In the vast, star-dusted silence of his orbit, Neptune lay sprawled, his limbs heavy with sleep. A weary blink of his brilliant blue eyes, a slow flutter of his long lashes, and he reached for the comforting weight of his blanket. But his fingers found only empty air. His eyes snapped open, wide and alert with sudden panic. "My blanket!" he roared, leaping into a sitting position. "Where is it?!"

Behind a jagged asteroid, Uranus smothered a laugh, clutching the stolen blanket tightly. A low growl rumbled in Neptune's chest, and his claws, sharp as starlight on ice, extended from his fingertips. The blue in his eyes vanished, leaving only a void of utter black. "I'll kill whoever took my blanket," he snarled, his voice a lethal whisper, like venom seeping into a vein.

Uranus’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold knot of fear in his gut. "Oh, shit," he whispered to himself, shrinking back. "I need to get out of here before I get torn to shreds." Crouching behind the asteroid, Uranus gripped the blanket tight, then pushed off with a surge of power. He zipped through space, his movements calculated and silent, desperate to vanish before Neptune's fury found its target. But a whisper of soundless motion carried through the void, and Neptune’s head snapped up. His movements, so slow and heavy with rage a moment before, were now as swift as a predator’s. His gaze, colder than any deep space ice, landed on Uranus, and then slid, with a slow, deadly deliberation, to the beloved blanket clutched in his trembling hands. "You!" The word tore from Neptune's throat, a raw, wounded sound that transformed into a snarl. His arm, shaking with rage, extended, his finger a rigid spear. "You are basically my brother!" The angry exclamation was punctuated by the deep ache of betrayal, not just anger. Uranus's words came out as a desperate, uneven gasp. "I-it's just a blanket, mate." His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the fabric, his voice cracking on the flimsy excuse. "You," Neptune spat, the word laced with venom, "know how I feel about that blanket." He began to drift forward, a predatory glide across the vacuum of space. "Give it back," he commanded, his voice growing dangerously soft. "Now." Uranus felt the cold knot of fear tighten in his stomach. 𝘉𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦, he told himself, tightening his hold on the blanket. He swallowed, the movement stiff and difficult. "Then come and get it," he called out, but the words felt hollow, even to his own ears. His eyes, blinking rapidly, couldn't hide the terror swimming beneath the surface. Neptune's laughter was a short, sharp burst, a predator’s sound. The gleam of his teeth was the only bright thing in the deepening blackness of his eyes. "You think you're brave," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic wave. "Stealing from the one who is your brother, yet not. You are brave with my blanket." The taunt came out before Uranus could stop it, a nervous, defensive jab. "Why are you taking this so seriously? You're the one who's always so clueless and silly, Neptune." The moment the words were out, Uranus regretted them. He was using a familiar joke at the worst possible time. Neptune's lips curled into a mirthless smirk. His eyes, two black pits of rage, fixed on the blanket. "Blanket," he said, the word a stone dropping into a well of silence. "Now." The false bravado collapsed out of Uranus, replaced by a deep, weary sigh. "Fine." Uranus held out the blanket, a silent admission of his mistake. "Just take it and be the idiot you usually are," he muttered under his breath, hoping Neptune couldn't hear the last part. Uranus watched, terrified, as Neptune's hand shot out. But instead of violence, Neptune's demeanor crumbled instantly. The black-eyed fury gave way to a soft, blissful smile, and as the usual blue returned to his eyes, Uranus could almost pretend the last few moments hadn't happened. "Thank you, Uranus," he chirped, his voice as soft and easy as before. But the words that followed were a cold echo of his earlier rage. "The next time, I'll just eat you." He said it so casually, the threat a twisted punchline to a very real terror. Uranus pressed his lips into a thin line, forcing the words out. "N-noted," he managed, the syllable barely audible. He did not ask if it was a joke; the black pits in Neptune's eyes had told him everything he needed to know earlier. "Well, time for beauty sleep," Neptune chirped, giving a light, airy wave as he turned and drifted away. "Bye now!" The cold, dark menace had vanished, replaced by the familiar carefree exterior, but Uranus still felt the chill. His body, which had been rigid with terror, now went limp, his shoulders slumping as a long, shaky gust of relief escaped his lips. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. "Never again..." he murmured, the relief from Neptune's retreat curdled into a permanent dread. The playful joke felt less like a threat and more like a promise. Uranus loved Neptune. And he was terrified of him. The two facts existed in the same space, a cold knot of contradiction in his gut. A faint smile played on Uranus’s lips, though the fear hadn't completely receded. He was not without power. He could have strung an arrow and brought a retaliatory storm of his own down on Neptune. That knowledge—the unspoken agreement that neither of them would fully unleash their might—was the only thing that kept their chaos in check. But after all, they are best friends, like brothers.