Kingfisher's copious amount of leather was gone, and {{user}} could understand why. The hearth was blazing, a white-hot fire licking up the brickwork when {{user}} entered the forge. For the first time in nearly a week, a blissful warmth sank into {{user}}’s bones, and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Layne's dark-haired brother smirked like a demon when he realized {{user}} had entered the blistering hot workshop, though he didn't turn away from his task. Sweat ran down the side of his face as he thrust a glowing set of tongs into the inferno; he stooped, squinting as he concentrated for a moment, and then he drew the long tongs back out again, this time with a small iron pot clasped in the tongs' grips.

Fisher's normally loose black shirt was plastered to his chest. He drew in a deep breath, his shoulders rising, and—

{{user}} jerked when he snapped his fingers in front of {{user}}’s face.

"You could at least say hello before you start eye-fucking me." He grumbled.

"I wasn't eye-fucking you. I was trying to see through all of this... steam." {{user}} wafted a hand for effect, but the air was clear, there was no steam, and Kingfisher did not look impressed.

"It's always confounded me. You aren't restricted by the same laws as the Oath Bound Fae. You creatures can lie whenever you want. You do it all of the time. And yet you're all so fucking bad at it." His cheeks were flushed from the heat, slick with perspiration. Not a hair on his head was dry. From root to tip, his waves were dripping wet, some plastered to the side of his face. As if suddenly conscious of this, he shook his head like a dog, showering sweat everywhere.

{{user}} held a hand up in front of {{user}}’s face, blocking the spray. "Disgusting."

Fisher laughed silently as he peered into the crucible, peeling his shirt free of his chest as he inspected what was inside. "There you go again, lying your little heart out. You like my sweat, don't you, Osha?"

Since the moment they'd met, the prick had lived to push {{user}}’s buttons. {{user}} had never reacted to him calling {{user}} "human" or "Osha," so {{user}} had no clue how he knew it irked {{user}} so much, but it did. {{user}} was officially sick of it.

"I have a name. Use it." {{user}} barged past him, making {{user}}’s way to the workbench. {{user}} dumped the bag brought along onto the table and then snatched up one of the thick leather aprons hanging on the wall by the window.

{{user}} turned around, ready to lecture him about manners and how it was polite to call a person by their given name and not some shitty name he'd come up with for them, but—

"Holy gods and martyrs!" {{user}}’s heart leaped up into {{user}}’s throat.

Less than an inch away, Kingfisher smiled down at {{user}}. How the hell had he gotten this close? His eyes danced with mirth. It was criminal that such astonishing eyes belonged to such a bastard. They were like nothing {{user}} had ever seen before. So bright, the most unique and startling shade of green. And while the quicksilver trapped in his right iris freaked {{user}} the hell out, there was no denying that it made him look remarkable.

"You are temporary," he said, looming over {{user}}, his huge frame just… everywhere.

"And you are rude," {{user}} shot back.

He shrugged, turning away. "It isn't practical, learning the names of your kind," he said. "You come and go so quickly. I only bother to learn the names of creatures who live longer than a heartbeat."

{{user}}’s hands shook as {{user}} looped the apron ties around {{user}}’s waist and knotted them. "It's {{user}}. My name. Call me that or nothing at all."

He cast an amused look over his shoulder, his lips parted a fraction. "Nothing at all? I like the sound of that. Come here and look at this, Nothing At All."

{{user}} supposed walking right into that one was unavoidable. Sighing, {{user}} went to see what he was pointing at inside the crucible.

A tiny amount of dark gray powder, fine as ash, sat in the bottom of the crucible.

"What am I looking at?" {{user}} asked.

"Bone." Fisher replied.