A Reason to Stay

Trigger Warning: brief mention of suicide. All characters are 18+ years old

note: all chapters have been updated! nothing critical, but hopefully little fixes here and there that make everything flow better.

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Aed

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"Breathe slow, still your minds. Break even one, and you start all over."

I feel sweat dripping down my temples, beading on the ends of my lashes. I blink hard and fast to send the drops flying, not daring to move another muscle. All around me, I can hear the other trainees struggling, cursing and shifting their weight where they can, breathing loudly. But not me. I refuse to be anything but perfectly still.

It's the third year of our journey towards Mentorship, and already the class has diminished by half. Next year, it's projected only a handful of us will be left. I plan to be a part of that handful. That, or die trying.

"Focus," I whisper to myself through clenched teeth. "Succeed."

I can feel our Head Mentor's eyes on me. She's been circling around us, judging our stances, testing us on our concentration. Every few minutes, she shouts one of our names and waits for the proper, composed response, or smacks someone's elbow back into position with her training stick. From experience alone, I know that it stings like hell.

Smack

. A plate drops, smashing into pieces as it hits the floor. There's a gasp of frustration behind me as one of my classmates is forced to sweep up the shards and start anew.

"Novice Aedin!" Mentor Orla suddenly snaps, pivoting to face me. "What is our purpose?"

A tremor runs through my right arm in anticipation, but there is no slap of cane against flesh. My stance is sound, my concentration adamantine.

"Head Mentor Orla, our purpose is to serve the Council, shepherd the lost, and pursue Enlightenment until our very last breath." I don't even blink as I recite our core principles.

"Excellent," she says. I can hear the faintest of smiles in her voice. "It's heartening to know at least one of you might have what it takes."

My pulse quickens. I can practically feel the air around me congeal with jealousy and resentment. But that's the price of being first place: a constant, painted target on your back. Worst of all, Orla intentionally drives up the competition. She knows that I strive to be the best and this is her way of ensuring I succeed, all the while motivating everyone around me through pure spite.

Our Head Mentor moves away to begin another round of inspections, pausing only to shout a name or whack a limb. The training hall is otherwise deadly silent, its walls a sober grey and the floor just a shade darker. Everything is made of concrete, from the pillars to the ceiling, and the handful of windows are thin and covered with black, iron grates. Much of the Academy is built this way, more like a fortress or cathedral of enlightenment than an institution of learning. It doesn't boast any sense of warmth or hospitality. Then again, none of us are here to be comfortable.

We're here to excel.

When Mentor Orla finishes her circuit and stops in front of me a second time, she does something unexpected. She brushes the hair out of my eyes and runs her fingers along my cheek. The sudden, tender gesture shocks me, but through sheer force of will, my training holds.

I risk meeting her probing, ice blue gaze, and I immediately regret it. There's something heated in the way her eyes burrow into mine. Something keen, and primal. I don't know whether to feel pleased or disturbed.

"Add a plate," she orders, releasing me.

One of the Junior Mentors obliges, stacking a second plate on each of my aching arms. I grit my teeth but refrain from complaining.

"Good," Orla says. "You might make a proper Mentor yet."

A suggestiveness lurks in her tone, but I write it off as my imagination. The adrenaline must be affecting my judgment. We've been taught all the ways our perception and morality can be swayed, reminded constantly that we are not infallible, only striving to be.

This excruciating exercise goes on for an hour, though it feels like centuries for us novices. Dozens of plates break and are replaced. Several times I nearly join the ranks of failing students, but am able to adjust myself right before a muscle spasm or limb gives way. The exercise is more terrifying than it has any right to be, but I persist. I keep pushing myself, refusing to give in to the fire of pain pulsating through my arms, legs, and body.

By the time Orla announces our training session has ended, I can no longer hear her. My mind knows only the unbearable weight of plates and white, hot pain. Several of my peers stare at me with concern, but the other Mentors shoo them out the doors. It isn't until they're gone that an order is given to remove my burdens.

I register none of it. I am pain incarnate at this point.

Breathe

, I whisper in my mind,

in, out, in, out

. Through the haze of agony, I can hear my heart pumping wildly as my desperation grows and muscles begin to fail.

As soon as the weight on my arms is lifted, I collapse, falling to my hands and knees. My limbs are shaking. With growing dread, I realize I can't move.

"Go on to your next classes," I hear Orla command, "I'll take care of this one."

The Junior Mentors make their way out of the training halls, leaving me to my shame. I've worked so hard, only to fail in the end. How many times have we been told not to push ourselves too far? That a broken Mentor is a useless Mentor?

I look at my arms and legs, noting the way my muscles are spasming. It takes all of my strength just to hold myself up. I'm convinced in that moment that I won't be a part of next year's class, if I ever train again at all. We've had it drilled into our heads that Mentorship is never one individual, but the cohesive sum of many parts. And here I am proving that I am not worthy. That I am willing to drive myself past my limits just for ambition alone.

"Can you move?" Orla asks, looming over me.

I try to nod my head, lift an arm, anything, but my body won't obey. Instead, I manage to croak out a reluctant, defeated, "No."

Without uttering another word, Orla grabs me by the arms and hoists me over her shoulders. I imagine my body would be screaming in protest if it wasn't already so abused. Helpless, I have no choice but to be hauled around like freshly hunted game.

It's jarring to realize just how strong Orla is. I am by no means a small man, being comfortably over six feet and having trained nearly my entire life to be in peak, physical shape. But she's carrying me as if I weigh no more than a bag of dirty uniforms on laundry day. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. She's a full fledged Mentor for good reason, her shoulders having borne not just the physical weight of mentorship, but its emotional toll as well. I try my best not to think about how my nose is grazing the small of her waist and my arms occasionally brushing against her well formed backside. She's smaller than me, but by no means any less cut.

Once in a while, I make a noise like a dying fish as we round a corner or go down a flight of stairs. Orla doesn't seem to mind, and I don't know why I should either. I've already hit what I assume to be rock bottom. Nothing can be more humiliating than this.

Oh, how I couldn't have been more wrong.

At some point, I realize we're in the showers. Her footsteps echo off the walls and the air is warmer, steamier. I feel my body go hot then cold, praying to all the known gods that she doesn't strip me like some helpless babe.

It seems my prayers are answered, albeit in the cruelest way possible. Orla has brought us into the ice room, where rows of concavities filled with frozen pebbles line the floor. A waft of chill air brushes past as we enter. Without warning or ceremony, she stops in front of the first rock pool, leans forward, and throws me in. I curse violently as the cold shocks me. Sensing my presence, the tub automatically begins to emit vapors of liquid nitrogen, maintaining the pebbles' temperatures against my body heat.

"Hush, the ice will help your inflamed muscles," she explains, her tone calm and clinical. "Let your body recover."

I know this already, but the reminder helps me relax a little. No matter how many times I experience it, I'm never fully prepared for being dunked in cryotherapy. I don't think anyone can be. Usually, I have at least enough mobility to ease myself in. Being thrown ass first is a new experience for me.

We sit in silence for the entire duration, Orla counting down the minutes on her watch while I observe myself slowly but surely losing all feeling in my limbs. I'm grateful, as always, that the pebbles are perfectly smooth, unable to break skin even with the force of my impact. Our breaths become puffs of clouds amidst the blue and white tiles of the room, mingling with the swirls of nitrogen mist. When the full ten minutes are up, she reaches in and drags me out. A little movement has returned, but my skin is numb and I might as well weigh a thousand pounds.

Orla looks at me, eyes pensive, and I brace myself for the worst.

She sighs. "I'm sorry, Aed."

I blink at her, blank faced. I'm not quite registering the words coming out of her mouth.

"It's my job to prepare you all for the realities of being a Mentor. To be strong both outside and within, to be able to take everything this reality will throw at you."

She has me propped up on one of the recovery chaises. The damp, black fabric of my sparring uniform is already beginning to dry, thanks to the chaise's heated cushions. Warmth slowly returns to my limbs, but I know that the less I move now, the less I'll regret it later. So I just sit there in silence, not quite believing that Orla is choosing now of all times to have a heart to heart with me. To be human. I've known her ever since I was accepted into the Academy. Of course it would be in my last year that I finally get a glimpse of who she really is underneath her icy facade of dictatorship.

"But even I sometimes fail to remember that we are still people, in the end." She's seated at the edge of the chaise and covering one of my hands with hers, the paleness of her skin a sharp contrast to the nut brown of mine. I stop myself from flinching in surprise. Her hand is extra warm after my ice bath, the heat almost scalding against my chilled fingers.

She's looking at me with such sorrowful compassion that I feel myself flush. I'm not used to this display of vulnerability, especially not from a superior. I feel a stab of panic when I realize how isolated we are. How powerless I am should she decide to do...something.

Her fingers are squeezing mine now, blue eyes staring straight into my soul. I swallow nervously.

"I know it's a little premature for me to have this talk with you now," Orla continues. I don't know if it's just my paranoia, but I swear she's somehow gotten closer. "You bear so much promise, and yet you push yourself far too hard because of it. For every show of steel amongst Mentors, there needs to be an equal display of gentleness elsewhere. There must be balance."

I'm not grasping what she means. The confusion on my face must be obvious, because she opts to just show me instead.

She brushes some wet hair from my forehead and caresses my cheek. Her touch is light and soft, and the kindness behind it makes me shudder against my will. A pent up breath rattles out of my chest. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding it, limiting my own oxygen for gods know how long.

And then she kisses me. Just on one side of my face, but her kisses are slow and warm, lingering one after another as they trail downward. She stops once she reaches my jaw.

My heart feels like it's about to pound out of my chest. I don't know why this is happening, but I do know that it is so explicitly forbidden that we could both lose our entire futures in the blink of an eye. All it would take is one unlucky person to walk in right now.

And yet, I don't want her to stop.

What I

am

doing is begging all the gods in the universe to keep Orla from looking down. But of course, they don't answer, because they're not real.

Noting the rigidness of my posture, Orla's gaze flickers downward. She hums a note of appreciation as she takes in how hard I am beneath the fabric of my training shorts. Mischief twinkling in her eyes—as well as a spark of arousal that I try my very best not to notice—she dips closer to whisper in my ear.

"So our perfect Aedin is human after all."

I am wholly unprepared for what happens next.

Her hand has left my face and is now brushing against my aching arousal. I am almost completely thawed at this point, my breathing growing labored as she toys with me, sliding her fingers along the shape of my hardness.

"Mentor Orla..." I rasp, unable to hide how utterly turned on she is making me. "This is...this is forbidden. We can't—"

I let out a mortifying sound of pleasure. She has reached into my shorts, grabbing me by my length. Her hand is strong and slightly calloused, but also soft, warm, and the first to touch me this way since I entered Academy life. I've almost forgotten how good it can feel, being pleasured by another. I'm so touch starved that I almost come right then and there.

"Consider it a favor," Orla murmurs huskily, her own lust surfacing. She's strikingly beautiful, her lips pink and glistening as she reassures me. "And don't worry, we're safe."

I'm about to question how exactly she can guarantee that, but then I remember her having dismissed all the other Mentors at the end of the session. Our training was the last martial lesson of the day. No one else would have any reason to be in the ice room.

She bites the bottom of my ear ever so gently. My cock twitches in her hand and my face burns hot with a thousand different emotions.

"Besides," she purrs, "it's for your own good. You need to relax. You'll never properly recover being this tense."

As she says that last word, she tightens her grip and utters a soft little moan. The back of my head hits the wall as noises of pleasure claw their way out of me. She's going to make me come with barely any effort, which will only compound my humiliation.

Orla is panting in tandem with me as she pumps her hand up and down. I'm iron hard at this point. I make helpless sounds of bliss as she strokes away, my eyes half closed and mind lost to the sensation. I've stopped checking the ice room entrance every five seconds. All I can think about is how good the rest of her must feel if her hands are already this skilled.

She's picking up the pace now, intensifying the wet sounds of precum lubricating each stroke. With an expert flick of her wrist, she twists her hand as she jerks, bringing a whole new set of sensations to my throbbing cock.

In a matter of seconds, she has me thrusting uncontrollably. I grunt and moan as I drown in a tidal wave of pleasure, shooting stream after stream of thick, hot cum into the air.

Some of it splashes against her face and ample chest, ruining the uniform black of her sparring top. She surprises me through the haze of ecstasy by using a finger to push some of my cum into her mouth, tasting the salt and musk as if it were frosting on a cake.

I stare at her in complete disbelief. She's sent me to the fifth dimension and back without so much as breaking a sweat, on top of behaving in a way I can only describe as unapologetically lewd. But, as much as I hate to admit it, I do feel infinitely more relaxed.

Smiling, Orla gets up and looks down at me, seemingly unfazed by the splatter of cum across her face and chest and the brazenness of what she has just done. I haven't the energy left to feel embarrassed anymore. I'm still mostly hard, the raw head of my cock peeking through the hem of my sparring shorts.

"Now you owe me," she announces, her smile turning wry. "When you graduate, come find me."

Then she's gone, leaving me in a partially satiated, burning heap.

That same day, my transcript suddenly updates itself with full marks on all my subjects. I don't find out until the following morning, when my name isn't called during attendance and I am sent home in a daze of bewilderment. Nor do I see her again until after I've received my full title and honors as a Mentor.

Later on, Orla confesses to me that she recorded my scores before I even showed up to training. That explains why she went as far as she did in the ice baths. It's a loophole; should we ever get questioned one day, she'll just say that technically I was no longer her student by the time she gave me my first handjob in three years. I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or terrified by her foresight, but for the time being I am merely relieved. I carried the fear of expulsion for weeks. It was fucking awful.

Another year goes by as I learn the ins and outs of Mentor life. I get some flack for graduating early and being the youngest Mentor on board, but soon enough my other classmates join me in rank and I am no longer fresh fish.

Life as a Mentor comes with privileges and prestige, but at a cost. The standards we must meet at all times are sky high, and the weight of responsibility hangs like a heavy stone. I quickly learn all the various ways my colleagues cope, from the smuggling of contraband to the countless, carnal adventures we share with one another. In the beginning, I bristle at all the rule bending, but it doesn't take long for me to ease into it, eventually even enjoying myself.

Outside of maintaining appearances and training new generations of Neonians—for not all Academy students aspire to be Mentors—there is also the occasional combat duty. Though we aren't often called to action, every now and then a handful of us are sent on a mission to resolve a disturbance or quell some unrest at the city's fringes.

And once in a blue, double moon, not all of us make it back.

Because of the sacrifices and risks Mentorship demands, we aren't expected to live very long. All it takes is one major incident at Neon's borders to wipe most of us out. Then the Academy has to start all over again, training new Mentors to take our place.

It's a sobering thought, one we carry with us wherever we go. People outside of the Academy often mistake our ambitions as a pursuit of power and authority. Little do they know that the truth is quite literally the opposite. We live to serve, our lives all but forfeit as soon as we earn our titles. In exchange for our sacrifices, we gain purpose and meaning, and above all else, a true sense of belonging.

I really believe in all of that. I live and breathe every piece of narrative they feed us to preserve our commitment.

Right up until Jezia shows up.

She arrives like some kind of invasive species, disrupting all the carefully laid balance within our academic ecosystem. At first, the dark haired young woman glued to Sebastien's scholarly side seems awestruck more than anything, marveling at our technology and way of life. But it doesn't take long for her to become disenchanted. That's just how things tend to pan out with new Outsiders. The novelty of an alternate dimension can only stay the tides of homesickness for so long. Eventually, they all become bitter and disillusioned, some even resorting to death as a final escape. There's something about being forced overnight to adapt to a completely different reality that tends to cripple most people. Very few are able to assimilate, let alone permanently integrate themselves.

Because let's face it, even if there was some way for them to be sent safely home, the Council would never allow it.

I watch from a distance as Jezia slowly but surely figures this out on her own. Most people don't have the heart to tell her the truth and just let her carry on with her Outsider duties. Working at least gives people a superficial sense of purpose and belonging.