Stick the Landing

By the time Dalliance stumbled his way up the worn staircase of the APS Boarding House, the city’s midnight silence had gone from novelty to threat. He was still shaking; not from the wounds, though those were present enough, but from the sense of a story unfinished, a note left unresolved and hanging in the smoky air.

Felara followed at his heels, silent as always, her bow case slung at her back and her eyes doing their best impression of indifference. Dalliance had seen that look before: it was how she hid the panic. Maybe, he thought, it was the same for him, only his came out in jokes and songs and the compulsive need to fill silences with words that didn’t matter.

They passed Mabel in the dim-lit kitchen, the old House Mother shuffling a kettle onto the stove and shooting them a look. “You two in one piece?” she asked, voice heavy with sleep and something else worry, maybe.

“Two pieces, but they fit,” Dalliance replied, grinning. He gestured at his own bruised ribs and at Felara’s scraped knuckles, but neither of them laughed.

Felara’s gaze lingered on Mabel for a second, then dropped to her boots. “We’ll be fine,” she said, voice low and clipped. “Just need some rest.”

Mabel poured a splash of milk into a chipped mug and set it down on the counter. “You can sleep when you’re dead. Or when you’re safe, which in this city is almost the same.” She fixed her attention on Dalliance, then, her expression softening. “You watch yourself, tiefling. Next time you get hanged, remember to stick the landing.”

He forced a chuckle. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mabel.”

They made their way to the second floor, where the corridor was lined with mismatched doors, some covered in wards and sigils, others in little more than a coat of peeling paint and the hope that no one would break in during the night. Dalliance’s door was halfway down, painted a theatrical burgundy to match his hair, and above the frame someone (almost certainly Felara) had tacked a miniature violin with a broken G string.

Dalliance brushed the little fiddle, tap-tap,and Felara answered on the doorframe as if checking a ward, tap-tap.

He fumbled with the key, but Felara pushed past and opened it with a flick of her wrist. “Your lock’s shit,” she muttered, and entered before he could formulate a retort.

Inside, the room was chaos: clothes in puddles, sheet music scattered across the floor, empty bottles rolling underfoot. The only thing in order was his first violin, which rested in its case atop the nightstand like a sleeping child. Dalliance sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his temple and trying to remember how many drinks he’d had since sunset. 

Felara closed the door behind her and leaned against it, arms folded. Her hair had come loose from the usual tight braid, the black strands curling around her sharp cheekbones. She looked both exhausted and dangerous.

They sat in silence for a while, letting the night seep in through the crooked window. The city outside was restless, footsteps, shouts, the distant chime of a Watch patrol. Dalliance found himself wondering whether the world would still be standing by morning.

Finally, Felara spoke. “That was stupid, you know.”

He glanced up, meeting her gaze. “What, the hanging or the rescue?”

“Both,” she said. “Mostly the first part. You could have died.”

He shrugged, trying for a smile but getting only a grimace. “I’d rather die doing something stupid than not doing anything at all.”

She huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “That’s not bravery, Dalli. That’s desperation.”

He looked at her, really looked, and saw the fatigue in her eyes, the tremor in her hands. She was scared, and the realization hit him harder than the noose ever could.

He stood, crossed the room, and sat beside her on the battered trunk she’d claimed as a chair. He wanted to put a hand on her shoulder, but instead he just said, “I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. Not this time.”

She looked at him then, and for a moment the mask dropped. He saw the person underneath, the one who’d saved him more times than he could count, who’d stitched his wounds and laughed at his worst jokes and always, always come back.

“Say it then,” she murmured.

He swallowed, feeling suddenly too sober for this conversation. “When the executioner pulled the lever, I thought, well, first I thought ‘fuck, that’s tighter than I expected,’ but right after that, I thought about you. And I regretted not having the courage to tell you I loved you.”

Felara’s face didn’t change. She just stared at him, unblinking, for so long that Dalliance started to panic.

He tried to backpedal. “I mean, I know we’re a disaster together. And you hate my music, and my cooking, and probably everything about me—”

She shook her head, cutting him off. “I know, Dalli. I’ve known for years.”

He froze. “And?”

She let her arms fall to her sides. “And I feel the same. But I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. That it would be easier.”

He blinked. “Why?”

She looked away, her voice barely a whisper. “Because I’m an elf, and you’re a tiefling. Because you’ll die centuries before I even start to wrinkle. Because letting myself care for someone feels like opening a wound I can never close.”

He absorbed this, feeling it settle into his bones. “Is that something you are still scared of?,” he asked gently.

She laughed, the sound dry and bitter. “Yeah. But I’m done being afraid.”

He risked it, then, put his hand on hers, felt the shiver run through her fingers. “Are you sure this isn’t just ‘post-near-death-experience’ pity?”

She snorted. “You wish.”

He grinned. “I really do.”

And then, before he could overthink it, Felara grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle or poetic; it was urgent and raw, her lips bruising against his, hands tangling in his hair. He gasped, startled, and then she kissed him again, harder, as if she could erase years of doubt in a single desperate moment.

Dalliance let himself melt into her, feeling her heartbeat thrumming against his chest, her body taut with longing and uncertainty. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and felt her relax into him.

When they finally broke apart, she was breathing hard, her eyes dark and bright all at once.

“Wow,” he managed.

She smirked, wiping a smear of lipstick from his chin. “You’re welcome.”

They stood there, tangled together, for a long minute.

Dalliance was the first to speak. “Do you want to—” He gestured vaguely at the bed, then back at her, unsure how to finish.

Felara’s cheeks flushed. She looked away, then back, vulnerability flickering in her expression. “I’ve never… gone this far before. I mean, I’ve been with people, but not like this. Not… real.”

He cupped her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Hey. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’m just happy you’re here.”

She shook her head. “I want to. I just…I don’t want to fuck it up.”

He laughed, soft and warm. “Fel, I’ve been fucking up for decades. It’s my only real talent. But if you’re ready—” He stopped, searching her eyes. “Are you?”

She nodded, fierce. “I’m ready now. I trust you, Dalli.”

Something in him snapped at that, something fragile and precious and long-denied. He kissed her again, this time slow and reverent, letting the world shrink to the point where nothing existed but the two of them and the space between their lips.

They tumbled backward together, Felara’s strong arms locked around Dalliance’s neck, his tail winding instinctively about her thigh as if to anchor them both to the real, solid world. The battered mattress creaked under their combined weight, and for a heartbeat neither moved, faces inches apart, breath mingling in the frigid dark.

She was the first to break the paralysis, reaching up to brush a loose shock of dark hair from his brow, her touch so gentle he almost wept. “You’re trembling,” she whispered, voice equal parts steel and wonder.

“So are you,” he replied, and it was true. Her whole body vibrated, not with fear, but with some volatile synthesis of adrenaline and anticipation. He could sense it, the way a performer senses the hush before the opening note, the way a condemned man senses the drop beneath the gallows.

The next movements were graceless, all elbows and tangled limbs, the kind of clumsy choreography that would have mortified them both in any other context, but here it only made them laugh, quietly, mouths pressed to shoulders so the sound wouldn’t escape into the open window and betray the moment to the watching world. Dalliance tried to be smooth, stripping his own shirt with a flourish, but succeeded only in elbowing himself in the nose. Felara snorted, actually snorted, and then, emboldened, yanked her own tunic over her head and dropped it on the floor.

Her body was all muscle, corded and lean, a roadmap of old scars and new bruises. He traced one along her ribs, then another at her hip, each time pausing to kiss her skin as if by doing so he might erase the landscapes of violence and regret. When he reached the scar just above her left breast, the one shaped like a crescent moon, pale against her skin, he hesitated, letting his lips rest there a moment longer.

She stilled beneath the touch, her hand trembling at his shoulder. “That one’s from when I got careless,” she murmured, her voice small and unguarded. “Didn’t check the alley before turning my back.”

“They were lucky to catch you at all,” he answered, and felt her relax, just a fraction.

He moved slowly, reverently, undressing her as if she were a relic of some forgotten faith. Each new inch of skin revealed was greeted with a kind of awe, as though he’d never touched another person before. He remembered all at once that he hadn’t, not like this, not with this much at stake.

When she was finally bare before him, her hand hovered at his heart, palm flat against his chest. “It’s fast,” she said.

He tried for a joke. “Yours or mine?” But it caught in his throat and came out as a whimper. She didn’t tease him for it, just leaned in and kissed him with a slow, aching tenderness that made him forget every clever thing he’d ever meant to say.

When her hands slid down, trailing along the lines of his torso, he shivered, goosebumps rising. She paused at the curve of his spine, tracing the ridges where his wings might have been, had fate or some ancient god decided differently. She pressed into his back, right at the hollow, and he nearly buckled.

They disentangled for a moment, both suddenly shy, staring at each other as if neither quite believed the other was real. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

She nodded, hair falling in dark curtains around her face. “I’ve never been this sure of anything,” she said, and her eyes were clear, blazing with conviction.

He reached for her, and suddenly the awkwardness dissolved, replaced by a feeling of inevitability, as if every step in their lives had led to this exact collision. He pressed her down onto the blankets and kissed her again, this time with the savor of someone drinking in their last night on earth.

They moved together, sometimes rhythmically, sometimes in fits and starts, finding a language in sighs and laughter and breathless curses. He made her laugh even as he touched her, and something about that, the ability to be both ridiculous and adored, felt like the purest kind of magic. When Dalliance finally collapsed beside her, spent and shaking, Felara pulled him into her arms and stroked his hair as if comforting a child. Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the bed, the sheets twisted around their legs, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and something like hope.

Dalliance traced circles on her bare shoulder, marveling at the softness of her skin, the way her breath slowed and evened out as she drifted towards her trance.

He whispered, “You know, I never thought I’d get this. I always figured I’d die with nothing but bad jokes and worse poetry.”

Felara smiled, eyes closed. “You’re still going to die. Just not tonight.”

He laughed, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t a performance.

She curled into him, her head resting on his chest. “Don’t ever make me rescue you from a hanging again, Dalli. Next time, you’re on your own.”

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “No deal. If I go, I’m taking you with me.”

She sighed, already slipping into her trance. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

And for once, neither of them doubted it.

Outside, the city was as restless and uncertain as ever, but in that small room above the world, Felara and Dalliance found something worth holding onto; a moment of peace, brief but fiercely real, the kind of miracle that could outlast even the longest night.

Violin O’Clock

The next morning, Felara woke with her back to Dalliance and the covers tangled between her knees. She could hear him breathing, slow and content, the rhythmic sound of someone who had nothing left to hide from the world. She lay there for a minute, relishing the moment. Her knuckles brushed his shoulder, tap-tap, and Dalliance smiled in his sleep, as if answering a question. She pulled herself upright and scrubbing a hand through her hair. The morning light stabbed through the slit in her curtains, a blade of honest gold that caught every bit of dust and stubborn motes from the night before.

She padded over to the basin, splashed water on her face, and regarded herself in the cracked bit of glass above it. Her face looked no different: eyes as sharp, chin as stubborn, mouth still betraying a smile she would not admit to feeling. She shook her head and let out a tiny, involuntary snort. Dalliance had not even stirred.

In the corner, his violin case and jacket lay in a heap, like a dog curled up to sleep on the hearth. She considered kicking them, just to see if he would leap out of bed and apologize for their presence, but in the end she only poked him gently with her toe.

He came to with a yawn so artless that Felara almost hated him for it.

"Morning," he said, rolling onto his back and stretching until every joint in his body snapped and crackled. "Was it all a dream?"

"Nightmare, maybe," Felara said, but she was smiling, and he caught it.

"I can do nightmare," he replied, and made a show of clutching the covers around his neck as if warding off an assassin. "So what's the plan? Parade down the stairs arm in arm and shock the populace?"

"You do that and I'll put an arrow through your foot," Felara told him. "Come on, we have to face the music sometime." She grabbed her shirt and shrugged it on.

Dalliance extricated himself from the bed and wandered over to where his clothes were strewn. He dressed as if the act itself was a kind of performance: wriggling into his shirt, smoothing down his hair, and straightening the collar with all the gravitas of a man preparing to accept a knighthood. He looked at her in the mirror, caught her gaze, and held it for a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary.

"You ready?" he said.

"No," Felara said, but she pushed open the door anyway, and led the way out into the hall.

The boarding house was awake, and then some. From the stairwell they could already hear the low drone of voices and the clatter of breakfast being made. Someone had started a fire in the common room, probably Kethry, who had a knack for coaxing flames from even the wettest logs, and the scent of baking bread drifted upstairs on a tide of woodsmoke.

As they made their way down, Felara felt the prickle of anticipation. There were rules to this kind of thing: you had to act casual, avoid eye contact, and above all, do not give the pack the satisfaction of a reaction. Dalliance, of course, had never been given this briefing.

He walked beside her, smiling at nothing, every bit the man who had already won the day and was now simply reliving the highlights.

The common room was full to bursting. Gilene and Selaney sat at the table nearest the kitchen, hunched over bowls of porridge and reading a broadsheet together.  Next to them, Skif and Niya were playing a vicious game of knucklebones, both of them scowling and muttering curses in their respective dialects. Nyx and Isylte occupied the couch, Nyx stretched out with his boots on the armrest while Isylte perched at the very edge, hands folded in her lap. Kethry and Faleth were by the fire, Faleth poking the embers and Kethry whispering to a pair of kittens who seemed to have attached themselves to her skirts. Elise, resplendent in her morning silks, had claimed an entire wingchair and was reading a penny novel. Orlea, true to form, was sprawled on a bench with a tankard in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, already halfway to a second breakfast. Barret had found a corner near the door, arms crossed and eyes half-closed as if guarding the room from imagined invaders, Gerard cleaning his blades beside him. 

The effect of Felara and Dalliance entering together was immediate and total. Every head turned. The noise died, then rose in volume, then died again. A dozen pairs of eyes took them in, cataloguing every detail: hair slightly mussed, collars askew, the unmistakable aura of two people who had just spent the night together and didn't much care who knew it.

There was a beat of silence. Then Orlea laughed, a big, booming sound that filled every inch of the room, and shouted, "About damn time!"

The reaction was explosive.

Nyx shot upright, crowing, "Pay up, losers!" Isylte, eyes wide, covered her mouth with both hands and started giggling uncontrollably. Kethry beamed, clapping her hands together and nearly losing a kitten in the process, while Faleth just smiled and ducked her head, as if embarrassed on their behalf. Gilene turned pink and pretended to hide behind her broadsheet, but could not stop herself from peeking over the edge. Skif snorted, nearly choking on his porridge, and Niya buried her face in her hands, groaning, "I cannot believe I am awake for this." Barret uncrossed his arms, shrugged, and then, seeing the looks from the others, gave a little thumbs up to indicate his excitement.

Dalliance took it all in stride. He paused halfway down the stairs, bowed with a flourish, and said, "Thank you, thank you, you're all too kind. She didn't kill me in my sleep, so I suppose we're official now."

Felara, for her part, kept her arms crossed and fixed Orlea with a look so withering that most mortals would have burst into flames. Orlea, unfazed, grinned wider.

"Settle the bet, Dalli," Nyx hollered, standing on the couch for maximum volume.

Dalliance, never one to deny an audience, straightened up and said, "She’s known for years, but she’s only just decided to admit it."

Orlea and Barret pumped their fists, triumphant, while the rest of the room devolved into muttered curses, groans, and a few halfhearted claps.

Felara surveyed the chaos, then noticed Orlea had produced the battered, blue ledger and was scribbling something into it with a stub of pencil. She stared at the ledger, then at Orlea, then at Dalliance, who was beaming with the self-satisfaction of a man who had just won a year's worth of rent on a single hand of cards.

"You assholes made a bet on this," Felara said, disbelief warring with reluctant admiration.

Orlea raised her tankard in salute. "Not just one bet, sweetheart. It was a whole pool. You two kept half the house solvent for months."

Felara stalked over, snatched the ledger from Orlea's hands, and flipped through the pages. The whole thing was a running tally: odds, wagers, running commentary on every perceived glance or minor interaction between the two. There was even a section labeled "Violin O'Clock," with a series of increasingly lurid predictions.

She glared at Orlea. "You have no shame."

"None at all," Orlea replied. "But I do have breakfast, and that's more than you can say."

The room erupted in laughter.

Dalliance, in a fit of magnanimity, helped Felara onto the bench beside him and made a show of pouring her a mug of coffee from the communal pot. She accepted it, glowering, but the effect was ruined when Nyx shouted, "Make room for the lovebirds!" and Isylte began tossing flower petals, conjured by Faleth, at their heads. Dalliance pinged the mug’s rim, tap-tap. She answered on the handle, and the glower cracked into something almost like relief.

Eventually, the noise settled into a kind of happy background hum. Skif and Niya went back to their game, though Skif kept sneaking glances over his shoulder and shaking his head in disbelief. Gilene actually smiled, and even offered Felara a slice of toast. Nyx regaled the table with stories of epic romantic failures from his own past. Orlea started a round of "Guess the next couple," which quickly spiraled into threats of violence and a full-out food fight.

Barret, who had not moved from his corner, raised his mug to Dalliance and said, "You have my blessing, for what it's worth."

"That's all I ever wanted," Dalliance replied, and toasted him back.

Kethry, after rescuing her kittens from underfoot, sidled up to Felara and murmured, "I'm glad you found each other. You deserve it, you both do."

Felara, unused to genuine affection from anyone except maybe her mother, mumbled a halfhearted "thanks" and went back to her coffee.

Through it all, Felara felt herself relaxing. The eyes on her didn’t feel accusatory or mocking, but more like a warm pressure, a reminder that she was part of something larger. 

The noise rose again as Mabel bustled in from the kitchen, her apron stained with half the morning’s output. She took one look at Felara and Dalliance seated together, and grinned a knowing, almost conspiratorial grin. "About time," she said, and then, to the whole room: "Pancakes are ready, but if you want any, you'll need to fetch your own. I'm not your mother."

"But you are," Isylte said, and a murmur of agreement passed through the room.

Mabel snorted, then gave Dalliance a gentle smack on the shoulder. "If you make her cry, you're out on the street. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dalliance replied, eyes wide with mock terror.

As the others filed toward the kitchen, Felara sat back, coffee in hand, and surveyed the room. Nyx and Orlea were already plotting their next scheme; Isylte and Gilene had found a quiet spot by the window to catch up; Skif and Niya continued their silent, deadly game; Barret nodded off in his chair; Kethry and Faleth wrangled kittens and breakfast, respectively; and Elise looked up from her chair just long enough to smile at Felara before going back to her book.

It was chaos, yes, but it was her chaos.

She turned to Dalliance, who was watching her with an expression so open it made her want to sock him in the arm again. Instead, she nudged his foot under the table.

"You going to write a song about this?" she asked.

He considered. "Maybe. If the ending's happy."

She looked around the room. "It is, I think."

He took her hand in his, careful, unassuming, as if the gesture were the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, the world outside could wait a little longer.

Aphelion Waltz

Verse 1
Midnight hangs like a lantern over slates and wire,
I stitch jokes to my breathing so the timbers don’t creak.
You carry all your answers in a quiver of quiet,
Counting danger by the footfall, not the shout or the shriek.
Two taps on the wood and the alley is clear—
Your orbit brushes mine, and the air turns sheer.

Chorus
We are two stars in a slow-burn dance,
Close enough to read by the other’s light;
Round and round at aphelion’s chance—
Keeping the distance so we don’t ignite.
Don’t reach, don’t fall, don’t name the fire;
Hold to our circles, never draw higher.

Verse 2
You measure out your mercy like a fletcher threads string,
I tune my heart to silence when the bells ring.
Gravity is a promise neither of us can keep—
So we chart wider circles where the sparks can’t sleep.
Your shadow on my shoulder; my song in your ear—
We pass, bright as warnings, and never come near.

Bridge
If ever the sky goes empty of light,
I’ll risk the burn to keep you in sight.

Chorus (reprise)
We are two stars in a slow-burn dance,
Close enough to live by each other’s light;
Round and round with an unplayed chance—
Keeping our distance so we don’t ignite.

Measure of Two (tap-tap)

Verse 1
City holds its breath on the eaves and wire,
Snow on the signboards, lamps run thin.
You don’t waste words on a borrowed fire—
You mark the doorframe, and I answer in.
Tap-tap on the wood, tap-tap on the bow,
With me, with you, and that’s all we need to know.

Chorus
Tap-tap—say nothing, I’ll hear you in the din;
Two beats for courage, and I’m already in.
Three says ghost, but two says stay,
And I’ll keep time with you through the break of day.
Tap-tap, Fel—no speeches, no plea,
Just that small measure that means: with me.

Verse 2
Market fog and the Watch’s lie,
Rope burned the song right out of my throat.
You fixed my scarf and you fixed my sky,
Two knuckles soft as a saving note.
Tap-tap on my pulse, breath finds its tune—
I lean on your rhythm and I don’t go soon.

Chorus
Tap-tap—say nothing, I’ll hear you in the din;
Two beats for courage, and I’m already in.
Three says ghost, but two says stay,
And I’ll keep time with you through the break of day.
Tap-tap, Fel—no speeches, no plea,
Just that small measure that means: with me.

Verse 3
Morning stairs and a house that roars,
Coffee and knucklebones, kittens by the fire.
You touch the banister, I touch the door,
We laugh like thieves stealing back desire.
Tap-tap on the mug, tap-tap on your wrist—
The world can shout; we answer with this.

Bridge
If the sky goes dark and the gallows rise,
If my voice is ash and the drums run wide,
I’ll find your beat in the noise and the lies—
Two quiet sparks that refuse to divide.

Chorus (reprise)
Tap-tap—say nothing, I’ll hear you in the din;
Two beats for courage, and I’m already in.
Three says ghost, but two says stay,
And I’ll keep time with you through the break of day.
Tap-tap, Fel—no speeches, no plea,
Just that small measure that means: with me.

Outro (soft, rit.)
Tap-tap. With me.
Tap-tap. With me.