Page 45 of Aries

Pure joy.

When was the last time either of us simply played? Before the trials, before our years of careful avoidance, before everything that came after that cell. This moment feels precious somehow—a glimpse of who we might have been under different circumstances, who we could still become.

“We should probably attempt the actual assignment,” Aries suggests eventually, though he makes no move to clean up.

“Probably.” But I’m reluctant to end this moment of lightness.

“Here,” he says, loading his brush with vibrant blue. “The Committee member specified painting each other, not necessarily on canvas.”

My pulse quickens as I follow his reasoning. With deliberate slowness, he extends the brush toward me. “May I?”

Nodding, I hold perfectly still as he glides the brush along my cheekbone, painting a curved line that follows its contour. Though only the bristles touch my skin, the sensation feels startlingly intimate.

“My turn.” Taking up a brush with golden paint, I reach across the prescribed gap to trace designs across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.

We continue this way, trading delicate brush strokes across each other’s features while humming snatches of our respective songs. My hands tremble slightly as I outline the curve of his lips with copper paint. His pupils dilate as he traces my eyebrows with emerald green.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, adding dots of silver along my jawline. “Especially covered in paint.”

“And surrounded by music,” I add, attempting to hum his gladiator song while painting swirling patterns at his hairline near the base of his horns. His sharp intake of breath confirms their sensitivity.

“Dangerous territory, Callie.”

“Regulation distance maintained,” I remind him, my voice husky.

When we finally step back to survey our work, we both burst into laughter. We look magnificently ridiculous—faces decorated with spirals and dots, clothes splattered with every color available, hair streaked with accidental paint splatters.

“The Committee is going to have opinions about this interpretation,” I manage between giggles.

“Creative compliance,” Aries says solemnly, though his paint-decorated face makes the serious tone impossible to maintain.

The Committee member takes form before we can continue, their faceted eyes shifting colors as they observe our paint-splattered forms.

“The artistic expression exercise is complete,” they intone. “Though executed with… unexpected interpretation of ‘multiple mediums.’”

Spark creates what looks suspiciously like a guilty shrug, then zips behind a flowering bush.

“The Manual didn’t specify how the paint should be applied,” Aries points out, his face perfectly serious despite being covered in golden spirals. “Or that the musical elements couldn’t be incorporated throughout.”

“Quite correct,” they acknowledge, and I could swear there’s amusement in their multilayered voice. “Creativecompliance has been noted. The combined exercise has revealed significant emotional resonance and comfort with vulnerability.”

After they fade away, we collapse onto the grass, careful to maintain proper distance despite our mutual desire to close it.

“We should clean up,” I suggest, though I make no move to rise.

“In a moment.” Aries reclines on his elbows, face tilted toward the sky. Paint decorates his bronze skin like ancient warrior markings. “This was… unexpected.”

“The painting or the singing?”

“The joy,” he says simply, meeting my eyes. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to just… play.”

“Me too.” Watching Spark create lazy loops above us, I realize we’ve found something precious today. Not just in the artistic expression or musical sharing, but in the laughter. The lightness. The permission to be imperfect and silly together.

Something has shifted between us since his confession yesterday. Not just understanding or forgiveness, but something lighter. The weight of his secret, once shared, has made room for moments like this—spontaneous, joyful, free.

“Sixty-four more days,” I murmur, our familiar countdown feeling different now. Less like a burden and more like… anticipation.

“Sixty-four days,” he echoes, his eyes holding mine with a new openness. “And then… forever.”

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