Chapter Text
In the Tower, higher means more power, more opportunities, better . To climb is not a choice but a mandate, one that disregards status, bloodline, or personal desire. Keep climbing, no matter the agony, no matter where you must trek your feet or the people you might trample upon.
That is what Aguero’s mother has taught him. He has never quite seen things that way, though. Instead of etching Khun Eduan’s empty smile and distant figure into his mind, Aguero often thinks of Jahad—the one King of the Tower, the one who wears the crown.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, they say.
Khun Eduan is always grinning and careless in his strength. Aguero doesn’t know much about Jahad—not enough anyway—but His Majesty himself doesn’t seem like one to be vigilant either.
To Aguero, that isn’t power. True power is not the absence of weight but the ability to bear it. True power is beyond his father’s shallow grin, beyond even Jahad’s throne. It is something greater, and Aguero intends to claim it, no matter how heavy.
Aguero collapses alongside the downpour. Mud splashes up his clothes with an agonizing contrast of cold against warmth.
The mammoth-sized door behind him shuts with a deafening thud.
When his eyes flutter close momentarily, he sees his mother, his sister, Kiseia, and Maria.
“Listen well, my son.” “Aguero.” “Brother.” “My Aguero.”
If someone ever asks, Aguero will say he used to have sisters whom he loved dearly and a mother who only wanted to be loved.
Aguero stands, fingers curled up around Manbarondenna. He vows to himself and no one else to come back one day.
Aguero doesn’t believe in luck; what utter bullshit it is to entrust oneself to the intangible. Hunger taught him that. Hunger gnawed at him once, a punishment the Khun Family adored, an agony that only sleep could spare him from.
He doesn’t need charity—warm meals that are tasteless, stale. Meaningless.
“Listen well, my son.”
Warmth is another intangible thing, as is kindness. Both are earned. Trust is transactional.
“Aguero.”
After his exile, Aguero finds the Inner Tower strangely accommodating. His sharp wit, honed in the cold halls of the Khun estate, serves him well. Opportunities unfold naturally. He brokers deals, outmaneuvers rivals, and accumulates more than enough for himself.
“Brother.”
Yet, Aguero doesn’t stop to savor it. The comforts of wealth taste bland, like an echo of the life he’s left behind—proof of his capability, but not his purpose.
“My Aguero.”
A bone-chilling whip of wind snaps him out of it. Aguero looks up and doesn’t tremble the slightest because the Khun Family’s ice is all he knows his whole life. The lethal cold is all he knows his whole life.
Snow gradually peppers the small town until everything fades to white like a fever dream. Laughter and jingles of golden bells are a godawful reminder that Winter’s Veil is nearing yet again. Aguero remembers uncomfortable family dinners, shiny weapons wrapped up as presents, and Maria’s pale breath against the starry night sky.
“They’ll die out once it gets colder,” she used to talk to him about flowers as they took a stroll in one of Khun Eduan’s gardens.
Aguero thought it’s a shame.
Before he could say that there’s really no helping it, Maria had already kneeled. She pinched a blue rose between her fingers, one that was several shades darker than her hair color, and allowed it to freeze over. Crystallized and dazzling beneath the sunlight.
“This way, they wouldn’t have to die,” Maria smiled like she was content.
A day shall not pass if Aguero doesn’t jolt awake because of that same dream. Some days, it gets easier. Most days, it doesn’t and he cannot recall her face, only her voice. A pathos of something he can’t stop caring for.
“Don’t you agree? The flowers—”
“—flowers, sir? Ma’am?”
The streets hum with holiday chaos—lights blinking, snow swirling, voices rising in hurried cheer. Aguero threads through it all like a blade, sharp and untouched, eyes fixed ahead. He needs to hurry back before today’s snowstorm comes.
Then he hears it—a soft voice, almost lost in the white noises.
“Would you like a flower?”
Aguero turns, gaze landing on a boy standing by a crate of blooms. The flowers look fragile, their colors muted in the blinding festive lights. The boy is young, too young with chestnut hair that spills over his shoulders, and haunting golden eyes; his coat is too thin for the biting cold.
“No,” Aguero says, already turning away. “They will wilt before they’re worth anything.”
“They ought to bring someone joy, still,” the boy replies, voice steady, smile soft. Undeterred.
There’s a sincerity in his gaze that Aguero isn’t used to—a disarming kind of honesty that sets off an alarm in his head.
Aguero hesitates. The boy doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny, that unwavering earnestness akin to a flicker of hope amidst the dull frost. Against all reason, Aguero spins to face him.
“Fine,” he mutters, reaching for a red rose, just because—on bad days, Aguero lies in his bed and wonders if his sister had blood in her eyes as life slipped away from her body.
Not that it means anything anymore. “Let’s see if it’s worth the trouble.”
The boy questions his choice aloud, “Why not the blue one?” Almost too innocent for him to bear.
Everything turns sour. “Why the blue one?” Aguero holds back the urge to snap. He knows it’s foolish to have held onto such sentiments, to remember her in a light that paints their skies stormy.
The boy smiles at him, warm, with no edge to it— familiar . “Because it matches your pretty eyes and pretty hair.”
“Oh, cease the grumbling and take a look, Aguero! This rose is the same color as your eyes.”
The next day, an expected snowstorm howls through the streets, a merciless cascade of white that blurs the world into indistinction. Aguero barely notices the cold as he cuts through the crowd, his sharp features set in an expression of icy resolve. But then, through the swirling snow, he spots something—a small, crumpled figure slumped against a street lamp.
There’s a bundle of messy chestnut hair barely shielded by a white cloak.
Aguero pauses, irritation flickering through him. He doesn’t owe anyone anything—common people in the Tower owe the Khuns, not the other way around. The flowers, the smile, the soft-spoken words—they were fleeting…troublesome, even. Yet, as he steps closer, there’s a purple tinge to the boy’s lips, the trembling of his too-thin frame.
“Idiot,” Aguero mutters under his breath, shrugging off his coat.
His frown deepens when he is able to lift the boy with little effort.
The world is hazy, a blur of warmth and shadows, punctuated by the soft crackle of a fire. Bam’s limbs feel heavy, like he’s wading through water, and his mind struggles to surface. His body aches faintly, though the sting of the cold has long since faded, replaced by an unfamiliar cocoon of comfort.
There’s a sound, faint and distant, like something carried on the wind.
“Were your hands always this cold, like the snow?
If we touched, we would melt in the tender silence.”
At first, it feels like part of a dream, a lullaby that seems to drift closer, wrapping around him like a tender embrace. Bam’s breathing slows, matching the rhythm of the voice, low and steady.
The words float to him. He can’t make them out at first, but the feeling behind them—something gentle and unguarded—seeps through his walls.
”Even if I cannot be forgiven, even if I lose it all,
I still long to meet you again.
But I've always known that you won't return.”
By the time the boy stirs awake, he’s wrapped in a blanket, the scent of something warm wafting through the air. The room is modest but cozy, adorned with sharp, clean lines and understated luxury—every detail meticulously chosen. Aguero sits at his bedside, stirring a steaming cup of milk, his eyes sharp and watchful.
“You should be dead,” Aguero remarks flatly.
The boy blinks, disoriented. “Where am I…?”
“My place,” Aguero says, setting the cup down with a clink. “You collapsed on the streets. What were you thinking, wandering around in the middle of a storm?”
“I needed to sell more flowers,” the boy admits quietly, his gaze dropping elsewhere. “Rachel…she’s sick. I need to take care of her.”
Aguero studies him for a moment, the boy’s words tugging at something unspoken. There’s a desperation in his voice, raw and earnest, that Aguero finds both sickening and understandable.
“You nearly froze to death for some meager pocket change?” He tilts his head, more threateningly than he intends.
The boy flinches but with no visible shame. “Rachel’s not well. She’s been having a hard time, and I just…I need to make things easier for her.”
Aguero’s gaze sharpens, the name catching in his thoughts. “And what exactly does Rachel need?”
The boy hesitates, his hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “She...she wants to leave this place, to live somewhere better. Somewhere warmer. But she can’t work much, so I try to make enough for both of us. It’s not a lot, but…” He trails off, his voice faltering.
Aguero’s lips press into a thin line. He notices the cracks in the boy’s words—the way Rachel’s needs echo suspiciously like her wants, how the weight of her survival rests entirely on those narrow shoulders.
“She must be something special,” Aguero remarks, his tone jaded, almost mocking.
The boy’s golden eyes light up, genuine and undoubtedly. “She is. She’s the only one who ever stayed by my side.”
Aguero doesn’t say anything to that, his fingers tapping idly against the side of his mug. The boy’s devotion is obvious, and yet, beneath it, Aguero senses the imbalance—how he speaks of Rachel like she’s a fragile thing he’s desperate to hold together, no matter the cost. Some sort of twisted sense of possession, perhaps.
“Drink then rest,” Aguero finally says, gesturing at the mug. “You’re no good to her dead.”
Golden eyes dart to the window in a hurry. Aguero follows his gaze and recalls how one of the first things he was taught is that the sky goes through a cycle throughout the day. Blue, orange, pink, purple, and repeat with the stars pushing to replace one another. He can’t help but wonder if the boy knows it’s all fake.
“Rachel wants to see the stars. Real ones,” the boy says, for once sounding so unsure about something he seems to have known his whole life.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the faint sound of the snowstorm outside like a muted, dusty record. Aguero leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Enough about her,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual bite. ”What is your name?”
”The Twenty-fifth Bam,” the boy appears to be sheepish about something for the first time as a light shade of pink dusts his cheeks. “A-And yours?”
”Khun Aguero Agnis,” Aguero stops himself, and then, “Call me Khun.”
The boy’s smile beams like the sun. “Yes, Khun.”
Bam insists on lighting a small, mismatched candle, which he pulls from his bag, and Khun, though skeptical, allows it. The flame casts a warm glow over the room, softening the sharp lines of Khun’s face and illuminating the boy’s bright, golden eyes.
“Thank you,” Bam says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.
Khun startles.
“For saving me,” Bam continues sternly like he doesn’t understand why the blue-haired youth is reacting this way. Proper manners are important, Rachel has said so.
Khun doesn’t respond, his gaze snapping to the window where the snow still falls in soft, relentless waves. For the first time in a long while, the cold doesn’t feel quite so suffocating.
The snowstorm settles by nightfall, wrapping the city in an uneasy hush. Inside Khun’s apartment, the atmosphere is just as quiet. Bam sits cross-legged on the couch, a blanket still draped around his shoulders. All he has been doing is studying the small candle on the table like it’s some strange, living thing.
“Looks like things have calmed down a little.” Khun looks out the window then at the time on his pocket. “You should probably head back before midnight. Best not leave Rachel alone on a night like this.”
Bam stands, the wool blanket dipping into a pool around his feet. “I suppose I’ve bothered you for long enough now. Thank you for everything.”
That is not what Khun was trying to go for at all. “I meant it’s Christmas Eve so you shouldn’t just-”
Bam looks at him.
“…You don’t know what Christmas is, do you?”
The question is sudden, out of place so Bam narrows his golden eyes in confusion. “Is it…important?”
Khun looks at him, momentarily speechless. “Important? Christmas? Yuletide? Winter’s Veil? Yes? Everyone celebrates it. Most people with a family, at least.” That last bit isn’t meant to come out so bitterly but it did anyway.
“I’ve heard people mention it,” Bam says like a confession. “But I don’t really know what it’s about. Rachel always said it’s something other people care about, not us.”
Khun’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “Rachel said that?”
Bam nods, almost sheepishly. “She says we can’t waste time on things like that.” His words are simple, but there’s a weight in the way he says them—a quiet resignation Khun doesn’t find pleasant.
He leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “So she decides what’s worth your time?”
Bam wants to shrink into himself. “She knows more than I do.”
Khun’s lips are pressed into a thin line, his irritation bubbling just under the surface. It isn’t the first time someone has dictated what’s important in someone else’s life, but seeing it unfold in Bam’s unassuming gaze feels like looking at a reflection he wants to puncture with a knife.
“Well, clearly Rachel isn’t too fond of Christmas,” Khun says, standing abruptly, “But you are. And I say we celebrate together.”
Bam blinks up at him, wide-eyed. “But-”
Khun interrupts him because he doesn’t want to hear Rachel’s name for another single time. “You’ll make it home before midnight.”
Something shifts in those golden eyes; Bam is debating whether he can momentarily indulge himself before returning to the ordinary life he should be happy with.
“Okay…” An exhale. “How do you usually celebrate Christmas?”
Khun smirks, heading to the small cabinet by the window. “Well, there’s always warm food, lousy decorations, gifts, and anything that can serve as a temporary distraction from the fact that our parents do not know how to love us.”
Bam’s lips nearly twitch upward but he stops himself.
”It’s sarcasm, Bam,” Khun says pointedly. “It’s supposed to be funny. You can laugh.”
Khun throws together what he can—a half-decent meal and a small Christmas tree he manages to find in the corners of his apartment. He pulls out a box of chocolates he’d bought on impulse weeks ago, their glossy wrapping still untouched.
Bam watches him with awe and confusion, his golden eyes following every movement. When Khun places a steaming mug of cocoa before him, Bam hesitates, staring down at the thick liquid.
“Drink,” Khun orders, sitting across from him. “It’s not poisoned.”
What a strange thing to say when offering someone a drink. Bam takes a cautious sip, his eyes widening at the warmth that blooms in his chest. “It’s sweet!”
“It’s supposed to be,” Khun replies dryly. “That’s the point.”
As the evening unfolds, Khun finds himself explaining everything—the lights, the snow, the meaningless little traditions that somehow make people happy. He even digs out an old scarf, draping it around Bam’s neck with a huff.
“It’s too thin for this weather,” Khun mutters.
Bam touches the scarf like it’s something precious, his grin widening tenfold. “Thank you, Khun. I can leave just fine like this.”
When the boy smiles at him across the table, his cheeks still flush from the hot cocoa, and Khun can’t help but think that maybe this is what Christmas was supposed to feel like all along.
But every banquet must come to an end and nothing good ever lasts. Khun pushes himself off his armchair to see Bam off, having sent the boy a map on his pocket.
Bam’s gaze eventually lands on something above the doorway as he slips into his boots. “What’s that?” he asks, his voice soft but faintly drowsy.
Khun glances up and grimaces. A small sprig of mistletoe dangles above the door frame, its green leaves and white berries startling against the stark lines of his apartment.
“Oh. That,” Khun says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s leftover from the last tenant. I just haven’t gotten around to taking it down.”
Bam tilts his head, curious. “What’s it for?”
Khun hesitates, words catching in his throat. He tries to brush it off with a casual shrug. “A holiday tradition. If two people stand under it, they’re supposed to kiss.”
“Kiss?” Bam repeats, his tone pure and free of embarrassment, like a child learning a new word. Such innocent fascination makes Khun’s cheeks flush.
“Yes, but it’s a dumb tradition,” Khun’s says hurriedly, stepping toward the mistletoe. He stretches to pluck it from the frame, but his hand lingers mid-air when he notices Bam staring at him with that same desire to learn and know.
“It’s a tradition, right?” A pause. “So do we have to-“
Khun’s stops him short of that headache-inducing question. “It’s optional. Entirely optional, Bam.”
“You’re keeping it?” Bam asks, blinking.
Khun fumbles for an excuse when he doesn’t need one. “No. Just—leave it. It’s not like I’m going to make use of it anyway.” He pivots back inside to pay attention to literally anything else
Bam looks up at the mistletoe again, a faint smile forming on his lips.
Khun returns from rummaging through his closet for a thicker coat.
“Oh, I can’t take this-“
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ll make sure to give it back.”
“You don’t have to. Keep it.” There’s no need for you to return to me.
Because Khun knows that many years from now, he will have to leave it all behind to achieve the endgame he desires.
What Khun doesn’t know is that, many years from now, the golden-eyed boy will invest in his own demons and watch them grow, until he becomes one himself.