Chapter Two... Dust in the Divide

The faucet squeaked as it turned, letting out a tired groan before giving way to a thin, cold stream. The water ran clear, catching the soft glow of the cabin light as it struck the chipped metal sink. Ydoc stood over it, motionless at first, his hands limp at his sides.

He blinked, once, twice—eyes dry and aching—and then leaned forward to splash water against his face.

It was cold.

Not sharp enough to sting, not warm enough to soothe—just there, like the cabin itself. He cupped another handful, let it run down his cheeks, over his lips, into the collar of his shirt. Drops fell from his chin, little taps against porcelain, steady and patient.

He reached for the rag—coarse cotton, stiff from old use—and patted himself dry. When he pulled it away, the fabric was streaked with dark smudges and faint salt marks.

He stared at it.

“…Dust,” he mumbled with a forced smirk. “Must be all this dust floating around the Divide. Terrible for the sinuses. Gets in the eyes.”

He chuckled at his own joke, though his voice cracked at the edges.

The cabin didn’t laugh back.

Still, he set the cloth down and stood a little straighter. His eyes were red, yes, but there was a glint there too—like someone trying to believe in their own brightness. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, pulling it back with a dramatic sigh.

“There we are. Composure,” he announced to no one, gesturing grandly toward the sink as though it had witnessed some great tragedy just narrowly averted. “Not even a single tear was shed. Just—aggressive humidity.”

He winked at the mirror above the sink. It didn’t return the favor.

Ydoc leaned on the counter, fingers splaying against the worn wood, the silence of the cabin folding gently around him once more.
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It was a heavy kind of quiet—not oppressive, but full, like a blanket tucked a bit too tightly. The kind of quiet that only grew deeper the longer it lingered.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the pantry door. His stomach gave a soft, uncertain grumble.
“Hm,” he hummed, half to himself, half to the walls. “Dinner.”

He pushed off the counter with a little theatrical flourish, as if announcing something grand, and took slow steps toward the pantry. The hinges creaked just a bit when he opened it, revealing the usual array—jars, cans, lined shelves, and somewhere in the shadows, that reliable blue box with the familiar lettering.

“Ah,” he declared, pulling it forward and cradling it like an old friend. “Spaghetti, my eternal companion. Never late, never rude, always ready to boil.”

There was a comfort in it—simple, expected. He turned the box in his hands slowly, his thumb brushing across the top. On the shelf beside it, nestled neatly as ever, was the jar of Alfredo. Thick, pale, unchanging.

He frowned, not out of dislike, but from a strange tug of thought.

Of all the things that could’ve filled this pantry—soups, beans, crackers, strange Divide things he couldn’t name—why was this the one that was always stocked?

Only this. Only for him.

Ydoc set the box on the counter and leaned back against the pantry door. “Eddy must have the oddest grocery habits,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or maybe he just assumes my taste is stuck in childhood.”

He looked toward the kitchen window. It was small, framed with flowerpots, and revealed only the dense shadow of the trees outside.

“How does he even get the groceries?” he asked aloud, puzzled now that the thought had taken root. “There’s no road. No wagon. No car. Not even a cursed little bike with a basket and a fox-tail ribbon.”

A beat. Then a chuckle.

“I should ask him,” he added, though he knew he wouldn’t.

Still, the question hung there.

Where did the food come from? How did it arrive?

There was always just enough. And always spaghetti.

He looked at the box again.

“Maybe it’s me,” he whispered, as if confiding something sacred. “Maybe I’m not real. Maybe I’m just a sad little pasta boy conjured by Alfredo magic.”

He grinned—wide, sharp, tired—and turned on the tap again to start the pot.
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He reached for the pot, the big one with the warped handle and the dent on the side. It was always just a little too heavy for him when filled, but he’d long since learned how to manage it with two hands and a bit of careful balancing.

It clattered softly onto the stove, and the water began to fill. The sound was soothing—constant, mundane, safe.

But as he watched it rise, Ydoc’s gaze drifted toward the shelves again. The pasta box sat alone, flanked by nothing he had chosen.

The pantry.
The cabinets.
The plates.
The tea cups.

Not a single one was his.

There were no candy wrappers tucked into drawers. No mismatched mugs with little cartoon bats. No stained cookbooks or broken plastic forks from festivals long forgotten.

Even the clothes he wore—soft, faded, always just a bit too long in the sleeves—were from Edwards. Hand-me-downs from a man whose shoulders were broader, whose taste ran tighter, flashier, more dramatic. Ydoc’s closet was a mausoleum of someone else’s flair.

And the tea cups? There were only two. Black porcelain, rimmed in silver, both engraved with the same little fox-tail swirl. A set. A matching set.

Not his.

None of it.

The kitchen smelled like sweet orange because Edwards liked that scent. The wooden floors were waxed smooth because Edwards liked things tidy. The blankets were all fur-trimmed and heavy, because Edwards said they looked regal.

Ydoc blinked, standing still beside the stove.
A strange ache settled in his chest—low, dull, but familiar.

No candy.

He used to love candy, didn’t he? Soft things. Chewy things. The kind that stick in your teeth and coat your throat in sugar. Something fizzy, maybe. Sweet and ridiculous and pink.

Why was there never any?

His lips parted slightly, and for a moment he looked ready to cry, the thought like a final crack in a very old wall.

Then—he forced a smile.
A big, absurd, teeth-bearing thing.

“Well,” he said brightly, almost choking on the cheer. “That’s just how it is when you live with someone so terribly, terribly elegant. No room for jelly beans in the House of Silk and Sass.”

He snorted.
Then laughed.
Too loud.

“I mean, what would people think if they opened the pantry and saw marshmallow ropes instead of pine nuts?”

His shoulders shook with the laughter.
But the eyes didn’t match.

He turned back to the stove, twisting the flame higher.
The water inside the pot began to bubble.

And then—

The door burst open.

A thunderclap cracked overhead as if the sky itself had split. Wind howled in, thick with the scent of wet earth and distant lightning. The sudden violence of it slammed the cabin’s silence into shards.

The flames on the stove flickered dangerously. Papers scattered. One of the flowerpots tipped, clattering to the floor but miraculously staying whole.

Ydoc spun around, wide-eyed, hair whipping into his face.

The air was wet, sharp, alive.

And in the doorway—framed by shadow, rain, and ego—

He stood.
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Framed in the doorway—soaked, radiant, grinning like he owned the whole storm—stood Edwards.

Kitsune.
Dirty-blond fur shimmering where the rain had kissed it.
Hair tied back loosely, a few rebellious strands clinging to his cheeks. His shirt, tight and puffed at the chest, clung wet to his body, half-transparent, scandalous in that way only he could get away with.

He was flushed from the cold, the tips of his ears twitching as he stepped inside like a stage actor hitting his mark.

“I’ve got good news!” he declared, arms wide as if embracing the entire room. His voice was sunlight and velvet—bright, teasing, with a touch of something that always tasted like wine and secrets.

Ydoc blinked. For some reason, his mouth was dry.

He hadn’t realized he was nervous. Or holding his breath.
But now, with Edwards in the room, smiling so easily—
everything felt different.

The storm behind him roared like a beast denied entry.

Ydoc found his voice in the middle of a groan.
“Close the door, you dramatic peacock! You’re tracking mud in—!”

Too late.

Pawprints—clear, wet, shapely—dotted the floor.

Edwards laughed, kicked off his boots with a theatrical flick, and flung his soaked coat toward the wall-mounted rack—

—just as the wind howled again.

The coat rack teetered. The door began to swing back open.

In a blur, Edwards turned—one paw pushing the coat rack back into place with the faintest tap, the other catching the door just before it could bang wide again.

He pushed it shut softly. It clicked shut.

Thunder struck.

But the sound was muffled, silenced, swallowed by the wood.
Everything inside remained untouched. Still.

Ydoc stood there, watching with a slack-jawed stare.
“…Did you just…?”

Edwards turned, still smiling, and began hanging his coat—flicking his tail upward as he did, the movement so deliberate it may as well have been a wink.

Before Ydoc could form a question, another thing toppled: a tin from the top shelf of the pantry, knocked loose by the earlier burst of wind.

Edwards turned again without looking.
One hand shot up, fingers curled—caught it.

Set it down.

Not a beat missed.

He looked at Ydoc. Stepped forward. Raised a single finger.

Tapped his own forehead gently—right between the brows, just above the eyes.
And with a voice dipped in sweet sarcasm, he said:
“Magic.”

Ydoc squinted. “…I didn’t even say anything.”

“That’s how good I am,” Edwards replied, brushing past him with a swish of tail and confidence.

Ydoc blinked again, then smiled, almost laughing.
“Gods, you’re weird.”

“Thank you~”

Ydoc shook his head, turning back to the pot on the stove.
The water was just starting to boil.
Everything should’ve felt normal.

But somewhere deep down, a thought tried to rise—like a splinter beneath skin.

Had Edwards…
done this before?