Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 48: Fathers

Ssssshhhh...

Ah... seared meat and woodsmoke. The air was savory.

Arkai stood before the flames, a lord in his most elemental domain, meticulously brushing a glaze of honey and herbs onto a row of sizzling steaks.

He glanced at Oathran, who stood nearby observing the festivities. He had this serene and detached air on him, more so today.

"You haven’t eaten yourself, Sir," Arkai noted, not looking up from his work. He used a broad spatula to slide a perfectly charred steak onto a wooden plate to distribute.

"It’s quite alright. I’m not hungry," Oathran replied, his tone courteous but final. "Dragons do not need to eat with the same frequency as mortal beings."

Arkai paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "But you know that humans, and other beasts, must eat three times a day, yes?"

"I do," Oathran affirmed, some hints of pedagogical pride in his voice. "I also make a point of understanding nutritional balances. I ensure not to overfeed Cec—"

The name caught in his throat. He stopped, horror washed over his misty grey eyes. The context had shifted mid-word. It had sounded less like a husband’s care and more like... "Did I just say it like I’m taking care of a pet—"

"Sir," Arkai interrupted, his voice flat, his gaze blank as he looked up from the grill. "What are we in your eyes?"

"THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" Oathran’s protest was swift, genuinely flustered.

Arkai’s expression didn’t change. "Of course. Yes. Some reptiles also only eat once a month—"

"WHY ARE YOU EQUATING ME TO BOAS?" Oathran’s voice rumbled high. "You know what? Give me that plate."

Heheh, mission accomplished.

Arkai’s tail wagged triumphantly. He carefully transferred the finest, most succulent cut of steak, the one he’d been saving, onto the plate and presented it with a slight, respectful dip of his head.

Both of his fluffy black ears stood at perfect, attentive attention as he watched the Dragon Lord accept the offering. To think, he had just personally served the legendary Oathran Alicei a steak he himself had grilled...

Baller.

Personal win score: 6.

Six? Well, yes. Let’s tally.

Win 1, he knew the Saintess intimately. Win 2, he knew the Dragon Lord intimately. Win 3, he had witnessed the Dragon Lord get slapped by the Saintess, a celestial event precipitated by the humble Arkai Dawnoro himself.

Win 4, the Dragon Lord had then begged said Saintess to accept him as her second mate. Win 5, he had, against all odds and reason, become the Saintess’s second mate, and thus, mate-brothers with the Dragon Lord.

And now, win 6, he had achieved a level of casual familiarity where they could engage in this kind of irreverent, deeply satisfying banter.

He watched Oathran take a bite. His tail wagged like a windmill as the simple pleasure of good food momentarily smoothing the dragon’s exasperated features.

"Cecilia’s elk meat is better," Oathran stated, his eyes blank, devoid of malice, only objective truth. He took another bite from the plate cradled in his hands. "And she cooked it on a simple bonfire."

"Shut up! I know!" Arkai’s majestic black tail, which had been wagging moments before, puffed up to twice its size in annoyance.

Oathran flinched. He clutched the plate to his chest, keeping it perfectly level to avoid spilling a single drop of juice, and froze. He watched, wide-eyed, as the Wolf King turned back to the grill with a huff, snappily flipping the remaining steaks. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

It felt familiar.

The same as when Oathran had snapped at Arkai for the reminder of Cecilia’s age.

"Hmm... I see we’re worrying about different things," Oathran mused. He took a thoughtful bite. "I’m worried about the chasm of my age. You’re worried about the adequacy of your skill."

Arkai, having finished violently plating the last of the steaks for distribution, sat down heavily on the bench beside him. He didn’t slouch, but he sat with a dignified sulk, his arms crossed, his puffed-out tail slowly deflating into a bristly curtain of displeasure.

"But, brat," Oathran continued, a wicked, gleeful light entering his eyes. "If I didn’t exist, you’d be sitting here alone, worried about both your age and your subpar grilling. Kekekekekekek."

The cackle was dry and smug.

Arkai shot up straight as a rod, his eyes flashing. "That—"

He stopped. Actually, that made sense. He was still over a century old. And she had, however tragically, been married to a member of a younger generation of his own family line. Without Oathran’s millennia-spanning existence as a buffer, his own age too would loom as a monstrous issue.

"Your Majesty!" he sputtered.

"BWAHAHWAHAHHWAHAHAHH!" Oathran’s laughter this time was a full-bodied triumphant roar that made the nearby torches gutter. "You aren’t worried about your age because I’m older than you! Hear, brat?!"

"I’M ONLY FOUR TIMES OLDER THAN HER, WHILE YOU’RE SIXTEEN TIMES OLDER THAN HE—" Arkai roared back.

Oathran’s laughter subsided into a pleased chuckle. "Oh, you’re good at math."

"Grrr..."

"Your grilling skill," Oathran said. "Is not bad."

"..."

"..."

"...thanks, elder brother," Arkai muttered, the words so quiet they were nearly swallowed by the crackle of the dying fire.

"..."

"..."

"What," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "did you just say?"

"Ahem." Arkai cleared his throat, looking resolutely at the coals.

"DID YOU JUST CALL ME ELDER BRO—BWAHWAHWHAHWAHHWHAHAHH!" The dragon’s composure shattered completely. He threw his head back, howling with a laughter that was unbridled, joyous shock.

"STOOOOOOP!" Arkai barked, his ears flattening against his head in acute embarrassment, his face furious but as red as the coal.

"SUCH AN ENDEARING GENTLEMAN YOU A—"

"YOU’RE THE ONE WHO CARES FOR HER LIKE A PE—"

"SAY THAT AGAIN, YOU LITTLE SHI—"

"PFFFF—JUST EAT THE STEAK, OLD MA—"

How do you describe the air between legendary personas and playground pettiness? Here, there were affection and insult in equal measure, echoing across the courtyard. Two ancient, powerful beings regressing to the emotional maturity of particularly spirited badgers.

Rinne observed them from a short distance, his expression blank and tired. Again. Why would two beings of terror choose to communicate like this? Why did they have to mock each other so loudly?

It was scaring the wolves, who were cowering, edging away from the grill, unsure if this was a prelude to a legendary battle or just... advanced friendship. The two old men weren’t even funny.

Just a little while ago, he’d asked his... uhh... mother... why Arkai had mated with her. He’d braced for a complicated reasons. Duty or political alliance, perhaps to justify the strange new scent in his home.

Her answer had been... something else.

"He wouldn’t marry me just to take responsibility for Arzhen’s actions. That wouldn’t make sense, since I already have Oathran."

That was... true. The ’responsibility’ angle fell apart under that fact. His father, the Black Wolf King, was not a man who took on burdens out of mere pity, especially not ones already shouldered by a Dragon Lord.

So... did that mean his father was simply a... vile old man? One who saw another’s magnificent... well... also terrifying wife and decided to muscle in, against all honor and sense, to invite himself into the marriage?

Yes. Kinda.

But when Rinne’s heart, which had soared with pride just days ago, began to fracture, his perfect image of his father cracked to be a mere lascivious old man, Cecilia smiled.

"It was Oathran who asked him to take care of me," she’d explained softly. "Because Oathran thinks he can’t do it alone. Especially... if one day, he couldn’t anymore."

Rinne’s eyes widened.

Now, standing here watching them bicker, hurling creative steak-based insults at each other, Rinne felt there was something deeper about it.

Yes, there was desire involved. He understood the instinctual pull that had started all this trouble. But Cecilia had been an object of his father’s reverence for years, long before Rinne was even born.

And he could imagine that a being as vast as Oathran had harbored the same awe for her. We’re talking about the Dragon Lord... who would die...?

The childhood stories his father had told him at bedtime, tales of the White Mist, the Storm-Bringer, the Last Alicei, suddenly rang in his ears.

Rinne’s eyes burned at the corners, making his vision glassy. He didn’t let the tears fall, though. He stepped forward into the radius of their fiery spat.

The bickering stopped mid-insult, dampened by his approach. Rinne bowed neatly, first to the dragon. "God Father," he said, "thank you for taking care of my Lord Father."

The two men froze.

"It’s my bedtime, so I’ll go to my room. Good... umm, enjoy your night!"

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and scampered back toward the keep, still a polite pre-teen boy leaving the two behind.

Their jaws hit the stone floor.

In Oathran’s mind, a supernova erupted. God Father. It was the first time in all his centuries that any version of ’father’ had ever been attached to him.

Meanwhile Arkai just watched his son casually assign paternity to the Dragon Lord Oathran Alicei. His son’s other father was the living storm, the myth made flesh.

Daring boy!

Audacious. Presumptuous!

Perfect.

They liked it.