"Um...welcome home!" Takeo gently cheers with a careful smile that quiet night. "We're glad to have you back." He smiles broader, as if to beam his good fellow feeling towards Ragar, a friendly attempt to inundate him with respectable kindness.

Ragar nods graciously. "I am pleased to return," he says, placid and unaffected.

"There is...dinner on the table, if you would like…"

Ragar's masked smile makes an enduring effort to reach his eyes. He musters his usual genuine earnesty; in the back of his mind, he wonders if he is convincing enough. He nods. "Thank you…"

He is slightly numb to the compassionate squeeze on his slender shoulder, Frankenstein's hand warm and steadying.

Once they all gather at the table, as if it is only another benign evening—business as usual—people take their places with aggressive normalcy. Perhaps all of them are privately reassuring themselves that it is all perfect now: the food hot and delicious, the lights tasteful and romantic, the household all accounted for. But, somehow, dinner is cold and tense, conversation struggling to stay alive before giving up entirely, replaced by a watchful silence and the dreary scrape of silverware against someone's plate.

Ragar can feel the gazes on him, assessing him, picking him apart all over again. They must wonder, what did they do to you? Are you alright? How can we help? They must wonder, Did they make you bleed? Did they make you cry? Did they make you cum? They must look at him and see everything that is not right in him.

Ragar's own bowl of rabokki noodles remains barely pecked. "I am alright," he answers for them, breaking the silence like a deep crack in the glaciers. He looks down again at his food, delicately picking a small piece of it up with his chopsticks. "Please do not let me trouble your meal," he says but can only swallow a couple mouthfuls before setting his chopsticks down with a sudden soft clink on the table. Raising his hand to cover his mouth, Ragar slightly furrows his brows. He tries to swallow the dull lump in his throat, eyes concentrated on the generous, familial buffet laid out painstakingly before him.

"Ragar…" Frankenstein quietly calls, setting his own chopsticks down. He presses his lips together, mouth terse and tight. "You do not have to force yourself to eat."

Sickness constricts his insides. Ragar looks down, and his chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes himself away from the table. "My apologies...Please excuse me," he says as he stands. "Enjoy your dinner." With practiced silence, he slips away into his room and locks the door.

Dreamlike, he lays down on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He knows this is his home and his bed and his body, but there is a strange distance between him and all the things he currently inhabits. He hears the quiet hum of the heater and feels the soft downiness of his clean, fresh covers. He is here, not there, and yet, Ragar feels no more real than a puppeteer, extending limp arms and limp strings to a strange body in a strange room in a strange house, none of which really belong to him. Alone, his existence feels borrowed.

Then, methodically, he turns over, burying his chin and pressing his shoulders into the pillow, and his hands snake down on his body, touching places he knows should normally bring him pleasure. His fingers slip past his waistband, and he feels his cock tucked in between his legs. He closes his eyes and thinks of pleasant things, of pleasurable things, of Frankenstein and Sir Raizel taking care of him in their unmatched generosity. Of sweet, warm embrace. He clings onto these thoughts fervently, but violence and godforsaken, awful memories are still too fresh on his body, and those pleasant things are chased away by the chill that sinks into him.

Ragar squeezes his eyes shut tighter, wanting to teach himself again that sex feels good and is done with good people who are nothing but good to him. But as his cock refuses to rise in his hand, he feels the onset of a mocking, intimate despair. A noble body is under fine noble control, but his own stubbornly rejects his efforts and remains impotent. Finally, he sighs, rolls onto his back, and gives up, futilely, pointlessly drained. Ragar swallows down his thick anxiety.

He drifts listlessly, no one and nowhere, until the sun rises in his window the following day.

With ritual ease, Frankenstein places the filled teacup onto the table in front of Raizel early in the morning and stands respectfully by him. Their silence is somber.

Each second stretches into eons, heavy and sullen. Finally, Frankenstein speaks, "I don't know what to think…" He lets out a slow, haggard breath. "I don't know how to make it better…I should have been there for him." His hand runs through his hair, fluttery with anxiousness, weak with dread. "Why—Why did I—I should have never let him go alone—"

"Frankenstein..." Raizel looks up at him, understanding, calm, but both of them know that he does not have answers either. He only pats the seat next to him, offering closer companionship, and Frankenstein accepts. Raizel looks longingly into his tea. "I believe it is obvious you are not to blame for this...but I...do not know how to make this better either." He smiles bittersweetly, sorrowfully, like it is the tender end of the world. It is an infinitely gentle smile.

Frankenstein's expression sharpens, venom laced. "I'd kill those two again if I could," he spits.

After eons more, Raizel closes his eyes, his presence and senses extending to the rest of the house, keen on the gentle press and pull and flickers of colorful life under their shared roof. Slowly, he opens them again, withdrawing into himself, and turns to face Frankenstein fully. "Ragar will need you soon." It is a touching command, one with the sensitivity and compassion of deep rooted family.

Frankenstein nods and stands from his generously offered seat.

Ragar strips down, piece by piece, jacket, shirt, belt, pants, slippers. He arranges the articles neatly on the white bathroom counter and stares into the tall, wide mirror at his bare form, unmarked and flawless as the day he had manifested into this world. Tenderly, he traces his fingers along his sides, his shoulders, his arms, as if counting all parts of himself to make sure that he is all there, where he should be. He appears real enough.

Opening the sliding glass door, Ragar tentatively steps into the roomy shower and turns it on. Scalding hot water rains on him, washing and washing away his sins, whatever they might be. His skin reddens, and steam quickly obscures the glass shower and mirror with white fog, hiding him from the rest of the world.

Vaguely, he wonders if Frankenstein will notice an unusual bump in the water-bill caused by washing himself like this, but nonetheless, his eyes slowly slip closed in private indulgence. He sighs, and the warmth of steam fills his lungs. The water patters gently on his skin, and it runs down into the drain, dragging along with it the deep ache of memories violent, cruel, and violating. He drags his fingers harshly against his skin, leaving disappearing trails, as if doing so will help him shed himself away and be renewed, but it does not, and he is left with only himself rubbed raw. Slowly, Ragar leans an arm against the dark gray shower tile and tilts his head down, long, wet hair clinging to his face, shoulders, and back. He reaches a hand up to his face, covering his mouth and chin with his fingers as his mask would usually do. He is too bare, too exposed. It becomes all too much.

His face is hot, and the corners of his eyes sting, his vision blurring, glossed over with the threat of tears that wash away under the constant caress of water. He feels phantom-touches on his body, unwelcomed, haunting, and a foreign part of his history. At last, tucked away within the walls of their home and embraced by the warmth of water and belonging, he is safe enough to break, even if just a little.

His chest constricts; he is short of breath, gasping. Coherent thoughts flee his mind, and he grasps at them like wind slipping through his fingers. Ragar feels nothing and knows nothing other than the need to cry and cry. Even the screaming that rips through his lungs and throat is dulled to his ears. He is out of time and out of place, crying out all that he had so pridefully denied himself back in that bleached, cold, unforgiving cell, torn apart all over again.

He is hardly aware of the banging and shouting at his door. "Ragar!? Ragar! I'm coming in!"

Then, there is Frankenstein, shoving open the glass shower and stepping inside, heedless of the water now soaking his hair and clothes. "Ragar," he calls, voice above the shower's patter and slowly subdued wailing. He pulls them together.

Ragar squirms slightly in his hold before stilling, realizing the safety of his companion. He gasps, chest heaving as he rests his forehead onto Frankenstein's shoulder. Softly, he groans as he dimly returns to himself. Piece by piece, he relaxes.

They stand in silence for a long while, knowing only the sound of raining water and the comforting press of each other's bodies. Gentle and tragic, Ragar wonders if they can stay like this forever.

He swallows, feeling a rawness in his throat. "Your clothes...they're getting wet…" Ragar murmurs, sorry, mundane.

Frankenstein sighs, chest rising and then falling deeply. Uncountably tender, he smiles with the sad sweetness of everything wonderful and awful in their great, wide world, expression as somber and embracing as the gaze of the silent full moon. He offers, "What do you want to do today? We can do anything..."

Ragar does not quite know how to answer. His mind too frayed and bewildered to call upon any item on his sappy, romantic wishlist of mundanity inspired by petty romantic comedies, glossy advertisements, and countless movies over the years. Peacefully tired, he stays silent, tucking himself further into Frankenstein.

"You like the aquarium, the zoo, the ferris wheel, the cafe...the theater…" Frankenstein lists, a gentle, soothing hum in his chest as he reaches up to stroke Ragar's silky hair with his fingers, easily untangling it and brushing it back. "We can pick out new clothes...eat ice cream…karaoke...drinking...the beach...a long drive…"

Ragar's eyes are lidded. He lets out a long soothed sigh, shoulders slumping. "...I wish to rest."

"That is a perfect decision," Frankenstein tells him.

After finishing the pot of tea on his lonesome, Raizel picks up the various pieces of porcelain one by one and puts them on the tea cart again. The plate of cookies, however, remain unfinished, and those left, he takes to Ragar's room. Carefully, he opens the door—the lock now broken—and peers inside.

Ragar slumbers, lying on his side, his long hair down, brushed smooth and laid elegantly under him.

Frankenstein lying behind him, arm intimately laid over Ragar's waist. He opens his eyes as Raizel walks into the room and nods in greeting, judiciously keeping still and quiet. Raizel nods in return and sets the plate on the bedside table before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

He is very tired, Frankenstein thinks to him. Ragar's been exerted so much, and he hasn't slept since—I'm not sure.

Raizel nods.

Am I correct in assuming you will not be attending school today, Master?

You are correct.

I'm sure the children will help you catch up on material missed.

Fairy-like, as cautious as a deer, Raizel too lays down on the bed, facing Ragar.

They slumber the day away.

Ragar wakes to the smile of the moon hinged on the apex of the sky. When he opens his eyes, Raizel is looking back at him, patient and observant. He feels Frankenstein's hand on his side, and Ragar reaches to brush his thumb over Frankenstein's knuckles, wordlessly informing him of his wakefulness.

"How are you feeling?" Frankenstein asks, voice a mere hush against his neck.

Ragar considers for a moment. "I would like to eat," he decides.

Raizel rises gracefully, the sheets shifting and creasing under him. He reaches over to the plate of cookies, delicately plucks one, and makes an offering to Ragar.

"Sir Raizel…" Ragar sits up as well, curtain of hair cascading. He bows his head. A grateful, weighted "Thank you" is only appropriate as he accepts the treat. Ragar's gaze lowers with maiden bashfulness as he pulls his mask discreetly to take a bite.

"Perhaps we would like to go out together tonight," Frankenstein suggests.

The chilled night air ushers them into the retro-styled diner, still open at this late hour with its neon script lights winking at them, a piece of glamorized vintage America imported into the heart of Seoul. In bold, whimsical font are the words "HOT DOGS," "BURGERS," and "SHAKES," hanging on the wall behind the service counter. The polished jukebox in the back completes the atmosphere of movie magic, and a small, wrinkled woman smiles at them as they walk in and take up a shiny booth by the window. Raizel and Ragar sit next to each other while Frankenstein sits across from them. They are the only customers at this hour.

The menu has the classic trappings of fries, burgers, hot dogs, wings as well as a humble selection of Korean comfort food and stews. After a small scene depicting Raizel's characteristic indecision when it comes to choosing something for himself, Frankenstein eventually orders, "Three California burgers and the bacon cheese fries with sour cream"—a messy affair.

Their food arrives with amicable swiftness, and as Ragar picks the onions out of his burger with a fork, he is reminded of decades past—of late night drives and fast American food with classic rock and romantic ballads on the radio. Romanticized and galvanized, he had travelled the world over with Frankenstein in search of Raizel, and America had been one of their many pit stops, food and drink always bountiful.

Suddenly, Frankenstein calls out to the lady, "Madam, can we use the jukebox?"

"Of course!"

Frankenstein nods. He slides out of his seat and strides across the linoleum tiles to reach the music machine. After some fiddling, Elvis Presley's "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" blossoms from the jukebox and paints the diner with a glowing, nostalgic moodiness. "Are you lonesome tonight...Do you miss me tonight…" Elvis's voice like slow moving satin ribbons winding through the atmosphere.

Frankenstein slips back into his seat. Carefully, so that he does not dirty his fingers or sleeve, he jams his fork into a few fries that drip indulgently with melted cheese.

Raizel has cleanly cut his burger in half—whether by knife or by psychic powers, no one truly knows—and Ragar has already taken a bite out of his own. Carefully quiet, Ragar sighs to himself as he indulges in comforting food and company, and the trio of late night delinquents are understandingly wordless as they enjoy their food to the sounds of Elvis's deep, velveteen voice.

"Perhaps we'd like dessert?" Frankenstein smiles warmly.

"I would like dessert," Raizel agrees.

"I would like dessert as well," Ragar concurs, tamely emboldened.

They order three milkshakes: strawberry for Frankenstein, chocolate for Raizel, and vanilla for Ragar. Frank Sinatra's "That's Life" comes up in the queue as they receive their tall, cold glasses dripping with condensation.

As he leans back with glass in hand and straw in mouth, Frankenstein lets out a soft, contented exhale. He looks at his companions, and his lips curl with a glowing warmth: soft sand rolling in dunes and embracing one's fingers. They are together, nothing more, nothing less, and having a precisely good time.

Sand, silver with moon-glow, slides off of their shoes with each step as they walk along the beach. The dark water, itself twinkling like the night sky above, constantly murmurs and shushes them with each overlapping wave. They walk and they walk, silently, peacefully, silhouettes adrift. To the passerby, they are merely dark shapes—both someone going somewhere and no one going nowhere.

Ragar looks far into the horizon, the water endless, a great expanse that can swallow him whole without even noticing. Suddenly, he stops, the toes of his shoes digging shallowly into the sand. "I would like to swim," he breathes. Smoothly, he shrugs off his jacket and places it at his feet at the line separating the wet sand and the dry. Then, he strides into the sea. It is not long before his head dips beneath the waves, and he disappears into the rolling inkiness of ocean.

The water is frigid. It soaks into him, presses against him from all sides, embracing, both intimate and careless. He is nothing and no one to the sea, and it accepts him all the same. He is dragged under by the waves. Closing his eyes, he can only hear the lullaby rumble of the ocean, so vast all around him and weighing down on his chest, and he stays like this for a long time. Salt stings his eyes when he opens them at feeling fingers wrap around his wrist.

Frankenstein drags him to the surface. "What are you doing? Are you trying to drown?" he chastises as they break into the air.

"I will not drown." Ragar looks up towards the sky. Then he sinks down again and disappears under the water. He knows Frankenstein will follow. He swims swiftly, with the spirit of a small adventure. They sink down and down and further and further away from shore.

In the distance, Raizel stands by the edge of the water, Ragar's jacket clutched kindly in his hands as he watches and watches.

They swim until they reach the dark, sloping floor of the sea, sand stirring. Ragar reaches out, fingers running over jagged rocks and bits of shells and swaying, coiling fans of algae as he drifts just above the sea floor. He flies over scuttling crabs and small, darting fish, silent and smooth. He watches with youthful interest as a worm pokes out of a hole in the sand, only to withdraw again as they pass. Within the darkness, a minuscule fish zips past his face, and Ragar quickly reaches his hands out to catch it, cupping it within his fingers. He eagerly turns around, meeting Frankenstein's wide eyed stare that clearly asks him, What do you have?

Ragar swims closer, extends his arms, and opens his hands in front of Frankenstein's face. The fish, a small, ugly, silver thing, darts up and away and disappears. Ragar can see Frankenstein's lips quirk up in an amused smirk, and he feels rewarded by this enough.

Frankenstein points upwards, indicating his need for air, and they accompany each other to the surface.

He huffs as they tread water. "Have you gotten that out of your system now? Care to head back?" Frankenstein nods towards shore.

Ragar looks over in that direction. They have swum far enough such that Raizel is only a dot in their vision. He nods, then takes off, not even bothering to swim. Ragar sprints back, light footsteps riding on the surface of the sea. Frankenstein follows.

Raizel's hair gently sways at the wind kicked up by their speed and their sudden stop in front of him. He smiles at them both in greeting, and then his powers whisper around their form, and they are dry again. Raizel holds Ragar's jacket out to him.

Deeply, Ragar bows as he accepts the article. "Thank you, Sir Raizel."

Raizel nods.

Frankenstein's sleek black Mercedes Benz purrs along the long stretch of road, in the back seats are Ragar and Raizel, and on the speakers is the slow, warm operatic voice of a woman singing to Satie's "Je Te Veux," notes long and crystal voice ringing with romance.

Ragar blinks slowly and sleepily.

Raizel turns to him. "Are you tired, Ragar?" he inquires.

Truthfully and strangely, Ragar nods. He knows he should not be tired from such trivial activities as going out to town, eating, and swimming at the beach, but his eyelids remain weighted with a vague, gnawing tiredness.

"You may rest on me." The moonlight catches the soft curve of his lips as Raizel pats his lap.

"Sir Raizel…" Ragar glances downwards, reserved. "I should not trouble you in such a way. Your kindness thus far has been immense enough already."

Had Ragar not been an astutely observant person, he would have missed Raizel's low sigh. "Ragar, rest." Raizel's command is simple, and it is simply followed as he lays his head down, long hair falling over Raizel's knees.

Ragar permits himself to close his eyes. He feels the phantom-soft touch of Raizel's fingers tracing along his hair.

"Ragar…" Raizel begins, voice saturated with a wondrous whispering quality. "We are very, very glad to have you back…"

As Ragar drifts, he realizes, there is no world in which he does not believe in Sir Raizel precisely and vividly; he tucks those words close to his heart.

When he wakes, he is on his bed again. Frankenstein is to one side, propped up against the headboard with a pen and a notebook in his hands, busying himself with important looking work. To Ragar's other side is Raizel, a packet of stapled math papers in hand being intensely scrutinized. They both set their work away when they sense Ragar stir.

"May I ask for the time?" Ragar croaks.

Frankenstein checks his phone. "3:15am."

Ragar stares up at the ceiling of his darkened room. After a long, considerate silence, he says, "I wish to feel good again." Another pause. "But I do not know if my body remembers how to do such a thing."

Frankenstein turns to him. "So you would like us to remind you?"

Slowly, Ragar nods, still staring forward.

The bed dips as Frankenstein leans over him. His body and his lips cover Ragar's own.

Ragar's brows furrow as he rubs himself against Frankenstein's length. Frankenstein's thighs slide against him lovingly, beckoning Ragar to take him. There are hands on his body; Raizel's fingers, delicate and precise, touch and caress his skin. They trace his chest and the line down his back. Raizel kisses the back of Ragar's neck as he slips his fingers inside.

"Make me feel good…" Ragar whispers, fairy-like. "Make me feel so good, I'll forget everything…"

"We will…we will…"

Weakly, vulnerably, Ragar whimpers. He is honest; he has nothing to hide. He lays his pride down tenderly. "I'm…" His cock is still soft in Frankenstein's hand.

"It is alright..." Raizel coos in his ear.

Ragar feels him move within him, carefully, regardfully. He knows his companions do not fault him, and he sighs, relieved.

It comes to him in pieces. He sighs, then he shudders, then he clenches his eyes shut and he moans, shameless, unabashed. Ragar indulges in his sound, forgetful, for a moment, of the Kertia pride and silence. He calls to them, whispers their names like prayer, feeling their bodies on him and in him and around him.

His cock twitches, and he reaches down to slide within Frankenstein, who has been considerately patient with him. They move against each other, heated.

Ragar lowers his head, a dainty whine slips from him. "Thank you...thank you…" he utters, voice full of worship.

He is shaking, crying out, fingers grasping at Frankenstein's hips as he moves, feeling Raizel's own encompassing embrace from behind.

Raizel nuzzles against his neck. "Do you feel good, Ragar?" he presses.

Ragar swallows. "I feel good, I feel good."

Beneath them, Frankenstein sighs, his eyes lidded and his lips parted in indulgence. Languidly, he reaches out, feeling Ragar's toned shoulder, then neck, then, he slips his fingers under Ragar's mask and pressed them to his lips.

Ragar easily accepts them into his mouth, kissing and nipping at them reverently.

Within the haze of good-feeling, his body glowing with it, Ragar slowly makes out Raizel's words whispered against his ear. He stills. Something leaps and stutters in his chest. Ragar stares down at Frankenstein with wide, innocent eyes, disbelieving eyes, wondrous eyes. Tightly, nervously, he swallows.

Frankenstein peers at him, the blue in his gaze caught by a sliver of moonlight, and it glints like magic. His lips turn up in gentle smile.

Ragar takes a breath, then he bites down. His fangs slice open Frankenstein's skin; blood trickles in his mouth, and his tongue presses against the closing wound.

Frankenstein withdraws his hand, trailing his wet fingers down the front of Ragar's mask.

Red glows around them, like flickering instances of life, fireflies here then there then gone. "We have entered a contract of the soul, bound by blood. Do you consent?"

Leisurely, Frankenstein leans his head back and closes his eyes. "Yes, my friend… "

Ragar, overcome, bows until his hair drapes forward onto Frankenstein's chest, his face hidden. He clutches at Frankenstein and trembles, keening. His body jerks as he cums, a strangled cry caught quietly in his throat.

Raizel slips out of him and soothingly runs his hand down Ragar's back.

"Thank you...thank you…" Ragar murmurs again and again, his face buried. "Thank you…"

Frankenstein feels tragic, wet droplets on his chest.

The sun rises with them in the morning. The cool sheet falls off of Ragar's chest as he wakes and sits up to gaze out of the window. The sky is painted in pastels—blues, pinks, yellows. Slowly, the city wakes as well. A new day approaches.