Chapter 18- In the Amber Dusk

The world slowed.

Truly slowed—not like the theatrical slow of memory, but the dreamlike kind, where everything around becomes blurred at the edges. Where music loses its beat and instead becomes a humming drone. Where faces melt into color and light, and only the weight of touch remains.

Ydoc did not see the crowd anymore.

Only the two arms around him.
Only the warm breath on his shoulder.
Only the smooth pressure—like velvet muscle—of a scaled face pressed gently against the back of his neck.
Not a man. Not quite. Not a monster either.

A Holokon.

It was Felinkin.

The name rang not from memory, but through the hands on his chest.
This touch—this deeply warm, gently possessive gesture—spoke without words.

And yet…

Ydoc’s first reaction wasn’t peace. It was fear.
Something in him pulled taut like wire.
He was being forced into something again.
The arms didn’t hurt him. But they held him. And sometimes, that was worse.

What did this creature want?

What would he do?

But the Holokon didn’t move.

Didn’t demand.

Didn’t even breathe hard.

Felinkin was watching the crowd with him. Not speaking. Not whispering things into his ear. Not dragging him into a tent to unravel secrets or fling history in his face.

He just… held.

But there was pressure. Not violent, not cruel—but unmistakably intentional.

Felinkin was forcing Ydoc into a moment.
Forcing him not to dissociate.
Not to vanish into himself.
Not to fade into the lights and let the story roll over him.

If Ydoc wanted to disappear—he’d have to fight for it.

So Ydoc did the only thing he could do.

He asked.

His voice was hoarse. Small. Like dried reeds in the wind.

“…Who are you?”

A small hum, almost like a purr.

“My name is Felinkin… I’m a Holokon.”

A pause.

Then, shamelessly—

“Hugging you. Mwah~.”

Ydoc blinked. What?

He wasn’t ready for that. Not the honesty. Not the flirty bluntness.
It scrambled his mind for a moment.
But he didn’t retreat. He couldn’t.

“…What are you doing?” he tried again, confused, embarrassed.

Felinkin didn’t shift. Didn’t even adjust his coiling body.

“Watching the sunset with you. Hoping it counts.”

“…Is this real?”

The crowd remained blurry.
The lanterns flickered.
The world felt too quiet.

And still—Felinkin didn’t lie.

“A drunk man drank himself to death yesterday.”
“To him… this was never real.”
“To me it is.”
“Hopefully it’s real for you, too.”

Ydoc felt something rupture gently in his chest. That kind of soft breaking, like wax giving way to heat.

“…Why can’t I remember anything or anyone?”

He whispered it.

Not because he was scared to be heard—
But because the question itself was so tender it nearly broke him.

Felinkin squeezed, gently. His tail—somewhere behind the chair—tightened in a loose loop. Not to trap. Just to anchor.

And then he spoke.

Slow. Low. And without any of the teasing.

“You hurt yourself really badly.”
“I don’t know if it was a sickness… or if you fell and hit your head really hard.”
“We are very worried for you.”

Ydoc went silent.

The bronze lights shimmered across the camp like fireflies trapped in amber.

And still the Holokon held him. Quiet now. No demands. No pulling. No story to finish. Just… a warm body refusing to let him vanish again.

It was the first time all day Ydoc didn’t feel like a passenger.
It was the first time someone gave him space—and still stayed.

Felinkin said nothing more.
Because he knew Ydoc needed to decide what came next.
--------
[ The Dam is Breaking]

Ydoc trembled.

It wasn’t from the cold. It wasn’t even from fear. Not fully.

It was from something deeper, buried under bruises that had no color—just weight. That sinking heaviness in the ribs, in the arms, behind the eyes. That feeling that something had been broken not by one blow, but by too many to count.

Felinkin didn’t let go.

He didn’t rock him. Didn’t pet him. Just stayed there, pressed gently to his back, tail looped around the leg of the chair like a promise: you are not leaving until you speak.

Ydoc choked once on his own breath. His arms tightened around himself.

“…I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Felinkin tilted his large head. Just enough to let his wide white eyes come into view over Ydoc’s shoulder. His smile—not sharp, not wide, just there—was too still for comfort.

“What are you sorry for, petal?”

Ydoc bit his lip. Hard.

“…I… I just… I ruin things. I get scared. I forget. I always forget. I should remember them. Lucy… and Ruby… Edwards—he says I’m just stupid and soft and I ruin everything.”

His voice cracked—splintered down the middle.

“...I’m not strong like them.”

Felinkin gave a soft, purring click in his throat. Not cruel. Not cooing. Just… thinking.

Then the words came, almost like a slow knife being set on the table.

“How bad has Edwards hurt you, petal?”

Ydoc flinched.

“…I…”

He swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

He truly didn’t.

The memory—gone. Wiped. But the body? The body remembered.

“…my eye was purple last week,” he whispered. “I think… I fell? Maybe. Edwards said I tripped.”

He blinked slowly, as if waiting for permission to keep going.

Felinkin said nothing.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t judge. Only watched.

“…and my ribs. Sometimes… it’s hard to breathe.”

Ydoc hesitated.

Then added, softer still:

“My arms… and my leg. He says I bruise easy. I probably do. I’m always messing things up.”

A single tear crept from the side of his eye and vanished into the fuzz of his cheek.

“I must have fallen… a lot.”

Still—Felinkin didn’t shift.

Didn’t react with rage or cooing sympathy. He knew. He had known. He wasn’t asking for answers—he was making Ydoc say it out loud.

“That’s quite a lot of falling,” Felinkin finally said.

The tone was flat. Not sarcastic. Not playful.

Just empty.

Ydoc stared at the ground. A terrible pounding had begun behind his skull.

A pressure. Like a scream trapped in tar.

“…It’s not his fault,” Ydoc whispered. “He gets scared when I wander off. I forget things, I say the wrong things, I…”

His hand twitched. He gripped the armrest of the chair with white knuckles.

“…I should be better.”

“No, petal,” Felinkin said. “You should be free.”

That word. Free.

Something cracked.

A hairline fracture deep in the base of Ydoc’s spine. He grunted quietly and leaned forward, clutching his gut as if stabbed from the inside.

“I can’t fight him,” he whimpered.

Felinkin only asked one more question.

“Can’t… or forgot how?”

Ydoc’s lip quivered.

His jaw clenched.

His vision swam—and a low, guttural cry spilled from his throat.

“HE TOOK IT FROM ME!”

It tore out of him like a ribbon of smoke.

The will to resist. The will to say no. The will to choose—

Gone. Beaten. Mocked. Stripped. Each act explained away, laughed away, loved away by the man who made himself everything and left Ydoc nothing.

“I don’t remember how to say no,” he sobbed. “He taught me to ask first. To obey first. To be quiet first.”

He gasped.

“I’m so tired of being quiet…”

Felinkin didn’t say a word.

His arms simply curled tighter, gently—but with purpose.

Not permission. Not protection.

A reminder:

You’re here. You’re still here. You’re not nothing.

Ydoc didn’t fight the tears now.
He let them fall freely, soaking the front of his shirt as the dusk turned gold and the fairy lights turned dim.

The dam had broken. And something was returning.

His will.

Small.

Trembling.

But not gone.

And Felinkin… smiled.
-----
[Nobody home]

(A breakdown in the amber light)

The radio static came from nowhere.

A whine—thin and high-pitched—like a tooth breaking.
Then: click-pop.
Then: the hiss of channels being searched.

Ydoc jerked. Hard.
His breath snapped short. His chest locked.
He twitched like a fish ripped from water, veins glowing cold with remembered electricity.

“Stop—stop, no, no, no—what is that—”

His hands shot to his ears, but the sound wasn’t in the world anymore.
It was inside him.

The scratchy click of a radio knob turning.
The tone of a reel-to-reel machine beginning to spin.

Needles.
All over.
Pinching into his wrists. His arms.
Rope.
Across his chest, pulling him back. Forcing him still.

“No—no—that’s not—Felinkin, please—”

His voice was raw panic.
Tears were pouring now, not out of pain—but from recognition.

Something had happened.
Something real.
This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a lie made up by Edwards or Lucy or anyone.

This was a memory.

And Felinkin was already there.

He had him tight—coiled around him like a harness.
Arms on his shoulders, tail around his leg, one large hand on Ydoc’s chest keeping him from tearing open his own skin.

“I’ve got you, sweet thorn. Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Just sing.”

Ydoc’s mouth trembled.

He didn’t want to.
He couldn’t.

But the words came anyway.

(I've got a little black book with my poems in
Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in)

The voice wasn’t his.

It was strained. Hollow.
Like it was coming from the bottom of a well inside his skull.

His eyes stared forward—but they weren’t seeing anything.

Just the light—

—bleeding from the lanterns above like spilled ink in water.

(I got elastic bands keepin' my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues)

The radio was still searching.

Tuning.

Stalling.

Glitching.

Each word stabbed.
Like a language he used to speak, and forgot, and now his mouth was remembering it without him.

(And that is how I know, when I try to get through
On the telephone to you... there'll be...)

Felinkin’s grip tightened.

“Louder, love. Let it out.”

(...nobody home.)

Ydoc screamed.

Not a word. Not a cry.
But a note—ragged and breathless, like a string snapped on a violin mid-song.

Then:

(I've got wild staring eyes)

His eyes flared—white hot.
A flash behind them—like a hallway lit by red alarms.

Then—

(AND I'VE GOT A STRONG URGE TO FLY!!)

He clawed at the air.

Tried to rise.
To leap.
To run.
Anywhere—

(but I got nowhere to fly to...)

He collapsed.
Crushed in Felinkin’s arms.

Just a heap of muscle and fear and forgotten light.

He babbled. Quiet. Wet.

(Oooh... babe...
when I pick up the phone
there is still...
nobody home.)

The lights of the festival dimmed.
People danced. Laughed. Played.

But they weren’t real right now.

Not for Ydoc.

He was gone, sucked back into the cruel, glitching gravity of memory.

And Felinkin—doctor, priest, executioner of lies—held him tightly through the whole collapse.

“We’ll keep going,” Felinkin whispered, his voice thick with starlight and sadness. “You did perfect, petal. Just like a survivor.”

“Now breathe. You’re not alone anymore.”

The radio fell silent.
The static stopped.
Only the sound of Ydoc’s shuddering breaths remained.

And the heartbeat...
of someone finally waking up.