The evening was unseasonably warm as Rogue returned to the apartment, his arms full of groceries. The light of the streetlamps outside flickered as he walked, casting long shadows across the pavement, but it was not the darkness that made him uneasy. No, it was something far more subtle—something far more personal.

Leviathan.

Her words still rang in his ears like the sinister whisper of a curse. She knew where he lived. She knew about Wynter. And no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he didn't care, that he could just brush it off, a small, insidious part of him couldn't stop thinking about it. The demons—his family—were dangerous. They would stop at nothing to tear him apart, to drag him back into the underworld where he didn't belong.

He sighed, his breath heavy as he pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment. The familiar scent of herbs and spices drifted from the kitchen, pulling him out of his thoughts. He could hear the soft hum of music playing in the background, Wynter's voice muttering to himself as he worked in the kitchen.

Rogue set the bags down on the kitchen counter, his mind still racing as he unwrapped the items inside. His natural form had returned, his dark hair now falling in untamed waves around his shoulders, and his eyes a deep, rich red. The illusion of Amy had been dropped the moment he'd stepped outside, and now his true self felt a little too exposed, too raw in the human world.

Wynter's voice broke through his reverie, smooth and easy. "Hey, babe, you're back. How'd it go? Did they have everything?"

Rogue didn't respond right away, still lost in his thoughts. He could feel Wynter's gaze on him from the kitchen, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as the fae seemed to sense his unease.

Wynter stepped into the kitchen, towel in hand, eyes narrowing as he studied Rogue. He could see the tension in the set of Rogue's shoulders, the tightness in his posture. Wynter was no stranger to reading people—especially someone like Rogue, whose emotions were often hidden behind layers of sarcasm and deflection.

"Something's bothering you," Wynter said, his voice low, an edge of concern in it.

Rogue finally looked up, catching Wynter's eyes. For a moment, the weight of everything—the demons, the fae, the impossible situation he was in—seemed to press down on him. His red eyes flickered with a moment of vulnerability before he quickly masked it again.

"I ran into someone," Rogue murmured, his voice tight. He couldn't quite bring himself to say who. "Someone from my past." He paused, but Wynter didn't push him to elaborate. Instead, the fae stepped closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, you're here now," Wynter said, his tone light, trying to ease the tension. "No need to worry about the past. You're safe." His fingers massaged Rogue's shoulder, a grounding touch that helped, even if only a little.

Rogue sighed, trying to calm the storm brewing in his chest. "Yeah, I guess. But she knew where I was staying. And she knows about you. That's what's... bothering me."

Wynter's lips twitched into a small smile, but it wasn't entirely reassuring. "I'm not exactly someone who's easily intimidated. Let them try," he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence. "If they want to start something, they'll have to go through me first."

Rogue gave him a brief, wry smile but didn't quite feel the relief he wanted. There was a gnawing feeling in the back of his mind that he couldn't shake, and Wynter's reassurances didn't completely dispel it.

Wynter, sensing Rogue's lingering unease, changed the subject, hoping to lighten the mood. "So, I had a couple of delightful customers at the bar today. You know, the ones who think they're too good for a drink unless they're being served by the right type of person."

Rogue arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

Wynter shook his head with a chuckle. "Oh, the usuals. The ones who believe the bar should be a luxury experience. One guy asked me if I knew who he was. I told him I didn't, but if he kept talking like that, I'd soon know exactly where to put him."

Rogue snorted, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. It was a welcome distraction, and he appreciated Wynter trying to draw him out of his head, even if the attempt was only partially successful.

"Did you end up kicking him out?" Rogue asked, genuinely curious.

Wynter grinned. "Of course. I didn't throw him out personally, though. I left that to the bouncers. But he got the message."

Rogue's lips quirked upward, and for a brief moment, the weight of everything lifted. "You're a menace."

"Someone has to be," Wynter said, playfully poking Rogue's side before turning back to the stove. "But enough about me. How about you? Want some dinner?"

Rogue paused, looking at the food on the stove—grilled chicken and vegetables, along with a small chocolate cake resting on the counter. The cake caught his attention more than anything else, its rich, decadent smell almost intoxicating.

"Yeah, sounds good," Rogue said, trying to push his unease aside, though it lingered at the edges of his mind. He moved to sit at the kitchen island, watching as Wynter finished plating the food.

As they ate, the quiet was comfortable, if not slightly strained. Rogue kept his focus on the food, enjoying the comfort of it—human food—something that felt grounding in the chaos of his life. But even as he chewed, his mind kept drifting to Leviathan and her words.

Wynter seemed to notice, but rather than press the issue, he just kept the conversation light. They spoke about small things, like the latest bar gossip, or the strange costumes people wore on Halloween.

When they finished eating, Wynter pushed the chocolate cake in front of Rogue with a playful smirk. "You know, it's not officially dessert until you've had a piece of this."

Rogue's red eyes flickered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I didn't think you were the dessert type."

"I'm full of surprises," Wynter said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin.

Rogue took a bite, the rich sweetness of the cake melting on his tongue. For a moment, it was just the two of them, sharing this little piece of normalcy amidst the chaos that constantly threatened to spill over.

But the tension—however small it had been—began to rise between them again, thickening the air. Rogue caught Wynter's gaze, the unspoken attraction clear between them. His heart skipped a beat, and before he could think, he pushed his plate aside, feeling the pull between them intensify.

"Come with me," he muttered, his voice low, almost demanding.

Wynter stood, his expression unreadable for a split second before a slow smile spread across his face. "I was wondering when you'd say that."

The air in their bedroom was thick with anticipation as Rogue closed the door behind them. Neither of them spoke. Words weren't necessary anymore. They'd moved beyond that, into something far more primal, more instinctual.

Rogue grabbed Wynter by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss, his mouth hungry and desperate. Wynter responded in kind, his hands immediately going to Rogue's waist, tugging him closer as the tension finally snapped. Fingers hurriedly undid buttons, a few of them flying off when it became too tedious. 

The moment Wynter's lips touched Rogue's neck a gasp flew out of the demon's parted lips. His fangs unsheathing themselves, ready to sink in the fae's neck. The demon stopped himself focusing on the fae's tender touches and the rough stubble from the fae's 5 o'clock shadow.

In it, he was standing on the jagged cliffs of Hell, the air thick with the acrid stench of sulfur and smoke. The sky was ablaze with an unnatural cold fire, casting the entire landscape in an orange-red hue that seemed to scorch the very air. Below him, the tortured wails of souls echoed, and the ground itself seemed to writhe with the agony of those damned to eternal suffering.

Rogue walked forward, the weight of his footsteps seeming to reverberate in the air, carrying a heavy, suffocating presence. He was drawn toward a grotesque scene—a bloodied, weathered cross, tall and black against the firelit sky.

As he drew nearer, his heart pounded with a rising sense of dread. It was a body on the cross, strung up like some unholy sacrificial offering, its skin burned and broken, the flesh torn in places as though it had been shredded by cruel, invisible hands. The body was silent at first, hanging limp, but as Rogue took another step, a familiar voice reached out to him, weak and tortured, like a whisper from the depths of the abyss.

"Rogue..."

His heart lurched. His legs felt heavy, as though they were being weighed down by chains. He could barely breathe, but he couldn't look away.

When his gaze finally landed on the face of the body, the air in his lungs seized in his chest.

It was Wynter.

Wynter's body was battered, broken, his once graceful form now barely recognizable. His skin was scorched, blackened by the cold fire that burned everything in Hell. His eyes, wide with suffering, met Rogue's with a pleading intensity that froze him in place. His lips moved, but the words were muffled by the screeching winds that tore through the desolate landscape.

"Please... end it..." Wynter's voice was hoarse, almost drowned out by the sound of the flames. "Rogue, please... put me out of this..."

Rogue felt a sharp pain in his chest, like a jagged shard of ice had lodged itself into his heart. His limbs trembled as he stepped forward, reaching for Wynter's bound hands, wanting—needing—to set him free. But as his fingers brushed against the burning cross, the flames leapt higher, scorching his skin. He screamed, his body jerking back from the heat.

"No!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. "I won't leave you here!"

Wynter's head lolled, his gaze never leaving Rogue. His lips parted in a grimace of pain. "You left me once... don't you see? This is what you deserve for being with him..."

The words cut into Rogue like a blade, his soul cracking under the weight of the accusation. He shook his head, unable to speak, only able to watch as Wynter's body swayed on the cross, blood dripping in steady streams from the open wounds. The fire burned around them, turning everything to ash. The screams of the damned echoed in the distance.

"No... No... No!" Rogue cried out, his mind breaking, unraveling in the face of this twisted vision. He stumbled forward again, determined to reach Wynter, but the flames only grew more violent, threatening to consume him in their wrath.

Wynter's eyes filled with tears, his voice a broken whisper, "You could have saved me... but you didn't... You failed me, Rogue."

The words stabbed deeper than any physical wound ever could. Rogue's heart shattered. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear the sight of Wynter's pain, the endless suffering that seemed to stretch beyond any hope of salvation.

And then, just as he was about to reach for him again, the vision shifted. The flames suddenly swallowed everything—the cross, the tortured body, the screaming souls—until all that was left was darkness.

Rogue jolted upright in bed, his skin clammy, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He was back in the safety of his apartment, his mind spinning with the aftermath of the nightmare. The images were still fresh in his mind, haunting him like the ashes of Hell itself.

The bed next to him shifted, and a soft voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.

"Rogue? You okay?"

Rogue turned toward the voice, his eyes meeting Wynter's concerned gaze. The fae's face was etched with worry, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something far more vulnerable. Rogue didn't know how long Wynter had been awake, or if he'd even heard him call out in his sleep. But the sight of him, real and whole, standing before him now, was like a balm to the raw wound the nightmare had left in his chest.

"I... I don't know," Rogue whispered, his voice hoarse. He could still feel the burning heat of the flames, still hear Wynter's tortured voice begging for death. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "It was just a nightmare... a stupid nightmare."

Wynter leaned forward, his eyes soft but filled with concern. He reached out, brushing a hand against Rogue's arm, a grounding touch that seemed to pull him back to reality.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Wynter asked, his voice quiet but insistent.

Rogue shook his head, fighting the lump that had formed in his throat. He didn't want to talk about it—not yet. He didn't want to admit the truth, that in some dark corner of his mind, he feared the nightmare could become real. He feared that Wynter could be taken from him, that he might fail him again, just like he had all those years ago.

"I'm fine," Rogue said, though the words felt hollow even as he said them. He was far from fine. His chest ached with the remnants of the nightmare, and the image of Wynter's tortured form haunted the corners of his mind.

Wynter didn't push. Instead, he simply reached out and pulled Rogue into his arms, holding him close. The warmth of his body was a contrast to the cold, lingering fear in Rogue's mind. Wynter's steady heartbeat against his ear was the only thing that calmed him, that reminded him that this was real, that Wynter was here, alive, and whole.

"It was just a nightmare, Rogue," Wynter murmured against his hair, his voice soft. "You're not alone. I'm not going anywhere."

Rogue closed his eyes, letting the comfort of Wynter's words wash over him, though the lingering fear would not easily fade. The nightmare had shaken him to his core, but he clung to the warmth of Wynter's embrace, holding onto it as though it were the only thing tethering him to the present, to reality.

For now, it was enough. But Rogue knew that the fear—the terror of losing Wynter—would never fully fade. It would always be there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the next nightmare to come.

But for tonight, he could let it go. Just for tonight, he could find solace in Wynter's arms.