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2021-04-05
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2025-08-20
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2/?
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Tastes Like Home (You're A Mess)

Summary:

Wake up, get on the bus, get to the office, get home: Drakon's life just begets ever-predictable monotony and boredom.

Luckily for him, one change in his morning commute seems to beget neither.
(Unfortunately for Drakon, Sinbad seems to beget everything else.)

Chapter 1: Cardamom Tea

Notes:

Update: 8/2/2024 - 8/27/2024 haha im sure u thought this got abandoned 3 years ago, huh? Well do I have some news for you
––
Updated: 4/12/2021 (4:00PM)
Note (4/5/2021): I just really needed some new, genuine SinDrak content so here we are
First chapter is up/more of an introduction. Really hoping to be able to delve into the whole plot I have planned for this fic.

Also, ages are consistent with Magi, not SnB.

Also, only slightly important HC– Drakon is that cool person you know that‘s secretly into anime and will take it to their grave.
Upload Date: 4/5/2021

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

This is how the story goes.

Dragul rolls up his sleeve to check his watch and looks around.

To his left: elderly man. Sits first row behind the driver, white beard and sunspots tucked away behind a newspaper headline.

Flanking his right: man in mustard scrubs. Always muttering (cackling, on occasion) to himself in the back row. Harmless, normally tolerable-

"You're always so smart sir, so intelligent, truly- thank you so much for providing your input to a lowly worker like myself ahahaha–!"

-except now, when Dragul is sitting through him kissing ass over the phone. 'Have some self respect,' he thinks. He wishes he’d found his earbuds sooner, but at least the bus is finally pulling up to the curb. The tires screech. Air fizzes out to lower the chassis and Dragul steps on, beelines to the two-seater closest to the middle doors, and waits.

He watches the old man shuffle onboard next, crisply folded newspaper in the hand that's not holding a walking stick.

Mustard Scrubs storms towards the back. The people who make a path are an awkward sea parting for a Moses who clearly got hung up on.

Dragul looks around.

Third row from the front: shorter woman. Light pink scrubs. Dozed off. Naps the exact 22 minutes to get to her stop which he finds as off-putting as he does impressive.

The entire back section (excluding Mustard Scrubs): big family(?). The youngest only looks old enough to wear the line cook apron because of the scar spanning half his face. He’s always flanked by an assortment of siblings(?) that all look like they’re running the world's scariest Olive Garden.

Fourth row from the front is– “Alright, calm down Detective Conan,” chides Tamira. “All the plot, all the little details: this sounds like the start of a murder mystery.”

 

“H- I am just being observant,” Drakon says, “what’s wrong with being observant?”

 

“I think it's sweet how much you pay attention to the people around you,” Saher chimes in.

 

“And I think it’s creepy–” Saher raps Tamira on the wrist, “–ow, hey! Where is this story even going, huh?”

 

“I’m getting there,” Drakon hisses, flustered. “If you would just wait, I am...setting the scene. Making sure you understand that there’s a sanctity to the order of the bus–”

––“A ‘sanctity’ he says-!”

 

“Let him finish, Tamira!”––

“–because people have routines. It’s why they sit in the same spots,” Drakon says, tapping at the cup of Hel Chai Saher had just placed in front of him. “ I believe you can tell a lot about a person by how they respect those routines.”

 

“Mm,” Tamira purses her lips at that. “I don’t know, boss…I take the bus to work, but I don’t sit in the same place every day. Sometimes there's more people than usual too, and then I have to stand. What do you have to say about that?”

 

“Don’t you tend to stay in the same area of the bus when you stand?”

 

“How should I know?” Tamira sips from her energy drink- the second one that morning. Saher has been eyeing it warily, itching to throw it out preemptively, if not for Tamira’s sake then for her own, “All I’m thinking about is getting to work on time so you aren’t riding my ass when I show up late.”

 

“Tamira,” Saher chides, though Drakon's scowl molds into something inquisitive. “What about the conference room?”

 

“What about it?” Both heads turn to him again.

 

“Tamira always tends to sit on the left corner of the table.”

 

“Well, detective,”– “Watch it–” –  “that’s because it’s the closest to the door,” Tamira teases, still fiddling with her drink can. “...though, I guess everyone else stays in the same spot at that table...hm…”

 

“Exactly,” Drakon says. “And if you decided to sit somewhere else during a meeting, you would be forcing everyone else to move.”

 

“Is the point of this story that someone on your bus keeps taking your spot?” Saher asks, still hovering around the table, glancing back and forth between Tamira and the drink she's not paying attention to. Drakon’s hold on the cup tightens, gaze cast down as he grimaces at his reflection in his chai.

 

“Worse.”




There is another two-seater on the bus, right across from his own. And last evening, the very bane of Dragul’s commute: The New Guy™ had decided to sit…right... there …

Likely around his age. Weathered aviator jacket, patches down the arms. He'd been picking at the shearling collar for a few minutes but Dragul was trying to be discreet about his stolen glances the stranger’s way.

This man could not pick a goddamn seat on this bus if his life depended on it. There was no doubt in Dragul’s mind, ever since the first week he laid eyes on him:

 

INTERIOR: BUS– 

 

– “Oh great, and now he’s giving us stage directions.” “Tamira, shhh–!” –

 

Dragul enters the bus. He heads straight to his booth by the middle doors. The New Guy™ is striking up a conversation with the old man at the front. A front row seat is a smart choice- or so Dragul thought . 

Because the next week, The New Guy™ ends up at the back with Mustard Scrubs and The Olive Garden Crew.

And halfway through that week, The New Guy™ is joking around with Pink Scrubs the whole ride home--and it's the first time, Dragul realizes, that he's ever seen her awake, and certainly this lively despite the bags beneath her eyes--only for New Guy to go right back to the old man the next day.

This was absurd. The New Guy™ was spontaneous. Not a care about routine, about order, none. Matters are made worse by the fact The New Guy™ likes to talk. He likes to talk to strangers on the bus. And with how erratically he’s been changing seats, it was only a matter of time before Dragul was going to find himself being approached .

What if he's expected to hold a conversation? And today, of all days? He had slept past his alarm that morning. Didn't have time for breakfast. If there weren't bagels in the breakroom he couldn't have managed improvised brunch while everyone was still filing in for the morning.

Zamil had been sick the whole week and Tabi clocked out early to make a deposit before the bank closed, so then he had to finish the quarterly report himself– – “Damn, that’s rough, boss…” – He’d forgotten to pack lunch too, and they were out of Halal meals at the cafeteria, and- – “Oh, Dragul…” –

'You're spiraling,' Dragul thinks, 'Calm down.'

He breathes in, holds it.

Breathes out.

Puts in his earbuds. Taps out.

He's tired. Anyone can see that.

The bus speeds down the road. He lets his eyes rest for a full five stops.

Around the sixth stop Dragul is stirred by shifting in his left ear; he half-consciously registers this as the earbud falling out and makes no move to catch it.

But then there's shuffling. Someone is coming over to grab his earbud from the ground to return it...and then Dragul feels himself being gently shaken awake.

Ah. Knowing Dragul's luck, he shouldn’t be so surprised as to who he sees holding up his earbud in an outstretched hand. "Here,” The New Guy™ whispers, and Dragul instinctively thinks to chew him out, ask why it was just so impossible to stay in his lane- but the urge is from somewhere pitiful and fearful deep down inside of Dragul, and he does not bear that vulnerability lightly so instead he says nothing. And they just stay there, in that liminal space of an offering yet to be accepted, the gentle hum of the bus is drowned by the sound of pounding in his ears he hopes his face does not give away.

Dragul breathes in and he takes it, only for the other’s smile to come with it, and Dragul hates how he feels his face mellow just slightly as the man returns to his seat. There is no forced conversation, no words. Dragul feels warm in a weird way. –– Tamira looks to Saher with her eyebrows raised. Drakon doesn’t notice, watching the tea ripple as his stirrer pokes the surface. ––

The next day he sees the man in the morning. The next day he receives another smile and he does not scowl in return. Dragul doesn’t do anything, actually, and the stranger takes a seat in the back with Mustard Scrubs much to the latter’s chagrin.

Then the next day, he receives another smile and he does not scowl in return. The stranger takes a seat with the Olive Garden Crew.

Then the day after that, he receives another smile and does not scowl in return. The stranger takes up a conversation with the Old Man.

The day after that, another smile, no scowl. The stranger chats up Pink Scrubs near the front.

And suddenly, it is that very morning, and when the man smiles today the words leave Dragul’s mouth before he can stop them, “Good morning.” And when the smile widens just a little more, Dragul hates that he almost feels a little proud.

 

Drakon finally looks up from his mug. The interjections had ceased a while back and he’s surprised to see his coworkers so…touched? Shocked? It’s a mix of the two that almost looks like fear but he’s come to know better. He raises one eyebrow, the others’ lower in return. “That’s, um…ok, yeah,” Tamira murmurs, and Saher nods along. “You’re asking us how to ask him out, right?”

 

Drakon doesn’t register the words at first, but an appalled exclamation soon echoes throughout the outside hallway. Vittel peeks out from his new cubicle and can see Tabi doing the same. That sounded like the boss man, didn’t it?

 

#

 

The New Guy™ is, surprisingly, not on his commute home, and Dragul wonders, as he walks home from the bus stop, past the corner store, past the pizza place, past the other corner store, if he will be there in the morning. His apartment is at the end of the block, and Dragul cuts off Freddie Mercury when he places his earbuds back in their case.

He fishes out his keys and is quiet when he steps inside, although there is no one for him to disrupt. His shoes slip off by the door as he locks it, sliding his lanyard onto the hook beside it. The silence greets him coldly.

His newspaper from that morning is still on the couch, while Ceylan’s copy of The Man in the High Castle sits atop a neatly folded blanket. Dragul moves to the kitchen. His worn-out coffee machine, stained and rusted, still smells of the brew, next to a skillet set atop the stove, and the one dirty mug left inside the sink.

The fridge clicks when it opens. Dragul finds what was supposed to be today’s lunch set beside the leftover takeout he grabs for an early dinner in the living room. He sets aside the reading material and comforter to make room on the couch, kicking his legs up onto one armrest and propping his head on the other. He takes in a mouthful his wrap as he turns on the TV.

There’s a new action film on his watchlist. Serendine must have added it. He chews mindlessly as the opening to Argo begins to run.

 

#

 

He checks the reviews. He checks the source material. He sends Serendine a breakdown of the historical inaccuracies vetted by the CIA which Dragul otherwise does not consider a reputable source and decides it is time for bed.

He swings his legs down from the couch. His feet tread lightly on the hardwood as Dragul steers towards the bathroom with a yawn. The buzzing from the light inside is drowned out by the exhaust fan that comes on with it. Dragul slips into the shower, brushes his teeth, takes care of his basic needs and washes his hands. He returns to the living room refreshed and ready to pull out the mattress from the couch. His phone is placed gingerly on the armrest, both his usual alarm and a backup alarm set for the next six hours and six-hours-and-ten-minutes respectively. It’s too warm for the comforter. He lies in a shirt and his briefs staring up at the ceiling.

An hour of silence with passing headlights painting his walls, and Dragul finally finds the train of thought that leads him to sleep. He dreams the break room has a bakery so he can have his bagels freshly made.

Notes:

Update 8/3/2024 - 8/27/2024:

Apparently Hel Chai = "cardamom tea" in Farsi (which imo is really similar to elaichi chai in Bangla, one of my favs, so now it's Drakon's fave. And Saher only ever has the ingredients to make the good stuff, so no half-assed tea-bag bs while she's in the break room hmph!)

Old newspaper man: Matal Mogamett
Mustard Scrubs: Ka Koubun
Pink Scrubs: Pisti
Olive Garden: Hakuryuu + Siblings
TheNewGuy™: Who do you think haha
––
Note (4/5/2021): (Listened to a lot of Noah Kahan when writing this– chapter title's just a reference to a song)

I hope to be getting to continuing this soon– really starved for SinDrak content these days.

Thanks for reading so far :)

Chapter 2: Hardtack

Summary:

is hard to swallow. And so is the truth. Drakon's coworkers decide it's time to intervene to show him how much they care.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Well. That was unexpected. Saher doesn't think she's ever seen her boss storm out like that. Even when he's upset it tends to be more of a disappointed shuffle. 

She only notices Tamira's eyes on her long after Drakon has hurried out of the room.

“Well, that was unexpected,” this time out loud, and Tamira nods absently. “Have you ever seen him get that flustered?”

“Nope,” Tamira hums. “But if you think about it, that’s kind of telling,” she turns to Saher “so we probably need to step in.”

Saher blinks. “‘Step in’?”

“You know–” Tamira's hands circle each other, “– meddle . In his hour of need!”

The outside sounds of the office float in to fill Saher's silence. “...you want to, ah, meddle with our supervisor's,” she hesitates, “... theoretical infatuation with some bus stranger.”

Tamira pouts at the deadpan reply. “Well, not when you put it like that! Come on, Saher, you really don't think it's a good idea?”

“I really think it's grounds for an HR violation.” She says, unmoved. 

Tamira splays onto the table with an exaggerated groan. Saher pats her on the back. It’s about time they should get back to work, but she decides to snatch a bagel from the fridge since Dragul had mentioned it–

Oh.

Stale. They are very stale.

“Hardtack,” she mutters, and Tamira looks up, “I could have mistaken it for hardtack .”

 

Later, when Saher walks by Drakon’s office, she sneaks a glance at his face to try and read his expression. His brows are drawn in concentration. His frown indicates no emotion. Then he looks up, sees her, and Saher watches the embarrassment painstakingly crawl its way up his face.

She wonders, after making it back to her desk, if she had caught him…distracted.

 

#

 

Dragul beats the first alarm.

He folds the couch back in, puts away the blankets, takes his phone to set on the counter and play his music in the bathroom; lets solemn Farsi become one with the buzz of the exhaust fan.

Dragul washes his face at the sink to chase away the sleep.

When he steps back out into the studio, he feels like himself.

He also feels like an idiot because there is nothing in the fridge.

 

Breakfast is watered down coffee with hard boiled eggs, and the promise of a stale bagel once he’s made it to the office. He’s saved eating for last so it can feel like one cohesive meal instead of slim pickings from opposite ends of town.

Dragul rolls up his sleeve to check his watch. He’ll be there early. Just how he likes it.

He slips on his shoes and his lanyard and his‐ well, he would take his work bag if he hadn’t forgotten it in the breakroom.

In his defense, his mind had been elsewhere.

 

“You’re asking us how to ask him out, right?” It took seconds before the words sank in and Dragul began yelling half-baked attempts at a rebuttal. What was he supposed to say to that of all things?

He tells his coworkers a story about a random man on his bus he’s never mentioned before, a man he knows so little about he’d been referring to him as “the stranger”, “the man,” or “The New Guy™” and they ask him- they– ugh, this is what makes him question how well he really understands his coworkers…

…but then, why had he told that story in the first place? He wasn’t one to open up like that unless it was something important, unless he was looking for advice. It’s prompted by a small voice in his head that sounds oddly like Serendine, and if that doesn’t leave him more baffled…

 

 

The air is crisp today. Dragul changes up the music as he starts walking down the sidewalk––past the corner store and the pizza shop and the other corner store––and queues up something trumpet-heavy about the sunnier side of the street. It adds a little swing to otherwise rigid steps as Dragul walks himself to the bus stop. When he gets there, the bench is occupied by a pigeon flock that graciously makes room at the very far end of it. Dragul opts to stand.

It’s only when the bus pulls over and the birds fly off that Dragul remembers he doesn’t have a lunch again.

 

#

 

Saher is fiddling with the keys. A lot of keys. A lot more keys than one person should really have.

She feels Tamira staring at them from behind her but doesn't bother turning around. “One of these is for the janitor’s closet, one is for the copier room, one is for the supply closet, one is for the mailroom, one is for my apartment…” She tries another key in the lock. Nope. “And one is supposed to be for the building.”

Tamira sounds like she's mulling over that, muttering something under her breath, counting on her fingers probably. Saher tries another key.

“Mm…that's six things. What are the other eighteen for?” Saher ignores her and tries the last key again. Maybe if she shakes it around in the lock for long enough?

There's a crackle from the asphalt as Zamil and Tabi's carpool pulls up.

“...aher, are you trying to find the building key?” Tabi's voice picks up once he's stepped out of the car. Saher still doesn't turn around. Tamira is calling out now like she’s spotted Ja’far pulling up at the bus stop with the others. Saher assumes they're walking over while she tries the key from before the last key–

“Saher?”

“One sec, Tabi.”

“But Saher-”

“Tabi, I'm concentrating.”

“Saher, we lost the building key in the storm drain two weeks ago–”

“Well- wait, what?” Saher turns around, spluttering “how long- who is ‘we’?”, only for Ja’far to quietly muscle past them both and swipe his ID.

“Perks of being assistant manager,” Ja'far starts, leaning back to prop open the door, “I get the lighter keychain.”

 

#

 

Dragul finds himself feeling… odd on the bus today. Nervous? Impatient? What is he waiting for? He knows what he’s waiting for. Who he’s waiting for. But why is he waiting for him? He doesn’t know- well, maybe he does know , but that doesn’t mean he understands –

The trumpet is getting too loud in his ears. Dragul switches to what he can only describe as “aggressive elevator soul” and breathes in, holds it…and breathes out.

“You’re asking us how to ask him out, right?”

This can’t possibly be that. This can’t be what attraction feels like.

This feels horrible .

The buildings outside rush by in a blur, and the bus keeps consistent with the speed as it meanders to the next stop on pre-rush hour streets. The first of the recurring characters that comes aboard is Pink Scrubs, looking like last night had found her in the trenches. Maybe, if he had just spent the time learning her seating choices and scarily strict napping techniques to, you know, actually talk to her , he might feel brave enough to ask. Maybe The New Guy™ will check in on her. Or maybe he’ll know she wants to be left alone. Who’s to say.

A couple stops later and The Olive Garden Crew walks on board.

A couple stops after that, it’s him . He sees Dragul tucked away in his little booth and he smiles and Drakon tries out the words on his tongue again, quietly: “Good morning,” and lets them sit in the space between them until the stranger echoes them back. And in that moment, just that moment, Dragul almost wonders if he’s ready: ready for a commute spent talking to The New Guy™, ready to put aside whatever apprehensions he has about the order of business aside and finally learn someone’s name after all this time he’s spent just watching them all from the sidelines.

The New Guy™ steps towards him, and Drakon instinctively reaches over to move his work bag that isn’t actually there off of the seat beside him where he keeps it- but then, the man’s eyes turn, as he finally takes in the look of Pink Scrubs’ face and suddenly Dragul knows the moment has ended, because the man takes the seat beside her instead. Of course he would know what to do. Dragul reminds himself to feel glad: The New Guy™ is turning out to be more predictable than he’d believed.

But he just feels restless .

 

#

 

“So, who's going first again?”

Tamira quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”

Saher is flitting around the counter farther into the crowded room, rearing up the electric kettle. Zamil chugs more of an orange juice before putting it down, “Like, how are we approaching this? This is Mr. Kartanon we're talking about. I feel like we need a plan of attack.”

Ja’far scoffs in the background.

“Oh, true,” Tamira cups her chin in thought. “If we come off too strong he'll definitely clam up from the get…” The kettle starts bubbling. Ja’far starts to leisurely put down a few cups on the table. He offers one to Tamira. She taps her canned energy drink. Ja’far heads over to Mahad.

Tabi is picking at the string of his tea bag at the counter. “I still can't believe you two found out about this before the rest of us.” He sips at it, thinks, then pulls another tea bag from the box. “I would never have pinned Mr. Kartanon as the type…”

“Yeah, it's not fair,” Zamil gripes. “Tabi and I are supposed to know everything about the boss man! We're his number one number twos– no offense, Ja’far!”

Ja'far rolls his eyes.

Tamira scoffs for him. “Well, sounds like you two don't know him as well as you thought.”

“Honestly,” Vittel pipes up, “I kind of always got that uh, that vibe from him.” He flusters as a few eyes turn to him, “I know I’m quite new here and all, but maybe that’s why I could tell. Fresh pair of eyes or something.”

“Sounds like you’re good at reading people then,” Saher comes over to pour some water in his cup so he can steep two black tea bags at once. “That makes you a good addition to the team.”

“Ah, you- you think so?”

“Of course. Dra- Mr. Kartanon tends to struggle with that himself, so it helps to have people around him who can cue him in.” She tops off Vittel’s cup before moving over to Tamira who taps her energy drink absentmindedly. Saher makes a noise of resignation, though Tamira doesn't notice. “Yeah, boss man’s not always the best at reading the room, but he tries. What he’s really good at is being–”

The elevator chimes from somewhere down the hall.

“–punctual…”

After a beat, all eyes are on Saher, who only notices after she's filled Ja'far's cup and sighs. “I really have to do everything around here…”

 

#

 

When Dragul makes it to the break room he walks into more company than he is expecting. A lot more, actually.

No one’s shift is meant to start till a whole hour from now. But most of his team is all crowded around the table, taking up the seats and standing between the chairs, almost like they've been waiting for him–

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Saher pipes up, hovering around the table, Tamira and Zamil's seats on either side of her, energy drink and orange juice held respectively (because it wouldn’t be enough if only one of them had a stimulant problem). Flanking Zamil, as always, Tabi. Beside him are the new hires: Vittel and Mahad, sporting the faces of men who weren’t really sure why they were here but didn’t want to be left out. Ja’far is standing behind them both, almost comically taller than Mahad with the latter so hunched up and crouched into a seat that was, really, far too small for him. Drakon makes a mental note to order some more appropriately-sized chairs. Then he remembers: he's been expected. But for what?

There’s a lull when Drakon realizes he’s just standing there. Is he supposed to say something? He doesn’t even know what this could possibly be ab–

Wait.

Unless it’s– obviously this can’t be about– 

that’s got to be some kind of HR violation, if it’s about that, about–

about him™-

“This is an intervention.” Tamira fills him in, and it paralyzes him, as all the blood in his body runs cold. He searches the room. For what? Surprise? Disgust? Support?

Anything at all, really, because he thought he understood his coworkers before this, before yesterday, before he opened his goddamn mouth over nothing, and now it’s all falling apart, now–

“You have to stop treating the stale bagels in here like they count as real food .”

–nothing makes sense. What?

“We don’t even have any spreads left to go with them but you keep eating them anyways! It’s unnatural.”

“And unhealthy,” Tabi adds.

“And unhealthy,” Tamira repeats.

“The carb count could lead to fatigue too,” Zamil chides, “and I know the boss man isn't coming in this early just to fall asleep on the job.”

“Not to mention how stale they are. They’re not even edible .”

“And that’s not just because of your shit taste in bagels,” Ja'far offers, like live bait into the pit as half the room breaks into a frenzy about whole wheat bagels and Drakon has to yell at them to bring them back to their own point. Though, the air is less heavy when they have finally settled down.

 

“...would you rather I starve?” Drakon finally half-jokes, the breath back in his lungs and his composure slowly returning. He tries to help it along by stepping farther into the room to reach the fridge, if only to prove a point. “The cafeteria doesn’t open till twelve, and I like breakfast to be a morning meal.” He picks up a slightly less stale bagel from inside and holds it up for his audience. He knows better than to put up a fight when Ja’far is the one to snatch it out of his hands. “You know we’re right,” he says, floating back to Mahad’s chair, captive foodstuff in hand. “How are you supposed to lead the department when this is the only thing you’re running on?”

“Is this seriously the reason you all came into work early?” He pointedly looks at Tamira who tries to look away innocently. “Perhaps I’ll start doing more concerning things so you all show up on time for once.”

“Mm, or, like, maybe you just hear us out on our proposition.” Zamil raises splayed fingers, palms facing towards his boss––orange juice clutched between a couple fingers––for dramatic effect, “Because we’re treating you to a real breakfast!”

Oh? Drakon admits he’s curious now, but… “And what makes you think I would want to go out for food when you’re all supposed to be at your desks, in,” Drakon rolls his sleeve to face his watch. “57 minutes. That’s hardly enough time for us to even get to a restaurant and then back here. And I’m not paying you to eat.”

There’s a sluggish chorus of groans around the table. They really must have been excited about this. “How long have you even been planning this?”

“It’s been on and off for the past month,” says Ja’far.

“We thought it would be a good idea, partly for the, uh, bagel thing,” Tabi chuckles, “but since you can’t really go out drinking with us after work, we thought this might be a good alternative.”

“You do a lot for us, boss. ‘About time we do something for ya,” Tamira chimes in, somehow the straw that breaks the camel’s back, because Drakon can’t stop the heat that rises to his cheeks as he looks out at them all. Instinctively he thinks to lash out in that half-hearted way he always does. Tell them not to get so cushy with their superiors. Tell them they should know better than to think they can butter him up like this and he won’t notice. He won’t admit he knows the truth or that it makes him feel…exposed. Because Drakon does not bear vulnerability lightly.

So he says nothing. Clearly his face is doing enough talking, because Ja’far is gentle when his firm hand finds Drakon's shoulder and he leads them all to the elevator going down.

 

Notes:

Happy belated birthday, S :-) This isn't actually your birthday present but that's going to take a few more hours. If you want the songs Drakon is actually listening to I can send those over

Also, I thought u would appreciate this, but Drakon/Dragul's name is dependent on if he is being perceived by people he trusts/by people he doesn't know/by himself mwahahaha (still need to update Chapter 1 to be consistent with this though so ignore that)

(8/20/2025)