evening, feeling the frigid cold bite his skin as the weather slowly sunk into frost as winter approached.

  This life—his life.

  All of it was real, and yet none of it was.

  What was time? Existence, and reality? Delusion? The clock continued to tick in the foreground, a blur of sensation and memory. Neither Victor nor he brought it up again, and before they knew it, a week had passed.

  A week passed in what felt like agonizing days, both short and long.

  But after the day he splashed cold water on his face, he began to notice abnormalities. Eloise called on a regular basis, but he no longer met up with her. The expressions of his coworkers were routine and manufactured, committing to the same tasks every day woodenly.

  When he stood in the middle of the day, before lunch break, all thirty heads twisted towards his standing figure. Their round, empty eyes glared at him accusingly.

  In this strange world, only he was living. The same woman walked her dog by their apartment building, and tripped on the same rock every day. The young teenager who rode his bike past would help her and smile.

  Every day.

  Ian returned to the apartment once again, where Victor waited at a table filled with food. Right, there was this person too, whose mind was intact and fixed.

  The elegant bastard sat there naturally, placing pieces of Ian's favourites onto his empty plate. He fit there, like a piece of a jigsaw that didn't match in colour but in shape, on that table of two in his suit that reeked of money.

  It wasn't out of place. Had Victor's presence not served as such a striking abnormality, perhaps Ian could have continued a domestic and peaceful life.

  Ian suddenly understood the terror of habit.

  His dismembered memories slowly slotted against each other, but he remembered 162 days here. In a domestic, peaceful life with Victor, visiting his dead sister, and enjoying a hazy, boring reality.

  Suddenly, a surge of discomfort overwhelmed him, like a man suddenly plunged in cold water. He jerked out of his seat, and it toppled onto the ground heavily. Victor only gazed calmly as Ian pivoted and dashed to the bathroom.

  Again, he saw his reflection. Healthy and comfortable. Satisfied.

  His fist flew toward the mirror. Pain erupted across his trembling knuckles, and the reflection splintered into a hundred pieces with an echoing crash. Vermillion dripped into the sink as Ian heaved, staring at his fractured face in the darkness.

  He gasped, fisting his hands. This couldn’t be him. Not this peaceful, mild-tempered man whose sharp features had long been relaxed by a comfortable life.

  This wasn't him.

  He loomed there in the dark, shoulders rising and falling heavily.

  Behind him, curled in the bathtub, a skinny girl with a white gown hugged her knees. Stringy raven hair draped over her sunken face, clinging to her flesh.

  "Do you really want to remember? Your sad, sad, sad life," she sang gloomily.

  Ian stilled and didn't move.

  "Do you really want to escape this fantasy? Is there a difference between your reality and this?" she pressed on, her voice hissing against his ears, like a whisper slithering inside. "Can you prove one of them is more real than the other?"

  Then, a shadow appeared before him, and cold skittered up Ian's skin. His spine snapped straight. The girl hissed, and her voice vanished with the presence of that lukewarm warmth at his back.

  Patiently, the other man grabbed his wrist and turned on the tap, rinsing the bloodied fists. Ian's hands, oddly compliant, didn't resist this person.

  His voice came hoarse, lacking the bite it usually carried. "What are you doing?"

  Victor smiled, like he always did, but his lowered face couldn't be seen in the broken shards. His presence closely pressed, arms circling Ian’s body. Quietly, he cleaned and bandaged Ian's hand, wrapping gauze around tightly. "Being kind to you."

  Ian didn’t move.

  "Why?" His voice began to climb, reaching higher and carrying a seething restraint. "Has it been amusing? Fun watching me live a foolish, silly life, manipulated so easily by this damn illusion?"

  Victor was silent, and tucked in the end of the bandage. He didn't pull away, his broad weight lightly leaning against Ian by the bloodied sink and shattered fragments. Their illusion collapsed there, washed away in rivulets of blood and reflection.

  Neither moved.

  It was 162 days—162 days that they lived together in the parallel reality. This damn delusion.

  "Indeed," breathed Victor, by Ian’s ear as the Guide stiffened with rage. "It's been fun."

  And Victor meant it.

  He meant it, to this large man caged between his arms, head bent pitifully with rage scorched in the black of his abyssal gaze. For 162 days, they slept, ate, and lived together in a mundane fantasy.

  At first, Victor found it amusing as he shared meals with the bitter and closed man who liked to complain, transforming from solemnity to filthy, sarcastic remarks. He didn't expect such a high-scaled illusion to appear.

  He wondered how the Guide's face would twist upon waking. He hinted a few times, suggesting pieces of reality, but Ian never picked up on them.

  Ian's mentality wasn't weak, but such an inexplicable fantasy was so far away and bewildering for him to notice any abnormalities. He couldn't even dare to imagine such a dream, and when facing it, easily fell into its clutches.

  How could he dare to reject his sister's existence?

  A man never exposed to sunlight would never dream of it. But a man allowed a taste of warmth would crave it every night.

  Victor played the perfect part of a gentle partner who listened to Ian's endless complaints, often entertaining and brutal. Even in the peaceful illusion, the man was stuffed to the brim of bitterness and loathing towards most people.

  So, when had Victor grown used to it?

  To waking to that tall, but fitting body curled against him that would sometimes violently kick him away with complaints of being too hot, but obediently lay when Victor dragged him back.

  To sitting across that man with furrowed eyebrows that relaxed after being coaxed with delicious food, always savoured carefully. When had he started looking up recipes to try and cater to the Guide's fondness for excessively spiced flavours?

  Victor had never known sincerity; even his smiles were perfunctory. Every kindness held a motive.

  But in the end, even he couldn't resist the taunting of habit.

  He faked sincerity for so many days, his body already adapted. It was easy to pretend, to slip into that disguise of sweetness, and most hardly noticed the coldness of his gaze in the illusion of his gentle actions.

  With life so boring, Victor observed the little details of expression and action and could logically place a name to them all, mimicking them flawlessly. Always, it'd been an easy and useful act.

  He'd pretended so long that the act became real.

  His hands curled around the Guide's a little tighter, shielded by the bandage. Ian winced faintly. A muffled sound. Only weeks before, the Guide wouldn’t have minded showing his weakness to Victor. It was a molded trust, born of deception.

  Now, Victor thought darkly, he didn't want these days to end.

  I DID IT AGAIN, THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE~

  What is the terror of habit? It's difficult to fall into, but once it ends, it leaves you disoriented. Writing this chapter confused me, because when I read it again weeks later, I paused and was like... is this the right novel?

  This is a fundamental changing point. Often, we pass by dozens of faces. One of them could be our best friend, one of them could be our lover. But we don't know. Maybe we engage in small talk, accidentally bump into them, but sometimes we'll never know.

  Time breeds fondness; and so does habit. It's why we stay in relationships that no longer serve us, long after they should've ended. Why we hold onto our childhood stuffies, and keep gifts from others we never use.

  We are individuals often unwilling to let go.

  So for Victor, who definitely has a few screws loose, and sees Ian as amusing entertainment, what happens when he loses him? When happens when time has grown too long, that it can no longer be a simple hobby? It becomes a habit; a routine.

  I don't know. What do you think?