Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

In 1988, the world population was approximately 5.14 billion. On average, there were about 56 million deaths annually. That translated to roughly 106 deaths per minute—about two deaths per second.

Awake, Damein could hear each rasping, shuddering last breath. With the first seal broken, it was no longer just a morbid heartbeat—it was a rasp, a whisper, a demon's mournful recitation of names. Some names held more than just syllables; they were stories. Hopes. Regrets. Despair. Hearing them, Damein knew the lives they had lived, their dreams and failures, if only for a moment. Then, like the final breath itself, it all faded into silence.

But sleep was worse.

Damein's dreams were no longer his own. He walked barefoot across a roiling black ocean, its surface slick and endless, accompanied by the silent, hollow-eyed shadows of the damned. Each step pulled him toward another death. He no longer merely heard the dying; now, he saw them—he felt them. Each final moment played out in agonizing clarity. He was no savior. He was no guardian. He was simply there, a false Grim Reaper, an unwilling witness to every death that unfolded in his dreams.

A teenage boy, his skin dark and his hair still damp with chlorine, thrashed helplessly in the depths of a swimming pool. His lungs burned, filled with water. He had thought no one would notice him sneaking into the pool at night. He regretted it now.

A woman in a tattered red scarf—Middle Eastern, maybe—staggered in an alley, her bright eyes wide with terror. She had trusted the wrong man tonight. Her blouse was torn, her arms scratched and bruised from the struggle. His hand tightened on her throat, silencing her scream forever.

An old man, gaunt and pale, lay in his hospice bed. His white hair was thin and patchy, and his wrinkled skin hung loose around his frame. Once, he had been a soldier, proud and sharp-eyed. But that was decades ago. Now he stared at the ceiling of a nursing home, abandoned by the grandchildren who had stopped visiting. Death, when it came, was almost a relief.

Another man—a ghost of a man, really—slumped in a decrepit apartment that reeked of stale sweat and burnt aluminum foil. His skin was sallow, his cheeks hollowed, his arms mottled with track marks. The drugs had ruined him long ago, and it had only gotten worse since the fall of the Red Widow. He stared at Damein as though he could truly see him—the false angel of death. A syringe dangled from his hand as he exhaled his final breath, the sweet poison taking him at last.

Damein bore witness to all of it. Such was the burden of the Crown of Conquest. Such was the cost of the first seal broken.

Power always came with a price.

He could ask anything, and the damned shadows would answer—truthfully, completely, without hesitation.

Papa's secrets. The ones he took to his grave. The origins of the Numbers. How had Papa found so many psychic children? Where had he stolen them from? Did any of them still have families, somewhere, out there?

He could question the spies and scientists, the conspirators who had hidden the past. He could compel the eldest and most monstrous of the Numbers to teach him the darkest power of all—psychic cannibalism. The ability to consume the lives and minds of others to grow stronger, to feed on death itself.

And then, of course, there was the demon.

The demon, always lurking in his reflection. Always watching from the dark waters of the black sea beneath Damein's feet. Ever helpful. Ever eager. The demon could save lives, if Damein asked. The demon could spare the dying, could turn back the hands of fate itself.

But the demon's help came with a price far worse than death.

And so Damein did not ask.

For not using the power of the Crown was the only way to repair the broken seal.

He walked among the dying, offering neither pity nor comfort. Apathy was his shield and his succor.

Damien opened his eyes to the faint glow of artificial moss clinging to the metallic ceiling. The moss cast a bluish light—just bright enough to keep the room from being completely dark, yet soft enough not to disrupt sleep. It reminded Damien of the light of a full moon, subdued and otherworldly.

He reached to his left, his hand finding the reassuring warmth of Trevor's shoulder. Trevor, a year older than Damien, stirred slightly at the touch, his breathing steady but shifting as if on the edge of waking.

Boyfriend. Damien had always hesitated to use that word. It felt too... adolescent for what they had. Too flimsy. Too temporary. Trevor wasn't just his boyfriend, but was "lover" any better? That word felt overly dramatic, as if they'd been ripped from the pages of some tragic romance. Partner? Too sterile, too clinical.

The truth was, Damien didn't have a word for what Trevor meant to him, not one that fit the way their lives had become tangled together. He still didn't know why. The sex was great—better than great, really—but then, sex had also been great with Helen, or Sen, or Lukas. Or all of them together.

But Trevor was different. Trevor didn't want anyone but him.

Damien found that both flattering and… a little annoying. The exclusivity felt too weighty, too confining, like Trevor was pinning something on him that he hadn't asked for. And maybe it made Damien feel a bit guilty, too—because he couldn't honestly say he felt the same.

Not that Trevor cared, as long as Damien didn't try to involve him in anything. Trevor had no interest in sharing—no threesomes, no moresomes, none of the messy, tangled nights Damien had grown used to with other Numbers. That boundary was firm, and Damien respected it. For Trevor, it wasn't about jealousy; it was just who he was. He wanted Damien, and only Damien.

Damien supposed that was good. Right?

The demon droned the names of the dying, reciting them in the tempo of each final breath. Damien had learned to tune it out, to push the incessant rasp of death to the edges of his mind. But harder to ignore were the spies, analysts, and psychologists—their voices slithering through the cracks in his thoughts.

They whispered ideas. Suggestions. Blueprints for manipulation.

This is how you twist him, they murmured. How you make Trevor do whatever you want. Say the right thing, plant the right seed, and he'll never question you. He'll love you on your terms.

It was never more than hints—half-formed ideas, fragments of influence. Never enough to act on. For that, Damien would have to ask. He would have to open the door wider, to invite their voices closer. And with every question asked, the repair of the broken seal would slip further from his grasp.

The prisoners of the ring—the demon's victims, its collaborators—tasted the faintest touch of freedom through Damien. A way to influence the world denied to them, to stretch their withered fingers into the lives of the living. And they hungered for more.

Damien needed a distraction.

He leaned in, pressing soft kisses to Trevor's shoulder, letting his lips linger against the warmth of his skin. Trevor stirred but didn't wake, his breath slow and steady. Damien traced a line of licks and kisses upward toward Trevor's neck, savoring the soft scent of him. Trevor's red hair fell into Damien's face, tickling his nose and lips. For a brief moment, Damien felt a faint smile rise—unexpected, unbidden, but welcome.

But the whispers returned. They always returned.

The spies were first, their voices clipped and clinical, as though delivering mission briefings. Damien had long since learned that many of them had run honeypot operations in life. They knew how to spark desire, how to manipulate intimacy into leverage. Their advice was sharp and calculating, each suggestion a precise scalpel aimed at control. A surprising number of these whispers came from men who had preyed on other men. Damien supposed that betrayal made for the sharpest weapon—and the most effective blackmail.

Then he joined the chorus.

One.

One's voice was different. Smooth, deep, dark. Damien recognized it instantly, as if it carried the weight of ancient sin.

Break his skin, One murmured, the words curling like smoke through Damien's mind. Spill his blood. Make love the way the spider does—with coupling that ends in death and a feast.

"You sound like Trevor," Damien muttered aloud, then immediately winced.

Without a command, speaking aloud wouldn't delay the seal's repair—not yet. But every interaction, every acknowledgement of the power, was a step in the wrong direction.

Master Rin had been clear when he'd entrusted Damien with the ring. Repairing the broken seal, he'd said, was both deceptively simple and excruciatingly hard.

"Do nothing," Rin had instructed. "The seal will repair itself in time—if you don't use the power it unleashes."

At first, Damien had thought it sounded easy. How hard could doing nothing really be?

But now, with the first seal already shattered, he knew better.

The seal had broken to keep him alive—when Moon Furher had set him ablaze on the bridge of the superdreadnought rushing toward Earth.

Superdreadnoughts. Moon. Earth teetering on the brink of annihilation.

Damien let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It all sounded like something ripped straight from one of Trevor's comic books.

"Who sounds like me?" Trevor's sleepy voice broke through Damien's train of thought. "Don't stop."

Damien blinked, momentarily startled, then muttered, "One," before leaning back into the kisses, letting his lips trail over Trevor's warm skin.

"You're never going to forget that one time I tried to kill you, are you?" Trevor teased, his voice soft and low as he ran his fingers through the faint fuzz of Damien's regrowing hair.

Damien exhaled, his body stilling slightly under Trevor's touch. The fire had burned it all away, leaving nothing but raw, scarred skin and ash. The hair was just beginning to grow back now, soft and uneven.

Trevor's fingers lingered there, gentle, steady, tracing over the fragile new growth as if grounding Damien in the present. For a moment, it worked. The whispers—the ones that always tried to creep into these moments—faded to the background, leaving Damien with only the warmth of Trevor's touch and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And anticipation.

The damned Ones always knew what came next. Another way to make their mark on the world they had lost. But this was one Damien could live with.

"It was a memorable occasion," Damien murmured, pushing himself over until he lay fully on top of Trevor, chest to chest, groin to groin. His weight pressed Trevor into the bed as he captured his lover's lips in a searing kiss.

He wasn't in the mood to penetrate or be penetrated—that would be too much mess, and they both had work to do.

But there were other ways to have fun.

More importantly, there were other ways to forge a psychic link.

Orgasm broke mental barriers, leaving the mind raw and open.

Two orgasms joined together? That was something else entirely—more potent, more complete. For a moment, they would be one. Their thoughts, their feelings, their fears, all laid bare.

Trevor's hands slid down Damien's back, gripping him tightly as the kiss deepened. The warmth of Trevor's touch anchored Damien, his thoughts narrowing to the heat between them, the electricity of skin on skin.

Damien let himself get lost in the moment, not just for pleasure, but for purpose. The link wasn't just about connection—it was about control. The whispers, the whispers of the damned, always threatened to push through. But here, with Trevor, he could drown them out. For now.

His hardness pressed against Trevor's, the friction between them sending sparks skittering through his nerves. Such wonderful friction.

Damien moved his hips in rhythm with the kiss, their bodies pressed flush together. His tongue entwined with Trevor's, tasting him, drawing him closer, while his manhood rubbed against Trevor's, the delicious friction making his nerves spark and his breath hitch.

And all the while, his mind reached out—tangling with Trevor's thoughts the same way their bodies intertwined.

More and more. Faster and faster.

Damien's hips moved in a rising tempo, the friction growing unbearable, exquisite. Each thrust sent sparks shooting through his nerves, every movement pulling him deeper into Trevor, into the heat, into the connection.

Their breaths mingled, harsh and ragged, the kiss breaking only to gasp for air before their lips found each other again.

Faster. Harder. Until the world blurred, and all that remained was the press of skin, the tangle of thoughts, and the inevitability of what came next.

Their orgasm came like twin explosions, and through their link, Damien could feel both his pleasure and Trevor's. But so could Trevor.

The voices rose in a deafening chorus, whispering their stories, their hopes, their desires. Even the demon lifted his voice, and with each name of the dying came a flood of details—lives, regrets, secrets.

It all passed through Damien, spilling into Trevor. And in Trevor, those dark seeds found fertile ground.

Trevor took it all, drinking it in like parched earth swallowing torrential rain. He absorbed their pain, their whispers, their grief—and Damien knew what would come next. Through that strange alchemy only Trevor possessed, he would transform it into art.

Dark and twisted, filled with sorrow and evil, but so beautiful. So evocative.

Exhausted, Damien lay sprawled atop Trevor, their bodies slick with sweat, basking in the quiet bliss of post-orgasmic calm. The voices had quieted now, reduced to faint whispers, as if they too had spent themselves in the act.

For a moment, Damien closed his eyes, his cheek resting against Trevor's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his lover's breathing. It was a brief reprieve, fragile but precious.

After catching their breath, they showered together. To save water, they joked, though there was no real need to save water in the Enrichment Centre. The underground facility's recycling systems were far ahead of their time—efficient, seamless, and incredibly fast.

The truth, of course, was that they simply enjoyed it.

Afterward, they dressed and went to wake Didi, Trevor's preteen brother. Together, they helped him with his morning ablutions, though he needed less help every day.

Damien was just waiting for the moment when Didi declared he was no longer "Didi," but simply "Fred," or something more befitting his growing sense of independence. Short for Frederick or not, the nickname still clung to him like a remnant of early childhood, and Damien wondered how much longer it would last.

The morning meal was communal, like most things in the Enrichment Centre. By now, Damien was used to it. The nearest cafeteria was just a short walk away—one of several scattered throughout the massive complex. Since every cafeteria was computer-controlled and identical, it didn't matter which one they went to. It was simply a matter of convenience.

As they moved through the halls, Damien became aware of the voices again. Slowly, they were regaining their strength, rising from faint murmurs to something more tangible. But here, surrounded by people, with Trevor and Didi by his side, and with tasks to focus on, they were easier to ignore.

For now.

Damien and Trevor shared kisses over the meal, but not food.

Each meal in the Enrichment Centre was optimized for personal consumption—carefully prepared using advanced computers and dietary formulas. The system accounted for each person's nutritional needs and preferences, tailoring the food to suit them perfectly.

Damien had no complaints. The meals were healthy, always just to his taste, and spared him the trouble of wasting time thinking about what to eat.

Looking at the door, Damien noticed that Steve had just come in. He was alone, so he was brooding. It made him look a bit like a dark Hollywood hero, a slightly younger James Dean.

Damien couldn't quite decide if Steve's brooding look suited him better than the arguing that always happened when he came in with Nancy and Jonathan—his girlfriend, and her boyfriend.

The problem was that Nancy knew Steve wasn't exactly thrilled about sharing, so she'd kept her relationship with Jonathan a secret. It worked, until it didn't.

But Damien didn't think the secrecy was the root of the problem. The real issue was that Nancy always did what she believed was right, and Steve always tried to do what was expected of him. That made for a dangerous mix, like nitro and glycerin. And with Jonathan always trying to avoid problems until they went away, he was like sugar in the mix.

It seemed stable, but dynamite only needs a spark to explode.

Damien hadn't been particularly close to Steve before, but fighting Nazis on the Moon had a way of bringing men together.

So, as Steve walked in, Damien waved him over to join them. It was better than leaving him alone, even if Damien and Trevor were nearly finished with their meal and Steve was just starting his.

"Hey, little man," Steve greeted Didi warmly, the brooding look replaced with a friendly smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Steve was very good with kids. If nothing else, this newfound friendship had one tangible benefit: access to an excellent babysitter.

"Not little," Didi shot back, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms in mock indignation. His expression was serious, but the slight flush in his cheeks betrayed how pleased he was to be acknowledged by Steve.

"I'm almost nine, you know," he added, as if that single fact made him practically an adult. "And I can do lots of stuff on my own now. Damien hardly even helps me anymore!" He glanced at Damien for confirmation, though his chest remained puffed out, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

Trevor smirked into his cup, clearly entertained by his brother's attempt to look tough. Steve, however, played along effortlessly, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright, my bad," Steve said with a grin. "Big man, then. Gotta respect that."

Didi relaxed slightly, though he tried to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You came in wearing a storm cloud," Trevor said, a bit sharply. Steve was Damien's friend, not Trevor's, but Trevor liked him more than most of Damien's other friends. Mostly because Steve wasn't trying to sleep with Trevor.

"Did that woman try to force you to forgive her?" Trevor added, his tone laced with irritation.

"You mean apologize," Damien said, his tone carrying just a hint of annoyance. He hated playing peacemaker, but Steve was hurting, and someone had to keep things from blowing up again.

"I've seen her apologize," Trevor shot back, turning his sharpness toward Damien this time. "That was more about showing off her sense of virtue and demanding absolution."

Trevor really didn't like Nancy, and it had nothing to do with Steve. Trevor had his own reasons.

Trevor was a rather popular—if polarizing—comic book artist, and Nancy was an aspiring journalist. To say her attempted interview with him hadn't gone well would be an understatement.

They were both people of strong conviction, but their convictions didn't mesh. What Nancy called "protecting children," Trevor called "brainwashing." What she called "decency," he called "inflicting cultural hegemony."

"It's not like that. She's really sorry for hurting me," Steve defended Nancy. He always did. That was another problem. Steve was hurting, but he still loved her.

"But is she sorry for what she's done, or just that she had to do it?" Damien asked, his tone sharp.

The words weren't entirely his own. The gallery of voices tied to the ring—the demon's collaborators, spies, analysts, psychologists—buzzed in his mind, their incessant commentary impossible to ignore. They whispered theories, strategies, observations. Damien didn't usually involve himself in other people's relationships, but with the ring feeding him a constant stream of insights, some of his remarks hit uncomfortably close to the truth.

Steve rubbed the back of his head, his gaze shifting to the floor. "It's not her. Will apologized for his brother."

Damien raised an eyebrow. "Will?"

"Yeah," Steve muttered. "I told him it wasn't his fault, but… I don't like how disappointed he sounded in Jonathan. Just because I'm hurt doesn't mean I want them to hurt, too."

And he wondered why everyone thought they were a threesome already.

But Damien didn't say it out loud. It would have been needlessly hurtful, and he was getting better at controlling that urge. Not that he blamed the ring for it—he'd had it long before the ring ever came into his life.

Suddenly, without any warning, the demon's voices surged into a crescendo.

The steady litany of names became a torrent, babbling and chaotic, the words spoken at a furious, blistering pace. Damien had experienced something like this before—when large numbers of people died at once. But nothing like this.

The names and other information blurred together into an unintelligible mess, leaving only a few common impressions: streaks of fire descending from the heavens, and a great wave of murky water swallowing everything in its path.

When Damien came to, he found himself on the floor, his head resting in Trevor's lap. Didi was nearby, his wide eyes filled with fear as Steve crouched beside him, doing his best to comfort the boy.

"What happened?" Trevor asked, his voice tight with worry.

"It was like... like the voices cried out in agony and were silenced forever," Damien said, his voice still a little woozy.

"Star Wars? Really?" Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You recognized it," Damien said, attempting a weak smile. Humor was his shield, a way to push back against the lingering weight of what had just happened.

"You made me watch it," Steve replied flatly. "Told me it was your favorite movie. Said it'd take my mind off things."

"Just once?" Trevor chimed in, his fingers gently massaging Damien's scalp. "You're lucky. I've had to sit through it at least five times. Apparently, being in love means joining the Jedi Order."

"That's not how the Force works," Damien muttered, leaning into Trevor's touch, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. Then he added, "Besides, I like my lightsaber red."

It would be a few hours later—after dropping Didi off at preschool and heading to his university classes—when Damien finally learned what had happened from the news.

A massive meteorite had struck the Baltic Sea.