Chapter Text
Landon
The thing no one tells you about victory is that it’s flat.
Not empty—never empty. Emptiness implies some sort of wound, a hollowed-out cavity that aches. I don’t ache. I don’t bleed. It isn’t sadness or despair. It’s just… flat.
Like the aftertaste of smoke. Like the way a room smells once the music’s stopped. The silence presses in on you, unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and you realise—ah, so this is why I always reach for something else. A drink. A line. A body.
Tonight, that body had been Jeremy Volkov’s.
And yes, I’d got what I came for. The great Volkov had cracked, his hands on me, his control slipping like sand through his fists. He’d kissed me like a drowning man. Touched me like he couldn’t stand not to. The memory alone should’ve been enough to keep me warm all night.
But here I was, buttoning my shirt again, watching him avoid my eyes as if avoiding me could erase the taste of my mouth from his. And the flatness was already creeping in.
I should’ve been satisfied. I’d executed the plan perfectly: press, push, provoke until he admitted the truth neither of us wanted to name. That he wanted me. That he’d break his rules for me.
Mission accomplished.
So why did I still feel that low hum in my veins, that restless itch that always followed the high?
Because Jeremy Volkov wasn’t cocaine. He wasn’t whiskey. He wasn’t some nameless boy I could bend over a hotel balcony and forget by morning. He was worse. He was addictive. Not because he was special—but because he was disciplined. And there’s nothing sweeter than breaking discipline.
Jeremy had rattled off his rules like he was chiselling commandments into stone. No business. No witnesses. No feelings.
I agreed to Jeremy’s rules, of course. Nodded in all the right places, pretended to be listening. I even repeated one back to him so he’d think I cared. Something about no business crossing into pleasure, or maybe no pleasure crossing into business. I can’t remember which way around. Doesn’t matter. He needed to hear the words, and I needed to get what I wanted. Transaction complete.
Because that’s all it is. A transaction.
The only thing I do remember, with surgical precision, is the way his jaw tightened when he told me to look at him. The rasp in his voice when he came apart. That’s not something I’ll forget.
So yes, I’ll play along. Let him pretend this is all mapped out, contained in neat little boxes. It costs me nothing to humour him. If it makes him more willing to keep letting me in—to keep giving me what I want—I’ll nod at every rule he invents.
Because I know the truth. He’s already lost.
And me? I don’t lose.
I don’t feel regret. Or guilt. Or whatever it is people like Jeremy drown in at night. I don’t lie awake thinking about what it means. I just want more. More heat, more friction, more proof that I can bend him, make him crack. That I can see the perfect machine stutter.
He wants this too. Don’t let him fool you with his careful silences and his meticulous rules. Jeremy Volkov doesn’t make rules unless he’s afraid of breaking them. Which means he’s already broken. I just have to keep pressing.
The truth is, Jeremy is useful. He’s sharp, disciplined, untouchable to almost everyone else. But with me? He lets go. That makes him both leverage and entertainment. A rare combination. Most people are only one or the other.
And me? I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. But I want him—like a gambler wants another hand, like an addict wants the high he swears he can quit. The flatness gets worse if I stop. So why stop?
Well, Dr Gabriel would have a field day if he could hear my thoughts right now. He’s obsessed with origins. Always wants to know when it started, as if a single moment made me the way I am. He doesn’t get it—there wasn’t one. It’s just always been this way. I’ve always known who I am.
My parents didn’t. Or maybe they did, and they just couldn’t say it out loud. They wanted to believe I was normal, that I’d grow out of it. They didn’t want me to think I was different. But I knew. I was seven when I realised it for sure. A boy at school started crying because his mum was late to pick him up. Big, heaving sobs, face blotchy and red. Everyone else was rushing to comfort him, and I just… watched. I didn’t get it. Why waste all that energy over something so small? I went home that night, stood in front of the mirror, and practised. The crying faces, the sounds. How to make the right kind of tears. It was easy enough. Performance has always been easy for me.
I got good at it fast. Mimicking sadness, excitement, fear. I practiced in mirrors until the expressions felt second nature. Eventually I didn’t even have to think about it. People saw what they wanted to see. And the adults? They were worse than the kids. Always telling themselves stories about who I was. My parents especially. They didn’t want to admit I was different. They wanted to believe I’d grow out of it. I let them. Easier that way.
And then came the therapists. A parade of well-meaning professionals who tried to prod me into feelings. They’d say things like, “And how did that make you feel?” I’d tell them the truth—“It didn’t”—and watch them squirm. They tried to hide it, but I saw it in the way they tightened their grip on their pen, the way their eyes skittered to the clock. That’s how I knew they were useless. Pretending at detachment, terrified underneath.
But then came Dr Gabriel. I met him when I was 19. He looked a little like an older version of my uncle Aiden, which I noticed first - broad shoulders, dark hair with a streak of grey, lines carved deep around the eyes. But he didn’t act like him. He wore Christmas jumpers from November and he gave out chocolate bunnies on Easter. But more than that—he didn’t flinch. Not when I told him stories, not when I pushed for a reaction. I told him once, just to test him, about the time I watched a boy drown at the public pool. Everyone else panicked. I walked away. “What did you feel as you walked?” he asked. Calm. Like he was asking the time. No judgement, no revulsion. Just interest. It irritated me and intrigued me in equal measure. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a sociopath too.
I kept him. I still see him. Not because he’s changing me—he isn’t—but because he’s useful. He’s a tool. A way to sharpen myself, learn the language of emotions I’ll never actually feel. Better masks, smoother lies. That’s what therapy is for me. Everyone else plays at honesty. I play at performance. And I always win.
Landon slid into the armchair like it belonged to him, one ankle balanced lazily on his knee. “You look tired, Gabriel. Lydia keeping you busy?”
Gabriel glanced up from his notes, pen hovering. “Not unusually.”
“Hmm,” Landon hummed, lips quirking. “I imagine perfectionists make terrible company in the evenings. All that unfinished business on their minds.”
Gabriel allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “She’s doing well. Thank you for asking.”
“Of course,” Landon said smoothly, as if this were just casual conversation between old friends. “I like Lydia. She has taste. More than you, actually.”
“That so?”
“You still haven’t changed these curtains. Distracting. Dreadful shade.” He tipped his head, eyes half-lidded, watching for any flicker in Gabriel’s expression. “I’d say you were too sentimental to replace them, but that doesn’t quite fit, does it? Pragmatic to the bone, our doctor.”
Gabriel made a note. Didn’t look up. “Interesting theory.”
Landon smiled faintly, letting silence stretch before he spoke again. “So what’s today’s puzzle? Am I supposed to talk about my feelings?” His tone was almost bored. “Or should we both admit we’re just here to keep my parents happy and you in business?”
Gabriel’s eyes finally met his, calm and unwavering. “You’re here. That’s enough.”
Something about the answer—unshaken, utterly even—earned the doctor the smallest nod from Landon, like an unspoken approval.
Gabriel finally glanced up, calm as ever. “How’s your week been?”
“Predictable.” Landon gave a little shrug. “I don’t bore easily, but I nearly did. Had to find… diversions.”
“Diversions.”
“Yes,” Landon said smoothly, lips quirking. “You’d be surprised what people will give you if you ask the right way. Or the wrong way, depending on your taste.”
Gabriel let the silence breathe. “And how did those diversions make you feel?”
Landon chuckled, low and dry. “You always do that. Slip the word ‘feel’ in like it belongs. Clever. But you know I don’t feel the way you mean.”
“Then tell me your way.”
That earned Gabriel a look—sharp, assessing, almost entertained. Landon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Flat,” he said finally. “That’s the best word. Flat until it isn’t. And then I burn through whatever high I’ve carved out, and it’s back again. Same dullness. I don’t mind it, I’m used to it. It’s just… inconvenient sometimes.”
“Why inconvenient?”
“It’s irritating. Like a song stuck on loop. Not bad enough to smash the radio. Not good enough to keep listening. So you find noise to drown it out. Better noise.”
Gabriel nodded once, jotting something, but his voice stayed steady. “And lately, what’s been your better noise?”
Landon’s smile sharpened, lazy and cutting at the same time. “Now, if I told you that, Gabriel, you’d start prying in places you shouldn’t. And we both know I only let you dig where I want you to.”
The doctor’s gaze was steady, not rising to the tease. “True. But I’m still going to ask.”
There was a long beat of silence. Then Landon leaned back again, lacing his fingers behind his head like a cat stretching in the sun. “Well —” he dropped his arms suddenly, gesturing loosely, “—I did find something. Or someone. Stimulating enough to cut through the static.”
Gabriel’s expression didn’t shift. “A relationship?”
“No. An arrangement.”
“And what’s this person like?
Landon taps on the armrest before speaking.
“He’s different. Strong. Obsessively controlled. He sets rules for sex. Can you believe that?”
Landon laughs loud and sharp.
Gabriel’s pen moved slowly across the page. “Why did you agree?”
“Because it amused me.” Landon’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because the rules matter to him, and watching him cling to them makes it easier to pull them apart. Because if I refused, the game would’ve ended before it began. And I’m not done playing.”
Gabriel leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “What do you get from this game, Landon?”
“Distraction. Fun.” Landon said after a beat. His voice dropped, smooth, deliberate. “For a while, I don’t have to think about how dull everything is. He wants control, I want distraction. We both get what we want. Simple.”
“Transactional,” Gabriel said softly.
“Exactly. Transactional.” Landon pointed at him as if he’d scored a point. “No illusions. Not love. Not care. He gets to feel powerful, I get entertained. Clean, efficient. Almost… elegant.”
He leaned forward suddenly, sharp smile playing at his lips. “And that, Gabriel, is fascinating. Because I’ve spent years making other people believe things. And here comes this man—believing in his own rules as if they’re iron—and I let him. I let him think he’s holding the leash.”
Gabriel didn’t look unsettled, didn’t even blink. “Maybe you let him because it keeps the arrangement alive. Because part of you doesn’t want it to end.”
Landon tilted his head, amused. “Maybe not.”
Gabriel didn’t let it go. “Why not?”
For the first time, Landon hesitated. Not long enough to admit it was hesitation, just a breath too long before he spoke. He smoothed it over with a faint smile. “You know me. I enjoy the theatre of it. Watching people perform their little roles. He’s more entertaining than most.”
Gabriel’s eyes stayed on him. “That’s a surface answer. What’s underneath?”
Landon gave a quiet laugh. “What makes you think there’s an underneath?”
“There usually is.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—at least not for Gabriel. Landon leaned back, stretched out as though to show how unaffected he was, but his gaze had gone unfocused, tracking some thought across the ceiling.
“Why not,” he echoed finally, almost to himself. “Because maybe…” He caught the word before it could fall fully, pressed his tongue against his teeth, and changed direction. “Because maybe it’s rare. And rarity, Gabriel, is a currency I respect.”
Gabriel didn’t challenge that. He just wrote something down.
Landon’s mouth twitched. “What did you put in your notes just now?”
“Something for me to remember,” Gabriel said evenly. “Not for you.”
“Unfair,” Landon drawled, though there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leaned forward suddenly, sharp again. “Tell me, Gabriel—have you actually read all these books? Or are they meant to make you look smart only?”
A laugh rumbled out of the older man, genuine, warm in a way Landon wasn’t used to hearing. “I’ve read them more than once.”
“Of course you have,” Landon muttered, rising from his chair without asking. His movements were easy, deliberate, like he owned the room. He drifted toward the shelves, running a finger along the spines, pulling out a volume at random. Marcus Aurelius. Meditations. He flipped it open, flicking through the pages without reading a word, then shut it with a soft thud and replaced it.
“Do you keep them alphabetised, or is there some hidden code?”
“Neither,” Gabriel said. “It’s instinct. I like them to be within reach when I need them.”
“That sounds chaotic.” He plucked out another—Freud, predictably—and arched a brow over his shoulder. “This one’s a cliché. I expected better.”
Gabriel smiled faintly. “Even clichés have teeth, if you know where to look.”
Landon hummed, unimpressed, though he didn’t put the book back right away. He skimmed a line, lips quirking at the dense jargon. “You really enjoy this? Or do you just pretend so patients think you’re clever?”
“I enjoy what I learn from them,” Gabriel replied evenly. “And I enjoy when patients try to catch me out. Like you’re doing now.”
Landon snapped the book closed and finally set it back. “You’re hard to rattle, I’ll give you that.”
He wandered further, trailing fingertips along the row of leather bindings. “You know,” he said casually, “someone might think this place is a shrine. To wisdom. To human feeling. To everything I don’t particularly care about.”
“And yet you’re here,” Gabriel said, his voice calm but deliberate. “Week after week.”
Landon’s hand stilled on a spine. He didn’t turn. “Because my parents like the idea of me being here.”
“Only that?”
There was a pause, short but sharp. Then Landon laughed softly, dismissive. “Don’t start congratulating yourself, Doctor. I’m not secretly yearning for enlightenment.”
“I wouldn’t insult you with such an assumption.” Gabriel’s voice had that steady weight again, the kind that pressed without raising its tone. “But maybe you are here because you recognise something—even if you wouldn’t name it. Something unfinished.”
Landon turned then, that flash of teeth returning, equal parts charm and threat. “Or maybe I just like watching you squirm when I bring up your wife.”
Gabriel chuckled, unruffled. “Then by all means, ask about her again.”
Landon tilted his head, considering. Then he sauntered back to his seat, dropping into it with a fluid sprawl. “Later. Right now, I want you to tell me which one of these books you think I’d actually finish.”
Gabriel smiled at that. “I was worried you’d never ask.” Gabriel’s gaze flicked to the desk, where a slim book sat apart from the others. Landon followed it, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh no,” he said, dragging out the words like they tasted sour. “Don’t tell me that’s for me.”
Gabriel folded his hands. “It’s a suggestion. Not homework.”
“Homework,” Landon repeated with a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “What are we, twelve? You going to grade me if I dog-ear the pages?”
“You’re free to ignore it.” Gabriel’s tone was mild, but his eyes stayed steady on Landon. “But I thought you might enjoy it.”
Landon stood, drawn despite himself, and picked up the book. It wasn’t thick, maybe a hundred pages. The cover was plain, the title embossed in worn gold. He read it out loud, incredulous: Notes from Underground.
“Oh, very funny,” he said, lips curling. “A miserable little Russian ranting in his basement. Subtle, Gabriel. Real subtle.”
Gabriel smiled faintly. “You’ll find he doesn’t rant so much as dissect. Himself, others, the absurdity of society. It’s not about sentiment—it’s about perspective.”
Landon flipped it open, scanning a paragraph before snapping it shut with a sharp clap. “Sounds like a whiner with too much time on his hands.”
“Or a man who saw more clearly than most.”
“Uh huh.” Landon tossed it lightly onto the chair beside him, like he was done with it already. But he didn’t kick it away either.
Gabriel didn’t press, just watched with that maddening patience.
Landon stretched, restless. “You know, for a therapist, you’re awfully fond of dead people’s words. Guess it’s safer than dealing with the living.”
“Sometimes,” Gabriel said quietly, “people find themselves more honestly in the words of the dead.”
That landed heavier than Landon expected. He didn’t show it, just smirked and dropped back into his seat. “Well, I’ll be sure to let Dostoevsky hold my hand next time I’m feeling lonely.”
“Not lonely,” Gabriel said gently. “Just…isolated. There’s a difference.”
Landon’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing. The book remained where he’d left it, within reach.
The clock on the wall clicked softly, pulling Landon’s attention. Gabriel followed his glance but didn’t move to end the session, not yet.
Landon stood, stretching lazily, and then reached for the book on the chair. He turned it over once in his hands, thumb brushing the spine, before slipping it under his arm.
“Don’t hold your breath,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gabriel said evenly. “See you next week, Landon.”
“Unfortunately,” Landon shot back, lips curling. He slid his sunglasses on even though the sky outside was already losing its light.
The door shut behind him with a quiet finality. Gabriel exhaled once, slow, and glanced at the empty chair where the book had sat. He smiled faintly.
Landon didn’t notice, because he was already gone—book in hand.