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“Niko. Come on. I’ll take care of you.” Elliott stood over him still, hand outstretched. He was wearing a smile, something easy, warm, and full of affection.

Who’s taking care of you? Elliott’s voice stuck in his head.

Now that Niko was beginning to come down from their sloppy roleplay sex, he was quickly becoming acutely aware of himself again.

Painfully so.

Laid out on the ground, wearing nothing.

Having made sounds that were akin to wordless keening.

Begging permissions and praise from Elliott, like a subservient, helpless thing.

And now, unable to get off the floor without the armor he’d tossed aside in careless pieces.

He didn't want to be taken care of. Something stuck inside him like a shard of glass, the familiar wound.

It washed over him all at once, a plunge deep into icy water. Niko was pathetic. He felt ashamed.

“I’ve got it,” he mumbled, ignoring Elliott’s hand, and sat up. Elliott paused for a moment, but let his hand drop. His smile dropped too. He went to the pieces of Niko’s armor and began picking them up for him.

I said I’ve fucking got it , Niko wanted to snap at him. He didn’t want his help, didn’t want to be awkwardly pieced back together into something semi-functional. He suddenly wanted to be alone, seen by the eyes of no one.

He clamped down on the slithering anger that snaked tightly through him now. He didn’t want to snap on Elliott. It was the last thing he ever wanted to do. It wasn’t Elliott he was pissed at, anyway.

It was himself.

Niko reached for his clothes and pulled them on as quickly as he could, making a conscious effort not to appear awkward.

He accepted the armor pieces as Elliott handed them to him, keeping his mouth firmly shut and doing his best not to straight up wrench them from his grip.

It was stupid. Stupid to act like this, to be so full of dangerous and aimless rage.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him.

Elliott looked at him. He was too good at reading him. “Are you really alright, Niko? Did I do something wrong? Was this too much?” His voice was quiet, a tinge of fear to it.

It tore something in Niko apart, but was exactly what he’d apparently needed to finally calm his misplaced anger a fraction.

He looked up at Elliott, fastening his gloves back into place with the rest of his armor.

He could stand again now, but hesitated to.

“No, Elliott, I—” He paused for a moment, wanting to navigate this carefully. “I always love being with you.”

Elliott crouched on the floor before him, meeting his gaze on a level field now.

His expression was full of concern, worried that he’d done something harmful.

It was a bullet straight through Niko to see it.

He hated that he’d caused it, that he was ruining the moment.

“Then what is it, Niko? Something’s wrong. Please talk to me.”

He was right. They needed to talk about this.

Niko had pushed it away for too long. But it was easier to keep shoving away what he couldn’t even begin putting into words.

“I was just, I guess, thinking that maybe from now on, we should do things the other way around,” Niko said.

The words came out wooden and stiff, all wrong. “That’s how I like it best.”

Elliott only stared at him, his brow drawing into a shadowed frown. “Is it, Niko? Really?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“You’re lying,” Elliott said simply. “Why?”

“No, I’m fucking not,” Niko asserted, rage spiking through him all over again. This time, at both Elliott and himself.

“You love it when I fuck you,” Elliott said, his tone coming out like a sultry dagger, taking a stab. “I can tell the very idea always excites you. You go crazy when I even talk about it. You like it far more than the other way around.”

“No. I’ve never said anything like that to you before. I’ve never said I like it more that way.”

“‘ It was incredible ,’” he said, repeating Niko’s own words. “‘ I’ve never felt like this before— ’”

“ Don’t ,” Niko snapped at him. He got to his feet. “Don’t… fucking throw it back at me like that.”

Elliott rose as well, slowly, and stared at him, utterly perplexed seeming.

“Like what? And even if you didn’t outright say it, you don’t have to.

It’s like night and day. It's in the way you respond. It’s in your expression, your eyes.

The way you let out that shaky little breath, like you're barely controlling yourself. The sounds you make when I take you—”

“Stop.”

Elliott stared at him a moment, before speaking again. “So, would you rather be my sub top, then?”

“No. I—” Niko folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Not like that either. I don’t want to be—”

Soft. Weak.

“Be what, Niko?”

Niko said nothing.

Frustration began to creep into Elliott’s voice. “It’s so plainly obvious how badly you want it, but won't often let yourself go there with me. Why are you denying yourself?” After a pause, he added, “Are you ashamed?”

Niko wanted to be anywhere else right now. “I’m not ashamed of anything. It’s just that everything you’re saying right now is utter bullshit.”

Elliott looked unimpressed. “Niko, I know a submissive man when I see one.”

Niko nearly choked. A flash of anger, white hot as lightning, gripped him. He laughed bitterly. “Excuse me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I think we both know what it means. I think you like being topped, and I think you like it when another man dominates you, even more. You like what you like, Niko. And it’s alright if you do. Why are you acting like this?”

I don’t know , he wanted to say. He was all agitation and tangled energy now.

Instead, he snapped, “Because you don’t get to tell me what I like.

You don’t even fucking know what you’re talking about, saying all this shit, making assumptions about me.

You’re trying to make this all about me, but— You just say I like it and want it like that, because it’s how you want it.

You just want to dominate somebody, so you want to push me into the receptive role.

” Submissive. He couldn't even say the word, pivoting to receptive instead. “You’re just— This is just you using me for what you want. And trying to justify it.”

It wasn’t what he’d wanted to say. Any of it.

He was never like this. But he felt strangely cornered, like an animal.

He was taking a verbal swing at Elliott now, looking to wound.

All because the other man had been trying to reach into and explore what Niko only wanted to push back down into the dark and neglect again.

Niko was in agony. He wanted to unspeak the words, take them all back, start the conversation over. He was losing himself to the grip of something that was half blind rage, half utter panic.

Elliott looked at him like he was a stranger now.

Niko had clearly fucked up badly, had wounded him with what he’d said. The other man merely stared at him, as distant, cold, and closed off as he had been the first time Niko had ever seen his face. The depths of pain it elicited in Niko were boundless.

He wanted to apologize. He couldn’t apologize. He didn’t know if it would even matter at this point.

Niko hated himself.

“Right,” was all Elliott finally said. He walked past Niko and out of the training room. Niko choked on calling out his name, swallowing it down by force. He ran his trembling, gloved hands over his face, trying to calm himself down. It didn't work.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

No one was there to give him an answer, anymore.

Niko banished himself to a spare bedroom that night. He couldn’t bear to lie next to Elliott, stewing in awkward silence. Not after the hurt he’d inflicted on the other man. Not after he’d made Elliott look at him with such cold contempt.

He didn’t want to trouble him any more than he already had.

Sleep wasn’t coming to him. Niko hadn’t really expected it to, anyway.

The bed he’d picked smelled of dust. He’d sequestered himself away, not bothering to wash the sheets first, in case he ran into anyone in the halls or laundry room.

Worst of all, however, was that it distinctly didn’t smell of Elliott.

His boyfriend’s scent had become such a balm to him.

It made him sleep easier than any medicine, alcohol, or drug ever had.

And alone, in this room, there was no one to hold.

Or be held by.

This was three years ago, all over again. This was hiding away from himself and everyone Niko had cared most about.

He may have come back to hunting again, but the cowardice in him still hadn’t changed.

Nor had the loathing—a weapon aimed nowhere but at himself.