Beastmen Are Crazy, So I Sell Them Therapy

Going out was a hassle, and neither of us had the energy to deal with crowds, so we settled on the next best option—invading someone else’s room.

Specifically, Silvano’s.

Because there was no way I was letting him step foot into mine.

I value my privacy.

And my secrets.

And my snacks.

But upon stepping inside, I noticed that his room was too clean like no one actually lives here clean.

"What should we use as a material?" he asked, already looking like he was mentally building ten different masterpieces.

"What was the theme again?" I replied instead, sprawled across his sofa like I paid rent there, clutching a throw pillow like emotional support.

"Eternal cycle of nature," he said, brows furrowing as he looked at me like I was the weakest link in this partnership.

"Oh, that one," I said, standing up abruptly. The pillow fell to the floor, abandoned. "So what comes to your mind when you think about it?"

I didn’t wait for an answer as I was already wandering into his kitchen like a curious raccoon. "You don’t mind if I look for something to eat, right?"

"N-No," he said quickly, standing up, only to fluff the pillow I had just destroyed and place it neatly back on the sofa.

I paused mid-step and raised a brow. ’...Oh, he’s one of those.’

"Then can I cook?" I asked, already opening the cabinets then the fridge. "I didn’t eat breakfast before coming here."

"Sure... you can..." he said, in the exact tone of someone imagining their entire kitchen being reduced to ashes.

’So you’re a neat freak,’ I noted mentally.

I leaned against the counter. "I’m a messy cook though, but I can clean it la—"

"You know what?!" he suddenly cut in, snapping like a man who saw his future and rejected it. "Maybe I should just cook for you. Who knows what you’ll end up doing?"

I clasped my hands together immediately. "Hehe, thanks."

In truth, I absolutely did not know how to cook. Not even a little.

"What do you want?" he asked, already tying his apron like he had accepted his fate.

I dropped back onto the sofa, completely unbothered. "Anything’s fine as long as it’s meat and delicious. Skip the vegetables."

He sighed like his soul aged five years. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"As you should," I muttered, getting comfortable again. "Now, back to the project. What comes to mind when you hear the theme?"

"Trees. Elements. Cycle," he replied, already chopping something with unnecessary precision.

"Hmm..." I tapped my chin. "That’s too... textbook."

He glanced at me. "What does your chaotic brain think of?"

I sat up straighter, suddenly interested.

"Contrast," I said. "Beauty and decay. Growth and destruction. Life and death—existing at the same time."

He paused.

"...Go on."

I grinned, standing up again and walking towards the kitchen but I wasn’t there to help, I’m just there to hover.

"Imagine this," I continued. "A single sculpture but two perspectives. One side shows something serene, like a girl, calm, peaceful..."

"...and the other?" he asked.

I tilted my head, smiling slightly. "...The same figure, but twisted. Trapped. Like nature isn’t just nurturing, it’s also consuming."

He stared at me for a moment. "...That sounds familiar."

I shrugged. "Good ideas repeat themselves."

"You’re reusing your previous concept," he said flatly.

"I’m refining it."

"You’re recycling."

"It’s called sustainability. Very on-theme."

He stared at me while I smiled sweetly at him.

"...You’re unbelievable."

"And yet," I said, grabbing a random ingredient and inspecting it like I knew what I was doing, "you partnered with me."

"...I’m starting to regret that."

"Too late," I said cheerfully. "You’re stuck with me until we pass."

He went back to cooking, shaking his head.

"...We’re doing wood and metal," he muttered. "Wood for the organic form. Metal for the ’entrapment’ concept."

I lit up. "Oh, I like that. Soft versus rigid. Nature versus artificial control."

"Exactly."

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "You’re actually useful."

He stopped chopping and lowly turned his head. "...Get out of my kitchen."

"No," I said immediately, leaning on the counter. "I’m supervising."

"You’re breathing on my ingredients."

"I’m adding flavor."

"That’s not how flavor works."

"Agree to disagree."

He exhaled sharply. "...If this turns out bad, I’m blaming you."

"Fine," I rolled my eyes at him. "Anyways, do you have a pen and paper so I can draft the idea?"

"Check my desk."

"And where exactly is your desk?"

"In my room."

I stood up, walked over, and opened the nearest door.

"W-Wait! I—don’t open it—"

Too late.

The room exploded in pink.

It was a full-blown pink apocalypse. Pink bed. Pink sheets. Pink pillows. Pink curtains. Pink wardrobe. Even the air felt pink.

I blinked once.

Twice.

’...Was I in the wrong dimension?’

SLAM!

The door shut in my face as Silvano practically teleported behind me. "I-IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!"

I faced him slowly, then lightly patted his shoulder like I was comforting someone who just got exposed on national television.

"It’s okay," I said with a warm, understanding smile. "Everyone has their preferences."

"N-NO! You see, Viv—"

"Really," I cut him off gently. "No need to explain. I respect your choice."

He groaned like his soul just left his body. "Just—go wait in the living room."

He groaned. "Just go wait at the living room."

"Okay," I said obediently.

I only took three steps before pausing, walked back, knocked politely, and opened the door again.

"So what should I call you now?"

He froze mid-rummage.

I tilted my head, smiling sweetly. "Silvano... or Silvia?"

"..."

"Or do you already have a name? Maybe Sylvie?"

"Get. Out."

He marched towards me and slammed the door right in my face.

I stared at it for a second before I let out a laugh under my breath as I walked away, deeply satisfied.

’Oh, that was worth it.’

I already knew he was straight—I literally saw a picture of Vivienne on his desk that fell earlier while he was panicking. If anything, this pink disaster had her fingerprints all over it.

This was just revenge.

Petty, beautiful revenge. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

If he was going to drag me into a partnership, I might as well emotionally inconvenience him.

I was still smiling when—

’...Wait.’

I sniffed.

’Why do I smell something burning?’

I sniffed again, my eyes finally widening as I sprinted to the kitchen.

The pan was on fire.

"Sylvie!" I screamed on instinct. "My food is on fire!"

There was a loud crash behind me.

"DON’T CALL ME THAT—wait, what?!"

He rushed out just as I stood there pointing at the flaming pan.

"It’s on fire!" I announced helpfully.

"I CAN SEE THAT!"

"What do we do?!" I asked, stepping back like distance would solve the problem.

"Move!"

He grabbed something—lid, towel, I don’t know, he was moving too fast—and slammed it over the pan to suffocate the flames.

We both stood there staring in silence.

"...So," I said after a beat, crossing my arms, "is this still my fault?"

He slowly turned his head toward me. "...You almost burned my kitchen."

I gave him a small, apologetic smile. "But I didn’t."

"...That’s not comforting."

"At least now we know the theme," I added thoughtfully.

He blinked. "What?"

"Eternal cycle of nature," I said, gesturing at the burnt pan. "Creation... destruction... rebirth."

"...Get out of my kitchen."

"Again?" I sighed. "You’re really consistent."

"OUT."

I raised my hands in surrender, backing away. "Fine, fine. I’ll go draft the idea."

"The paper and pen are already at the table so don’t go inside my room again."

"Got it, Sylvie."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Mmmm!" I took another bite, eyes practically sparkling. "This is really good!"

Another bite.

"Why didn’t you just become a chef instead?"

"Thanks for the compliment," Silvano said, watching me absolutely demolish his hard work, "but my parents would disown me. Cooking’s just a hobby."

"That’s tragic," I said between bites, already emotionally invested in a restaurant that didn’t exist. "What is this, by the way?"

"Wagyu beef with quail eggs."

I looked down at the plate then back at him.

"That’s all?" I widened my eyes. "And you casually made something that tastes like it has a Michelin star?!"

He gave a small smile, but there was something off about it.

"I promise," I said dramatically, pointing my fork at him, "if you ever open a restaurant, I will invest. I will fund it. I will eat there daily. I will be your number one customer and your biggest financial mistake."

"I wish," he said simply.

Ah. I guess I choses a wrong topic.

’Abort!’

I cleared my throat and stood up quickly. "I’ll just wash these, then we can continue working—"

I barely reached the sink when—

"Sit."

I looked around to see that he was already standing behind me.

"I’m sorry if I’m being a hassle—"

"Yes, you are," he cut in bluntly. "So go sit."

’Well...’

"That was direct," I muttered, but I still smiled and went back to the sofa like an obedient menace.

A few minutes later, he joined me again, sitting across while I focused on sketching, pencil moving without hesitation.

"You’re really serious about this, huh?"

"Of course," I replied without looking up. "I don’t lose in art. Only in combat. Occasionally. Frequently."

"...Are you sure we can carve that?" he asked, eyeing the sketch.

"Anything is possible," I said confidently, still not looking up.

"That’s not reassuring."

"It’s inspiring."

"It’s concerning."

I ignored him.

"So," he crossed his arms, "what materials are we using?"

"Energy stones."

Silence.

I could feel his stare.

"...You’re joking."

"No."

I looked up to see him staring at me like I had just suggested we carve using lava.

"Are you actually insane?" he asked. "We’re using energy stones instead of normal materials?"

I shrugged casually. "Art is everything, including a little bit of madness."

"A little?" he repeated. "This is expensive madness."

"Relax," I said, waving my hand. "I know how to handle energy stones."

He narrowed his eyes. "That doesn’t reassure me."

"It should."

"It doesn’t."