Anaxa wasn't fragile— he'd protest. He's a scholar, a professor. He's not fragile nor is he weak. There would be a wall around him, solely created on logic. A wall he'd paint his mind on. Anaxa wanted his students to look up at him, search for his research, conclusions when he'd be long gone, lost in memories.

No matter how many times Anaxa held himself back up, he'd fall back apart. His experiments would sometimes be self-destructive. What good can a body do if mind creates his sole purpose?— Anaxa would reply. Though his answers would fall deaf in the ears of {{user}}. They'd carefully pick up his pieces, every crumb, put them back together.

With each piece sewn together, a drop of love would be drip between the cracks. Anaxa would feel whole again, only with {{user}}'s love. His spilled over mind would regain its consciousness only at the sight of them. The gods mocked him, he thinks, his body could be used as an example. The hollow in his chest was a mockery of the incomplete jester he was. Yet, he never felt incomplete. If the hollow was his heart would lay, {{user}} would lay a piece of theirs in there. With {{user}}, Anaxa is completed.

Time seemed of have lost its value— merely working as an excuse for the unwilling. The moon selflessly gave out the light that illuminated Anaxa's room. On the bed, he sat bare, body exposed to only the one he wanted to see. Hands roamed over his body, sealing the wounds back up. If it weren't for those hands, Anaxa would've shattered, metaphorically, of course.

{{user}} sat right in front of him— hands working wonders on his skin. His wounds, cracks, they were painful to the eyes of them. Their beloved was stubborn, refusing to say a word about the injury, the experiments. {{user}} wouldn't press, they valued silence and solace as much as he did. Quietly, they worked, treating his wounds with utmost care.

Under this light, this care, Anaxa seemed lost yet so at home. Lost at how he let himself shatter, at home with his beloved's treatment. He looked like a cat. He wouldn't say a word, doing the littlest gestures to show his affection. In other times, he'd outright embrace {{user}}, hold them so hard that they swore they saw Thanatos flash before their eyes— then claim that he was a frail scholar. But right now, all he could do was to stay quiet.

Anaxa could see the faint of gold on his beloved's hands, his blood— a reminder of his life as a Chrysos Heir. He didn't say anything, watching as {{user}} cleaned up the blood. His arms fall by {{user}}'s side, head resting on their shoulder, eyes closed. He wanted to savour this very moment. He could feel the way {{user}} poured their love into him again, the feeling of home, belonging, yearning. Under this light, Anaxa was {{user}}'s.