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deepspacenova · 2 days ago

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a symphony of lights

— realizing sylus is a wanted man in more ways than one can take a toll when people want him for his attention.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR a jealousy mc (๑°o°๑)! i love love loved the latest daily text w the orchestra so much i just needed to write a backdrop of it. then it snowballed (as fics do) into this. i rlly wanna text sylus. enjoys! ❀-urs

heads up: "sy fruit ltd co." is a reference to sylus as skye the fruit vendor. u have that as his name on ur phone bc he tends to text u at work a lot, and i think its silly

sylus x reader | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, jealous!reader, lovesick!sylus, self-consciousness, longing, orchestra date, married couple text messages

Sy Fruit Ltd Co.

[Location: Linkon Music Square] Im here.

Delivered.

Sylus pockets his phone and glances at the heart of Linkon Plaza, where its center fountain has been converted into a showcase.

“A Symphony of Lights and Music,” they advertised. You swooned that one evening, dangling the tickets before his eyes as if they were an irresistible snack.

The whole ordeal was proof of how dense you can be when you don’t realize his eyes were only trained on you, no matter how closely you fanned the leaflets over his face.

Amused, loving, lazy smirk flying right over your head.

Made him want to interrupt you with a kiss.

He did. Once. Twice. More.

The wind blows against the raised collar of his midnight shade coat, ruffling his shock of silver hair.

He takes in the scene— strings of lanterns and fairy lights illuminate the grounds, humble kiosks of snacks and drinks for sale lining cobblestone pavement, people cheerful and bright in couples, groups and families flocking to the entrance archway. Towards the seats arranged in a half circle around a glorious fountain. Parallel to the curved stage that presented the orchestra. A perfect circle of performers and audience, nesting the fountain of lights.

Loose trills of a trumpet, the tickled keys of a piano and the misplaced thunderous clap of cymbals carry him to scout your seats.

He can’t seem to get your enthusiasm out of his head. The way you thought he’d needed enticing to join you (he didn’t, but he liked seeing you try anyway), how you leaned your chin on his chest and harped on about how you lined up early for prize VIP seating (he could have pulled the necessary strings to get them easily, but he wouldn’t trade your proud smile even for that) and how you promised him with your heart in your throat that he’ll have a great time.

He already knew that. Of course he did. He will be with you.

True to your word, your seats are angled perfectly just to the right of the stage. Enough to see the musicians and marvel at the tall arches of colorfully-lit water that spray out of the fountain to the music. He makes sure to praise you for it later.

In typical Sylus fashion, he takes his seat and thinks ahead. Marks every exit and possible mishap that may occur tonight, goes over plans of action. A contingency for each and every risk and hazard that might ruin your night. And with the flute section’s turn for sound check, he finds himself lost in his head.

Barely notices the looks he’s given— to be expected of a handsome man, dressed smartly, all alone at a romantic orchestral concert. Too consumed by thinking of his ways to protect you, then protecting you, then just you, and how this night is meant to be spent with just you….

Fsst!

He flinches, scowls. Springs to a stand. The fountain had rebelled, sprayed him like a misbehaved animal—water drips from his hair and down his chin. Soiling his coat, soaking the shirt on his chest.

Someone approaches him from the technical team, apologizing profusely with respectful bows and a shaky voice. He dismisses them with a sigh, accepts the napkins and their offer to relocate his seat.

He isn’t looking forward to your disappointment at how your desired seat was defective, but he wasn’t about to risk you getting wet either. He’ll resolve to making it up to you through a warm drink and a snuggle later. That usually does the trick.

In the corner, where he waits for the team to reassign your seats, he scrolls through messages he’d just received. It baffles him how a simple text from you, with your designated contact name waiting in his notification bar, makes his heart flutter.

Beloved Im stuck in traffic :( Have you seen the magnificent master-level musical fountain?

He frowns a little. Doesn’t mind the tardiness, but because he hates every second you’re away.

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I saw it. It really was master-level. I sat down only to get attacked by it. I thought it was premeditated. Where are you hiding?

Beloved Behind you actually.

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. You’ll be sorry if I turn and youre not there right now.

Beloved Stupid. I’ll be there soon. I’ll protect you as soon as I get there! Hold fast, my love!

The dimmed streetlights do little to hide the bright smile that graces his features at that.

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. Are you sure about that? Protect me and not join the battle?

Beloved I mean if you don’t want me on your side…

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I appreciate the thought. Don’t rush. The performance doesn’t start in another half hour. They’re still fixing the fountain.

Beloved Did you actually get wet? There’s a shop nearby, do you want me to get a change of clothes on the way? Stay warm. I’m coming.

He could practically hear your distress with the way your chat bubbles seemed to come so quickly, one after the other.

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. Keep your eyes on the road if you’re driving. Im fine. Don’t worry.

Beloved On the bus

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I wouldn’t have minded picking you up.

Beloved But then we would both he stuck in traffic and miss the show Better at least one of us experiences it in its full glory

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. It won’t be half as interesting without you. I’ll wait for you, sweetie.

Beloved Grab popcorn then? It’s on me

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. That’s funny. Do you want a drink?

Beloved Do you?

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I’ll get you a drink.

Beloved Love you. See you in a bit.

He must look a fool grinning at his phone this way.

Again, whether he means to or not, he is not spared by the onlookers who make eyes at him. Especially now that he’d been an unlikely victim of a public fountain attack.

He pockets his phone once more tonight and makes his way to the snacks— wondering if you’d appreciate a bag of the strange pear-flavored popcorn he spotted just outside the archway.

He stands in the long line patiently. Sticking out like a sore thumb with his wet hair and unbuttoned coat in the frigid fall wind. His height contributing to his beacon-like presence. A beautiful statue just waiting to be admired.

The woman who approaches him shows no sign of hesitation. Confident in her steps, she strides towards Sylus with a small handkerchief and a purpose. “Excuse me?”

Sylus turns, bending slightly and raising a curious brow at her. “Yes?”

“Here.” she moves before he can truly register her motives. She stands on her tiptoes to reach, the handkerchief is raised to his forehead and she swipes the cloth over his damp hair.

He flinches as if burned, raising to his full height and leaning away. But annoyed as he is, he isn’t cruel— so he catches her by the waist when she teeters off balance at his movement.

And it overwhelms him— the unfamiliar weight in his hold, her perfume cloyed, foreign and wrong, and the look in her eyes sending waves of general discomfort to the base of his skull.

And really, luck was never on his side in any of the lives he’d lived.

Her blush is incriminating; with the way she flutters her eyelashes— he already knows he’s given her the wrong idea.

But before he can drop her, show her the cold indifference she should have received in the first place, his luck turns. The cosmos have mercy on him, and send an angel to his aid.

“Are you alright?” You say. Here. Now. In all your wonderful, windswept glory.

The quick rise and fall of your chest tells him you’ve rushed despite his instructions not to. Your hair sticking to the sweat on your forehead and your cheeks lets him know you’ve strained—sped, ran.

He’s held captive by the fire that burns behind your narrowed eyes, the muscle that feathers on the surface of your jaw and the little twitch in your brow.

It’s the same look he loves but doesn’t have the luxury of admiring when you’re both busy facing wanderers. And it takes a moment for him to realize why he even has the chance to now.

“You’re here.” Says the love of your life. Reflex cast aside for instinct, he drops the woman from his arms unceremoniously to open them to you instead. As it is. As it should be.

You slot yourself in the space and ground yourself with the weight of his body to your side. You turn your attention to the woman and ask again, “Are you okay?”

She swallows. Eyes round and wide, and cheeks flushed. No doubt humiliated at the revelation that the handsome stranger is taken. Her face a mix of shock, disappointment and a subtle irritation, she shakes her head and walks off. Empty handed from her hunt.

And there, you feel its ugly head rear itself towards you. The monster in the darkest pits of your mind. One you’d had a fair fight against with how Sylus reassures you; how he fights it back head on. But now it has breached its cage, and creeps nearer to the forefront of your mind.

“Hello.” Sylus murmurs, lips pressed to your temple. Warmth radiating from his body through your coat.

You frown at him, taking in his appearance. The dampness of his hair and his shoulder chilling your skin at the contact.

Unintentionally making a show of trailing your fingers down his chest and combing the damp bangs out of his eyes. Pathetic, reciting a half-baked thought, you say, “You’re… cold.”

While you try to push it out of your head, that split-second image of him holding someone else. So closely, so intimately as he does you. It shouldn’t be anything to dwell on— you’d seen enough to know it was a misunderstanding on his end. A gesture, flirtatious as it may be on hers, of some sort of kindness.

But it burns itself behind your eyelids— that measly moment. Holding her. So close. The bend of his waist to catch. The tilt of her chin to expect a—

“What’s in the bag?” He asks, startling the venomous serpent sinking its teeth into your mind. His hands come up to your shoulders, squeezing, grounding, before he follows the path down your arms and onto your white-knuckled fist.

You blink out of your developing haze of rage and squeak out an answer. “Shirt.”

He hums, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. Earlier he had missed signs and misfortunes; the world a blurred impression as his mind buzzed about nothing but you. And now you’re here, and focus returns to him like water through glass.

You are all he sees. And he sees you still grinding your teeth, eyes trailing after the woman who’d slipped away silently at your arrival.

“Sweetie—“

“Come get changed.” You grit out, taking his hand. Tracking, still tracking her as you make your way through the archway, make a left down the path and into the bathrooms.

He is silent when you hand him the bag. Yet, as you close the door to the bathroom, his hand shoots out and he tugs you through the shrinking gap.

In the small space, his presence is a welcome weight in the soles of your feet, pulling you back down to the earth. He knew that if he left you out there to wait, you’d float away. He knew that if he didn’t act on his suspicions on the situation, you’d sink into that sea of thoughts you try to keep from him.

With your lower back pressed to the sink, his arms cage you in and he searches your eyes. He noses your ear like an appealing cat and whispers, “Let me in.”

When you lean towards his voice, his lips find his spot on your temple again. Wax to seal a love letter. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. “You didn’t. It’s not your fault.”

The abrasive floral scent that stuck faintly to the sleeves of his coat didn’t help. Luring the serpent to coil around you—heat, heaviness stroking at the back of your neck.

He sheds the coat, as if reading your thoughts and rummages through the bag you brought. He pulls out a deep burgundy button up in his size and smiles at you. “I should count on you not to listen to me when I tell you I’m fine.”

You press your lips together. It’s true, you didn’t buy it through his text messages. Just like he doesn’t buy your silence, your complacence, to what conspired while you were away. He continues, “You read me like a book.”

You avert your gaze. You can’t place a finger on the bubbling pit in your stomach. If it was anger, frustration— or the one thing you refuse to admit is finally clawing its way to the surface.

His buttons are a distraction; your fingers move faster than you can think, pinching at the cloth stuck to his skin. Undoing his shirt mindlessly. Forcing the bile down. Blocking him out.

And then he speaks, rumbling your thoughts, reaching through the fog and taking hold. “Have faith in me when I say I can read you too.”

Your breath hitches.

“She approached me.” he begins, unprompted. Not a defense, a report.

And of course he’d be approached— anyone with eyes would be drawn to him. Each part of him was a beauty to behold—eyes like life and fire swirling in pools of allure, his body build like a Grecian deity, carved and sanded by a master in love with its magnum opus, his hair woven by starlight and moonbeams, his lips shaped as cupid’s favorite bow.

Everything of him is tantalizing. Everything about him is reason to risk everything for.

Which is why you cannot blame a person for trying.

Which is why you still can’t fathom how he is even yours.

“I don’t need to hear it, Sylus, I get it.” you whisper, shaking hands finally finishing your work on his shirt. Revealing the rippling panes of muscle underneath. Warmth seeps through the pads of your fingers from where you touch him.

His skin prickles when you gently caress. His eyes lock onto yours, needing none of his evol to see right through you.

Further drowning you in insecurity.

And yet, his throat bobs from just a mere look from you.

He sheds his shirt. Takes in how you stare. He always liked it when you do, when he sees in your gaze an equal desire he feels for you.

“Let me tell you anyway.” he says, soft and reassuring. Knowing how much you need not excuses he doesn’t have to offer, but at least the sound of his voice to tether you to him. That will do for now.

You listen. Let his story drown your lack of confidence, let his words build you a stairway to climb out of the flood. You do as he shrugs the new shirt on, smooths it out and then offers it to you to help with the buttons despite your shaky fingers.

“I flinched, she stumbled—“

“And you caught her.” you finish. Pain surfaces from your teeth as you clench too hard.

He nods. “I did.”

“Then it’s not your fault.” you still insist.

Someone knocks on the door. A loud complaint about taking too long and holding up the line startles you and you rush with the buttons on his shirt.

Seeing that neither time or proximity has done anything to wear your walls down, he sighs and catches your hands. “Tell me what I can do.”

But you’re already squirming to end the conversation. “Sylus, people are waiting.”

He takes your shoulders when you sidestep him, spins you around and leans his back on the door with you to his chest, effectively blocking the exit. “So have I. All day to see you, all evening to hear your voice—and I’ll wait centuries if you want me to, but you can’t ask me to watch you drown.”

His unusually quick heartbeat thrums quicker beneath the palm of your hand. And for the first time tonight you look into his eyes, you see the raw desperation. The panic that begins to build. At how he cannot fix this. At how you won’t let him.

But it is easier said than done. How are you supposed to tell him that seeing that girl’s smug face as he held her made your blood boil? That, had you caught them at a later beat in the scene, there’s no telling how you’d have barreled your way between them.

How do you tell him that you want him to be yours and yours alone?

“Is that it?” he asks, suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. You feel his calloused fingers curl over the edges of your jaw, thumbs brush along the softness of your cheeks. At this vicinity, there is nothing he cannot hear, nothing he cannot feel.

And you notice then that you’ve said it all out loud.

“You think you’re too greedy?” he clarifies, sounding a little too happy at the conclusion despite the building dread in your chest. It’s taking every fiber of his will power to keep himself from devouring you right in the middle of your conversation. Even as you try to escape the confrontation.

“I don’t want to be difficult.” is all you muster. Your lips sandpaper now the more you bite and purse them. Your hands clammy on skin.

“You can never be.” he reassures. So willingly, so used to it— glad to do so as long as it’s for you. "I promise you that."

His kisses begin once more to your temple, then trail to your forehead, feather over your nose and finally land on your lips. You kiss him back with equal fervor, pulling him in by the hair on the nape of his neck and caressing his cheekbones with deft touches.

And, oh, how he loves it. Love your passion, your need for him— because he needs you too.

He tilts his head, guides yours ever so slightly to an angle, and then murmurs. “Look.”

You hum curiously, popping one eye open to see the image of you two in the mirror. Intimately locked in each other’s embrace, practically welded together by the skin. Two parts of the same whole. Indubitably meant for no one else but each other.

His gentle smile and relentless kisses are contagious, and soon you’re laughing along at how he pecks on you like a bird.

“I love your greed.” he says, pulling you to him by the waist as you get to finish his buttons. Tone much brighter now as he sees the creases beneath your eyes brought by your joy. "Just as I love you."

You give him a look, challenging the promise. But within your chest, you feel the sun burst alight.

Not because you don’t believe him. But because you love seeing him prove it, time and time again. He accepts it like fortune.

Someone raps loudly on the door again, and Sylus glowers, landing a louder blow to it with his fist. You snort and catch his balled knuckles in your hands as if that would undo his response, scolding in a sharp, fond whisper. "Sylus!"

He grins at your puffed-up cheeks, holding back a roguish laugh. Feeling lighter now than when you’d come in. His fingers are splayed open to make space for yours, and you fix his hair. “Come on, we’ll miss the concert.”

The music had started halfway through your argument—if you’d even call it that—and you didn’t want to waste any more of your time on different footing.

Sylus couldn’t care less about the show. He’ll fund another one, a private one, for you just so you can witness the beginning again. But for now, he follows your lead.

The weight of angst on your shoulders is replaced by something thicker, warmer. His large coat consumes you, allowing you to bury your face into its lapels to breathe in his scent. His, not mixed with anyone else’s. His scent. All yours.

He tugs you out of the bathroom. Doesn’t spare the angry man by the door a glance, expertly angling his body to protect yours and keep him from looking at you. Then, guides you to the center square.

You’re leaning on his shoulder again. Your thumb massages the knot of muscles on his palm. Your forehead nuzzles against the bone beneath his ear. And he is anything but shy as he pulls you into his space.

The serpent has slunk back into its lonely cave. Empty-handed from its hunt. Scared off by something with red eyes and a fanged grin, far stronger than it will ever be.

The music crescendos. Above you, the fountain spits its biggest golden arch like liquid fire. Sylus uses his evol discreetly this time to shield you from the spray. You lean further into him to observe his guarded reaction.

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, circling your arms around his bicep. “I promised you a great time.”

His brows raise. “Have I given the impression that I’m not having a great time?”

“The night could have gone better,” you lament quietly, letting the backdrop of flutes carry your words to the wind. “You shouldn’t have gotten sprayed by that fountain. I should have gotten here early, shouldn’t have acted the way I did. We could have gotten better seats…”

He hums thoughtfully at your list. “You’re right. So far, it isn’t what you advertised.”

You nod dejectedly. But he lifts your chin. Making absolute sure you don’t get the wrong impression this time around. He smiles warmly with his words of steaming affection, “But I wasn’t convinced by your advertisement anyway.”

He thinks it’s cute how your brows knit together the way they do when he confuses you. A big reason why likes doing it often, in less harmful ways. He can never help but press a kiss to them to smooth the stress away. “You looked lovely dancing around in your pajamas with those tickets. That was enough.”

A rather loud slap lands on his thigh and echoes through the plaza, just as the song flutters onto a timely diminuendo. The sound is sharp, thunderous, and embarrassingly out of place— and consequently draws looks towards its source.

He’s sniggering in your ear as you bow your head and smile apologetically at your onlookers, waving your hands frantically to redirect, begging, as if to plead, nothing to see here!

But he takes that opportunity of eyes upon you to snake his arm around your waist, take one leg of your chair, and, with a screech, tug until there is no space even for air between you.

His breath is warm on the cuff of your ear as he whispers an affectionately vexatious, “I’m having a great time.”

Kisses as endless as his wealth, he gifts you another one just right there. He revels at how you brighten, how you melt like volcanic rock in its chamber. “I always do when I’m with you.”

And for the rest of the night, he proves it once, twice, and more that his greed will know no bounds when it comes to you.

And he expects nothing of you but the same.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Beloved Why does this song sound familiar?

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. Do you want extra butter? You don’t recognize it? Do you want a large drink?

Beloved Yes. No. Yes. It’s a little familiar.

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. A little? You’ve been humming this for a month and it’s only “a little familiar”?

Beloved :O Sylus!

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I thought it would suit the occasion I asked the plaza manager to add it to the playlist

Beloved And the orchestra learned it so quickly?

Sy Fruit Ltd Co. I requested it two weeks ago. Salt?

Beloved I don’t know what to say. Yes. Thank you. For the surprise And the snacks