XXVIII
The meeting room has cooled. Not from tension this time, but from the faint echo of phoenix song that still hums in the air like an aftertaste. Yongquan sits once more on his cushion, regal and composed but no longer cocky. The weight of what he witnessed earlier is evident in the stillness of his gaze.
Harry, for his part, is quiet. He's learned stillness, too—though his is more learned than bred. His thumb brushes a small circle into the edge of his robe before he thinks.
Yongquan's voice cuts through the silence, smooth and unreadable. "I'm willing to reconsider the situation, phoenix. But negotiations demand clarity. What is it you want from the Triads?"
Harry doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he turns toward Fon. Their eyes meet and without a word, Harry reaches out and lightly touches the back of Fon's hand. A warmth passes between them—not heat, but the weight of presence, of invitation.
May I? Harry asks silently.
Fon nods, eyes softening. Their mental link clicks into place like a door gently opening, and Harry steps inside—not to invade, but to share.
His thoughts are quieter now, more polished than when he first learned to use this bond. He shows Fon a fleeting sensation, not quiet a picture: a young boy under the weight of a prophecy, the ache of survival, the quiet horror of waking up with nothing left to fight. That feeling of not knowing what to do now that you're no longer dying for something.
"Changing your life when you've been made into a weapon... it's like being told to breathe without lungs. It's disorienting. I know that."
Harry feels Fon's thoughts still for a moment. The guilt, the tension, the weariness that clung to his mind like smoke—it all still lingers. But he's listening. Harry presses gently, not with demand, but offering clarity:
"So I need to ask you, Fon. Do you want to keep working for the Triads?" He looks at him in the eyes. "Because if you do… then we'll make a new arrangement. One with freedoms, real ones—not leashes. I'll stand between you and the chain. You'll keep your dignity. Your choice."
The thought lingers, honest and open.
"And if you don't want to stay… then that's fine, too. I'll help you find your own path. Wherever that takes you."
The weight of that offer settles between them. A real choice. The kind Fon hasn't been given in years. The kind that makes your hands shake when you realize it's real. For a long moment, Fon doesn't respond. His thoughts spiral in memories—Mai laughing in the grass, the pressure of a hundred invisible expectations, the silent discipline that kept him alive. He's breathing, but it sounds like someone else's rhythm.
Then—clarity. The haze clears.
"I want to follow you."
It's not a demand. Not even a confession. It's a quiet, solid truth. A statement of will.
Harry smiles softly, dry and fond. "You do realize I spend most of my time as a phoenix, right?" he says aloud, pulling back from the mental link. "Flying around. Not exactly a convenient roommate."
Fon's mouth twitches at that, almost a smile. "Then I will follow from below. Or wait for your return."
Harry raises an eyebrow. "I can leave you with your sister, if that's—"
"No," Fon cuts in quietly, shaking his head once, before returning to their mental link. "I made a deal with my father only to protect her. I wouldn't put that on her again."
Harry nods, something like understanding flickering in his eyes.
Then Dimtr interrupts their talk, reminding Harry that he's grabbing Dimtr's hand, too.
"What about Italy?" he says. "You told me to go there. Why not you?"
Fon tilts his head in thought, then closes his eyes for a moment.
"It could be an option, but I think I want to travel," he finally says. "Clear my head. Let my body move with the earth. I'll go on foot, maybe. Walk west until the land changes language. I'll train. I'll breathe. And then…" He opens his eyes. "Then I will find where I'm meant to be."
Harry studies him for a moment, then nods. "You don't want to be in the Triads anymore."
"I don't," Fon says, with a quiet finality that feels like stone placed gently on the earth. "I've served enough masters… Though I wouldn't mind if you—"
"You won't ever be serving me," Harry says quickly, sincerely. "I won't ask that of you."
"I know," Fon says. And something flickers in his eyes—a rare peace.
Then, turning back to Yongquan, who has been silently watching their exchange, Harry straightens.
"Well," he says, voice calm, "You asked what I want from the Triads? I want freedom for Fon. He won't be affiliated with the Triads anymore."
Yongquan's eyes narrow. "Freedom... is not so easily negotiated."
Harry hums. "It is, when the alternative is Death."
And in the background, just faint enough not to feel intentional, the air cools once again.
But only a little.
XXIX
The room is still, but not calm.
Yongquan's gaze lingers—too long, too sharp. Not with the hunger of desire, but something colder, older, more dangerous. Harry feels the weight of it first in his chest, like static pressure before lightning strikes. Then, he hears Fon's breath catch beside him. It's subtle, but not for someone like Harry—someone who listens with more than his ears. Before he can speak, Fon leans in slightly, enough for their shoulders to brush.
Fon then reaches out and touches Harry's wrist again. The link reopens. "He lusts for you."
Harry turns to him, startled, eyebrows raised as he whispers a harsh, "What?"
"Not your body." The thought is clean and sharp, like a blade being drawn. "He wants your power. The way it feels. The way it could serve him."
That explains the gleam in Yongquan's eyes—not admiration, not even curiosity. Desire, yes, but rooted in ambition. The Phoenix not as a person, but as a crown. Harry swallows once, mouth dry, gaze returning to the man across from him.
Yongquan shifts slightly in his seat, like a serpent stretching in silk.
"Phoenix," he begins smoothly, "I won't pretend I understand what you are—but I know potential when I see it. The Triads are powerful, but you—" his lips curl— "you are something more."
Harry doesn't respond.
"You could join us," Yongquan offers, voice casual but eyes gleaming. "You'd have a place here. Influence. Reverence. Second only to myself and the Elders. You wouldn't be worshipped—no—but you'd be feared. You'd be untouchable and Fon free."
Fon bristles beside him, expression unreadable but tense. Harry can feel it through the bond: a simmering distaste at the audacity, like old memories reawakening.
Dimtr, still seated at the side of the room, narrows his eyes. "Interesting," he murmurs, not bothering to hide his scorn. "Offering the position of second-in-command before your superiors even weigh in? Desperate or confident. Curious which."
Yongquan's smile doesn't falter, but his fingers twitch where they rest on his lap.
Harry lifts a hand slightly, palm open—not aggressive, just steady.
"Let's be reasonable," he says, voice calm. "We're not here to shift balances of power. I don't want your throne. Or your armies."
Yongquan tilts his head. "Then what can you give us in exchange for one of our best fighters?"
Harry doesn't have to think long. He unclasps the pouch from his neck and takes out a small, perfectly sealed glass bottle, filled with a liquid that's transparent but still manages to shine in the flickering light.
"This," Harry says, "is a vial of phoenix tears. My tears."
Yongquan studies it, suspicious. "Wha does it do?"
Harry smiles faintly. "Even a single drop can heal any physical wound. Magical, mundane, acute, or chronic. It doesn't matter. They restore. Something your organization could find very useful, I imagine."
There's a beat of stillness as Yongquan's mask wavers—interest flickers beneath it like a flame beneath smoke. He clearly doesn't understand the full scale of the gift, but the possibility of it is enough to hook him. He leans back slightly. "And this is your… tribute?"
Harry's voice flattens. "It's a gift. A gesture of good faith. Not a bargain. I don't serve."
That lands. A beat of silence follows, heavy with the weight of unspoken lines drawn. Then Yongquan exhales through his nose, long and slow. "I will need to speak with the Elders. This matter… is unusual."
Harry inclines his head. "Understandable."
"In the meantime," Yongquan continues, tone smoothing again, "you and your companions will be considered guests of the Triads. No one will harm you or detain you without cause."
Dimtr mutters under his breath. "Comforting."
Harry doesn't smile. "We'll be good guests. If treated as such."
Yongquan nods once. Then rises. He doesn't bow—of course not—but the look he gives Harry is one of appraisal. Hunger masked behind diplomacy. And Harry watches him leave, alongside the woman who had been silent so far, Juan, tension thick in his shoulders.
Only after the door slides shut does he finally speak. "That was a lot."
"You were a lot, too," Dimtr replies.
"I didn't breathe the entire time," Harry mutters.
Fon releases a quiet breath and says, softly, "You scared him."
Harry glances at him. "I didn't mean to."
"I know. That's why it worked."
Harry isn't sure how to feel about that, but he holds the vial of tears still in hand, its light catching the edges of his palm. Power freely given, not taken. That's what makes him different. And he'll keep choosing that, even when others would turn him into a weapon again.
XXX
They'd been given quarters within the outer halls of the Triad compound, a space marked as "guest housing," but it feels more like a pause. The kind that could turn into a prison or a sanctuary depending on later's decisions. Though after the tension earlier, the night has settled into a calm lull. The air smells faintly of incense and cherrywood smoke, and outside the open doors, the mountains are stained blue and gold by the setting sun.
Dimtr is nodding off near the notebooks he has asked and has been provided to him two hours ago, a pen still clutched in his fingers and a smudge of ink on his cheek. Harry is seated cross-legged near an open window as he watches him for a moment, then shifts his gaze when he hears a quiet sound behind him.
Fon approaches from the shadowed edge of the corridor, silent as always, but not cold. He sits beside Harry with the same care he gives to striking a perfect stance—precise, fluid, quiet. A pause stretches between them.
"I wanted to ask you something," Fon says at last, voice soft.
Harry turns toward him, curious. "Sure."
"Why?" Fon asks, almost too gently. "Why have you helped me so far?"
Harry turns to him, blinking as if startled by the simplicity of the question. "What do you mean?"
Fon's gaze doesn't waver. "All this. The confrontation. The negotiations. Risking yourself against the Triads." He shifts slightly, hands resting on his knees. "Why?"
Harry blinks. Of all the things he thought Fon might say, that wasn't one of them. He looks at him for a beat, thoughtful. Then shrugs.
"What I told Yongquan was true," Harry says softly. "I'm invested in you. In your sister. I've been watching you since that first rescue—I liked you both. And… I wanted to help."
Fon's expression doesn't change at first. He doesn't look away, but there's a flicker of something as the edges of his mouth tighten faintly. "I see."
Something about his tone makes Harry pause. There's a discomfort there. Almost... disappointment?
Then Fon's gaze lowers slightly, as he says in a quiet, uncomfortable voice, "So you weren't trying to court me."
Harry blinks, then flushes immediately.
"Wait, what?" He stares at Fon. "That's the second time someone's said that! First Yongquan, now you—and I don't think it means what I think it means."
Fon blinks once. Then frowns, clearly confused. "What… do you think it means?"
"Romance," Harry says flatly. "Because where I'm from, it means that. Dating. Kissing. That kind of—courting."
Now it's Fon's turn to blink, his eyes widening just slightly as understanding clicks into place. "Oh."
There's no blush on his face, but his usual calm falters for just a moment. The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and if Harry looks closely, he sees it: a faint red at the tips of his ears.
"No," Fon says after a breath. His voice is still calm, but there's something in it that's too steady, too composed. "Not... exactly. Not like that."
"What does it mean, then?"
"Courting, in our context, refers to Sky-Flame harmonization. It's when a Sky and another Flame user begin to resonate. It's not always romantic. Sometimes it is. But more often, it's... instinctual. A calling. A connection that shapes both people." He exhales slowly. "I'm a Storm. Powerful, even among my own kind. And you—"
He hesitates. "You're a Sky."
Harry opens his mouth to ask something—and then blinks. "I'm a what?"
Fon looks at him, surprised. "A Sky."
Harry stares at him like he's grown a second head. "I mean, I've flown, yeah, but I didn't think that meant—Wait, are you serious?"
Fon's brow lifts slightly, a faint trace of humor in the confusion. "You didn't know?"
"Should I?" Harry asks, genuinely bewildered. "No one gave me a Flame Handbook."
That earns him a soft exhale that's almost a laugh as Fon shifts, adjusting his posture so he can speak more clearly. "You're very clearly a Sky Flame. Sky flame users draw others in, offering harmony, not dominion."
Harry lets out a slow, slightly overwhelmed breath. "Okay. Um. Context. Please."
Fon gives a faint nod, and with his usual precision, begins to explain:
"There are seven main Flame types, each with their own properties and roles. They are Sky, Storm, Rain, Sun, Mist, Cloud, and Lightning. Each one represents both an elemental trait and a mental one."
Harry leans in, listening with that same wide-eyed concentration he once gave McGonagall.
"Storm," Fon continues, "is dissolution—destruction. It breaks down what's unstable. Sun is activation—energy and acceleration. Rain calms and wears away. Mist creates illusion and uncertainty. Lightning is hardening, strengthening objects and body. Cloud represents isolation—drifting untethered."
He pauses, and Harry catches a small wistfulness in that last one.
"And then there's Sky," Fon finishes. "The rarest. Harmony. A Sky doesn't possess a specialty, not really, though they can summon a bit of the flames they've bonded with, but at its origin, they gather. They unify. They hold together what would otherwise pull apart."
Harry is quiet, thinking. When Fon speaks again, it's softer. "Traditionally, a Sky forms a bond with one of each type. Six Guardians. Six Flames around the Sky."
Harry stares. "That sounds like some kind of magical social circle."
"It's more than that. It's a bond," Fon says, voice quiet but firm. "It's a family."
Harry slowly tilts his head. "And… you thought I was courting you because…?"
"Because I'm a strong Storm," Fon answers simply. "And I've been… resonating with you since we met and you rescued me from that hole. More than I ever have with anyone." He exhales. "It felt like harmonization. Like you were… drawing me in. Calling me. It was a bit weird then because I thought you were only a phoenix."
Harry stares at him. Honest confusion paints every line in his face. And that, more than anything, makes Fon smile—but it's small and tight and a little sad. "You really didn't know."
"No," Harry says. "I was just being… me."
Fon tilts his head. "So you didn't plan it."
Harry meets his gaze, honest and a little bewildered. "Fon, I barely understand Flames, let alone bonding with them. I've been a bird for years. I wasn't trying to court you," he says quickly. Then, after a beat, "…But that doesn't mean I didn't want to be close."
There's something in that honest confusion—raw, unguarded—that makes Fon relax a little. Not disappointed, exactly. Just… adjusting.
"I see," he says. And it seems he does. But Harry, feeling the thread of connection still humming faintly between them, now that Fon has made him notice of it, smiles—gently and careful. "Doesn't mean I won't, though."
Fon blinks. "Won't what?"
"Court you. Bond. Whatever you call it here." He shrugs, sligthly pink in the face at having to call it 'court'. "If we both want it. I mean, I don't know much about it, so maybe not soon. But who knows about the future, right?"
Fon doesn't smile. But his expression softens, and his ears stay pink for a long time after.
The moment, of course, is broken by a groan from Dimtr. "I couldn't stay quiet longer. I've got questions, now. Fon, would you answer them?"
Fon coughs on his hand. "Yes, of course. Ask away."
Harry is so embarrassed that he turns back into a Phoenix without giving it much thought. He tries to shake away the robe that's now over him (It didn't blended with his form because it's made from magic), which Fon luckily helps him with. When Harry looks up, both Fon and Dimtr are looking at him curiously. He looks away, still embarrassed, but less now with a creature's mind dulling it, and does his best attempt at a shrug.
The soft rustle of feathers is the only sound in the room now—aside from the low chuckle Dimtr lets out.
"You turned into a bird," he says, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. "Because you were embarrassed."
Harry the Phoenix looks away sharply, turning his head with exaggerated dignity and a fluff of feathers that reads very clearly as I do not want to talk about it.
Fon, crouched beside him, gently lifts the robe that had fallen awkwardly over Harry's back and folds it with practiced ease. "You seem new to human emotions," he says curiously, though the faint upward twitch of his lips suggests he's far from serious.
Harry narrows one glowing eye at both of them and flares his tail feathers slightly—less an intimidation tactic, more a pointed you're pushing it.
Dimtr leans back against a pillow and sighs. "So dramatic."
Harry croons a slow, low note that is almost musical sass.
.
.
.
You're not dreaming, I'm really updating this. Am I really trying to continue writing this story when it's been years since I touched it? Yes. Yes, I am.
Actually, I was writing my TRxKHR self-indulgent fic when I decided to look at my other KHR fics for nostalgia's sake and I re-read this gem.
(I'm still not touching 'Bandaged Hand' because of the flashbacks I get of the past)
So, I thought to myself, why not give it a try, right?
This is me, giving it a try.
Is this my character growth arc? Hopefully.