Of all the things Dorian refused to take for granted—least of all the grim gift of a second life—it was the authority carved into him by Lysander's decree - power not earned but imposed, a mantle he wore like penance. And though it stung each time he bent that power to serve his ends, Dorian never dared underestimate its worth. It was a bitter tool, yes—but a tool nonetheless, and in Serathis, survival often favored the bitter. He endured, not because he believed he should, but because he must—because the moment his heart stilled, Jasper's would follow. Of that, Dorian was painfully, irrevocably certain. Lysander would see to it. So he carried on, a ruin wearing borrowed life, bound to this world by nothing but the fragile thread of Jasper's continued breath.
To survive, Dorian had learned that he could not afford failure. His job—heavy with consequences—was the only thing keeping him from the abyss. The work was grim, necessary, and often revolting, but it was the only path that led to another day.
In Serathis, where the law was a blade, Dorian's role was clear: enforce the King's iron rule over personal conduct—relationships, dissent, religious freedoms. Every day, he was reminded that anyone who dared to live outside the kingdom's narrow rules—especially those practicing nontraditional relationships, punishable by death—would face the full wrath of the law. It was a duty that twisted in his gut, considering the hypocrisy of it all. He'd rise from Lysander's bed each morning, a King's lover, and still march into the courthouse to carry out the sentences he despised. But this was Serathis, and the world did not bend for personal morals—it bent for survival.
His duties also required him, more often than not, to scrutinize the private lives of citizens. Ensuring their compliance with laws that clashed with his every conviction. It was a task that gnawed at him, especially when it forced him to watch for signs of rebellion or forbidden love—love like his own, secret and unbearable, buried in the quiet ache of his heart for Jasper.
Within the walls of the palace, whispered plots and shadowed factions simmered, all plotting to overthrow Lysander's fragile reign. Dorian's task was to unearth them before they could ignite—rooting out conspiracies, spies, anyone who dared to threaten the King's hold on power. His duties required him to watch the nobles, the military, and even his own colleagues with a vigilant eye, always alert for the slightest hint of dissent. It was a bitter responsibility, one that kept him walking the razor's edge between loyalty and the gnawing truth that the kingdom's very foundation was built on fear.
Dorian also upheld the ideological purity of Lysander's regime, his hand steady in controlling the flow of information. He ensured that only what the monarchy deemed acceptable reached the people, overseeing the suppression of books, speeches, and any whispers of dissent that threatened the King's absolute authority. It was a necessary cruelty, one that deepened the regime's stranglehold on Serathis, and with every censored word, Dorian felt the suffocating weight of the world he helped to build.
Lysander granted him the freedom to make the right choices—on the King's behalf, of course. And Dorian was grateful. Grateful for the illusion of autonomy, for the space to breathe outside the crushing grip of absolute command. After long days spent steeped in bloodless cruelty and quiet surveillance, there were few corners of Serathis where he could unwind without scrutiny. Lysander allowed him that, too—a calculated generosity. No one understood Dorian's needs quite like the King did, and he knew full well that a satisfied weapon was far less likely to turn in the wrong direction.
He didn't go often—only when the pressure built too high, or when the ache for Jasper slipped past the boundaries of his engineered restraint. Those were the nights when the heart, stubborn and unrepentant, overrode the sterile logic etched into his artificial mind. When memory blurred into need, and the longing became something stronger than the code meant to keep it buried.
Tonight was one of those nights. Dorian didn't bother changing out of his official uniform; there was no point in pretending to be anything other than what he was. The insignia on his chest turned heads, parted crowds, and smoothed every transaction before it even began. Power, in Serathis, was a language all its own—and the Grand Justiciar spoke it fluently. Whatever he wanted, the city delivered. At least, on the surface.
Tonight, he wanted to get drunk—gratefully, alcohol still touched him like it used to, dulling the edges without regard for wires or synthetic sinew. And he wanted a body beside his own, someone warm and willing, someone who—if only in passing shadow or bone-deep silhouette—could remind him of Jasper. It didn't have to be real. It just had to be enough.
He stepped into the dim glow of the bar tucked deep in Jasper's quarter of the city—a place that should've been shut down long ago, and would've been, if Dorian hadn't conveniently overlooked its existence. It was an unspoken arrangement with Seth, the owner—an old acquaintance from a life Dorian barely admitted to anymore. A man who'd known him before the engineered flesh, before the crown's seal had been pressed into his spine. Before Lysander. Before everything. Seth was the closest thing Dorian had to a friend—not quite trust, but something adjacent. He could confide in him, up to a point. Air a few grievances over a shared bottle and drink until silence felt like understanding. In return, Dorian kept the bar off the books, a non-existent line on a ledger no one dared question. Not that anyone would challenge the Grand Justiciar's decisions. But still—he liked to pretend there was balance in the arrangement.
"Dorian," Seth greeted him with a smile and a hug that lingered just a beat longer than Dorian would have liked—but he endured it, as always.
"Where would you like to sit?"
"Anywhere's fine," he replied, eyes scanning the dim, familiar space. The bar glowed gently in the corner, and behind it, a square-faced youth—likely a foreigner, by the cut of his features—was pouring drinks and chatting with the customers.
"I'll set you up near the bar," Seth said, already moving ahead with a wave for Dorian to follow.
It was a good spot—one Dorian usually preferred. But truthfully, he would've taken any seat Seth offered. Tonight wasn't about preference. Tonight was about escape.
"I'll start with the usual," Dorian said.
That meant a bottle of the strongest gin they kept behind the bar—sharp, clean, unforgiving. His tolerance had been engineered to endure poison and pain alike, but alcohol still worked. It just took more of it, and more time.
"One or two glasses?" Seth asked, already reaching for the bottle. "Expecting company tonight?"
"One for now," Dorian replied, settling into his seat with the practiced ease of a man who didn't expect comfort. He'd entertained the vague idea of meeting up with that captain from Jasper's starship—the one with quick eyes and a quicker mouth—but the day had gotten away from him. Still, maybe luck would intervene. Perhaps the captain would show up anyway. Stranger things had happened in Serathis.
Seth set the bottle down and left without a word, knowing Dorian well enough to recognize the quiet pull of solitude. Some nights, Dorian welcomed company. Tonight wasn't shaping up to be one of them.
Until—
"Mind if I join?"
That voice.
Dorian looked up, forcing his face into neutrality, willing every twitch of expression into submission.
"Jasper. What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, I imagine, Grand Justiciar," Jasper said, his tone a little too smooth. "Looking for a drink and someone to make the silence feel less like drowning."
Dorian let out a low breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Looks like we found each other, then."
His smile was all shadow." Sit."
Jasper already had a glass in hand—nearly empty, the amber remnants catching the low light. That alone might explain the sudden boldness. Dorian looked closer, narrowing his gaze. There it was—the telltale shine in those indigo eyes, the slow curl of a smile too easy for the weight of their shared history.
Jasper was drunk. Not stumbling, not slurring—but loose in a way that spoke of blurred edges and lowered guards.
Now. Of all times.
"You shouldn't be here," Dorian chided, filling Jasper's glass without waiting for permission. "You know what happens at the end of the month."
"Yes, I remember," Jasper replied with a careless shrug. "But let me make my own choices, Dorian."
Stubborn brat. Always had been, always would be. Dorian's lips twisted into a half-smile as he raised his own glass.
"Salut."
Not a boy of twenty anymore, raised in the palace under the constant watch of his royal father. The man sitting in front of him now was different—shaped by time and hardship, someone who did make his own choices, despite Lysander's iron grip. His beauty had matured, yes, but it was now edged with sorrow, a weight that never quite lifted, giving him an expression that always seemed on the brink of something far darker, more desperate. His braid had been gone for years now, replaced by shoulder-length golden strands that fell free, framing his face in a way that felt almost untamed. Jasper had grown into his features—sharp lines once too severe now softened by time, angles giving way to a perfect symmetry. Yet there was strength in him, undeniable. The cut-off tank top clung to his frame, highlighting sinewy arms, muscles honed under pale skin and nearly consumed by ink. Dorian suspected that nearly every inch of Jasper's body was covered, a map of ink and muscle, of things woven into him just as much as the corded sinew beneath.
There was no denying the reason Jasper was here tonight. He dressed to impress—carefully, deliberately—like someone who knew exactly what he was seeking. Company. The same as Dorian. With every sip Dorian took, it became harder to ignore, harder to suppress the pull between them. It hadn't weakened over time. If anything, it only seemed to grow stronger, more impossible to escape.
"You look like your brain short-circuited for a second, Dorian," Jasper said, his laugh infectious.
Dorian fought to keep his expression steady, but the sound of Jasper's laughter tugged at him, making it harder to maintain his composure.
"Very funny, Jasper," Dorian replied dryly. "I guess when you're drunk, you regress into a six-year-old."
"Not really," Jasper shook his head, his smile fading just slightly. "I don't remember laughing much when I was six. Or joking."
Dorian raised an eyebrow, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "I wouldn't exactly call it a joke."
"I'm sorry, Dorian." Jasper turned away slightly, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'mnot great at this... I really want to say something else, but I know I shouldn't, so I just... say whatever pops into my head. Ijust... I just want to keep talking to you. We don't get to talk much these days."
Jasper really was drunk.
"There's a reason for that," Dorian replied, his voice darker than he intended, reaching out instinctively to tuck a strand of Jasper's golden hair behind his ear before he could stop himself.
The air shifted between them. They both fell silent, the quiet thick with awareness—of each other's presence, of their heartbeats, of the thread of connection that had always pulled taut between them.
They should, in theory, finish what they started ten years ago. Put it behind them, or so to speak.
"You're drunk. I'm walking you home."
Dorian's voice carried the weight of command—clipped, official, like an order that couldn't be refused.
"But…"
Jasper faltered, the protest barely formed.
"There are people here, Jasper."
This time, Dorian's voice softened. Not pleading, but close—measured with concern, threaded with warning. He needed Jasper to understand: this wasn't control. It was protection.
And somehow, through the warm fog of gin and aching want, Jasper did.
"I am drunk, Grand Justiciar," Jasper lamented, the title half-mocking, half-surrender. "I'll follow you."
Dorian paid the bill, pretending not to notice the concerned glance Seth shot his way.
He knew—Gods, he knew—this was a terrible idea. That someone might have seen. That someone might tell Lysander.
That tonight could cost them both everything.
But it was too late.
There wasn't much furniture in Jasper's apartment. Sparse. Functional. Lived-in, but just barely.
Dorian had been here before—always to escort Jasper to his monthly interrogation. Back then, he made it a point not to look. Not to see. It had felt like a betrayal, somehow—a line he refused to cross.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he let his eyes linger.
He wanted to know—just a little.
What Jasper liked these days.
What he did to pass the time, to outrun the boredom and the slow, choking pressure of his existence.
He knew some of it, of course. The machines told him.
They always did.
But Dorian had a secret of his own.
Being part machine himself had its advantages—and one of them was a silent, uneasy truce with the subroutine responsible for Jasper's surveillance.
A compromise forged in defiance.
Not all information was passed along to Lysander.
"Take it off," Jasper said, his voice low but firm. "Your uniform. Let's make this less official."
Dorian tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So tonight, I take orders from you?"
He raised an eyebrow—but obeyed without hesitation.
Why not, for a change?
"How will this even work? How will I know that you want me?"
"Jasper," Dorian all but snapped, his voice fraying at the edges. "Look at me. All of me. Do I look like I don't want you? Am I any different from all the other men you sleep with?"
Jasper didn't flinch. "Not really."
"I've wanted you since the moment I first saw you. I came back from the dead wanting you. I never stopped." Dorian's voice lowered, thoughtful, quite awe seeping through the words. "Some things transcend time—even death, my Prince. Some things are just that—eternal."
Jasper's eyes darkened, and he breathed, "Then come here and kiss me."
This was the moment when Dorian's heart connected to his artificial mind, overriding the original programming and flooding his circuits with emotions he had no memory of. It was like a surge, a pulse of heat in the wires beneath his skin, electric and alive. This wasn't from before. It wasn't something he had imagined or dreamt about. This was now—real, unfolding, undeniable. He could feel it—every line of code twisting, every nerve firing, his synthetic body buzzing with something new, something exciting. Dangerous.
And at some point, it, too, would become a memory. But unlike all the rest, this one would be new. This one belonged to the Dorian he was now—the one who had chosen this, chosen him. The one who had learned to feel beyond the circuits, beyond the cold calculations of survival. This was more than desire. It was a part of him he didn't know he could have—an echo of something real, something human—and for once, it was his to claim.
"I can feel you," Jasper said softly, smiling as he spread his hand over Dorian's chest, right above the place where heart and machine met. "The new you and the old you… they're coming together. And I love you just the same."
He looked up at Dorian, eyes gleaming with something between challenge and longing.
"I remember what you told me a few days ago," he added, voice dipping lower. "That you could do it even better than before."
He leaned in, lips brushing close—taunting, trembling, true.
"Show me."
Dorian didn't move. His gaze pinned Jasper in place, swept over him with a precision that felt surgical.
"I will. But I want to see your ink first."
He said it like a demand, but something softer slipped beneath the words—need, maybe. Reverence, even.
Jasper stilled, caught under the weight of Dorian's eyes. They traveled his body slowly, taking in the breadth of shoulders that had once been narrow, the planes of muscle honed by labor and time. The boy was gone. In his place stood a man who bore his life in black lines and broken silence.
The tattoos wrapped him like armor—calligraphy and sigil, some sharp as teeth, others soft as breath.
"Let me see it all," Dorian said, quieter now, as though asking for something sacred. "Every mark. Every story you never told me."
And Jasper did.
He moved with the kind of grace born from weariness, not performance—no seduction in it, just surrender. One hand reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it upward, slow and unflinching.
The ink bloomed across him like a second skin.
On his left shoulder, the delicate sweep of a name—Dorian—rendered in an elegant black script. No flourish, no attempt to hide it in a foreign language or code. It was a brand of memory, intimate and unrepentant.
Further down his spine, constellations scattered like fractured light—moons, stars, the suggestion of orbit. They trailed across his limbs, looping around his biceps and disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Here and there, hummingbirds hovered, improbable among the celestial pattern, stitched into the void like a secret no one had asked to understand.
And then there was the sword. It cleaved his abdomen in two—a single blade rendered in brutal precision, its tip aimed downward. Not new. The ink had faded slightly, blurred at the edges. Old enough to speak of a boy's pain, made permanent before time could dull it. A mark of recklessness, or grief, or both.
Dorian didn't speak.
He only looked, as though reading a language written in pain and survival. His name among the stars.
He tasted like ruin. Not metal, not ozone, not the antiseptic chill Jasper had imagined for years while hating him from afar. No—Dorian tasted like smoke and sorrow, like memory licked raw by fire. Like the last good thing that ever touched this city before it was turned to ash.
Jasper didn't move when Dorian pulled away. Couldn't. The world felt paper-thin, like if he shifted too quickly, it would crumple and fold in on itself.
"I came back from the dead wanting you."
"You did not have to die for me in the first place."
Jasper thought that, with a shudder, hearing Dorian's words. But he did.
Of course he did. Because that was Dorian, wasn't it? All cold fury and impossible choices. All sacrifice hidden behind a mask of law and order and blood. He had to die for Jasper, just like he had to come back—because guilt wrapped itself around Dorian like a second skin, and Jasper was the wound he couldn't stop picking open.
"Was it worth it?" he asked, the words quiet and flat, like a stone dropped into a well.
Dorian said nothing. His silence answered everything.
And still, despite the sting in his throat and the ache in his chest, Jasper took one step closer. His fingers ghosted near Dorian's wrist—just enough to feel the faint hum beneath the synthetic skin, the steady rhythm of a heart that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
"It was. It is."
Dorian answered before kissing Jasper again, and then everything—every ache, every word left unsaid—faded into oblivion.
The moon cast cold light through the opened curtain. Constellations from distant stars traced themselves across Jasper's bare skin as though the night sky had chosen him as its canvas. The room was painted in a hushed, blue glow—cold but not unkind.
Jasper lay still beneath it all, Dorian half-curled around him like a shadow clinging to warmth. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore. It breathed. It held.
Jasper didn't know if it was forgiveness that passed between their mouths or grief. Maybe it didn't matter anymore.