fairyfairyfairy

[fairyfairyfairy]

kills myself gently

remember me as i am.

summary: When Harumasa asks for an unexpected favor, you accept, against your better judgement. The last thing you expected was to have to pretend to be his spouse at a doctor’s appointment.

notes: 4.5k words, author's notes, fake marriage, fake dating, ambiguous relationship/feelings, fluff with some light introspective sadness

“I need you to do me a favor.”

When Asaba Harumasa whispers those words to you across your shared desks at the Section Six office, hand cupped around his mouth for emphasis, eyes glittering with mischief, you can’t help but brace yourself for whatever ensuing trouble he’s going to drag you into.

“What’s the favor?” you respond evenly. “If it’s to convince Yanagi to accept your request for time off, I’m not going to do that.”

“It’s not that!” Harumasa insists. “But it’s about something that’s important for the well-being of Section Six.”

You glance around the room; Soukaku is doodling with crayons on some confidential reports, Miyabi has left for a meeting with the rest of the section chiefs (and you can guarantee that she isn’t paying any attention), and Yanagi is steadfastly working through a towering stack of papers on her desk, so high that you can barely make out the top of her head. No one is paying attention to the two of you.

“Well, what is it then?” you say, and Harumasa casts a furtive glance at Yanagi before leaning closer to you, bracing his elbow on your desk. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, you can’t help but feel, what with how his smile curls like a satisfied cat.

“We need to meet up on our day off, preferably in the morning and somewhere near Lumina Square,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s too risky to pull off here. But it’s important, partner, so make sure you’re not late.”

“If it’s something that’s important for Section Six,” you whisper, tilting your own head closer to the shell of his ear, “Maybe it’s something that we should bring up to the others. What is it? Some illicit venture into a Hollow? Should I call Phaenton, too?”

“There’s no need for all of that,” Harumasa says hastily. “You only need to bring yourself. Maybe a disguise,” he adds, “to avoid public notice. This is a confidential mission. I’m relying on you.”

You let out a small sigh. Visions of curling up on your couch tomorrow, browsing through books with a mug of warm, sweet tea vanish in front of your eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there. But you owe me for dragging me out on our only day off.”

“I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” Harumasa has the audacity to wink at you, like you’ve agreed to some ridiculous, under-the-table deal. 

Maybe you have. It certainly feels like it when you drag yourself out of bed the next morning, donning sunglasses, a long, caramel-colored coat buttoned up to your neck, and pulling a hat low over your head to complete the look. You’re out the door and on the train to Lumina Square before ten minutes have passed.

You’re set to meet Harumasa at some nondescript corner of the square, an alley boxed in by towering buildings and mostly hidden from view. What does he have in store for you? Despite the playful attitude he had yesterday when asking you for help, there was also something serious underpinning his words, even as he tried to pass it off as a flight of fancy. Harumasa would never ask you for help unless it was something important. 

You’re certain that you’ll have to wait for Harumasa to show up a few minutes late, making some slap-fash excuse. To your surprise, he’s already waiting for you. You almost can’t recognize him at first. He’s forgone his usual headband; instead, he’s wearing a hoodie, a cap, and a facemask, slouching against the wall, staring aimlessly at the sky. 

“Harumasa?” you say.

At your voice, Harumasa immediately straightens, lifting himself off the wall. You can hear the smile in his voice, even if you can’t see it. “There you are!”

“You’re early,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

Harumasa slings a casual arm around your shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to miss our date. But don’t let Yanagi know that I’m capable of showing up on time, okay?” 

“It’s not a date,” you say, lowering your sunglasses to give him an unimpressed stare, “It’s a mission. Or so you claim.”

“It is,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll show you our place of operations.”

Harumasa still has his arm around your shoulders, but you don’t shake him off as he leads you confidently through alleys and down back roads, avoiding the bustle of crowds in the main section of the city. The breeze is cool, the sunlight warm on your face againsr the winter’s chill.

Eventually, the two of you stop in front of a hospital, a towering construction of shining metal and glass reflecting squares of blue sky. People bustle in and out of the sliding front doors, letting out gusts of sharp, chemically scented air.

Harumasa is silent as he stares up at the building, his hat shading his eyes. You can’t make out his expression, but you lean your head on his shoulder, a brief, reassuring touch.

He seems to come back to himself, then, and Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he resumes talking in a clear, casual voice, “So, this is where our mission is taking place. Here’s the gist of it: I need you to pretend to be my spouse.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he wheedles. “I’ve been avoiding coming here for a while, but they’re not taking my excuses anymore. And they wanted me to bring a family member over to verify some things.”

“You could have just said so from the beginning,” you say. “I was beginning to think you wanted us to infiltrate somewhere.”

“If you think about it, we technically are,” Harumasa muses. “Besides, isn’t it more fun if I tell you we’re on a mission, instead of just giving everything away? Also, this is necessary to Section Six; what are they going to do without their star Executive Officer?”

The arm around your shoulder is shaking imperceptibly; sometime during his words, his grip has tightened, just slightly, as if he’s clinging to you to keep from sliding down a cliff. The unspoken truths hover in the air: that you’re the only one in Section Six who knows about his Ether Regression Aptitude Syndrome, and that he can’t ask anyone else to help him for this.

“Why your spouse, though?” you say instead. “Why not just say I’m a distant relation? You could also just not specify what our relationship is.” 

“Because it’s more fun for me,” Harumasa replies. Typical.

Within the next few minutes, the two are checking in at the front desk after a brief wait, Harumasa wading through tedious paperwork and bureaucracy and health insurance forms with clipboards and pens that click more than necessary. 

“Make sure to tell the doctor I’m here with my spouse,” Harumasa emphasizes, tapping the clipboard with his pen. He slides his arm around you, drawing you closer to him, and you try to resist the urge to pull away and keep your face schooled in a neutral, pleasant expression.

“All right, Mr. Asaba,” the receptionist chirps. “He’ll be out to see you in a bit!”

The waiting room is filled with rows of yellow and white plastic chairs, carpeting worn by the tread of countless anxious patients, and stacks of old magazines on tables and televisions mounted on the walls playing a cheesy blockbuster with the voices muted. A bored child plays with the hospital’s block toys on the floor, his mother talks quietly into her phone in front of him, and an elderly man flips through a magazine, his cane resting on his lap.

You and Harumasa settle into your seats, side by side. In the space between, where your hands dangle, his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he draws your hand into his. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow become his stress ball, something he needs to touch to ground himself. 

“Still holding up alright?” Harumasa whispers. “You cleared the first hurdle.”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you whisper back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m used to it.” At times like this, you wish you could see Harumasa’s mouth, because his eyes betray nothing. 

Still, when the receptionist finally calls out, “Asaba Harumasa, the doctor’s here to see you,” you don’t let go of Harumasa’s hand. The doctor is stocky and short, with tired, drooping eyes, and he frowns when he sees Harumasa.

The three of you start walking down the hall, the doctor setting a rapid pace as he lectures Harumasa. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for the past week. Do you know how hard it is to get in contact with you? Proper medical care requires consistency!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harumasa says without sounding sorry at all, but he seems more focused on swinging your joined hands together like a child on a swing set. 

In the doctor’s office, the two of you are finally separated as Harumasa perches on the examination table. You’re sitting in a guest chair lined up against the wall across from him. The doctor moves through standard physical procedures with a deft, practiced hand. Harumasa follows along easily, thoughtlessly, as if these processes are second nature: the lights shining in his eyes, the blood pressure cuff around his arm, the routine questions. 

However, whenever the doctor is distracted recording results or marking down Harumasa’s answers, Harumasa will pull down his mask and make faces at you, to which you’ll respond with a roll of your eyes or your own exaggerated expressions of annoyance. 

“Have you been resting well?” the doctor asks sternly, turning back around just as the two of you quickly settle into more typical expressions. “You’re not pushing yourself at work, I hope?”

“I haven’t,” Harumasa says, with wide eyes. 

“Hmpth.” The doctor turns to you. “Well? Is he being truthful? As his spouse, I trust you’ll be honest for the sake of his health.” Behind the doctor’s back, Harumasa strikes you with an expression of mock disbelief, raising his eyebrows dramatically. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but you control the tremor of your lips. 

“He hasn’t been pushing himself hard at all,” you say smoothly. “If anything, I think my husband has been resting a little too well.”

“All right. And your medications, Mr. Asaba? Have you been taking them properly?”

“Right as instructed, every morning and night,” Harumasa says. “My lovely spouse would know. They’ve seen me dutifully take all of them.”

“He has,” you verify. From what you know, anyways, Harumasa never misses a dosage. 

The doctor peppers Harumasa with more health-related questions and logs down all his answers. It’s over before you know it, and Harumasa leaps off the table as soon as the doctor puts away his clipboard. 

“I’ve missed you, cutie,” he says, throwing his arms around you like you haven’t seen him in months, snuggling up to you as the doctor watches with a weary expression. 

“The two of you get along well,” he says stoically.

“Oh, we do,” Harumasa chirps. 

“Make sure to make a follow-up appointment, Mr. Asaba. Your health appears stable, and your symptoms haven’t worsened.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” you supply, shooting a quick, withering glance at Harumasa, who only gives you a pleading expression in return. “He won’t be late to the next appointment.”

“I appreciate that, Mx…?” the doctor trails off questioningly.

“Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa interjects. “That’s their name.”

“That’s right,” you say. “Thank you for your time today.”

Harumasa wraps his arm around your waist, giving the doctor a lazy wave, and then the two of you are through the door, down the hall, and out of the hospital. Once you’re a street away, Harumasa finally speaks. 

“You were excellent there, Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa says. 

“Of course I was. Though you don’t need to call me that.”

“Why? I think it has a nice ring to it,” he muses. “Mx. Asaba and Mr. Asaba.”

“I was serious about what I said back there, you know,” you say. “You need to make your follow-up appointment soon. And you should try to show up to it on time.”

“You’re so strict. What if I need you to come with me again to feel better?”

“Then just tell me when, and where,” you say. “If you need me there, then I’ll be there, no matter what.” 

A brief flicker of surprise lights across his face, before it smooths out into his usual relaxed smile. “You’re soooo good to me, Mx. Asaba. Since you went out of your way today to help me with such a confidential mission, let me treat you to some food!” 

“I suppose that’s what a good spouse should do,” you say. 

Harumasa’s arm is still around your waist, but you can’t bring yourself to shake it off as he enthusiastically guides you to whatever restaurant he has in mind. His grip is casual, loose enough that you could shrug it off if you really want to. But if you do, then he’d never pull close to you like again.

Harumasa is attentive in that way. If you set a line, then he would never cross it. All his jokes feel like a casual calculation of the distance between the two of you. How far is he allowed to go? How much are you willing to put up with? What’s the boundary of your relationship? 

It’s like he’s waiting for rejection, offering you the chance to push away from him in a way that would make it easier for both of you. The way he touches you is akin to possession, but from a man who’s afraid to say he deserves to call you his.

Yet, if you push a little too close, more than he’s comfortable with, then he’ll run away like a skittish cat, afraid your affection will turn to boredom or cruelty. You’ve been with him long enough to understand this. So you’ll play along with his jokes, his little white little lies and deceptions, if it’s the only way he’ll let you stay close to him.

It’s a date, or a confidential mission, or whatever excuse Harumasa wants to use. What a complicated, beloved partner you have.

“We’re here,” Harumasa says. You’re at a ramen shop, with low stalls pulled up the counter, the simmering heat and steam from the kitchen feeling like a miniature summer. Thankfully, it’s empty, but your disguises ensure that neither your nor Harumasa’s fans will bother you for pictures and autographs in either case. 

“Order whatever you want,” he says, and you pick up the laminated menu, browsing through the various options. “Oh, wait. Pose for a second.”

Harumasa pulls out his phone, opening the camera, and aims it in your direction. You make a quick peace sign, menu held aloft in your other hand, and the shutter snaps. “What’s that for?”

“You looked nice,” he says. “I’ll send it to you later.”

“I didn’t realize you liked photography.”

“It’s a good way to preserve things that are fleeting, but important to you,” he says. “Moments that won’t last, people that might leave. Things like that.”

“Are you planning on divorcing me already?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand, peering at him over the top of your sunglasses. 

Harumasa places a hand over his heart. “Me? Never.”

The two of you place an order for ramen, and it doesn’t take long for the noodles to arrive. It’s simple, but delicious: hearty, flavorful broth, bamboo shoots, seaweed, fish cakes, slices of charred, fatty pork, and an egg with a jammy yolk.

Neither of you talk as you sit in silence, slurping noodles and drinking spoonfuls of broth. It’s been a while since you’ve gone out for a meal like this, and even longer since you did so with someone that wasn’t some sort of business partner or official whose good graces you need to stay in. 

You glance up with a mouthful of noodles to find Harumasa watching you, chopsticks in hand, a small smile on his face, as if he’s never seen anything so charming, his own ramen forgotten. Your face burns for reasons you don’t want to identify; you’re only thankful he doesn’t ask for another picture.

Harumasa lets out a sigh of appreciation when he’s done, placing his chopsticks neatly over his finished bowl. “Soukaku once cleared out almost all the noodles in this place, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to go ever since she told me.”

“Did it match your expectations?”

“I don’t normally like heavy food, but this time, I didn’t mind it,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because you looked like you enjoyed it a lot. It made me appreciate this bowl more.”

“Smooth-talker,” you say. “If you’re done, should we head back–”

“Wait, there’s somewhere else we should go,” Harumasa interrupts, holding up a hand. “We need dessert after a meal, don’t you think?”

“Really? A dessert? What are you thinking of getting?” you ask.

“There’s a popular drink shop around here. They serve milk tea in these cute little Bangboo shaped cups,” Harumasa begins. “I thought it might be fun to check it out.” 

“I thought you hated sweet things,” you supply. The two of you stand, and you smooth down your coat as Harumasa adjusts his facemask. You’re ambling down the street again, but this time, you loop your arm through his, pulling him close. It’s an effortless gesture, and it’s startling how easy it is to press so close to him.

“Well, you don’t,” he returns. “And it’s a popular date spot too. Can’t I take my lovely spouse out some more?”

You bump him with your hip. There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore. There’s no one else here to listen to your lies. Both of you know this, but you can’t bring yourself to state the obvious. If you point out the script, then the curtain will fall and the play will end, your fragile happiness disappearing as the actors take a final bow. “Sure, if you keep paying.” 

The two of you end up in front of an inconspicuous milk tea shop. There’s no outdoor or indoor seating, but there is a counter and a blackboard with the menu chalked in, alongside doodles of smiling Bangboo holding milk tea on the side. A tired salesgirl stands in front, her expression at odds with her bubblegum pink uniform. There’s a few teenagers milling nearby, hands cupped around their milk tea and conversing in giggles.

Harumasa tilts his head as he looks at the menu, hanging above the two of you. “They sell iced coffee here,” he muses. “I thought this was a milk tea place.”

“They probably want to offer a variety of drinks for people who might not like milk tea,” you supply. 

“What are you getting?”

“The Bangboo special milk tea,” you say immediately. “It’s their speciality, and it comes with a Bangboo shaped cup. If it’s cute, I might take it home and wash it so I can reuse it”

He eyes you with amusement as the two of you approach the counter, where Harumasa slides his card across the counter. You make a note to treat him out to dinner at some point; as much as you tease, it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t return the favor. “One iced espresso and a Bangboo special milk tea for me and my spouse, please.”

“Got it.” The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eye as Harumasa leans against you, his eyes crinkling at the corners like a pleased cat.

It doesn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. Your milk tea is in the shape of a Bangboo’s head, and topped with a pile of jellies over delicately set tiers of differing flavors. You take a sip, and you’re flooded with a creamy, milky sweetness.

Harumasa, who hasn’t even taken a sip of his espresso yet, looks amused as he watches you. “Let me try some of yours.”

“You won’t like it,” you protest, but Harumasa is already pulling down his face mask and leaning towards you. You raise your drink to let him take a quick sip.

He licks his top lip in thoughtful contemplation. “Way too sweet.”

“I told you. Now give me some of yours,” you say. “It’s only fair.” 

He obliges without protest, tilting his straw towards you. You take a quick sip, but it’s cold and bitter. You wrinkle your nose; you’re no stranger to coffee, especially when shifts run late into the night, but you still like to add creamer and sugar to take the edge off. 

“Coffee is an acquired taste for true adults,” Harumasa says when he sees your expression. “Maybe I’m just a bit more mature than you.”

“Sweetness is also an acquired taste,” you quip. “It’s good to learn to enjoy the sweet things in life.”

“Maybe it is. Oh, wait. Before you finish your drink. Let’s take another picture.” Harumasa pulls out his phone again, and you don’t protest as he raises it and angles it down towards the two of you. You raise your cup, and Harumasa lopes his arm around yours, locking the two of you together.  

With a few press of his thumb, he’s done, and lowers the phone for your inspection. You examine yourself the same way a stranger might; the two of you huddled up together, Harumasa’s cheeks red from the cold, your lips drawn into a smile, looking almost like the married couple you’re pretending to be. 

“You look cute as usual,” Harumasa comments. “But it makes me look bad. I’ve got to stop taking pictures with you.” 

“That’s not my fault,” you protest. 

“Of course it isn’t. You can’t help being the cutest person in the world.” 

You’re saved from thinking up a response that won’t betray your own embarrassment by the curious giggles of the teenagers across from you. They keep glancing furtively from you to Harumasa, hands cupped over their mouths. You can hear whispers of “Section Six” and “celebrities” which doesn’t bode well for your current anonymity. 

Swiftly, you grab Harumasa’s hand and start pulling him away from the cafe, down the streets of Lumina Square. The winter sun has started to droop in the sky, painting the world in a vivid, melting, yolky light. Laughter drifts around you from people lost in their own worlds. 

You’re not sure where you’re going, only certain on heading away from anyone who can recognize you. Harumasa follows along gamely, your willing accomplice.

You fly up a flight of stairs and you’re suddenly on the walkway above the streets, the city stretching out below you, buildings stacked like decadent cakes, people little figurines trotting carelessly by. 

You’re far away from everyone else now, cocooned in your own world. Harumasa’s fingers squeezes yours playfully, and suddenly you’re aware of how his hand feels in yours, warm skin and calluses from his bow and reassuringly slender fingers wrapped around your own. 

You drop his hand, finally, and take a sip of your own drink, which is sweet, so sweet, as Harumasa walks up to the railing and braces his elbow against the metal. 

“You’ve been taking a lot of pictures of me today,” you say. 

“I want to treasure every moment we have together,” Harumasa says, without turning. A cool breeze stirs, sending his hair fluttering, his clothes rippling. 

He’s unfair when he talks like this, the tenderness in his voice making your heart ache over the inevitable future, a predetermined ending. Like he’ll slip through your fingers as easily as water at any moment.

You pull out your phone, swipe to your camera, and raise it to frame Harumasa in the center, backlit by the glow of the sun and the tart light from the windows of buildings around you. 

“Look over here,” you call, and Harumasa turns. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. “Strike a pose.” 

“Shouldn’t I be the one taking a picture?” he asks. 

“I want to remember you,” you say. “Forever.” 

Harumasa tilts his head back. “Me?” 

“You’re not the only one who wants to cherish every moment we spend together.” 

Harumasa slowly pulls down his face mask, and you can finally see his smile, more brilliant than the sun behind him, flooding through your nerves and filling every part of you with a warm light. 

You press your phone’s camera shutter, once, twice, immortalizing Harumasa for as long as you can. You lower your phone, and join him at the railing, looking down below at the peace you’ve both fought so hard to protect. 

The world is filled with such endless cruelty and stunning beauty in equal measure. And yet, it’s the only world you have. You tap your fingers against the railing, a nonsensical song. 

“For your next appointment, maybe we should try a different restaurant when you’re done,” you say. “And we can walk around and take more pictures. There’s a few art installations around.” 

“You sure you want to come back with me? You’ll have to pretend to be Mx. Asaba again, you know.” 

“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “It has a nice ring to it.” 

“If you talk like that, you’ll make me want to make it official…. Of course, I’m kidding,” he adds before the words can linger for too long. 

“Have you thought about getting married?” you ask.

“I couldn’t do that to someone,” he responds lightly. “Besides, it’d be bad for PR. You know how intense our fan clubs can get.”

Of course, you understand. Marriage is an alien thought for a job where you risk your life everyday fighting against Ethereals and venturing into Hollows. You barely have enough time for yourself after long shifts and overtime and late nights, ready to be called into action at the slightest emergency. Could you bear to leave behind someone you love under the circumstances? Could they bear waiting and worrying for you? You would never be able to provide them any form of normalcy.

“Leaving someone behind like that… I don’t think I could do it. Or ask them to understand why I can’t give them an ordinary life,” you say. 

“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to make my partner cry,” he says. “I knew you would get it.”

His eyes gleam, two precious pieces of gold. Of course. Neither of you are capable of an ordinary relationship. Whatever the two of you have right now, whatever form you let it take, can’t be named. Something will break if you try. 

Carefully, delicately, you lean your head against his shoulder. He stiffens only momentarily before relaxing, a silent affirmation of your presence. Below, cars rush by, the misty glow of streetlights winking into life as the sky darkens.

“I’ll let you know when I have my next appointment,” he says, voice carrying like the wind.

“All right. I’ll be sure to make the time for you, Mr. Asaba.”

He laughs, a low, soft sound. “Thank you, Mx. Asaba. I knew I could rely on you.”

And it’s nice, like this. For just a while longer, you can forget anything that’s happened before, or anything that might happen in the future. Right now, it’s just you, and him, together. 

[fairyfairyfairy]

i agree politely

It had to be said

[fairyfairyfairy]

van gogh of harumasa fics becayse what. this shitnis incredible

one hundred paper stars.

summary: There's an old story from your childhood where if you make a hundred paper stars, then you're granted a single wish. However, it's not you, but your infuriating partner in Section Six whose wish you want to come true instead.

notes: 7.4k words, author's notes, spoilers for harumasa's backstory, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, fluff

It’s during a drowsy, sunshine-drenched afternoon, a brief moment of respite where there isn’t any paperwork to file or field missions to carry out, that Yanagi appears at your desk, giving you no time to hide what you’ve been fiddling with during your break. 

Though there’s no reason to feel guilty, it’s still slightly embarrassing for Yanagi to catch the rainbow strips of paper littering your desk, interspersed with fruit-flavored candy that Soukaku left earlier that morning as a present. In the center of it all, there’s a jar brimming with paper stars, the results of two weeks’ worth of progress made whenever you have a snippet of free time.

However, Yanagi doesn’t pause to acknowledge the way your hands are trapped in the middle of folding a half-finished origami star. Lips pursed in familiar frustration, she asks, “Have you seen Asaba anywhere?”

“Not since this morning, when we were doing reconnaissance in a Hollow,” you reply.

She sighs. “He’s supposed to have finished his break half an hour ago.”

“Do you need him for something?”

“I need you two to follow up on the work you did this morning. The ether readings have changed, and they wanted someone to check it out,” Yanagi says. “If you could find him and get him to come with you…”

“I get the gist. I’ll head out as soon as I find him,” you say, folding the ends of the paper expertly and tossing a newly formed red star into the jar. 

“Thank you. I’ll make it up to you for cutting your break short,” she says apologetically. “Since you’re his partner, Asaba tends to listen to you a little more.”

“He barely listens to me at all,” you grumble. You pat the daggers tucked snuggly near your thighs, and Yanagi’s eyes drift to the mess on your desk.

“I was wondering where Soukaku got all those pieces of paper,” she says thoughtfully. “Did you bring them into the office?”

“Yeah. She thought the stars were candy, so I had to stop her from eating them. I taught her how to fold them, and in exchange, she gave me these.” You gesture at the hard candies littering your desk.

“It’s nice to do some crafts to relax.”

“There’s also something special about these stars. If you fold a hundred of them,” you say, “you get a wish. It was a popular story back in my elementary school. The local convenience store used to sell origami paper, and I would buy them with my allowance. I never did make it to a hundred, though.”

“Then there must be something you really want to fold a hundred now. I hope your wish comes true,” Yanagi says.

“I hope so, too,” you murmur.

A few minutes later, you’re cutting down the halls and up the stairways of your workplace, climbing until you reach the entrance to the roof. Barricade tape and warning signs block the landing, but with practiced precision, you duck under the tape without slowing and nudge open the door with your shoulder, which gives way without a fuss.

Cool wind whips at your face, and you scan the rooftop, nothing but a broad expanse of concrete and whirring, blocky machines, caged in by a metal fence. You jog down the length until you find who you’re looking for, lounging on the floor like a cat soaking up the golden afternoon sun, limbs askew and eyes closed. 

Harumasa looks like he’s asleep as you approach him with silent steps. You crouch over him, your shadow cutting across his face, and he still doesn’t stir. For a few seconds, you watch him quietly. His headband flutters in the wind like a loose sliver of sunlight. His face is pale, splotches of dark ink forming under his eyes. Maybe he isn’t sleeping well.

“Admiring the view, partner?” Harumasa says without opening his eyes.

“Hardly,” you say. “I was just thinking about the best way to wake you up.”

“All you need to do is call my name and I’ll respond.”

“Right. Just like how the last few times I tried to do that, you kept pretending to be asleep until I used physical force.” You emphasize the last few words and Harumasa groans as he cracks open an eye, propping himself lazily up with his elbows.

“Come on. We’ve been working together forever at this point, and you still can’t be a little nicer to me?”

“I’m only nice to those who deserve it,” you say. 

“Right, right. I bet Yanagi sent you up here.”

“How did you know?”

“You usually let me slack off otherwise,” he says easily. “It’s only when there’s something important that you bother me. Huh. If you think about it, that’s pretty nice of you. Isn’t there a word for someone who acts abrasive to hide how much they care about someone else? Ts–”

“Keep talking and I’ll tell Yanagi just where exactly you like to hide during break,” you threaten. 

“Aw, don’t do that!” Harumasa gives you an exaggerated pout, and you roll your eyes. “Come here, partner.”

“Why?”

“Come on. Come closer,” he wheedles, and you reluctantly lower yourself until you’re sitting next to him, face to face, legs folded under you.

Once you do, Harumasa drops his head against your shoulder, leaning all the warm weight of his upper body against your side like he’ll fall apart without your support.

“What’s this about?” you grumble, but you don’t move away. It’s become a familiar routine at this point: he teases, you complain, but you still gravitate towards each other. Maybe it’s because you’ve been paired with Harumasa on so many missions that you’ve developed a habit of putting up with all of his mischief.

“I’m not feeling well,” he says. “Lend me your shoulder.”

“It’s a little too late to ask when you’ve already done it.”

“You know what they say. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

“I’m sure you know all about that,” you say dryly.

“Now. now. I’m just being pragmatic.”

You usually don’t come to the roof at all, not unless you’re looking for Harumasa. But when you do come here, the air feels refreshing and cool, the sunlight more gentle. Though you pride yourself on being efficient and responsible, the first one to file your reports and to take notes during meetings, you can understand why Harumasa likes to nap here.

It’s comfortable. Or maybe it’s Harumasa that makes the place so comfortable. It feels like your own private corner of the world, one where it’s just you and him. Not that you could ever tell him that, of course, or it’ll make him insufferable.

“Yanagi needs us to follow up on the Hollow we investigated this morning,” you say.

“Again? We just got back.”

“The ether readings have changed. They want us to investigate.”

“Hm… but I’m on break…”

“Your break was over half an hour ago.”

“You’re on break!” he protests.

“So? I’ll be reimbursed for it.”

Harumasa groans. “You’re way too serious. You need to learn to take it easy. I’m not feeling well, you know.”

“Is that so? Well, if you want to nap the day away, I can investigate by myself–”

“Wait.” Harumasa’s weight shifts off your shoulder, and now you’re face to face with him again, close enough to see the way his smile slips off his face, the intensity of his liquid gold gaze. “I’ll come with you. Don’t do it by yourself.”

“You don’t think I’m capable, Harumasa?” you try to tease, but his lazy smile doesn’t return.

“You’re capable,” he says quietly. “You’re more than capable. But I want to be there to back you up.” He’s the first to look away, and you feel cheated, even though you don’t know what you would have said in response. “So, let’s get going. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can clock out of work.”

“Of course,” you say, a smidge too quickly. “I’ll need to file reports for Yanagi when we’re done.”

At least the awkwardness of the moment on the rooftop blows over quickly as you prepare for departure. Working with Harumasa feels like being a part of a well-oiled machine, every movement in efficient, coordinated sync, the consequence of a well-established partnership. You fall into a routine as familiar as meetings or paperwork as you prepare to enter the Hollow: checking your weapons, gathering your supplies, escorting your Bangboo guide, and then striding into the Hollow at the designated entry point.

Within the Hollow, you and Harumasa alternate who takes the lead as you follow your Bangboo, slipping through half-hidden pathways and narrow crevices, all the while avoiding lurking Ethereals. There’s little need for words with Harumasa when all you need to do is read the tension of his body, like a bow pulled taut, and simply follow what it tells you. You have your own private language of body gestures, flicks of the hand or turns of the head, refined over years.

It’s not as if you always worked this well together, of course. The first time you were paired together with Harumasa on a mission, both of you were fresh recruits to Section Six. You couldn’t stop arguing with him. His lax manner and sloppy dress infuriated you, but what was worse was how he always delivered results with minimal effort when you never did anything less than your best. In turn, he made fun of you for being a stick-in-the-mud and being unable to relax.

“You’re going to go grey if you keep stressing yourself,” he would tease, looking much too pleased with himself, as if he enjoyed your little spats.

Harumasa touches your elbow lightly, and you’re drawn from your thoughts. “Did something happen?” you murmur. The Hollow stretches before you, twisted metal and broken concrete buildings stitched together with corruption that shimmers like an oil spill, but there’s no sign of anything unusual.

“Nope. I’m just bored,” he says. “We’re not any closer to finding the disturbance Yanagi told us about. We might have to head back soon if we still don’t find anything usual.”

“We haven’t even gone that deep in the Hollow yet,” you say. “We should at least cover all our bases. What, scared of doing overtime?”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “Maybe a workaholic like you wouldn’t get it, but overtime is the public enemy of every government employee out there. So, what were you thinking about?”

“About… the past,” you say, relenting. “And how we used to fight all the time.”

“Oh? Thinking about me?”

“Only about how annoying you used to be.”

“Rude. Is this how you talk about your precious partner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s too late to find someone else. You’re stuck with me,” Harumasa says cheerfully.

“I never said I would find another partner. You’re the only one I want.” You try to keep your voice casual, just like Harumasa, but something honest creeps in, something a little raw and unfiltered, like light through an unsealed crack.

And maybe he senses it, too, your inability to play the blithe role as well as he does, because he doesn’t jump in right away with another joke. The silence lingers, throwing the rhythm of your banter off-balance.

“The only one, huh…” From the way his hair shades his eyes, you can’t make out his expression or read his tone. 

“Harumasa,” you begin, but a sudden beep cuts off your words. You glance at each other, all awkwardness vanishing as Harumasa glances at a device in one of his pockets. 

Your Bangboo guide jerks to a sudden stop. This is the end of its automated guidance, as far as its data will take you. The two of you have reached the top floor of what must have once been a tower, a spiderweb of uneven, rusted metal and crumbling walls exposed to the low, grey sky. The floor slopes down to a sharp drop, leading to nothing but open air.

“Ether spike,” Harumasa says. His hand is already drifting to his bow. “But I don’t see anything. Where…”

It happens in a split second. Your body reacts before your mind can, years of training ingraining in you the necessary reflex to spring back as an Ethereal drops down from above, crashing like a meteor where you and Harumasa once stood.

Your daggers are already in hand, and you leap forward as an arrow flies from above, distracting the creature long enough for you to slash along one of its appendages. It roars, and you’re already darting behind it, Harumasa running along its other side.

It’s an Ethereal like none you’ve seen before. A Thanatos? A Duhallan? No, none of the existing classifications match. It’s eerily beautiful, its core pulsing with multi-colored light, corrupted growth framing it like a star, delicate, vine-like appendages darting out momentarily to propel the Ethereal away from your reach. This must be the source of the disturbance Yanagi told you about.

Harumasa calls your name, and on instinct, you fall back as he lunges forward with a dizzying series of slashes with his blades. You’ve faced worse than an unclassified Ethereal of unknown strength. Even if neither of you have expected to engage an enemy, that doesn’t mean you aren’t prepared to. 

The battle continues back and forth, a waltz of sharp steel and split-second communication between you and Harumasa as you implement all the maneuvers you learned in training. It seems like there’s no end in sight, but you’re tiring the Ethereal, slowly but surely. It’s only a matter of time before you find an opening to destroy its core.

And then, Harumasa stumbles. It’s only a brief moment, his body dipping as something like a cough shudders through him before he steadies, but it’s enough time for the Ethereal to lash out several appendages like a bolt of lightning. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as Harumasa flies backwards, his body bent like a doll discarded by a careless child.

Before you can think, you’re running, propelled by some instinct deeper than habit at the sight of your partner on the ground, throwing your daggers with wild precision as the Ethereal howls like a wounded animal. There’s not enough time to do anything except to throw your body in front of Harumasa before the Ethereal lashes out again in a brutal, sweeping arc.

Your body explodes with pain. Then, you’re weightless. The Ethereal has sent you flying, and briefly, it’s like you’re back on the roof, Harumasa leaning against your shoulder, the wind in your face, before you’re tumbling over the edge of the tower.

In the field of your vision, something gold flashes. Harumasa’s headband. It’s all you can see, the afterimage of it burned into your eyes like the sun as everything goes dark.

—

From your earliest memories as a child, you had always been lonely. Maybe that’s why you were drawn to things that reminded you of the sun, searching for anything to give you stability or warmth.

Your story wasn’t particularly unique: your parents were killed in an accident in a Hollow. You were shunted from relative to relative who never knew what to do with you. You clung to academics and books to prove yourself because you had nothing else.

You had a decently high Ether aptitude, so when you got the opportunity to join an elite academy on a scholarship, why wouldn’t you take away your chance to escape away from relatives who never cared for you? At the time, you had been living with one of your mother’s older brothers–what was his name? You’d long since forgotten, and he hadn’t bothered to keep in contact once you left.

Either way, you graduated with honors and a flawless academic record. When Miyabi selected you to join Section Six, despite your lack of experience, you were excited.

“I believe you’ll deliver results,” Miyabi told you simply, that very first day. “That’s why I chose you.”

A flush of pride made your face glow. “I won’t disappoint you!”

It was so nice to be relied on. To find a place that needed you, where you were valued. You were tied to Section Six through more pragmatic things than fragile family ties that easily dissolved.

You did your best, but it was hard when you weren’t the only new member–Asaba Harumasa was assigned to Section Six at the same time as you. From the very start, your work ethics, lifestyles, and attitudes couldn’t be more different.

“Could you try to finish your paperwork on time? When you don’t, it slows the entire process down,” you would tell Harumasa.

“It gets done, though. Does it really matter when I do it?” he would reply.

Frustratingly enough, even then, the two of you did so well on missions together that you were always assigned to be each other’s partner. Maybe his work on the field earned him a little respect in your eyes; it was the one thing you couldn’t really criticize him on. But at the same time, it was infuriating that you had to put so much time and effort into delivering flawless results, and Harumasa always skated by with minimal effort. 

One particular fall, the two of you were assigned to a mission to investigate high-level Ethereals in a local Hollow. Soon enough, you and Harumasa were surrounded. As skilled as you were, parrying several different Ethereals meant one could easily slip into your blind spot and strike. Too late, you only noticed when it was already moving, and you could only grit your teeth, bracing for impact–until its limbs met a flash of steel. Harumasa had leapt in front of you, pushing the Ethereal back and giving you enough time to strike its core.

“Harumasa–” you began to say.

“On your left!”

And then you were flung into the heat of battle, with no time to process what just happened until the threats were neutralized.

It was only then you saw the gash running along Harumasa’s arm, blood soaking into his rolled up sleeves. Without a word, you took out your medical kit, and started applying disinfectant. Harumasa didn’t even wince as you dabbed away the blood with cotton balls. You knew, from the location alone, he had got it while protecting you.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, wrapping bandages around the wound. “This is my fault.”

“What are you talking about? I did this on my own.”

“But if I hadn’t been so careless–”

“You’re my partner. I’ll always have your back,” Harumasa said. His tone was as blithe as always, but there was a strange, tenderness underlying it.

His face was coated in dust and drying blood from battle, and yet, his eyes were still a startlingly pure gold, vibrant and warm. When he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you, all of you, warming you like the sun. He didn’t avoid your gaze or look past you, like your relatives had.

After that, you settled into Section Six, not because you were needed, but because you were wanted. Your arguments with Harumasa melted into something softer, something more playful. He was your partner, and you no longer grumbled about taking the same missions as him.

One day, when you were sent to fetch Harumasa for some mission or meeting (a favorite errand of everyone’s to send you on because you had developed an uncanny sense of knowing where he liked to hide), you found him hunched him over in an empty office, knuckles white against a table as he coughed wetly, the force of it shuddering through his entire body. 

Harumasa, who had always looked for any excuse to slack off, who slept on the job, who acted like nothing could bother him, looked more vulnerable than you had seen before.

You knew he had a medical condition, but he never talked about it. Even when he did, he always made it seem so trivial. A minor inconvenience, and nothing more.

“You need to go to the infirmary,” you said, rushing over. “Or the doctor. I’ll call someone right now. I’ll–”

“Don’t,” Harumasa rasped. He grabbed your arm with more desperate force than you expected. “It’s fine.”

“You’re–”

“It’ll pass. Just let me… lean on you for a little.” Half-crouched on the ground, he collapsed his weight against you, and you both sank to the floor. You wrapped your arms around him and he leaned his head against your collarbone. You rubbed circles along his back, a meager offering to soothe him until the coughing subsided.

Harumasa’s breathing was shallow, and you wondered if he could hear the racing of your heart, the fear making it pound uncontrollably. His illness was more serious than he had ever let on.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly.

“I’m fine. It’s just all the pollen and dust, you know,” he said. There’s that familiar carefree, teasing edge to his tone, but it’s strained by his recent coughing.

“You don’t have to joke with me. I’m your partner. If there’s something I can do for you, you can let me know.”

There’s a moment of silence before Harumasa sighed, a soft, resigned sound. “I just don’t want the others to know.”

“I won’t tell them,” you promised.

He took a few more shallow breaths before speaking, voice cheerful, deceptively light and hollow, like a bird’s bone. “I have Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. It manifests primarily in my heart and lungs, but in exchange, I have high Ether aptitude. It’s the reason my parents… left me, a long time ago. A doctor took me in, but… Well. I was recruited to an academy, graduated, and ended up here. But you know about that part.”

You’ve known Harumasa long enough by now to know that he was only giving you carefully curated bits and pieces of his past. There was something he wasn’t not telling you, but that didn’t change the fact he had decided to place his trust in you, regardless. 

You understood what it was like to be left behind, to have nothing but yourself to cling to. Sympathy and pity weren’t what he wanted. No generic condolence could change his past or his fate.

Instead, you drew him closer to you. Harumasa let out a small, strangled gasp as you sheltered him in your arms. “I’ll be here for you, so thank you for trusting me.” 

Sometimes, words were cheap. The only response you needed was Harumasa’s arms wrapping around you in return, a tentative promise. 

It’s only a few weeks after that, when you were passing by a convenience store on the way home from work, that you saw the origami paper strips lining the shelves at a discounted price and remembered the elementary school pastimes of your classmates. 

As a child, you had wanted to make a hundred stars so you could make a wish for your parents to come back. But now, there was something else you wanted: not to make someone come back, but to make someone stay with you.

—

Your body aches. It’s all you’re aware of at first, a throbbing pain, spreading through your body in waves.

Your vision is blurry, the Hollow wavering in front of you like smeared paint, black protrusions and metal platforms blending together, a nightmarish portrait.

You drag your arm in front of your face, flex your fingers slowly until the world stops spinning. 

You’re alive. Against all odds, you’re alive, but you have no idea where you are or how much time has passed. You’d probably fallen into a distortion.

With any luck, Harumasa has already left and called for back-up. You could survive in a Hollow longer than most ordinary people could, but you didn’t want to test your limits. For now, you would have to do your best to survive. With agonizingly slow movements, like you’re dragging your body through water, you check your daggers and equipment, and survey the area around you. It’s full of twisted metal structures corrupted with black growth, platforms and stairs jutting from rocky walls, like a building that’s been swallowed by a cliff, with no particularly distinguishing feature.

It then takes even longer to convince your legs to support your weight, and to take a few steps without leaning against the wall.

Something clatters in the distance, heavy limbs dragging on the floor. Ethereals. This part of the Hollow is infested with them, a mutated sea of green and pearlescent black cores, though you’re temporarily sheltered in the area where you fell. As long as you avoid them, you should be fine; you’re no longer in any condition for prolonged combat.

All you can do is slowly drag yourself around, daggers at the ready, sneaking past any Ethereal you see. It’s agonizing work to be so careful, especially when you’re occasionally hit by waves of dizziness and your injuries make your reflexes slow.

Is Harumasa safe? Did he escape? Did he destroy the Ethereal? Or did something worse happen to him? There’s no point thinking like this and driving yourself insane, but your thoughts scatter like a flight of migrating birds, and no matter where they go, they always end up drifting in Harumasa’s direction.

Maybe you can blame Harumasa for distracting you when an Ethereal catches sight of you before you can fully conceal yourself. You can do nothing but mumble curses under your breath as more Ethereals are drawn to the noise and you’re forced to draw your weapon.

It’s harder to fight without Harumasa to cover your back. You’ve gotten too used to having him at your back. Several times, you open your mouth to call his name, but he’s not there to answer. It’s just you, clumsily dodging blows and aiming weak strikes at Ethereals you normally would have been able to dispatch with ease.

You might die here. The thought comes, unbidden. You’re weakened, surrounded, when an Ethereal looms over you. You twist your body around trying to dodge, but your body refuses to move as fast as you need it to as the Ethereal prepares to strike–only to still, stagger a few steps, and then collapse onto the ground, a spray of arrows protruding from its back.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you whip your head up in the direction the arrows came from. It can’t be, but it is. It’s him. Your partner, his mouth set in a grim, furious line as he draws his bow back. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look so angry.

In what feels like no time at all, the remaining Ethereals fall and your body feels light as you fight with renewed energy. Hardly any of them could get near you before Harumasa has shot them down with enough force that their bodies slam into the floor with a shattering crack. As soon as the last threat is neutralized, you’re running to Harumasa, but he’s faster than you.

“Harumasa—” Your words are muffled as Harumasa pulls you into a hug. His fingers dig into your shoulders, his grip tight. There’s something possessive and desperate about his touch, as if he might never hold you again and he has to memorize the shape of your body while he still has the chance.

His skin gleams with sweat, his white shirt sticking to his torso. Has he been running around this whole time, looking for you, without resting? You press your ear to his chest, where his heart rabbits in his chest in a frightened run.

“I thought you died,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“I…”

“I thought I lost you. And I couldn’t stop until I found your body, and I would have to tell the others that you… because of me, you…”

“Harumasa, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear that.”

You tentatively bring your arms around him, and a shudder wracks through his body at your touch. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Then don’t do something so reckless again! If you die… If you die, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

“I can’t promise that. You’re my partner. I told you I would have your back. If I see you in trouble, I can’t just run away.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I want you to live,” you murmur. “I want you to live, no matter what.”

“Then you have to live with me.” Harumasa pulls back abruptly, bringing his hands to your cheeks, and pinching. 

You attempt to reply, but you can only make a garbled noise of affirmation. It’s hard to talk when Harumasa is pulling your cheeks like taffy, but maybe he isn’t ready to hear your response.

You place your hands over his, and Harumasa stills, your touch a soothing balm. He lets out a breath. “Let’s get out of here. You need to get your injuries looked at.”

For the rest of the time until you leave the Hollow, Harumasa clings persistently to your side, refusing to move a step unless you have as well. You would call his pace leisurely if not for the tense way he holds his body, poised for threats from any direction. You’re half-tempted to ask if he would feel more at ease holding your hand, but you have a feeling he would never let you go again if you did.

Harumasa doesn’t relax even when you’re back at your workplace, where he escorts you directly to the infirmary and paces outside the entire time, causing the nurse’s eyebrows to crease in irritation at the sound of his rapid footsteps.

“I’m fine,” you announce the second you step out of the infirmary. “Okay? The nurse said I had no major injuries, though I’m not supposed to be on the field for a week. And I have to do a few more check-ins.” 

It’s only at your words that Harumasa finally relaxes. “This is probably the first sick day you’re going to take,” Harumasa says, but his teasing doesn’t quite match his eyes, which keep roaming your body for stray injuries which the nurse might have missed.

In the office, you’re immediately assailed by Yanagi, Miyabi, and Soukaku, who fuss over your bruises, the bandages peeking under your clothes, and the patches on your face.

“I’m glad you two are okay! I was so worried when I heard what happened. I know you’re capable, but you shouldn’t be so reckless,” Yanagi scolds lightly. 

“Take the time to rest and recover completely,” Miyabi says. “Section Six needs you, and we can’t function well if you’re not around.” 

“Take these snacks! They’re tasty, and they’ll help you feel better!” Soukaku says earnestly, shoving an armful of packaged chips at you.

It’s been a long time since anyone has worried over you like this. It’s a little embarrassing how everyone’s attention is focused solely on you, and you can’t keep a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Everyone… I promise I’m fine! You don’t have to fuss over me like this.” 

“Don’t forget to go back for your checkup,” Yanagi interjects. “All right? I don’t want to see you on the field until you’re cleared. And you, Harumasa! You need to take care of yourself, too.”

“Yanagi is right,” Miyabi says. “Maybe you should get a check-up as well.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Harumasa says, holding his hands out placatingly. “My injuries aren’t as bad as theirs. In fact, I’ll be a good partner and take care of them, promise.”

“That’s a first,” you interject, “Since when you were so excited about doing work?”

“I’m only excited when you’re involved,” he says, and you don’t know what to say to that.

The rest of the day passes by pleasantly once Section Six is satisfied that you’re doing well, though they keep making excuses to stop by your desk and leave you drinks from the vending machine or little treats. You fill your time with paperwork and organizing files, and when those are done, crafting paper stars at your desk.

“What are you gonna wish for when you have a hundred stars?” Soukaku says, sprawling across your desk and picking up a strip of paper to fold with clumsy, childish joy. 

“I’m actually not going to wish for anything. I’m going to give my wish to someone else.” 

“What? You can do that? Then I wanna give wishes to you and Nagi and Miyabi and Harumasa!” 

“Thank you, Soukaku.” 

“Who’re you going to give your wish to?” Soukaku asks as you hand her more origami paper strips. 

“Hm…” You survey the star you’ve just finished folding. “It’s for someone important. It’s a little embarrassing to talk about it out loud, though.”

“Why? I think whoever it is will be happy that you’re thinking about them!” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Yeah!” Soukaku says. “I would be happy if you gave me a wish!”

“Then should I make you a hundred paper stars, Soukaku?”

“Really? Yay!” 

By the end of the work shift, you’ve finally filled your glass jar with the necessary number of stars. You should feel happy, but what you didn’t tell Soukaku is that you wonder if it’s too presumptuous to give this to Harumasa. After all, you still remember what it’s like to be rejected by people who were supposed to love you and take care of you.

You cradle the jar in your hands, the product of all your meticulous work over the past two weeks. It’s heavy with the weight of your feelings and your ridiculous wish.

“Hey, partner.” Harumasa’s sudden voice makes you stiffen and whirl around, keeping the jar hidden behind your back. 

“Harumasa.” You take a breath. There’s no point in being embarrassed. “Do you have time right now?” 

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What a coincidence. I was just about to ask you that, too.” 

“I assume we’re both free, then. Come over to my place,” you tell him bluntly. 

“Your place?”

“Yes.”

Harumasa tilts his head like an inquisitive bird, considering. “Sure, but I didn’t realize you were that excited to see me after work.”

“Oh, don’t get full of yourself.”

The two of you are back to your usual banter, but it’s devoid of its usual lightness. The events from the Hollow still linger over you, and Harumasa sucks in a breath before giving a casual smile. You respond with a roll of your eyes, but it feels wooden, everything unsaid thickening the air like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. 

The journey back to your apartment is peaceful. You take the train, watching the familiar strips of buildings and city lights streaking past, soft smudges against the glowing sun, sinking like a pat of butter in a red, syrupy sky. 

You live in a relatively nice building, the salary from your job affording you a lobby as well as a doorman and a fast elevator. At your apartment door, you fumble with your keys, fingers heavy and clumsy as you’re aware of Harumasa’s presence behind you, waiting.

The door clicks open and you step into your apartment, a one bedroom, one bathroom affair with sturdy, comfortable furniture, books and knick-knacks lining the shelves of the joint living room and kitchen. More books are stacked precariously on the single table you use for both work and meals, situated in the center. 

You slip off your shoes and into your house slippers, offering a pair to Harumasa, who after putting them on promptly walks over to one of the shelves in the living room and pokes at a little Bangboo statue. There’s a whole forest of them lining the shelf, all in different outfits and poses.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan. Hey, do you get the public security ones to help you cross the street?”

“Don’t touch it. It’s a collectible and I’m trying to get the last one in the series,” you say crisply. “And of course I do. It makes the ones patrolling the streets happy to help.”

“Wait, really?”

“They’re adorable, Harumasa. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“It’s not a bad thing! I just think you have a surprisingly cute side, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep your face schooled in a neutral expression, before gesturing to the table in the living room. “Take a seat. I’ll make some tea.”

You brew a pot of bitter green tea, taking out a plate of crumbly packaged cookies to snack on. They’re the least sweet snack you have in the house which Harumasa would be happy to eat.

For a few minutes, there’s only the clink of your cups and the crunch of cookies, a pleasant way to spend your time after work. Neither of you talk, the food giving you an excuse not to. It’s ridiculous how such a small gift could make you feel so nervous. You need to do it now. Otherwise, what would the point be of inviting him over?

You run your finger along the rim of your teacup, pressing hard enough to feel the edge of smooth porcelain dig into skin. “There’s something I want to give to you.” 

“A present? For me?”��

“Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing fancy,” you say, before standing to retrieve the jar of stars, which you had shoved into your work bag.

You hold it behind your back until you’re in front of Harumasa, at which point you place the jar on the table and slide it over to him.

A hundred stars for one wish. You explain the story to him as Harumasa cups his hands around the jar, peering intently as if he could see the hours you spent painstakingly crafting each individual star. 

“I know it’s a little silly,” you say quietly. “But I want whatever you wish for to come true, no matter what.” 

Harumasa’s eyes when he looks at you are just like stars, warm, bright gold, that you would trust to guide you no matter what path you tread.

“I want you to be happy,” you say, the words falling from your mouth like a wish of your own. 

“Happy, huh?” Harumasa closes his eyes briefly, stars winking out of existence. 

“I’m sorry if that’s presumptuous. You don’t have take this gift if you don’t want–”

“Whoa! This is mine now. You can’t have it back now that you’ve given it to me. It’s just… there are some things about my illness I haven’t told you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you say.

“I want to tell you, though. People with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome don’t typically live long lives. The illness is terminal. The oldest-recorded person lived only to be 26.” Harumasa says it matter-of-factly, the numbers rolling out of him like he’s simply reciting information from a medical brochure. “In late stages, the body breaks down. And if someone with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome is in a Hollow when their body breaks down, then they’ll turn into an Ethereal.”

This is the knowledge Harumasa has been carrying with him all this time and hiding from everyone in Section Six. It must have weighed him down like stones, knowing that if things take a turn for the worse in a mission within the Hollow, he’ll become one of the monsters you and Section Six have to put down. How long has he carried this by himself?

No matter how you try to hide your feelings, Harumasa knows how to read you just as much as you know how to read him, because he raises a hand and lazily waves it through the air. “Don’t look so worried. It doesn’t bother me that much.”

“I’m your partner. Of course I’m going to be worried about you,” you say quietly. “I told you, didn’t I? I want you to be happy.”

Harumasa gazes down at the table, away from you and the jar of stars in front of him. “You are, huh? Can I trust you with something else, then?”

“What is it?”

“If anything happens to me,” he says, “and I turn into an Ethereal, you have to promise that you’ll kill me.”

There’s no other answer for you, not when he looks at you like that. “I promise. I won’t let anyone else do it.”

“Then I’m all yours, partner.”

“But…” You reach for Harumasa’s hand across the table, slowly and reverentially sliding your fingers under his, feeling the press of each callous on his slender fingers. These beautiful hands, which you have saved and which have saved you again and again. “I gave you a wish, you know? So you can have anything you want.”

“Eh? Didn’t I tell you what I wanted?”

“It doesn’t count,” you persist. “If it helps, I’ll tell you what I want.”

“All right, what is it?”

“I want you to live forever.”

“That’s way too long,” Harumasa protests.

“Then live for a hundred years at the very least,” you say. “I wanted you to be happy for a long, long time. I made you a hundred stars, so each star is worth one year of happiness.”

It’s ridiculous, you know. It’s not pragmatic at all. And maybe it’s cruel, too, to ask Harumasa something like this. But if he’s going to be selfish, then you’re going to be just as selfish. 

“A hundred years? Then you need to live that long, too.” Harumasa shifts his hand and hooks your pinky lightly with his own. “It’s not fair if I have to live that long without you. That’s going to be my wish.”

“Then I’ll make it come true,” you say. “I told you, didn’t I? We’re partners. Where you go, I’ll go.”

In the window across from you, ink-blue shadows flood the world. The sun had set while the two of you were talking, and the city lights wink like scattered gemstones across dark velvet.

“If you talk like that, then I’m not going to want to leave,” he says quietly. “You make me want to act selfishly.”

“Then act selfishly. I’ll forgive you.”

He lets out a sigh, squeezing your pinky. “You’re not fair at all.”

“Good,” you say archly. “Stay the night, Harumasa.”

Harumasa stills at your words, and you can feel the faint tremor of his hand. “I have nightmares. It’s not going to be a good time for you.”

“That’s all right,” you say. “I’ll take care of you.”

It’s easy having Harumasa in your apartment, where he fits seamlessly into your normal routine, the same way he does at work. You lend him towels, and baggy pajamas, and then the two of you take turns using the bathroom. You order cheap takeout from a local restaurant, which you eat in front of the glow of your television, watching the news. As you wash up the dishes, Harumasa perches on the counter, cracking jokes that make you roll your eyes or smile. 

Harumasa, framed in the soft glow of kitchen lights like a halo behind him, hair askew, wrinkling his borrowed clothes, makes your heart ache. It would be nice to have him around like this, all the time. You’ve forgotten the warmth of having someone in your home until now.

You should bring out the futon you keep for guests, but you don’t mention it, and Harumasa doesn’t ask. So he follows you to your bedroom, knees bumping against the side of the metal frame as you pull out an extra pillow for him. 

Harumasa dutifully takes out his rows of medicine, orange bottles lined up your nightstand, brightly colored pills falling down his throat with each sip of water from the glass you’ve brought him. He folds his golden headband neatly next to the bottles, and finally places the jar of stars to stand guard over everything. It makes you feel ticklish that he wants to keep your gift so close.

Your bed is too small for two people, but neither of you complain as your legs tangle together, Harumasa resting his forehead against yours. In the dark, you grope for his hand, entangling your fingers with his, where they belong.

“Good night, partner,” he whispers. He’s so close his breath tickles your face.

“Good night.”

“It’s too late to turn back now,” he murmurs, but you can’t tell if he’s saying it to you or himself.

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t,” you say, tracing nonsensical letters on his back with the fingertips of your free hand, a message he can’t read.

“I know. I guess we’re stuck together.”

“I told you. We’re partners. I’m yours forever,” you say.

Harumasa squeezes your hand. “And I’m yours, so let’s take good care of each other.”

If you strain your head, you can see a faint strip of moonlight from your parted curtains illuminating your nightstand where a hundred paper stars glow. Like a promise, a wish, of a hundred years of happiness.

[fairyfairyfairy]

currentlt squealinf I MEAN WJAT

— MEMOIRS OF THE PAST

summary: leaving a topic behind to go check up on sunday worked out well in your favor.

cw: romantic sunday pairing, past romantic dan heng pairing, after 2.7 quest but nothing mentioned, reader is an astral express member, caelus as trailblazer, fluff with an undertone of hurt/comfort | wc: 2k+ | my secret santa gift for @milksnake-tea <3 please read the note at the end

The Express seemed to hum during its “nighttime”. The record Caelus set earlier this morning looping idly, the tune stitched into your memory. Pom-Pom had stopped sweeping around ten minutes ago, Himeko retired to her cabin, Welt had long gone to his own as well for a much-needed rest.

Dan Heng insisted that he assisted March in “helping Caelus decorate his room”. Not that you would raise an eyebrow at him for doing so, those two were bound to have everything turned upside down and on the ceiling if left alone.

Which left only one Express member left, Sunday.

In your opinion, he could rival Dan Heng in measures of silence. At first you weren’t sure if he simply disliked you, but after being around him for more than a month you soon realized he was just like that.

It’s not as if he was cold, though.

The first week he was on the Express, he brought everyone delicacies that he presumed would match everyone’s taste.

He was correct in his judgement.

You weren’t even sure how he had figured out that you loved deep-fried flying sea anemone — a dish you tried on Xianzhou when in need of a small energizer after all that went down — nonetheless how many toppings you liked to have with it.

You remember messaging Caelus after receiving the gift, questioning if he had played any part in it. The only response you had received was a Wubbaboo emoji.

Very helpful.

That was besides the point, however. 

Unlocking your phone with a click, you opened your messenger. You sent Dan Heng a simple “u up?” before scrolling through your contacts, bored and in need of someone to bother. 

The second Dan Heng responded, you tapped on the notification.

You ; 10:45pm     u up?

Dan Heng ; 10:47 pm    You should be asleep.

Of course….

You ; 10:47pm    so should you

You hit him with the Pom-Pom “Pay Attention”. That’ll get him.

Dan Heng ; 10:48pm    …    Sleep if you can.     If not go see what Sunday is up to, he’s been silent for a long while.

Dan Heng ; 10:49pm    March said she let him in her room to look at photos.    Try looking there first.

You ; 10:49pm     march is letting him go through her photos alone??     did see get possessed by some random heliobi somehow??

Dan Heng ; 10:49pm    As far as I’m aware, no.     He’s…processing a lot of things right now.     Especially ones about his past.     I know how that feels.

You bit down of your tongue harshly to stop the bitter laugh surfacing from your throat. You knew that. How could you not practically know everything about him considering you two were the only people on the Express besides Welt, Himeko, and Pom-Pom for a long time.

Maybe, maybe you were still irritated that Dan Heng had kept his secret from you after you both had “dated” off and on for a time of years. Leaving you to a not so fun surprise during your time in the Xianzhou Luofu. Iron filled your mouth and you let your facial muscles relax. Aeons…you needed to get a grip. What was done was done.

Your phone’s ding pulled you out from the mucky mess of the past.  

Dan Heng ; 10:50pm    Please check up on him. 

Cringing, you hesitated before sending a Pom-Pom emoji. Huffing you placed your phone down beside yourself, rolling your head to the side to stare at your cabin’s door. Ah, what the hell. All of that didn’t matter right now. Sunday.

It didn’t take you that long to find him, in March’s cabin. Sitting cross-legged and shuffling through photos, door ajar just enough that you could peek in without disturbing him. You assumed March let him in, she’s bubbly yet still wary when need be. 

After what went down Sunday certainly was a “need be”. 

Rapping your knuckles against the door, you watched as a photo album slipped from his grasp before he caught it between his forefinger and thumb. The only sign of him being startled. Turning his head, Sunday’s posture relax imperceptibly. 

“Sorry”, Slipping inside the cabin, you caught the door before it shut completely, “I should’ve been more noticeable, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me.” He was quick to retort, sparing you a second glance before focusing back on the picture.

“Right.” Easing over you crouched beside Sunday, noting the lack of his gloves and coat – two clothing items he almost never went without. Peering over his shoulder, the image of a smiling Robin with an excited March taking a selfie with her filled your vision. 

Oh. 

You hesitantly sat down, “I remember when that was taken, y’know? On the feldspar.” The addition after everything happened in Penacony died down on your tongue, you shouldn’t mention that. “March was so excited to finally snap a photo with her. She wouldn’t stop rambling about it all day.”

Sunday’s right wing twitched as he placed the photo back in its slot within the laced album, “That sounds like Miss March.”

A silence creeped back over the both of you, the Express’ humming becoming more prominent within your mind. The nagging feeling that you made an incorrect choice prodding along with the melody running on repeat inside your head. Perhaps you should have made the decision to leave him be. Maybe letting Dan Heng know that he was looking through photos would’ve been enough. 

His message became center stage in the circus of your mind. He’s processing a lot of things right now. That was understandable, and that was also the problem. You weren’t sure how to interact with Sunday without dragging him back in his murky mess of a past.

Like you did with yourself earlier.

But, then again, it’s not like you’ve done anything to make him feel outed, right? All you have to do is just leave and check back in with Dan Heng. And maybe you can catch a few hours of sleep. Just excuse yourself and head back to your cabin. 

“Well…” Standing up you raised your arms over your head, stretching until you could start to feel a slight burn, “If you don’t need anything I guess I can-”

“Wait!”

Time seemed to freeze as your eyes went wide, both of Sunday’s wings twitched violently, and the Express seemed to stop humming as if his shout momentarily stunned it. Lowering the hand he had extended in suddenness, Sunday cleared his throat. 

“I apologize. That was abrupt of me.” You swear you could see his eyes flickering between you and the wall, a moment of nervousness from Sunday caught for once in your eyes, “I was curious if you had any more stories about your travels to tell. I enjoy them.”

Feeling yourself becoming flustered, you started to ease back over to where he was sat. Perhaps your tendency to recall and talk about your journeys with the crew had gotten yourself a title as the second best storyteller within the crew.

You were never beating March for second. 

Point still stands. 

Although no one honestly asked you to retell stories unless no one else was present to do so. It might’ve been because you do so without honest flair or excess details that added a hint of humor to the mix. However, that could be your opinion of how you tell tales carrying over to your own thoughts. 

It was like he handed you the book for popcorn reading.

Sunday seemed to slide over, making room for him. A considerate action that wasn’t new. He often didn’t want to get in the way, even when he wasn’t. You can recall when he stood to the side when Pom-Pom was sweeping in a completely different area than him, as if he was trying to blend into the wall. 

Odd.

You reached for a photo in the album blindly, blinking thrice as you realized which one you had chosen. It was one from Xianzhou of all of your luck, one snapped in a hurry. It was on of you, Dan Heng, and Caelus in front of the Express. Caelus and you were mimicking Dan Heng’s newly-found horns (at the time) with your fingers before you all departed Xianzhou, March snapping the photo quickly before Dan Heng had started to stalk off the train.

That was a fun moment, despite all that had happened.

“That’s from the Xianzhou Luofu, correct?” Sunday questioned even though you could tell he already knew by the look within his eyes, “I’ve heard about what had happened there.”

You nodded. “It was a thing.”

A thing? Really?

“I never thought to ask what the story behind his form in these pictures was all about”, Sunday started, “Do you think you could tell me some about it?”

You take that previous statement back, he handed you a loaded gun.

The wince that slipped past your lips was sharp enough to sound like a whistle. With a click of your tongue, you started to put the photo back, “Well, I think you’d have to ask Dan Heng that yourself. He seems to have taken a liking to you so maybe you won’t get the sharp end of the sword.”

The statement was meant to be humorous, yet it came out as the complete opposite.

“It’s just something from his past. Everyone has one that nags them on this Express it seems, even someone as giddy as Caelus,” Closing the album, you reached for another one.

“Even you?”

“Unfortunately”, laughing you turned your face to look at him, “It’s not as deep as memory loss or being birthed from a literal nuke. Why? You surprised?”

“It’s hard to imagine you being chained down by memories and experiences of the past, you don’t let it seem to show.” You weren’t sure if you or Sunday had moved closer to one another.

In public you wanted to add, letting the two words melt on your tongue. 

“Yeah, well”, Scooting closer, your right knee bumped his left, “It’s different for everyone.”

“That it is.”

The humming of the Express seemed to become muted, as if you had submerged underneath the water.

Sunday was so pretty.

His hair framed over his wings perfectly, his eye color blending into his attire beautifully. Little things that he seemed to make stand out wonderfully.

“Do you and Dan Heng have quarrel?” Lifting his head, Sunday’s eyes locked onto your own, “I do not want to trouble you by mentioning the past if both of you have some together.”

“No, it’s just a…little thing.” 

Who started to lean in first?

“A little thing? You have a lot of those, hmm?” Sunday’s lips upturned slightly before they fell into their normal line, “Are you sure?” “You’re not getting in the way of anything, Sunny.” The nickname made his lips part, his honeyed breath being intook by your nostrils, “It’s fine, I swear.”

You could practically feel his hair against your face as he tried to close the distance, flinching back once his nose brushed against yours. Your fingers traced the outline of his jaw as he exhaled shakily, his lashes fluttering closed so delicately it was if a feather had fallen against the smooth water of his skin. 

Smooth lips met yours as soon as your own eyes closed.

You felt his hand sneak up to the nape of your neck, a gasp pushing past your lips at the skin-on-skin contact. Sunday must’ve felt as he did something incorrect, pulling back before you brought up your other hand, keeping him within the moment of the kiss.

The muffled humming started to become clearer as you pulled back to open your eyes. Sunday’s wings had come around to fit around his face, a pink creeping past the edges. 

And you let out a small laugh filled with nothing but joy.

Lowing his wings from his face, Sunday averted his gaze partially to the ground, “I suppose you should go back and try to sleep now.”

Although it was a statement, it carried more a questionable tone.

“Yeah”, you croaked out, nodding stiffly as you stood up. “You rest well if you can.” With a nod himself, Sunday started to study the pattern on another photo album. You practically speed-walked out of March’s cabin, heading to your own down the hall as your hand subconsciously raised to your lips.

Aeons were you glad you didn’t bring the past to the present with Dan Heng.

HI ILLU!! i hope you enjoy and this wasn't too ooc 😓😓 you've been such a huge inspiration and a major reason of why i'm so hooked on sunday as much as i am HAHAHA, i hope you have a very wonderful christmas and the rest of the year treats you right. thank you so much for being so wonderful and joyous to be around, i truly appreciate you 🫶🏽

[fairyfairyfairy]

reblofing so i can read this later!!

All of this, for a phonograph? - (Gepard x florist!reader)

Summary: After having an odd dream and unexpectedly getting a promotion, you head down to the Underworld in some weird journey of self-discovery that ends up in a whole lot of chaos.

▸ Genre(s): fluff, angst

▸ Word Count: 16.6k

▸ Tags: Gepard x reader

▸ Warnings: food mentions, violence, mentions of blood, crying, emetephobia tw, having to wake up early,

A/N: IM SO FUCKINGN TIRED.

I was not expecting to surpass my word count record. Anyways, sorry for the initial jankyness. I don’t write in present tense often

MOSSBALL MASTERLIST (psst more gepard here)

Sitting at a desk in front of a window, accompanied by a stained brass lamp and an old family photo you were certain had been lost (during the evacuation of Rivet Town), you watched the people of Belobog mill about the Alexandra Plaza beneath the setting sun.

You smile softly to yourself, laying your tired fountain pen to rest beside a variety of parchments that contained pictures of flowers you had never seen, and writing that didn’t quite make sense.

Something tugs at the corners of your mind to make you rise from your seat and tiptoe down the hallway towards the kitchen.

It was your kitchen, presumably.

The mahogany floorboards creaked softly in protest, but they were covered by the sound of the familiar sound of music coming from the phonograph you’d had as a child. It got louder the closer you got to the end of the hallway.

How you missed those old songs. You used to sit by the fireplace with a warm cup of milk, listening to the music while the flames flickered at you.

From the kitchen, golden light peeps through the doorway at you. Warm and comforting, it drips over the paintings and vases decorating the hallway.

It was so strange. This place felt like home, yet you had never seen it before in your entire life.

As you push open the door, your heart leaps and lodges itself directly in your throat.

Oh. It’s Gepard, you think, surprised.

He stands in front of the kitchen sink, a bright blue apron adorning his waist and shoulders, with dishwashing gloves to match. Bubbles from the soapy water floated around him while he worked, and then sank to the tile floor, where they disappeared with a few soft pops.

The oven light illuminated something resting on the top rack. You lick your lips; it was always a joy whenever Gepard decided to cook.

“Ah, good evening, honey,” Gepard says, discarding his gloves and resting them on the counter. “Are you finished for the day?”

Honey?

Something about that struck an odd note.

“Yep! All done,” you say, not quite knowing what you’re talking about. “I can rest easy now. Thanks for taking care of the dishes,”

You smile and bound over to his side in your slippers.

“I’m happy to hear that. The pie is almost done, are you feeling hungry at all?” He asks. He unties his apron, (which, you might add, looks very good on him) and pulls two plates out of the cupboard. You have two of everything, from spoons to mugs. It makes your heart flutter like a herd of butterflies.

“Um… gosh, this was unexpected. But pie sounds great!” You reply while bending down to peer through the oven door. Its crust was a wonderful golden color, just like the sun. “What kind is it?”

“Apple,” Gepard replies. He sidles up next to you until your shoulders are touching. You had a decent view of the hair on the back of his neck from here, which was slightly darker than the hair on top of his head. Definitely cute, you think.

The captain smiles gently at you, almost puppy-esque in the way his eyes search yours for approval. He tilts his head downward and—

Wait a moment. Why was he so close? What was going on?

—to slowly and tenderly place a kiss on your cheek.

Your heart threatens to reach escape velocity.

Whoa there, scooter. Keep it cool, now, you scold yourself.

“You’re always so generous,” you compliment, cupping his cheeks with your hands. You shut your eyes, and this time, kiss him gently on the lips. It felt so right, the way you combed your fingers through his hair and how you knew exactly what to do.

Gepard’s cheeks burn pink as you pull away. The color contrasted his blue eyes, which resembled rich, deep sapphires with icy blue highlights at the bottom. You stared at them dreamily, when suddenly a strange ringing invaded your eardrums.

Oh, that must be the pie.

You pulled some oven mitts that were the size of cookie sheets out of your pockets and turned back to the oven— which had, for some reason, been very curiously turned into a washing machine.

You whip around again, and this time your husband(?) is dressed in full military regalia. Gepard takes a few steps back and throws himself out of the open kitchen window, saluting you as he goes.

You were certain you lived in a two-story building.

And oh, the ringing. It was getting increasingly louder. You clamp your hands over your ears indignantly while scanning the room for the source of the noise.

Can we not do this right now? You thought. I just wanted some pie,

Gravity seemed to be playing tricks on you as the fog began to lift, pulling you out of your deep sleep.

You blinked. The strange building had been replaced by the wooden ceiling of the Eversummer Florist you were used to.

Phonograph… I need to get my phonograph so Gepard and I can—,

Groaning, you limply smacked the phone on your bedside table with your arm and turned to tuck the blankets back under your chin. But the damn thing rang again as if to mock you.

Huh. I don’t remember setting two alarms, you thought. You clicked your tongue on the top of your mouth, cringing at the dreaded taste of morning breath as you sat up slowly.

You picked up the phone, hazily coming to the realization that it wasn’t yours. The alarm’s label was titled, “surprise,” which was ironic, considering it was quite the unpleasant one. A picture of Artem, from the hit novel, Tale of the Winterlands, was set as the lock screen.

There was no other person whom it could belong to.

The old wooden door to your dorm swung open, slamming into your armoire, which you were grateful was already chipped at that point. The sounds of streamers and confetti poppers blasted through whatever peace of mind you previously had, and a group of people, all wearing green berets, invaded your room. They were waving party wands around like it was the last day on Jarilo-VI.

Speaking of Vaska, she was busy pushing her way through the gaggle of people. She squeezed her body out of the fray to stand right over you, her green eyes staring straight at you unblinkingly, like some sort of lizard.

“Congratulations, (Y/N)! You’ve been promoted!” She cheered at you through cupped hands. Before you had realized it, you’d shot out of bed in surprise, flinging your covers everywhere.

“What? Really??” You asked, your jaw agape. You were still in your pajamas, but you were far beyond the fear of being seen in them.

“That’s right,” Meg, your boss, remarked. She was strict, but rather kind. “You’re now the general manager of the Eversummer Florist!”

She did have some odd ways of celebrating, though.

“Unless… you’d like to turn it down, of course,” she teased with a shrug.

“WAIT—! No, there’s no need. I would like the promotion, please,” you blurted. Vaska chuckled as she watched you scramble to put on your slippers,

Meg planted her hands on her hips sassily. “As I thought. Now, can you give everyone a thank you for giving you such a lovely surprise?”

“Thank you, everyone,” you gave them a toothy grin. A few whoops and cheers erupted from the back of the crowd.

“There’s a cupcake for you downstairs,” your boss added. “Pick it up whenever you like. Anyway, have a nice day off, kiddo. You deserve it more than anyone,”

“Aww, thank you so much!” You exclaimed. A cupcake sounded wonderful.

Meg tuned right around and whisked herself out of the door from whence she came. Everyone else followed suit in a single file line, like a group of ducklings. That made you chuckle.

You opened the blinds and peered outside. Icicles coated the power lines and hung from the roofs of houses, announcing the upcoming Solwarm Festival with their appearance. Meg probably had an ulterior motive, seeing as Belobog hadn’t held a Solwarm Festival in years— and Vaska had a particular penchant to break down under pressure. She could probably use another person to help ensure the festivities went smoothly.

You scoffed confidently at the challenge. With you and Vaska on the job, there was nothing on Jarilo-VI that could take you down. It would be a good way to show off your newfound skill at the job as well.

But as you stood there, woozy from the forceful wake-up and experiencing the overwhelming need to pee, your brow furrowed.

What exactly do I want to do from now on?

The question came hurtling entirely out of the Snow Plains, punching you right in the nose.

Yes, you had moved to the surface and become some sort of flower tycoon. And you were as sure as you could be that you liked your job. Plus, you had even gotten a promotion. To the position of general manager, of all things!

But had you really put any thought into what your future might be? You had been given the opportunity to move to the surface by the ADCS (or Administrative District Civil Service), and you had taken it.

After a year of living here, you now had a few more things to consider. Did you want to move back home? Surely not after getting a promotion. Your boss would kill you.

Additionally, you weren’t necessarily homesick. Life in the mines was largely nomadic. Where employment was, you would follow. You didn’t miss the hacking cough you’d develop during the winter from the rock dust building up in your lungs.

Friends didn’t stay too long either. You all had to eat in some way or another, and work wasn’t always guaranteed for people who traveled together.

Maybe you could help expand the flower business? Or even get an apartment of your own? Perhaps officially studying mechanical engineering might be the way to go…

All these thoughts made your brain feel like it was going to split. You sighed, plopping back down on your bed before you remembered Meg had given you a pile of flyers to hand out two days prior. They advertised the Solwarm Festival and its details, a good source of information for anyone who wasn’t privileged enough to have experienced the festivities.

You had meant to give one to Natasha, since you weren’t sure how well news travelled from one floor to another. Plus, since Rivet Town was mostly safe again, you could probably pick up your phonograph from your old home.

Rats, you thought. So much for my day off.

•┈••✦ ❆ ✦••┈•

The streets and buildings of Belobog’s Administrative District had a light dusting of snow on them, much akin to the powdered sugar they put on the pastries they sold at the local café.

Alexandra Plaza was certainly filled with things to do, including, but not limited to visiting the Neverwinter Workshop, seeing a play at the Golden Theatre, and taking a tour of the Belobog History and Culture Museum. It was nothing short of incredible. Of course, there were a fair amount of activities in the underworld too; they would just be considered less than legal to the people up here.

You munched on your cupcake as you meandered your way to the rail car, the one specifically tasked with bringing denizens of Belobog from one level to another as thoughts flowed through your head. They’d fly in like birds, then disappear without a trace, so you had no time to dwell on them. Ones about your future, your old home, and the expectations you had for yourself.

What is it that I want, exactly?

You weren’t quite sure. You shuddered. That dream earlier had really shaken you up.

They say people dream about what they want the most, you wondered. But was it realistic in the slightest? You didn’t think so at all.

A cloud of frosty air rose in front of your face as you let out a heavy sigh. As you were reaching the ticket gate, you rounded a corner and nearly knocked heads with an older woman. She wore a maroon leather jacket trimmed with brown mink fur that brought attention to the hood and sleeves.

She glared daggers at you, pulling her tote close to herself and mumbling something about “soot-dwellers.” Meanwhile, you did everything in your power not to let your eyes roll out of your sockets.

Straightening your back, you hopped onto the rail car, leaving the Overworld and your worries behind you.

•┈••✦ ❆ ✦••┈•

As the rickety screeches of the elevator subsided, you felt like you were on cloud nine.

The underground was as familiar as the back of your hand. Although you’d spent a fair bit of your years as a vagrant in the mines, Boulder Town had an air of nostalgia to it as well. The miners used to gather there for a meal and a drink after a long day’s work (although it was mostly for a drink, if your memory served you correctly).

Soot and iron flooded your nostrils in waves as you walked around the northeast corner of town. The faraway shouts of the Fight Club arena, along with the hearty laughter from the miners in the tunnels, could be heard.

And how you missed this feeling! The sighs, the smells, the feeling of belonging. It all brought memories flooding through your brain. You missed singing and dancing around a campfire with other workers— arms around each other’s shoulders, mugs of bread soda in hand— while also competing to balance as many items as you could on Peak, the lazy miner (the record was 17).

A common saying from the old folks was that Geomarrow could make your blood run hot. And honestly, you believed them. One glance around the city hammered in the impression of hot-blooded community you felt. Geomarrow was the lifeblood of Belobog, and you were proud to be a part of it every step of the way.

Surface-dwellers could never understand it, you thought to yourself smugly. But you would never say that aloud.

You blended in seamlessly here, no mannerism you’d learned as a child going forgotten. You fell back into your usual swaggering gait, patting the backs of every old friend you came across. There was Seele, arguing with some poor member of Wildfire right next to the grocery stand; Hook, who was running at full speed alongside two other children, and you could’ve sworn you spotted a flash of someone with dark blue hair and green eyes before they vanished into a dark alleyway.

Old neighbors and colleagues greeted you, which made you smile. In the Underworld, there were no formal titles that you had to remember. Nobility? Never heard of it. If you were self-made down here, it was no joke.

Speaking of self-made, Miss Natasha was the real deal.

After nailing a good amount of posters to the walls, you dusted the soot off of your hands and headed towards the local clinic. The shopkeeper’s bell rang as you entered.

“Hi there, Miss Natasha!” You waved, the fliers pressed tightly to your chest.

The clinician smiled gently at you. “My, my. It’s been a while, (Y/N). How’s life been treating you?”

She stood front and center of the small, cramped room. Only a few cots were occupied; your favorite one next to the Geomarrow heater seemed to beckon you to come and have a seat.

“Quite well, as a matter of fact,” you chirped. “How about you? It looks pretty empty in here… although I guess that’s a good thing,”

Natasha chuckled softly. “I’ve been healthy, thank you kindly. One of the miners actually had a baby last week,” she placed down the vial she had been holding onto a nearby table.

“That’s wonderful!” You responded, clasping your hands together. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

One of the flyers slipped out of your arms and floated slowly to the concrete floor.

“Shoot. Actually, I came down here to give you this,” you said, sheepish about your faulty attention span. You handed her a flier, which had an illustration of a bright orange Solarflower bouquet.

Natasha let out a gasp and placed a hand in front of her mouth. “My goodness. They haven’t held a Solwarm Festival in many years. I didn’t think there would be one ever again,” she beamed at you. “I would be honored to attend, (Y/N),”

You bounced happily on the balls of your feet. Somewhere in the background, the shopkeeper’s bell rang, but the noise was quickly submerged by your other thoughts.

“I’m so glad!” You jabbered on and on. “Make sure to stop by the florist’s for some free suncakes. We partnered with a local bakery this year, so hopefully we can draw in lots of business. And—,”

Natasha’s red eyes flickered towards the clinic entrance behind you for a split second, which made you pause and turn your head slightly. And oh boy, were you glad you did.

Because standing in front of the clinic door was none other than Captain Gepard of the Silvermane Guards, surrounded on both sides by armored soldiers.

The captain locked eyes with you for a moment before you decided the Geomarrow heater in the corner of the room was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen in your life.

Gepard’s eyebrow raised at you quizzically.

“Miss Natasha,” said Gepard. “The Fragmentum monsters in the southernmost part of Rivet Town have been taken care of. Is there anything else you’d like us to attend to?”

He shot another glance at you. There you stood— hands behind your back while bouncing from one foot to the other— decidedly not looking at him. You prayed to Qlipoth he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off your cheeks from his position.

It felt decidedly strange running into him like this. You stood on one side of the room in front of a few raggedy cots, and he stood on the other, soldiers ready to back him up at a moment’s notice less than a foot behind him.

Just like the day you came to the overworld, you felt completely out of place.

Natasha pressed her hands together with a pleased expression. “Wonderful! I believe you’re all set to go for today. Thank you all for your service,”

Her smile practically lit up the room. Gepard nodded. “It’s the least we could do, Miss Natasha,”

You took the opportunity to take a small sidestep towards a rack of scrubs to hide behind.

Natasha, almost certainly sensing your jackhammering heartbeat, turned towards you, effectively gluing you to where you stood.

Shoot! She’s like an apex predator,

“So… Captain. Have you met (Y/N)?” She inquired casually. “They were one of my biggest helpers back in the day, in fact,”

You jumped in, a hint of nervousness present in your voice. “Yes, yes. We’ve met before. We’re well acquainted— and um, friends, I guess?”

You muttered a quiet, halfhearted “yeah” under your breath. You couldn’t see the soldiers’ eyes under their metal visors, but you could guarantee they were eyeing you with major secondhand embarrassment. They probably had no idea you two knew each other. Or maybe they thought that some weirdo from the underground was cozying up to their captain. Decidedly awkward, you thought.

One of them let out a raspy cough, which brought you back to your senses.

“It’s really best I get going,” you told your old caretaker. “I have to pick up an old family heirloom at my old place. Nice seeing you, Gepard,”

You smiled as best you could, but to Gepard, it appeared as if it were made of ice. Compared to how much you usually talked, the room felt frigid in the absence of your chatter.

The captain wondered what the reason could be for such visible uneasiness. But he forced himself to keep his lips shut. Now was not the time.

Natasha gave you a reassuring pat on the back as you floundered around in your head. Better to let the youngsters sort themselves out, she thought. It was about time you learned, anyway.

“Oh, before I forget,” Natasha added. “Be sure to take care around that area, dear. You may need clearance to enter. Maybe you should bring someone along with you?”

“Right, sounds good,” you replied, glossing over the last half of what she had said. You wanted to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. But Gepard’s incredible generosity could not be thwarted.

“Perhaps us guards could come with?” He offered.

You punched yourself mentally at not hightailing it out of there earlier.

“I’m sure its fine. There’s really no need to trouble yourselves—,” you said, waving your arms about.

Gepard didn’t falter in the slightest. “The leader of Wildfire herself said it may be dangerous, and it is imperative to us that the safety of Belobog’s citizens is ensured. We’d like to help if we can,”

Ouch. He was right on the money. Natasha’s powers of suggestion were seriously unmatched. The instructions her smile hid were very, very thinly veiled.

Your shoulders fell as you deflated. “Okay, fine,”

Gepard dipped his head, and all the Silvermane Guards tapped the butt ends of their halberds on the floor in unison, causing the ceiling to shake. A ceramic vase tipped over, causing the flower inside to meet its unfortunate end. You looked at it mournfully.

“Wait—,” you paused. “How many of you are coming, exactly?”

“As many as you need,” Gepard replied, tapping his fist to his chest.

You felt a wave of panic rising in your throat at the horrifying vision of being surrounded and jostled around by an entire squad of soldiers. “Oh, there’s no need for you all to come. Just one or two is fine, thank you,”

You imagined your old neighbors peering out their windows at you and gasping at the notion that you had been arrested.

“…you know what? Maybe just one is fine,”

“Understood,” said the captain. “You four may go back to your posts. I’ll accompany (Y/N) to Rivet Town,”

You cursed the goddess of fortune for choosing this exact moment to smite you.

Normally you’d be happy to see him, but all of these soldiers standing around were giving you a major freak-out. To make matters even more stressful, each of these people directly served the Supreme Guardian.

Of all people to have a gigantic crush on, why’d it have to be one of Belobog’s most incredible and amazing people?? You sighed. Why couldn’t you have fallen for that weird guy who stood by the Everwinter Monument every day? He was waaay closer to your league.

You gave Gepard a queasy thumbs-up.

•┈••✦ ❆ ✦••┈•

Humming an old mining song was the only thing keeping you distracted from Gepard’s shining presence beside you.

Now that the other guards were gone, it should be alright, you thought. But you couldn’t bring yourself to start a conversation for some reason.

Easy now, (Y/N). Yes, the object of your unrequited love is walking right next to you. But it could be worse. It could be an automaton Direwolf!

So why was it so damn hard to talk all of a sudden??

He didn’t look like a Direwolf, even though he was as tall as one, you thought. You narrowed your eyes at him as you walked to double check.

Gepard glanced down at you with a questioning “hm” that almost made you keel over.

Curses. This was overwhelming.

Additionally, your original hypothesis was proven correct a few months ago. Gepard was a big softie at heart. He’d even get down in the dumps when his flowers would inevitably die (which hadn’t happened recently, thanks to you.)

You wondered if he ever worried about other people’s opinions. He was so kind and considerate, it pained you to imagine him getting the brunt of public backlash as such an influential figure.

Knowing him, he probably didn’t. But if he did, he would likely hide it to avoid burdening others. He wasn’t exactly the type to expose his soft underbelly, after all.

You hoped that if anything came up, he’d consider reaching out to you. The man who was Belobog’s iron defense always went above and beyond for the people. But he ought to have someone looking out for him, too.

Scoffing at yourself, you shook your head. Gepard really brought out a slew of worries in you. You did your best to swallow down the lump in your throat when suddenly, you were hit with the nostalgic smell of your old favorite food cart.

Was that grilled olm?? Your mind kicked into high gear. Your stomach let out a loud growl as if to protest the fact that you’d only had a cupcake for breakfast.

You turned to your companion with a pleading look in your eyes. “Oh man, I’m starving. Gepard, would you mind if I made a stop for some grub real quick? I promise it won’t be long!”

“Not at all,” he responded. Without a second to waste, you took off running towards the corner of town where all the food stalls were gathered.

Gepard looked from afar with a pensive look on his face. You’d always held a sort of confidence in the way you walked, but here, in your second hometown, you flitted from stall to stall with an aura of familiarity he had never seen before. You had no problem dodging obstacles that cropped up from nowhere; Gepard, however, felt like his limbs were made of wood as he tried in vain to catch up to you. His eyes had widened hilariously as he stepped into a pothole and his arms went flying in the air.

“Oh my gosh,” you exclaimed while offering your arm out to him for balance. You bit back a laugh at his flushed cheeks. “Would you want to sit down while I wait in line?”

He accepted your offer graciously, and took a seat at one of the low-seated tables by a chain link fence.

You gawked as you watched the Silvermane Guard Captain willingly plant himself at a kiddie table. Gepard could barely fit his knees under it, making him stick out like a giant rock crab.

But you were rudely jostled from your thoughts, as just when you were about to order, two men shouldered right in front of you. You recognized the red leather jackets they wore, symbolizing they were fight club combatants.

Ugh. Scott’s boys. Many knew all too well about his unsavory business practices. Some got involved because they had no choice. Others joined because they wanted the power. You had stayed far away from the institution, preferring to run with a more respectable crowd.

One of the men had chopped brown hair and messy stubble, while the other had blonde hair cut in a mullet. Although you couldn’t tell he was blonde at first, because almost every strand was coated in coal dust. You pinched your nose shut at the smell of motor oil and grease.

They were busy chatting up the vendor with no hint of shame at what they’d done. Your eyes narrowed as you saw one of them shoot a glance at you out of the side of his eye.

They knew damn well what they’d done.

You weren’t going to take this shit from a couple of Luka wannabes, you decided.

Before the brown-haired man could finish ordering, you rapped him on the shoulder harshly. He paused for a short moment to turn his head towards you.

“Excuse me,” you said with a hint of disdain. “I couldn’t help but notice you happened to jump the line,”

The man turned without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. “…and a plate of Belobog sausages with extra sauerkraut—,”

Your eye twitched.

“Hey, you,” you interjected, tapping him again. “The line starts back there. Have you considered getting your eyes tested?”

“It’s just food, love,” he replied. The man paused for a second to spit a glob on the ground next to your shoe. Your lip curled in disgust.

“I see your mother never taught you manners,” you hissed.

The people behind you were starting to murmur.

You clenched your fist at your side as you stared him down, but before you could break his nose, you remembered that Gepard was still sitting by himself at the kiddie table.

You sighed. It probably wasn’t the best idea to get into a fight in front of a refined young noble such as himself. He might have a heart attack.

Unfortunately, the brown-haired man wasn’t finished with you. He grabbed your coat collar and yanked you towards him as his companion snickered. You could make out every scar and every bead of sweat on his face.

Sheesh. Overkill, if you ask me.

“Look man, I’m sorry, okay?” You scowled. “Cut in line all you want. You’re the big man. Happy now?”

Okay, you had to admit that wasn’t the best apology in the world. But you would’ve vomited had you made it any nicer.

He snorted, reaching a calloused hand towards your messenger bag. “Yeah? Well, I oughta teach you not to—,”

You scraped the front of his shins as hard as you could with the inside of your steel-toed utility boots.

The man roared like a wounded bear and released your collar, enabling you the opportunity to push yourself away. As he fought through the haze of pain, he readied his stance to fling himself at you, when Gepard’s metal gauntlet pushed against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Do we have a problem here?” Your companion asked.

His blue eyes narrowed threateningly at the man, who was currently fighting Gepard’s iron grip. If the captain had let go at that moment, he would have absolutely torn you to shreds.

Murmurs began to erupt from the crowd, such as, “Why is the captain here?” And “serves him right,”

The man snarled again, frothing at the lips. This time, he went for Gepard, wrapping both hands around his throat. You witnessed his expression contort in surprise, and your hackles raised higher than they ever had.

Thinking on your feet, you grabbed the nearest plate of food— which happened to be Frostweave Salmon with cocktail sauce— and threw a large fillet at the man. It hit him square in the face, temporarily stunning him. Sure, it wasn’t a taser, but it was the best you could do.

His blonde-haired companion, having a better sense of self preservation than he did, yanked him backward and away from Gepard. One downward glance at his plethora of medals told him all he needed to know. He signaled at his friend to retreat for the time being, and they slunk away, shooting glares full of venom at you as they went.

You snuck a peek at the vendor, who was currently cowering behind the condiment station. She motioned to you with her hand:

Just go.

Slipping a few shields on the counter for the trouble, you sped off towards Rivet Town once more.

•┈••✦ ❆ ✦••┈•

“Want one?” You asked Gepard. You held up a limp fillet about 20cm away from his face.

“No, but thank you for the offer,” he declined politely. Your cheeks were still flushed with heat from the subsiding chaos.

“I appreciate your help, by the way,”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, in usual Gepard fashion. The captain’s forward gaze didn’t waver in the slightest.

You soon reached the Rivet Town checkpoint run by two automaton hounds and a few vagrants with shovels. After quickly looking over your papers, they allowed you to enter the premises.

Ever since the disaster, the town had remained eerily silent. Even though it was safe, the only noise you could pick up was your own footsteps. You were so used to the background noise of gears grinding and metal squealing loudly, that the fact that you could hear your own breathing made a chill creep up your spine.

The creepy ambience aside, the salmon was awfully bland, you thought, while munching solemnly. The texture was that of something that had been frozen and thawed multiple times. You were disappointed the quality had dipped so low since you’d left.

“(Y/N), are you feeling alright?” Gepard’s voice rang out of the blue.

You nearly choked on a chunk of fish. “What? No, why?”

He looked at you with horror in his eyes. Realizing your mistake, you jumped in faster than you could say “chicken and mushroom skewer.”

“YES. I mean, yes! I’m okay, why do you ask?” You crammed the rest of the salmon in your mouth and tossed the empty plate in the nearest dumpster.

“Please excuse me for being intrusive, but you’re usually… a bit more talkative, perhaps?” Gepard said, scratching his chin. He had an instinctive desire to rest a hand on your shoulder, but you seemed farther away from him than usual, both physically and emotionally.

“I guess I do, huh?” You let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m okay, just a little tired, I guess. Thanks for worrying, though,”

Gepard’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, but he didn’t want to intrude.

Meanwhile, you lamented at your emotional communication skills rivaling that of a five-year-old’s. You’d better pick up the slack before he started to suspect something.

As you continued on your not-so-leisurely stroll, you came across an open clearing, with nothing but a single food cart in the middle. It seemed to be fully operational, with steam still rising from the griddles.

The sight completely baffled Gepard.

“What reason would a food cart have to be all the way out here?” He asked.

“Oh, that?” You said, turning to look at the cart. The sight would’ve appeared completely eerie to a normal person; the cart had no wheels, and yet there weren’t any visible marks indicating it had been dragged from somewhere. “That’s Belobog Burritos, of course!”

“Belobog… Burritos?” He wondered aloud.

“Yep. It’s a food stall that’s kind of an urban legend. Been here as long as I can remember,” you shrugged. “It sits there every day, no owner or anything, but there’s always freshly made food. Even when the town went under, it was still up and running,”

You waved your hands in his face in a vague gesture that he assumed was supposed to be spooky. His irises made a concentrated effort to follow your every motion.

“…or so I’ve heard,” you continued. “Apparently, if you get something from the stall, you have to pay in full or some seriously bad stuff starts happening to you,”

Gepard cast a stiff look back at the cart, feeling his blood run as cold as ice. He suppressed a shudder and continued walking. But the thought kept weighing on his mind as he walked. He felt as if there was a lump in his throat, preventing him from breathing in all the way.

Jeez, he looks pretty shaken up, you thought as you stole a glance at him after a few minutes. His face was a few shades paler than it had been previously, and his neck was all stiff. It looked like he was trying his best to not be scared (and failing miserably).

Maybe you could hold his hand to make it less scary, a part of you whispered slyly.

You beat that internal voice with a sledgehammer as soon as it surfaced.

I guess I’ll check if he’s okay,

You tried to lay a hand on his deltoid, but completely missed and firmly patted his lower back— which was much more intimate a gesture than you’d attempted. Gepard’s shoulders flew upwards in a flash as he curled them in towards his chest, and his eyes blew wide open.

“Gyeep!” He let out a strangled shriek through clenched teeth.

Your jaw fell open.

“Oh, shit!” you stammered. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, are you alright?”

His armor rattled with how heavily he was breathing as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Sheesh, you had never seen him this shaken before.

Gepard’s face burned like a furnace. “I’m perfectly fine. Just ill at ease,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dabbing at his forehead with it.

That didn’t do much to convince you that bringing him had been the right idea. You sighed. Gepard really was too kind for his own good.

Holding out your elbow at a right angle, you made a small offer to reassure him.

“Want to hold on to me until we get there?” You asked. “It’s okay if you’re scared, you know,”

You glanced around at the old, ruined buildings, which were surrounded by barbed wire and rubble. The whole area felt hostile, even to you.

“I don’t blame you, honestly. This place is pretty freaky,” you said with a short laugh.

“Okay,” Gepard paused. “If it’s alright with you,”

You smiled warmly at him. “Go ahead,”

He raised his arm and gingerly placed a hand on your bicep, curling his fingers slightly around it for a better grip.

“There! You have nothing to fear now,” you said reassuringly. Gepard blushed. He wanted nothing more than to beat himself up for falling apart in front of you in such an uncouth manner.

You continued walking towards your destination; this time, his heartbeat felt a bit more relaxed with you at his side.

After a short while, the ruined structure of your old home appeared looming from the dark. As a monument to the destruction, the skeletal building almost seemed to reach towards the false sky above.

“Quaint, isn’t it,” you joked, turning towards Gepard. Looking at the house in its entirety, the shutters were missing from the windows, the roof was nonexistent, and the chimney had been mostly reduced to a pile of bricks. It was entirely unsalvageable from a realist’s perspective.

The captain studied your features carefully— you showed no traces of hurt or anger that would normally be present at such a scene.

It puzzled him, how you were able to maintain such a cheerful demeanor when a building that was supposed to represent comfort and safety was torn completely to shreds. He was filled with admiration at how well you had held yourself together.

“Let’s go in,” you said. You nudged away the splintered wood door with your elbow and stepped into the building— you really hoped it hadn’t been ransacked while you were away.

Gepard’s hand dropped reluctantly to his side. He followed suit, scanning the interior for any structural instabilities.

“What are you searching for?” He inquired.

You were busy bending down over a fallen bookshelf with books scattered in its midst. You analyzed the wreckage; a few ceramic teacups and saucers lay crushed under the impact zone, which you took care to avoid.

You brushed a few coal-black cobwebs out of your way that made you want to pull your skin off. “Just an old phonograph. It meant a lot to me as a kid, so I figured it was time I went back for it,” you said, not bothering to mention the dream you’d had that morning.

As much as you wanted to deny it, it almost felt like the phonograph was the one part of the dream that could come true. Hearing the music you listened to in your childhood again wasn’t a hard thing to accomplish, but that lovely, soft feeling that had blanketed your heart when you had realized that Gepard was waiting for you in that kitchen— you didn’t think you could recreate that.

Considering your dream would never, ever happen.

You felt disappointment form a hard lump in your stomach.

When did I start believing in a pipe dream? You wondered. Natasha would scold you for chasing such nebulous goals.

“I got a promotion recently too. I was actually considering moving out and getting an apartment instead of staying at the florist’s. It gets crowded there sometimes,” you said offhandedly.

“You got promoted?” Gepard replied, his eyebrows arching in surprise. He hadn’t heard anything about this, even with Serval serving as the best grapevine around.

“Yeah, I did!” You said happily. “I totally forgot to mention it because—,”

I’ve been avoiding you since we went to the museum, whispered your inside voice.

“I… wanted to surprise the others,” you drabbled, your shoulders drooping the slightest bit. But you picked them up as fast as you could.

“Of course,” he said. “You have my sincerest congratulations,”

That sent another pang of guilt through you. He was so incredibly earnest. And here you were, lying straight to his face in order to keep him at an arm’s distance. All because your own feelings were too much to handle.

You needed something to take your mind off the situation, and quickly.

“Hey, check this out!” You said with a little more artificial enthusiasm than you’d intended. “This photo is practically ancient!”

You hoisted an old sepia photo of you and your grandmother in front of your chest. You were watching her lift a tray of cookies into the oven in the kitchen. There was a huge variety of sweets, including chocolate buckeyes, and coconut macarons. You missed her baking more than anything.

In the picture, your grandma wore a simple lilac apron, decorated lovingly with white lace around the edges. It was incredibly well-made; you’d had trouble finding one of similar quality ever since (even though the goods were supposed to be super high-end in the overworld).

Gepard, however, had lost all ability to speak, completely blown away by the piece of your past you had so voluntarily let him see.

You looked so joyful as a child, completely free of expectations that would have been bestowed upon you had you been raised as a noble, like him. That wide, toothless smile held treasures he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

“So cute…” you muttered softly. You quietly removed the picture from its frame and slipped it into your bag, where you felt it rest alongside your old pickaxe that you brought with you everywhere.

Running a quick check in the tiny hall closet, you thought you heard the high-pitched sound of ice cracking in the kitchen.

Weird, you thought, poking your head around the corner to take a better look. But what you saw nothing short of baffled you.

An ice-type Fragmentum creature, donning the damaged apron of your beloved grandmother, stood in front of the oven range. The kitchen itself was mostly intact, save for a few boxes of grains scattered about and a few appliances knocked over.

“Oh,” you started. “Son of a—,”

The creature let loose a gurgling sound from its throat and charged at you.

“Shit—!” You yelped as you scrabbled around for the nearest weapon. All reason leaving you, you completely forgot about the pickaxe in your bag. In the few seconds before it reached you, you took notice of a rusty frying pan hanging from a holder on the wall. Mimicking Gepard, you swung it with every drop of strength in your body and landed a forceful whack on the side the monster’s head.

The sound of metal on metal rang out all through the house. Bits of ice fell off the creature, sizzling with eerie smoke as they hit the tiled floor.

The figure struggled to regain its balance, reaching its icy claws toward your face. You could feel the icy chill radiating off of them, stealing your heat away.

That’s my heat, you bastard!

Gepard, having certainly heard the commotion, came speeding into the room like the cheetah he was named after. You were clinging onto the back of the monster, which was bucking you around like a Voidranger in a futile attempt to dislodge you.

In a sudden burst of effort, it flung you backwards and sent you careening into one of the cabinets. Bits of rotten wood showered on you from the impact, and a stray spice bottle hit you on the head. You disgustedly spit out the sawdust that had snuck into your mouth and caked your tongue.

The captain desperately scanned the room for something to use. The kitchen was far too small to activate his shielding device, so he wrapped his arms around the nearest table and hurled it straight at the icy foe (all while praying you wouldn’t be furious at him afterward for ruining your kitchen).

Thankfully, the table made an excellent weapon. It sent the monster sprawling across the floor with a creaking groan. Gepard then launched himself at it and pinned it to the floor with his arms.

Unfortunately, the enemy hadn’t quite given up yet. It wrestled one of its arms free of Gepard’s grasp and reached its clawed hand to slice at his lower legs. In a strange fit of ingenuity, you grabbed your pickaxe out of your bag, wedged it under the Fragmentum creature’s head, and just like a bottle cap— you twisted its head clean off.

Letting out a sickening crack, the monster’s head rolled leisurely across the floor and bonked into an open cabinet door. You nearly vomited at the sight.

Now unoccupied, Gepard rushed to your side. “Are you—,” he started.

“Yeah,” you choked out. “I’m okay,”

You clutched your chest while letting out wheezing gasps.

The captain glanced around the area worriedly. “I think it’s best we get going. There could very well be more monsters around here,”

“Wait—,” you gasped, scrambling to your feet. “I think— I think I found it,”

You peered into the cabinet that had been violently smashed o pieces. Something glinted at you from the debris— but a grinding sound came from outside that made your hair on your neck stand completely on end.

Bending down, you brushed away the wood chips from the spice cabinet and successfully uncovered the old phonograph. It was in decent condition, aside from a few screws missing, and your family’s record collection lay right beneath it.

“Ah, classic gran,” you said aloud. She did have a habit of putting things in the wrong places, after all. That saved you from having to check the upstairs floor.

“Okay, now let’s go,” you declared. You crammed as much of the device as you could into your bag, the horn still handing out of the flap, and made a mad dash for the front door. Gepard’s armor rattled as he followed suit.

We better tell the guards about this, you thought while your feet pounded against the pavement. Your breath condensed in large clouds as your throat burned with the taste of iron.

You cast a glance over your shoulder to see if Gepard was still following, just in time to see his eyes widen in horror.

Your boots left long marks in the dirt as you skidded to a halt. There you stood, aghast, as you realized what greeted you wasn’t the exit— but an automaton Direwolf.

It stood tall and menacing, with steam pouring out its joints and pistons that fired like a heartbeat. As a piece of technology from the old world, no one fully understood how they worked, not even denizens of the Robot Settlement, who modified and repaired them for a living. It made dealing with hostile ones a living hell.

“By the Architects,” Gepard swore. “(Y/N), find somewhere to hide, quickly!”

You obliged, opting for the nearest shelter that happened to be a pile of crates and barrels to the right of him. You crouched like a bear cub with your knees pressed to your chest as you tried to get a grasp on the situation from your location. Your companion was gearing up to ready himself for battle.

Shit. I need an opening to activate Earthwork, Gepard thought. He hoisted the barrier-device-slash-guitar-case defensively. I have no one to cover for me here,

The aggressor made of meshing cogs eyed him ominously through its crosshair. He eyed it back, the gaze of a predator in his eyes. He refused to falter, even minutely. Doing so would mean death for the both of you.

It raised its one chainsaw arm with a thundering roar, and the battle began.

The earth shook tremendously with every step as it sped forward, full-throttle. Gepard’s heart thrummed as he tried to consider all his options, but it was closing the distance faster than he could formulate his thoughts. He couldn’t roll right or risk giving away your position, or dodge too much and risk leading it towards the settlements. But a solid hit to one of the leg joints would slow it down considerably.

The automaton Direwolf swung ferociously at the captain, cutting large glowing divots in the nearby boulders that sizzled as they touched the surrounding air. Steam hissed, loud and high-pitched in your ears, bringing out a type of instinctual fear from within you.

A grimace crossed Gepard’s features. Direwolves were built for speed, so there was no chance you could both outrun it. Additionally, there was nothing that could escape the gaze of its optical sensor with so little cover around. He was going to have to fight it head-on.

It raised its mechanical arm to strike once more. The captain grasped his battering ram firmly by the handle, and swung it in a large arc. It landed a solid blow in between the metal plates that comprised its abdominal area, and sparks showered in the air, suggesting a sufficient amount of damage had been dealt.

The now open wires sizzled as the automaton staggered backwards. Gepard wasted no time seizing the opportunity; he was relentless in his following sequence of attacks, aiming for the most vital points concealed within the machinery.

He ducked under its flailing limbs and struck a heavy blow on the machine’s back. But it swiveled its torso around unexpectedly, without moving its legs even a millimeter, and swung at him again, leaving deep scores in the earth. Gepard skidded out of the way, leaving his cape billowing wildly behind him with the following dust cloud.

Your eyes flickered around the area as clangs and thuds rang out around the clearing. You reached a mitten-clad hand out tentatively to slink along the ground, but retracted it as white-hot sparks showered your exposed forearm. You had to make your next move, and quickly.

There was no way Gepard could win a battle of endurance. Not even with his superhuman amount of stamina. You almost called out to him, but halted when you realized it could easily draw the Direwolf’s attention to you. And you had nothing but your old pickaxe in your bag to defend yourself with.

You had to get help. It made no difference if it was the vagrants with shovels or the entirety of the Silvermane Guards. You had to make sure Gepard got out safe.

You ran a quick scan over the area; there were a few other piles of debris that were sizable enough to stay out of the monster’s field of view. If you could just make it to the exit, you’d be free to call for help.

Ducking your head, you sprinted to the closest pile and dove behind it. You snuck a quick peek at the scene. Gepard was still holding his own. Good.

This time around, you hid behind a barrel laying on its side. A patch of metal lattice fell over with a loud crash due to the shockwaves of the fight, but the machine paid you no mind.

Finally, you resorted to shuffling on your hands and knees to crawl just out of view behind a tarp that was almost threadbare. By this point, your pants were ripped and your knees were bleeding, picking up bits of rocks and glass that stuck to your sticky skin. But you ignored it. You were in the homestretch. The guards couldn’t be too far away now, they had probably heard all the commotion and—

You heard a loud thud that made your limbs completely freeze over.

Trembling, you turned ever-so-slightly behind you. You caught sight of a stray barrel rolling over to bump itself on your foot, followed by a pained groan that stole your breath right from your throat.

Gepard?

In the dim lighting, you could vaguely make out a figure clad in silver and gold, laying limply against a wall, a few broken crates on each side. Fire flickered in the background, illuminating the barrier device laying discarded on the ground, just out of arm’s reach for him.

You noticed something drip down slowly from the top of his head and soak into his fur collar, staining it a bright crimson. His eyes were closed, and he was showing no signs of moving.

Blood… that was definitely blood.

Time seemed to grind to a halt around you. Your knees threatened to give out, and you could only vaguely make out the sound of your own voice— screaming, wailing— something that wasn’t quite words. The sounds from the enemy machine sounded muffled, as if they were deep underwater, in a world different from your own.

Shaking profusely, you became aware of just how much fear had saturated your body. But you had to keep moving. The captain was alive until proven otherwise.

And you would hang on until the very end.

You ground your teeth together and made a quick sweep of the area. There was a package of dynamite that miners used to blow apart piles of debris to your right, but you had nothing to light it with. Even if you did, you didn’t trust your aim enough to keep Gepard out of the blast radius. To your left lay some books, a radio, and— an oddly shaped rock?

Whatever. It was just the right size for throwing.

You stuffed it in between your arms and pushed aside another book just in time to spot one of the old flares the miners used to use.

Yes! That could be your saving grace.

Your arms wavered so much that you thought that they might fall out, but you had to keep going. Gepard’s life was on the line.

You whipped back around and cranked your arm back far as it could go, when suddenly, you felt something whir and vibrate in your palm— and a strange mechanical voice rang out in your ear.

“Hello,” said the voice, which seemed to be coming from your palm. “I am Findie, model 17703 of the home-finding series. Please input your instructions, and I will locate whatever you are looking for!”

You whipped the rock(?) in front of your face. One of the gears rotated, as if it were waving “hi” to you.

“What the FUCK??” You roared in surprise.

A rock was a rock, no matter how much it yapped, you decided. You twisted the cap off of the fuse, wound your arm up, and chucked the rock with the fury of a blizzard.

“Over here, asshole!” You screamed. Your fear tore through your body like a tornado, threatening to tear you apart.

Fury rolled off of you in waves as you held the fuse high above your head. Clouds of red smoke rose into the air and billowed around you, swirling around your dust-covered face.

The rock landed square on the machine’s metal head with a loud tang.

The machine turned towards you menacingly for a short moment, but immediately refocused on the prey directly in front of it.

Shit. That was bad.

You scrabbled on the ground for anything you could get your hands on. A lantern? That would do. A plank of wood? Why not. Who gave a shit at this point??

Anything that would get you out of there and safe and sound. You’d promised you would help Serval with an invention later that week, and you weren’t one to break your promises.

The items bounced off of the machine one after another. It would halt its movements every time one made contact, but you were running out of things to throw.

Tears and ash clogged your eyes, but you wouldn’t let up, even for a second. Not until every bone in your body was forcefully broken and you were bruised and battered into next month.

“Get your GRUBBY HANDS off of him!” You roared. Tears and snot were streaming down your face now, and your entire body screamed at you to run, escape, anything. But you forced your feet to stay rooted to the ground where they were.

Gepard’s head lolled weakly to the side. You choked as you assumed the worst had come to fruition, and you felt as if the world was crumbling around you.

You were in the middle of chucking a portable radio at the thing when you heard the smattering of feet heading in your direction. You gasped as a wayward antenna poked you right in the eye.

Soldiers. And a lot of them, at that.

Guards in Silvermane uniforms stormed the clearing, waving around halberds, cannons, and muskets galore. Without wasting a second, the cannoneers let out a barrage of attacks that nearly blew both of your ears off.

“Backup is here, Captain!” One of the soldiers announced. You spotted a slight movement from the spot where he lay.

Another wave of firing went off. Cannonballs embedded themselves in the joints of the machine, inhibiting its movement— it began to creak and sway on its feet. Evidently enough, it realized that the most imminent threat came from the squadron of soldiers that had arrived, rather than Gepard, who was likely unconscious.

The main soldier continued issuing orders. You watched him, completely enraptured, from behind. You hardly noticed as a Silvermane gunner snuck up from behind you, and shuttled you somewhere out of harm’s way.

Soldiers had successfully managed to surround the automaton, impeding its movement. The Direwolf stamped its feet in confusion at the sudden commotion.

Shots rang out once more, and several nets weighed down by iron balls wrapped around the machine— along with a grappling hook that tied its legs together with a cord. But the machine sliced through the feeble wires with little effort.

As you took a step back, something clanked against your thigh from inside your bag. You gasped, turning to the soldier beside you with a realization.

“You have to disable the control panel,” you said, recalling your previous knowledge of when you worked in the mines.

“We’re more than aware of that,” he said curtly. He turned back to the battlefields without as much as another word.

“Yes, but the door to the panel is impervious to attacks. Could you take out the optical sensor on its face, maybe?”

The guard sighed, but shouted to the nearest cannoneer to aim a shot towards its face. An explosion burst from the area where the attack had landed. The automaton was now twitching violently with its sensors disabled.

Gepard, who was slowly regaining consciousness, sensed the sudden halt in activity. It was far noisier than it had been previously, the shouts of men and the clanging of metal made his head throb with pain. Sticky red liquid coated his falling eyelids, staining his vision red. The captain ignored the pounding in his skull and forced himself to his feet.

I… have to… I’m… still.. needed…

His body groaned with effort. He fought through the haze of pain and commanded his eyes to focus.

Earthwork was just a hair’s breath away. All he had to do was grab it.

Qlipoth… give me strength!

The captain mustered every ounce of courage in his body, bracing his arm against a nearby wall for support. Blood dripped down his face with even more fervor, but he wiped it off with his glove, sending a few small droplets smattering to the ground.

“The captain— he’s alive!” One of the men cheered. You gasped as you saw him stagger to his feet.

Gepard willed his muscles to move and dove in between the machine’s legs. He snatched his weapon and spun, quickly smashing it in one of its knees. The Direwolf lost its footing and toppled over immediately.

“Captain, use this!”

Gepard swiveled, surprised to hear the voice coming from not one of his own soldiers, but you.

Your pickaxe sailed through the air and clattered on the ground at his feet.

“Use it to break into the control panel on its chest,” you instructed with a shout. “There should be an emergency off switch right in the center!”

He grabbed the tool, but instead of using it to pry open the door to the circuit breaker, he punched it repeatedly with the metal gauntlet on his right hand until the steel door crumpled like a piece of paper. Your jaw dropped in shock at the sheer ferocity of the sight.

Clinging to the machine’s torso, Gepard scanned the machine’s chest cavity for the switch. But bundles and bundles of wires blocked his view.

The gigantic machine began to rumble. Gepard had to act, urgently. There wasn’t enough time to search for the switch, but he had to do something.

As thoughts fired through his brain like lightning, he had an idea. He could use the pickaxe to hook under the wires and pull them out. If he used his hands, his metal gauntlet would likely act as a lightning rod and thoroughly fry him, but the pickaxe’s handle was entirely made of wood. It was a decent shot.

The captain held the pickaxe with both his hands and used it to dig under the nest of wires, using his legs to anchor him to the machine— and yanked backwards until the threads snapped. He did it again, this time winding them around the pickaxe like spaghetti before pulling once again.

The machine fizzled and popped, its lights flickering before finally succumbing to the damage and collapsed, leaving enormous dust clouds in its wake. You covered your mouth with your shirt to avoid breathing them in.

Gepard’s chest heaved with great effort, and three guards hurried to his side, immediately, shouting things like, “Captain, are you injured?” And “Captain, we were so worried!” You were surprised at just how much emotion the usually stoic guards’ voices held when dealing with their leader.

The young noble let out an enormous sigh of relief. As soldiers practically swarmed him on all sides, one offered their shoulder for him to lean on, and they hobbled back towards the Silvermane Guard camp together.

You were barely aware of the sensation of someone throwing a blanket around your shoulders (even though you were still sweating buckets), and leading you to another location. You figured this was the secondary location of the Silvermane Guards’ camp, reserved for dealing with the public.

Said location was farther than Gepard than you had hoped it would be, but you couldn’t afford to be picky at this point. You were dropped off at an inconspicuous tent that was complete with snacks and apple juice to await further instructions. You felt much like a lost child.

The tent had a few tarps and blankets on the ground to shield you from the cold, hard ground, which would suck the heat out of any living thing that it came into contact with. It also included a stack of down pillows in the corner, which you readily surrounded yourself with, stacking a few to prop yourself up like a makeshift recliner. They definitely weren’t the softest things in the world, but they offered a welcome respite for your aching bones.

Although the tent’s canvas was reasonably thick, voices still managed to make their way in from outside. Bits and pieces of conversations, mostly about the incident and how you were faring. You wish they’d just ask you, honestly.

The next time you heard someone’s voice, you took the opportunity to creep out of your tent and ask them how Gepard was doing. The recipient of your questioning was power-walking with a few rifles in their arms that were likely being brought back to the barracks.

You lifted a hand to get their attention. “Excuse me, is Gep—,”

You bit your tongue. The sheer amount of guilt that welled up in your throat was utterly stifling. You didn’t have the right to address him with so little respect after what he’d been through.

“Um…” you continued, fighting through the anxiety that threatened to close your windpipe. “Is the captain okay?”

“Captain Gepard?” The soldier turned to face you. “Yes, he has a few injuries, but he will survive,”

You let out a wheezing sigh of relief that made your knees shake. “Thank Qlipoth. What kind of injuries?”

“Well— he got his brains jostled around a little bit when his head got bashed against a wall,” the soldier mused. He had an air of casual-ness about him. “He has a few lacerations from some shrapnel as well. Did you see the one on his head? That one was real nasty,”

Nothing had prepared you for the way the ground wriggled beneath you or how your stomach flipped inside out and backwards. You couldn’t breathe for a moment as your diaphragm heaved uncomfortably. You staggered over to the scrap metal pile, where you proceeded to vomit up the meal you’d gotten from the food stall earlier.

The soldier watched as you wiped away the vile liquid dripping from your chin and turned back around.

“Sorry,” you muttered. Why the hell would you say it like that?? You glowered at him internally. He shuddered, feeling your gaze on him.

At that moment, you wanted to be anywhere else but there.

“I’ll uh— I’ll get you a cup of tea,” the soldier said apologetically. You took a seat on a wooden crate, bracing yourself by gripping its edges so tightly you thought your knuckles would freeze that way.

They came back in a heartbeat with a steaming cup of tea, as promised. It was the type commonly used in the Silvermane Guards’ rations. You drank it gratefully, elated to finally be rid of the taste of vomit in your mouth.

After you’d finished, you asked if there was anything you could help with around camp. The guard looked at you like you’d sprouted an extra head.

“H-help out? Why?” He asked. “We couldn’t possibly ask you to help out all you’ve been through, Mx. (Y/N),”

After all I’ve been through, huh?

You barked a dry laugh.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you said plainly. “You all have done so much for me. I feel like I owe it to you all,”

You clenched your fist to quell the slight bitterness that was eating at you. “Besides, the only reason I made it out of there alive was because the captain saved me,”

The soldier sighed, loaded with uncertainty at your statement. “I’m not sure, since it’s technically against protocol to enlist the help of citizens without proper reason. But firstly, you should go see the lieutenant—,” he said, resting his hand on his chin. “—I believe he wanted to obtain an incident report from you, but there’s a chance he’ll have a job for you to do afterward,” he pointed you in the direction of the tent, which had a large dark blue banner flying above it.

“Right, okay,” you acquiesced. You set your cup down, dusted off your tunic, and waved the soldier goodbye. He waved back, with a slight air of confusion about what had just happened.

Meanwhile, guards milled about everywhere you went. You soundlessly slipped into the tent you had been directed to, awaiting your sentencing, sitting down in a foldable metal chair in front of a desk with a quill and an inkwell. You flinched at how cold it was.

The tents here weren’t the most comfortable thing ever, but they were much neater than the ones in the vagrant camp, where people hoarded every scrap of metal they could get their hands on. This led to tents looking more like portable junkyard balloons.

A breeze of air whisked its way inside as the tent flaps peeled open, and the lieutenant’s metal visor glowed like a flame in the lamplight. The man had to duck a fair bit so as not to act as an extra support pole inside the tent.

He set down his hefty shield with a clunk, all while sitting down in front of you. A sheaf of papers also made its appearance from his bag, and he shuffled through them with incredible dexterity (considering he wore clunky metal gauntlets on both hands).

“Hello,” the man said, raising his hand in greeting. “I’m Lieutenant Thrace Hawthorne of the 4th Division of Silvermane Guards. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You must be (Y/N), I presume?” He asked as he extended his other hand towards you.

You took it cautiously, keeping a close eye on his body language. “Yes, that’s me. I was instructed to come here by another guard,”

He gave you a firm handshake, but squeezed your knuckles in a way that made them throb with pain. Air hissed thinly through your teeth. “Yes, and I thank you for being here as we intended,”

You retracted your arm, eyeing the man up and down suspiciously. You couldn’t discern his facial expressions with that stupid hat in the way.

“—you are aware that the Silvermane Guards do everything in our power to maintain a safe environment for the people of Belobog, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied obediently.

“And, in order to keep the Guards as safe as possible, we need as much information as we can get,”

You nodded.

“Good,” he said while dipping the pen nib into the inkwell. “So, I will be asking you a few questions about what happened down here today. Is that alright with you?”

You agreed, albeit not too enthusiastically. Something in your gut told you that you didn’t exactly have the option to refuse.

“I’m glad we have an understanding,” he replied smoothly. “So, what kind of business were you two conducting in Rivet Town earlier today?

You paused, scratching your chin. “I went to retrieve an family heirloom from my old home. Captain Gepard was merely accompanying me at that time,” you explained. “We intended to be in and out in less than half an hour,”

The man across from you scribbled down a few notes. “Were you aware that it was a dangerous area at the time?”

“I was not. We had been told it was largely safe,” you responded. “Threats that severe shouldn’t have been lurking there, as far as we knew,”

Lieutenant Hawthorne tutted, which rubbed you the wrong way. Just his presence made you want to itch. “Where or from whom did you receive this information?”

“No one in particular. I’d just heard word on the street,”

“Any particular people that come to mind?”

“No, sorry,” you shook your head. You’d seen far too many people on your way to recall accurately who had told you what.

“Okay. And why was Captain Gepard accompanying you at that time?”

“I was visiting Natasha, and she had said that it might be best if someone came with me, because it might not be particularly safe,”

“Ah… that Natasha,” The man mused. “Wildfire’s leader,” he said, flipping the page over. You pursed your lips at him as something twisted in your gut. You didn’t trust this man as far as you could throw him and his stupid gigantic shield.

Don’t you dare say her name like that, you hissed.

“The captain himself volunteered to go,” you jumped in quickly. “That’s just the way he—,”

You froze, realizing you’d given away more than you’d intended to. Your emotions had gotten the better of you.

Hawthorne’s gaze was unwavering through his silver visor. “Interesting… on the other hand, what is Miss Natasha like?”

This time, you thought through your words carefully. “She’s— she’s a kind woman and one of the hardest working people in the underworld. She takes care of people at every possible opportunity,”

“What’s her relationship to you?” He inquired.

“She’s the local doctor. Everyone knows her,” you said bluntly.

“Does she have any strong opinions about the Guards that you know of?” The lieutenant asked.

“Not that I’m aware,” you shook your head. “She’s never refused their help or spoken badly of them,” you explained. “She has the best intentions for everyone, no matter their background,”

Unlike you, you slimy bastard, you whispered internally.

Lieutenant Hawthorne asked you a few more questions, mostly about the automaton and the rescue, such as what color it was, if there were any discernible features, etc., before asking completely out of the blue,

“Are you romantically involved with Captain Gepard?”

“No??” You shot a look loaded with incredulity at him. “With all due respect, where did that come from, sir?”

“He’s never mentioned you before,” Hawthorne stated. His voice was like unbending steel. “An affair is unlikely, but not impossible,”

Who in their right mind would arrange a secret rendezvous in RIVET TOWN?? You snorted. This officer wasn’t worth a lukewarm bottle of rye bread soda.

“Then what is your relationship with him?”

Hah. As if I knew, you scoffed. You tried to formulate an answer as best you could.

“We’re friends. And I assume that, like most people, Gepard likes to keep his work and his life separate. That is all,” you said, your tone as flat as a sheet of paper.

“I can tell from your tone that you did not particularly enjoy those last few questions,” the man said, resting his hands on the table. “But this incident was incredibly serious. The guards may suspect some sort of foul play,” he stated matter-of-factly.

You clenched your fists at your sides so hard your knuckles turned white.

“I’m sorry for asking something so intrusive. But, a word of advice, (Y/N)—,” the lieutenant said, motioning towards you. “I suggest you keep your distance from the captain for the time being. As a witness of such an alarming incident, you wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself,”

I know that, you gritted your teeth. I’m not stupid,

“Especially considering how he was outside of his usual territory. Some might think you lured him there on purpose,”

You bit back tears, pinching the bridge of your nose to hide your quivering jaw. “Sure. I’ll keep your advice in mind, thanks,”

Turning away so that he couldn’t see your expression, you pushed aside the tent flaps with barely controlled anger.

You knew he was right. All you ever did was get Gepard into odd situations that he wasn’t equipped to deal with.

Guilt crashed over you in waves. You were a bad influence, dragging him everywhere without a spare thought for his job or reputation. And he was probably too kind to turn you down otherwise.

Did he even really like you?

You knew this thought was ridiculous, but maybe, just maybe, you had deluded yourself into believing it. It sent sharp jabs of pain through your chest that wouldn’t stop, no matter how much you tried to think around it.

You walked in circles around camp in an attempt to calm yourself down. But it didn’t work. Finally, you ran across the same soldier that had given you tea earlier, and pestered him politely enough that he finally revealed Gepard’s location to you.

You had to get word from the man himself, or you’d never find peace.

After a few minutes of walking around, you spotted a tent that had a few more soldiers milling about it than usual.

Not knowing whether or not their eyes were on you, you approached it cautiously. You crept in even though your mind wasn’t sure if you really deserved to be there.

The medical tent was dark— you had to scrunch your eyes up a fair bit to adjust to the lighting. But, using the small sliver of light filtering in from the inside, you could faintly make out the shape of Gepard lying motionlessly on a cot.

You quietly pulled a metal bin up next to his right side to serve as a shoddy chair. It was then that you realized the true extent of the damage you had done.

The captain’s head was wrapped in bandages that partially covered his left eye. A pad of gauze with adhesive tape on each side was stuck to his chin, and there was a pillow on each side of his head to keep his neck in place, along with one under him to keep him supported. Most of his armor, such as the metal breastplate and his medals, had been removed and set aside, save for the metal arm armor he wore. You wondered if someone had forgotten to remove it.

You noticed his cape hanging torn from a metal rack, and stared at it with a plaintive expression for a few. You didn’t think there was anything you were capable of doing to make this situation any better.

Sighing, you rested an elbow on your knee while tracing the outline of his hand with your free arm. He was resting so peacefully— albeit his eyebrows were a bit furrowed— maybe it would be best if you let him rest for now and came back later?

You rose to your feet quietly like a mouse. But even with a severe head injury, the captain’s perception hadn’t dampened a bit. He began to stir.

“Mmm… Franz? What is it?” He croaked weakly, his brows furrowing the slightest bit. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Franz, is that you?” The captain asked again, a little bit stronger this time. You flinched as he wined in pain. He was definitely feeling the hit he’d taken. You returned to your seat on the frosty metal bin.

“No, sorry,” you said softly. Your stomach churned like butter just looking at him. “…it’s me,”

You patted his hand gingerly, willing your tears to go away.

“(Y/N)…”

Gepard opened his eyes to get a better look in the dim lighting of the tent. You leaned over the cot, your eyes filled to the brim with guilt and ash covering your cheekbones.

“I’m… glad that you’re safe,” he rasped. The captain cleared his throat painfully.

“That’s my line, dummy,” you smiled at him, slightly relieved. But your voice was loaded with pain.

“How are you feeling?” You asked. “There was a lot of… blood… as they were carrying you out,”

“I received a fairly bad cut right above my left eye,” he said. “They gave me a few stitches for it. I did hit my head pretty badly, but it’s nothing life threatening, thankfully,”

“Thanks the architects,” you sighed. “Your armor looks pretty beat up too. Are you gonna get it fixed?”

“It did its job,” Gepard replied. Lantern light hit its surface and it glinted, as if it was agreeing. “My rib cage could have cracked otherwise,”

He patted one of his ribs with his gloved hand to hammer the point home. You felt another twinge of guilt in your chest.

“R-right. Is there anything you need? Like water, y’know,” you murmured.

“I’m satisfied for now. Franz got me everything I needed earlier,” he cut you off.

“Okay,” you chewed on your lip in silence. Your hands fidgeted with nothing, as if searching for something to do.

You could tell Gepard’s eyes were trained on you, but you kept your own focused on the ground. A few chunks of dirt surrounded your feet where they had broken off from your boots that drew your attention.

Tears kept threatening to well up in your lower eyelids, but Preservation be damned— you were not going to cry right in front of him.

You rubbed your face with your sleeve, which unfortunately still smelled like bile, and feigned a cough to make the action less conspicuous.

“Y’know… I wanted to thank you for saving me back there,” you paused, staring off into the distance. “I got off with nothing but a few scratches because you kept me safe,”

Gepard hummed in acknowledgment, for he was unable to nod with his head and neck incapacitated. What you couldn’t hear, however, was how the inside of his head had whispered to him that if you had gotten injured, he would never have forgiven himself. The captain couldn’t say it outright— but he hoped that the way he gazed at you so longingly would get the message across.

With your nerves ticking at the fact he hadn’t said anything, you added, “They asked me like, a million questions before they let me go,” you chuckled lightly. It felt misplaced, but it was the best you could do to cheer him up.

Gepard didn’t seem to find the humor in it, though. His eyes stared back up at the ceiling. “Is that so?”

“Y-yeah,” you twiddled your thumbs slightly. “Some guy named Hawthorne— he sat me down for an hour or two earlier. He seemed kinda shady,”

“Oh, Lieutenant Hawthorne?” Gepard pondered. “I know of him. He may come off as a bit cunning, but he means well. Hawthorne lost his brother during the quarantine of the underworld. He just wants to keep the guards safe from any threat, so that no one has to go through the same experience he did,”

“Really?” You gasped in shock. “I guess I owe the guy an apology then,” you said, resting your head in your hands as your chest twinged with embarrassment.

“…I really jumped the gun on that one, huh?” You sighed.

“I don’t blame you,” Gepard replied. “Trusting your gut is important. And you would have more than enough reason to harbor some animosity, given the way the guards treated you all here previously,”

Something about his voice— although it wasn’t outright comforting— soothed your nerves a bit. Only someone so level-headed could reassure you so well, you laughed inwardly. Which was impressive— considering he was lying exhausted and halfway dead in front of you.

Maybe you didn’t have the right to be scared, because this was just the nature of his job (you know, the one he did every day for a living). But he was supposed to fight valiantly for Belobog’s people,

Not a single, worthless vagrant like yourself.

You kept inhaling a preparatory breath to speak, but each time the words would vanish right as they were about to exit your lips.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You had to spit it out.

“Gepard… I have a question to ask you,” you paused. “It’s kind of weird— but is that okay?”

The young noble’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Surely it wasn’t— no, it didn’t look like it.

That wasn’t the face of someone who was about to confess. He scolded himself mentally. This wasn’t the time or the place to be thinking about it. Instead, every hill and valley of your expression was laden with worry and pain. He wished he could sit up and take you into his arms, so he could whisk all of that pain away.

“It’s fine with me,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s just—,” oh Aeons, this is so embarrassing, “Why is it that you hang around someone like me? If I’m being honest, I really don’t understand,”

Gepard’s mouth went dry.

“Someone like you? What might you mean by that?” He inhaled sharply.

“I’m just a troublemaker,” you replied, smiling sadly at him. “And you’re a guard. We’re as different as winter and spring,” you were taken aback almost disbelievingly.

“You’re hardly a troublemaker,” Gepard retorted. “At least, not in Serval’s sense, where she deliberately makes things harder for me,”

Okay, well, maybe not deliberately.

You grimaced. “That may be true. But, I cause you problems in other ways. Like, that time at the cafe tables. You’re a public figure, for Qlipoth’s sake! What was I thinking, pulling you up there in broad daylight?”

You clamped your mouth shut before you ran entirely out of breath. “My presence also puts a strain on your reputation. I’m from the underworld. We’re supposed to be lazy and dishonest, y’know,” you scolded. “I hear old ladies whispering about it all the time,”

You kept yammering, “Hawthorne even asked me if you were off horsing around with me because I brought you out there today,” you groaned frustratedly. “All I do is get you into weird situations,”

You were a centimeter away from pulling all your hair out.

“That’s not entirely true. I get into plenty of weird situations myself,” Gepard protested. “For instance, Serval—,”

“Stop throwing your sister under the bus!” You barked, proceeding to pinch him in the thigh.

“Agh—!” He flinched with a yelp. “As I was saying— that isn’t true in the slightest. Yes, we may have ended up in a few strange situations. But those are a rare minority of the times we spend together,” he shot back.

Gepard reached out and rested his gloved hand on your knee reassuringly, a new look coming across his face. Your heart twirled in your chest.

“Did you know that before we met, my days were largely routine… just like clockwork?” He asked.

“But you brought excitement into my life,” he declared. “Being friends with someone unaffiliated with the guards has been incredibly beneficial in terms of my own personal happi—,”

The captain cleared his throat before he gave away anything more. His cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink. “A-anyways,” he sputtered. “The benefits of being your companion far outweigh any drawbacks you think you might have,”

A noise of surprise escaped from your throat as you felt your face begin to heat. Wow, he sure had a way with words. But you weren’t going to go down without a fight.

“I— well, what are the guards going to think about you nearly getting killed over a stupid piece of junk?!?” You blurted out, your voice breaking. The phonograph in your bag bumped against the cot at the sudden outburst.

Gepard searched your eyes in vain for what you might be feeling, but he came up completely empty. His chest fell at your distressed face.

“It’s true that the guards are tasked with many important duties,” he began, enunciating each and every word slowly. “Such as defending the union, serving the people, and enforcing the orders of the Supreme Guardian… I believe my help today would fall under the ‘serving the people’ category,”

You tilted your head at him as if to beckon him to explain further.

“We get called to track down lost pets or put up posters quite frequently, in fact. It may not be the most exciting job, but it is an honor to help the citizens of Belobog in any way, shape, or form,” he said stubbornly. “And you are one of the people, are you not?”

He defiantly exhaled through his nose. You were left looking at him, slack-jawed. He’d left you almost no room to argue.

“But— I’m not a technically a citizen of Belobog. I’m just a random vagrant from the mines!” You argued. It was a dumber point than you wanted to push, but you knew no other way to fight back.

“Belobogian creed dictates that we treat the people with respect, no matter where they should live,” the captain said without a hint of doubt. “It’s true that the previous Supreme Guardian sanctioned efforts to close off the underworld, but it was framed in the light that it would ensure the safety of the people on the surface. But it was wrong,”

Gepard sighed, feeling the weight of your words squeezing his chest. “It was my understanding that we were all just trying to survive the Eternal Freeze… but in any case, it would have been disrespectful to ignore Miss Natasha’s request to accompany you—,”

Okay, now that’s stretching it a bit, you blanched.

“—and let you go by yourself. In fact, Article 4, Section 5, Line 2 of the Silvermane Guard handbook states that—,” he blathered on. It honestly impressed you. You were helpless to do anything besides stare in disbelief as words poured from his mouth like a waterfall.

“But wh-what about the higher ups and the old folk? Won’t they get angry at you if they find out you’re hanging out with someone of my standing?” You jumped in the moment he stopped to take a breath.

“If people want to trouble themselves with our relationship, which is in fact, none of their business, I say we let them,” Gepard responded. “It is of no concern to me unless it affects you negatively. In which case, I would step in,”

He tightened his grasp on your leg. “I did not reach the station I am at by trying to please those types of meddling figures. Your background has never once concerned me, not even for a second,”

The captain locked eyes with you in such a way that you thought you’d evaporate if you averted your gaze, it was so intense.

“You are not some kind of vermin,” he proclaimed. “It pains me to see you talk about yourself like this. You are one of the Eversummer Florist’s most capable workers, and first and foremost— you are my friend,”

He finally clamped his mouth shut. Aeons, the man in front of you had no clue how much those words meant to you. You sank your teeth into your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“I promise you, (Y/N). What people think will not come between us in the slightest. I will be your iron wall, whenever or wherever you may need me,” he vowed with every fiber in his body.

And that’s when tears came pouring down your face.

They streamed down your cheeks and soaked into the collar of your coat. Your body shook with sobs, your shoulders shuddering every time you drew in a breath.

It happened so fast that Gepard was completely at a loss. He stammered out a few words, horrified that he might have caused something, but all that came out were a mess of vowels.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. Short cries escaped your throat that you tried to stifle with your hand, and you gripped your knees tightly, trying to still your shaking body. But it wouldn’t stop. Your chest felt tight, so tight.

“(Y/N),” Gepard said gently from his position on the cot. “(Y/N),” he called again.

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispered. “I’m here for you,”

All of those feelings flowed out of you like a dam had broken. He wove his thumb in circles around the fabric of your pants in a comforting gesture, easing your aching soul.

You grasped his hands suddenly with both of your own and held it to your cheek, letting the warmth of his skin through his glove calm you down. You nuzzled into the palm of his hand mournfully, tears continuing to trickle down your face, until they finally slowed to a stop, your cheeks and eyes still wet.

After the crying had subsided, leaving only the occasional hiccup, Gepard pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pant pocket and handed it to you. You blew into it loudly, giving him a congested apology afterwards.

You threw your head back to look up at the tent ceiling while blinking away any remaining tears. Willfully scrunching up your face, you let out a calming breath and returned to looking at the captain. He had a relieved look on his face.

“Okay,” you breathed. “I’m okay now. Thank you, Gepard,”

“It was the least I could do,” he said, placing his hand back down on the cot.

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “But it was more than enough,” you mustered up the best smile you could in order to reassure him.

“Um, about what you were saying earlier—,” you brought up. “If— if you say so. But the higher ups, would they withhold a promotion from you or because you were hanging out with me?”

He smiled gently at you, capturing your soul effortlessly with that simple motion. “I’m quite satisfied with being the captain of the Silvermane Guards, thank you. My deeds as a soldier stand as a testament to that,”

You wiped at your face with the sleeve of your coat jacket. “Hah, I guess I was worried for nothing then,” you said with a hint of frustration. “How silly of me,”

Gepard reached up and patted your head reassuringly, causing your eyes to widen. “The fault isn’t all yours. I appreciate you being so considerate, but it’s not your job to protect me,”

He put such meaning into every word he said. Such an admirable way of life.

You swatted his hand away lightheartedly. “Yeah? Well, it’s not your job to protect me, then,” you sniffed. You stuck your tongue out at him as far as it would go, which elicited a short laugh from Gepard.

Aeons, that smiling face was priceless. You could just lean over and kiss him right on that cot.

The smile faded from your face, replaced with something else now. You reached over him and wiped some stray hairs from his face using your single clean glove, watching them fall back into place with a satisfied look.

As you were retracting your arm— much to your surprise— he gently lifted one of his hands and placed it to yours, palm-to-palm. His fingers were slightly bent, so they wrapped around to the back of your hand. A smile danced on your lips; your face and neck much warmer than previously.

You clasped your hand entirely around his, admiring his soft smile. It was so warm and dreamy, a rare ember in a world as cold and hard as Jarilo-VI— a planet so unlike its namesake.

Just when you were stroking the side of his hand with your thumb, you heard a deep rumble (or maybe it was more like a growl?) from your companion’s stomach region.

Gepard went as red as a tomato.

“Captain… I thought you said you didn’t need anything?” You squinted your eyes at him accusingly at the realization.

Gepard internally cursed himself.

Sighing, he said,

“…maybe some porridge will do, thank you,”

BONUS:

“Ugh,” you grunted. “C-captain, you’re heavy! Franz, can you help me get him up real quick?”

Lieutenant Hawthorne, who was walking by the tent at the time, heard shuffling and something that sounded like a grunt of protest from the captain.

“Truly, (Y/N). I can sit up by myse—,”

“NO,” exclaimed both your and Franz’s voices loudly. Hawthorne stopped in his tracks.

“May I at least hold the spoon?” Gepard pleaded. Hawthorne could see your silhouettes from the lantern light cast upon the tent’s walls. You had your hands on your hips as Franz held a bowl and a tray behind you.

You snorted. “In your dreams. I got you all banged up, so it’s my job to take care of you. If I leave you be, you’ll just overwork yourself until you pass out again!”

“May I remind you, that was but a singular instance when—,”

“Lalalalala!” You sang obnoxiously. “I can’t hear you!”

“(Y/N), I beg of you. I must maintain my dignity,” he implored one last time.

“Here comes the Astral Express!” Hawthorne heard you shout, completely overshadowing the captain.

The tent went silent for a moment.

“It’s good, right?” You asked after a short pause.

“…yes,”

Th lieutenant chuckled to himself and continued on his way.

BONUS 2: Belobog Central Hospital

“…and as long as you take care of yourself, you should be good to go in about two weeks,” said the head nurse to Gepard, who was just finishing up giving him the synopsis of his condition. “We’ll be monitoring your condition for the time being, okay? Head injuries are nothing to joke about,”

He agreed. The captain lay in a hospital bed with a neck brace and one leg elevated with a foam wedge, which, frankly, he thought was overkill, considering he was able to walk to the camp.

A vase of fake flowers lay on the bedside table. Gepard smiled to himself. You’d mutter under your breath and call it a waste of a good vase.

After half an hour, the pain medications they had given him finally kicked in, and he’d drifted off to sleep.

He dreamt about making you a rye bread soda iceberg, your eyes lighting up as he placed it in front of you. Maybe once winter came around, he’d make you a pie, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He snoozed softly, when suddenly he was awoken in the middle of the night by a scratching sound at the hospital window.

Gepard lifted his body as much as he could to get a better look, when he spotted the tops of two blonde heads along with a purple-haired one.

The tufted ears on Lynx’s hat wobbled. Serval’s blue eyes peered above the windowsill and they narrowed into crescents as she grinned. Meanwhile, Pela was looking around frantically, making sure no one spotted them.

His elder sister reached up with the multi-tool you had bought her, and fiddled with the lock. The latch came open with a clean pop. And true to her name, Serval slunk in gracefully, her heels clacking on the laminated floor.

“Hi, little bro,” she smirked. “Are visiting hours over?”

He looked at her incredulously. “I think you know the answer to that. Why else would you be breaking in?”

“Breaking in is a stretch,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Like I said, we’re visiting— just outside of the intended time!”

Gepard sighed. “I cannot believe you managed to drag the other two into this. What if you get caught?”

“Actually, it’s three,” your voice piped up. It came from somewhere under Pela. You spoke again. “And we won’t, I promise,”

The captain’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

That’s right. He was on the second floor.

Lynx hoisted herself up, and Pela began to follow suit.

“H-how?” He blurted. “How did you get in here?”

“There’s a dumpster out back that we used to elevate ourselves,” Pela said, not wavering in the slightest. “It could only hold about two people, so (Y/N) is currently holding me up,”

She hoisted herself entirely into the room and beckoned the others to come hoist you up. Gepard spotted one mitten, then the other. And then the rest of you came into view. And you were holding a basket with a blue silk ribbon tied to it.

“We brought you a gift basket!” You whisper yelled. Gepard’s face lit up like a spotlight at the sight of you.

You hopped over to his side and leaned over him with a smile, showing him the contents of the basket. “We’ve got flowers, and cookies, and— hey! Are those fake flowers?” You snapped your head towards the flowerpot indignantly.

You put the basket down and scoffed. “That’s a waste of a good damn vase if I’ve ever seen one,”

Whisking yourself towards the sin against botany, you yanked the faux flowers out and tossed them aside. Then you replaced them with a few stems of white tulips from your basket and filled the vase with water from the nearby sink.

Gepard smiled. You’d said it all almost word-for-word.

And so you stayed a while, talking well into the night. And you were all so tired that no one showed up to their jobs the next day.

2024 - Dreaming-of-Mossballs - Do not repost/translate without my permission - NO AI

💙 THANKS FOR READINF I LOVE YOU 💙

[fairyfairyfairy]

PLS I WAS JUST GONNA ASK IF YOU HAD WATCHWD ALIEN STAGE FOR WHATEVER REASON BECAUSE IDK and then i scroll to see this?? im liteeally a psychic or smth

alien stage round 1

what the fuck is a clematis?

omg is this childhood best friends to lovers rn... are they going to fall in love and get married??? but one of them is gonna die right LOL???? (NOT LOL) well unfortunately one of you has pink hair and glasses and the other has a basic black bob so i think the basic one is gonna die....

omg this is so idol duo i like the bubbles and the lights.. WAIT ARE THEY LIKE ALIEN SLAVES? THAT'S INSANE???? THE COLLAR IS FUCKED

OH JESUS CHRIST WHY DID THEY KILL HER ON THE SPOT... AT LEAST TAKE HER OFFSTAGE??? WHY WOULD U SPLATTER HER BLOOD ON HER FRIEND LIKE THAT???

WAIT IS HER BODY JUST GONE??? DID SHE GET FUCKING DISINTEGRATED WTF????

[fairyfairyfairy]

PLS MIZI I LOVE YOU

she's all alone...

[fairyfairyfairy]

I REDREW THE SILLY DOOMED GAYS

guys is this fire pls say it is or ill cry

[fairyfairyfairy]

alien stage brainrot goes crazy + zanechan i guess

[fairyfairyfairy]

not well.

how are we doing tonight alien stage tmblr

[fairyfairyfairy]

JEREMY SHADA AND THE CRUEL PRINCE GRAGGHHHHHHH

im sorry, but 'if looks could kill' by Jeremy Shada is SOO jude and cardan coded like-

TELL ME THAT ISNT CARDAN FALLING FLAT ON HIS FACE FOR HER (spoiler: u can't)

[fairyfairyfairy]

this authors writing has me whole heartedly shaking in my boots and i cannot WAIITTTT for more of this omg

YOU ARE THE ONLY THING

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ (THAT'S EVER MADE SENSE TO ME)

wc. 5k chapter warnings. angst, cursing chapter summary. the memory of you haunts kinich wherever he goes, a perpetual existence in his life. but when he sees you again by chance, he takes the opportunity to try to right his wrongs. author's note. the first chapter of many...this is gonna be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, a lot of stupid mistakes and forgiveness and moving on and all that good stuff. pls lmk what y'all think! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

masterlist | next ↣

MAYBE WE DON'T TALK ENOUGH. [1]

The graduation ceremony had been lovely, Kinich is sure.

If he had actually been paying attention to any of it, he might’ve even had fun. The field had been decorated with an array of balloons and flowers reflecting your school colors. Countless tears are shed and hugs are exchanged—he knows this might just be the last time he sees some of these people for the rest of his life. In a way, it’s a tribute to the childhood he’s spent here.

He scoffs, kicking at the dirt. To hell with that.

Because while everyone else had been grinning widely, proudly cheered on by their families, all he could do was stare at the empty seats in the stand. Unfulfilled promises swirl madly in his mind; the congratulations that people offer him in passing just slip in one ear and out the other.

So when you approach him, one hand outstretched as you shyly ask him to talk alone, all he can do is follow, blankly staring at the back of your head.

“Kinich, I have something to tell you.”

/

Kinich feels the remnants of you when he runs, sweat sticking to his skin and cold, biting air filling his lungs in a single breath.

Mid-stride, he zips his windbreaker to his neck, watching his breath dissipate like ice. The wind feels so much more piercing when he runs—it stings at his skin and his teeth. Fallen leaves crunch underfoot, a blanket of color over the edges of the field. Autumn always makes him feel melancholic—change always makes him feel melancholic.

Each step pounds heavy in the grass, picking up speed. His teammates know that he likes to run alone, just him and his contemplation—though Aether claims that it makes him a crazy person—and these are the rare times that he can just think.

Running comes naturally to him. Thinking does too, but not like this.

Most days, he tries to stay busy enough to avoid the thoughts. When he’s busy, there isn’t time to reflect on the past, there isn’t time to regret. Being team captain and taking as many credit overloads as he does means that he can stay ahead of the impending waves of guilt.

But when he runs, and it’s just him and the sound of his footsteps, memories of you start to creep in.

They say grief comes in waves, and he believes that must be true—you’ve always been a tide, ebbing and flowing into his life. That much was a constant, even when you weren’t. 

(Or, even when you ceased to be.)

He can go about a few weeks without thinking about you, as far as he’s tried. And he means really thinking about you, not just a brief thought relating to you, or your life, or your memory—he’s not sure he could last even ten minutes that way. Over the years, you’ve become so tightly intertwined with his being that he’s not sure he could ever untangle that connection fully.

His laptop password had been your birthday for years after you left. He still makes his tea the way you taught him, with lemon and just a spoonful of honey. Your shared playlists still haven’t left his Spotify library.

He sighs. Three years is a long time.

It’s long enough for most normal, well-adjusted people to grow out of their past relationship, or at least not be wondering about them for a majority of the day. And that’s if he can even call what the two of you had a relationship—it had been something, and it was his fault that it wasn’t anything more.

Sometimes, he just wonders where you are and what you’re doing.

It’s a sick sort of thing to ponder, especially knowing what he did to you, but he can’t help it—often, he sees you in everything.

He wishes that wasn’t the case.

A part of him wishes he could strike you from the history of his existence. Another part of him wishes he could see you again, just once.

“Sorry for calling you out here! I just thought if I didn’t tell you now, I might never tell you…”

“Kinich!”

He flinches halfway through his step, the echo of your voice fading somewhere in the back of his mind. When he skitters to a stop, he realizes it’s his coach yelling his name, one hand cupped at his mouth and the other frantically waving his clipboard. He gauges the distance between them—lost in his thoughts, he had run about 200 feet straight past the other man.

Flushing in embarrassment, Kinich jogs back to meet him.

“Sorry about that,” he pants. “Was just thinking about one of my exams.”

There’s a pause, like Coach Wayna is deciding whether to ask questions or let it go—Kinich isn’t usually one to lose track of himself, after all. Still, the man seems to land on the latter.

“Well, nice hustle,” he praises, rewarding him with a strong clap on the shoulder. “Get some water and wash up.”

He slaps a towel into Kinich’s outstretched hand—he accepts gratefully, slinging it over his neck and scrubbing the sweat off his face. 

He glances up at the graying sky. The clouds are coalescing into mismatched swirls—maybe it’ll rain tonight, he thinks vaguely. It doesn’t usually stop them from practicing anyway. He can recall a number of times that he has walked home drenched in mud.

“Already? It’s early, isn’t it?”

At this time of year, practices don’t usually end until the sun kisses the horizon, dipping and dimming. Kinich usually walks back to his apartment with his roommates at dusk, Aether’s whining carrying them home.

Coach Wayna is busy watching the other guys run, scribbling something down on his clipboard.

“We’re letting out early today,” he shrugs.

Licking over his lips, Kinich tastes the salt pooling at his cupid’s bow, lungs heaving.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, raising a brow.

Looking out over the field, he watches the rest of his teammates finish their sprints. Aether is messing around again, trying to leapfrog over Xiao’s back, much to the latter’s irritation. Gaming seems to find the sight amusing, based on the way he whoops and cheers.

Kinich sighs, shaking his head—Aether is lucky that he’s as talented as he is.

Coach Wayna laughs, a guffawing sound that resounds deep in his chest and across the field. He’s a good-natured guy, really, if not a bit more patient than Kinich himself can manage.

“The occasion is that you guys are college students,” he explains, “and sometimes, I’m willing to let you enjoy your lives a little bit.”

A half-scowl crawls over Kinich’s lips. Coach Wayna is always on them about enjoying their lives outside the sport, just like everyone else in Kinich’s life. His friends have always been determined to get him out of his bedroom and get him participating in something that isn’t his clubs. It’s irritating sometimes, to say the least.

Kinich’s tongue runs dry, so he pads over to the cooler, throwing the top open and pulling a water bottle out to shake off the excess condensation. It’s nice and cool, a welcome sensation even when the air is colder than usual—internally, his skin thrums with heat.

He gets about halfway through the bottle by the time his teammates make it over, in various states of exhaustion. Aether is first to react, letting out a loud groan and flopping to the ground dramatically.

“Coach, are you trying to kill me?” he whines, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Xiao approaches Kinich directly, taking a water bottle from his outstretched hand.

“It’s your fault that you’re so tired,” Xiao deadpans, taking a swig and settling down in the grass. “Because you were late, the rest of us had to run extra.”

As kind as Coach Wayna is, he doesn’t let things like tardiness slide too often—Kinich’s legs burn as a firm reminder of that. Everything they do, they do as a team, which includes punishment.

“Blame Lumine,” Aether grumbles. “She forgot her keys, so I had to drop her off at work.”

Aether’s sister, as kind as she is, does tend to be a bit forgetful. But Aether is also irresponsible as hell sometimes, so there’s a 50% chance that he merely overslept. Xiao seems to silently agree, based on the way his brows knit together.

Coach Wayna has a short meeting with them to end practice, and Kinich half-listens—he’s still caught up on earlier. It’s only when Aether flicks him in the back of the head that he returns to earth.

“Hey, airhead, we’re going to Third Round Knockout,” he says, an order, not an invitation. Kinich scowls.

“You mean you’re going,” he corrects, packing up his duffel bag. “I’m going home so I can take an ice bath and forget this ever happened.”

He can count a number of other things that are infinitely more important than taking a single step in that greasy place, too. He has a few exams coming up to study for, a lab report to do, and a few logistics issues to resolve with his financial aid and scholarship. So really, he has no business going out at all.

But the thought grows more and more appealing the more his stomach rumbles. Aether seems to notice too, because he grins cheekily, slinging an arm over his friend’s shoulder.

“Just follow the sweet, sweet siren song of burgers and fries, and let it guide you home.”

Xiao sighs from where he sits on the bench, shaking his head—sharing an apartment with Aether and Kinich means he’ll likely get roped into this too. Aether goes around making his pitch to all their teammates, but most decline on the basis of being too busy or having things to do. Kinich thinks they’re just too exhausted to deal with Aether’s antics.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” Gaming whines, checking his phone. “I have an exam tomorrow and if I don’t study and sleep, I’m gonna fail for sure.”

Aether wags a finger in his face, grinning. “You don’t have to study, C’s get degrees!”

Kinich wonders if he should step in, knowing how easily influenced Gaming can be when it comes to Aether’s lax personality. He doesn’t have time to get the words out, however, because Xiao strides past with a critical side-eye. 

“Yes, and Aether’s get dropped from their university…”

“I don’t—hey!”

“Let’s just go,” Kinich sighs, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. Aether pouts, but follows his teammates off the field. 

“Fine, but Xiao’s treating!”

/

Third Round Knockout is exactly the type of place Kinich imagines college students to like.

It sounds strange when he words it like that, considering he is a college student himself, but he means a different type of college student—the type that finds cheap, greasy pizza and boisterous laughter enticing. Or perhaps anyone who finds the showy, race car-themed decor attractive (just how much money did they spend on checkered flags?), or thinks that spending your Friday night listening to pop music from low-quality speakers is a good time.

He doesn’t mean it in a really bad way, of course. He’s friends with college students like that (like Aether), and that’s the only reason he finds himself stepping past the threshold. Still, after a long day of practice, he can’t deny that sitting down for some food sounds pretty good right about now, even if that food comes cheap and deep-fried.

“God, I’m fucking starving,” Aether moans, collapsing into one of the booths in exhaustion. He flips one of the plastic-lined menus over, scanning over the food options. “I seriously think if I have to wait another second to eat, I’ll die.”

Xiao slides into the booth next to him, brows furrowed as he types away at something on his phone. “Seems like you’re always somehow on the verge of dying.”

Though his stomach grumbles, Kinich doesn’t bother looking at the menu—the food here is as standard as it gets, burgers and fries that drip with grease and milkshakes that are basically entirely comprised of sugar. But he reasons that he probably deserves this after the day that he’s had. 

Everything had been nothing short of exhausting. He had conditioning in the morning, followed by three exams back to back, then headed to practice right after. Needless to say, his brain is running on the fumes of the black coffee he downed in between his second and third lecture.

“You good, man?” Aether asks, poking at Kinich’s hand. “You’ve been looking like a zombie all day.”

Kinich figures that a zombie is probably an apt description for how he looks right now, in his ragged hoodie and old sweats. He hadn’t been planning on a night out, after all, but he’s not one to care for fashion even on a good day.

He merely mumbles back an “I’m fine,” thoroughly disinterested in discussing what he’s endured in the last twenty-four hours. He presumes that that’s just the life of a university student like him. The athletic scholarship is good, and he does enjoy playing with his teammates, so he’ll rest and recover and do it all again tomorrow, just like he always does.

Xiao and Aether start bickering over something on the menu, so Kinich takes that opportunity to zone out.

He blinks tiredly, gaze wandering—the bright, multicolored decor is almost too much for his weary eyes. People are drinking and grinding to the music on the dance floor across the room, the bass of the music so loud that he can feel it vibrating under his feet.

Sighing, he pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to avoid a migraine.

He shouldn’t have come today. His mental to-do list only grows longer, and staying home would’ve been a far more efficient use of his time. Perhaps a part of him had felt guilty for how busy he’s been in the past few weeks—it’s actually been quite a while since he sat down with his friends like this.

“Alright, Kinich, you lose!”

The sound of his name pulls him from the depths of his mind to find Aether and Xiao staring at him expectantly.

“What?”

Aether nods to the counter, crowded with a swathe of people. “You have to go order. You were last to nose goes.”

Nose goes? Kinich’s face scrunches in disbelief. Sometimes, he feels more like a kindergarten teacher than a soccer team captain.

“Are you four years old?”

Aether tilts his head, a challenge. “Are you rejecting the sanctity of nose goes?”

Maybe he doesn’t feel so guilty for being busy after all.

Desperate, Kinich looks to Xiao for support, but the other man shrugs, as if to say I can’t deal with him either. Arguing with Aether is a guaranteed headache, so Kinich merely groans, begrudgingly rising from his seat.

“Whatever. Just tell me what you want, then.”

He sighs as he shoves through the crowd, passing through sweaty limbs and sticky floors. No one seems to pay him any mind, and he takes a few accidental elbows to the ribs. God, he wants to throw up.

The actual line for the counter isn’t too long, luckily. There’s only one or two people in front of him. 

He checks over Aether and Xiao’s orders in their groupchat. Aether’s order is a list about a mile long, while Xiao simply wants a single combo meal. Typical.

He thinks on his own order a bit, and he’s midway through creating a mental list about the pros and cons of getting french fries versus onion rings when he looks up again to gauge the wait time. His breath hitches as he realizes two things:

He’s next in line.

He knows the people at the counter.

One of them is Childe, donned in a white t-shirt and a dark leather jacket.

Kinich knows who Childe is just like everyone else—with how much his name gets thrown around on this campus, he’d have to be an idiot not to. Being the star quarterback of the football team, he’s as close to a celebrity as one can get around here. Plus, they have some mutual friends, but Kinich doesn’t really consider Childe a friend, per say. They’re acquaintances at best.

But Kinich doesn’t really care about Childe—he doesn’t know him well, never has, probably never will, and he’s not one to worry about people outside of his concern. No, it’s not Childe that draws his attention at all; in fact, he’s in the way of it.

It’s the fact that Childe is talking to you.

Kinich sucks in a breath.

He blinks once, thinking it may just be his exhaustion playing tricks on him, but you’re still standing there, smiling up at the other man.

Though he’d known that you applied to this school, he never found out where you actually ended up going—you’d blocked him on everything post-graduation, after all. It seems like some sort of sick sign from the universe that you would be here right now.

You’re wearing the Third Round Knockout uniform, he notes dully—so you work here. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re smiling and laughing with Childe, looking entirely too happy with his company. Kinich has talked to the ginger before, and he’s not that funny. 

Childe turns at that moment, seemingly finished ordering his food, before he lights up in recognition.

“Ah, Kinich, what’s up?” he greets, patting him on the shoulder. “Hey, nice game the other day! You’re fast as hell.”

If he were anywhere else but here, Kinich might’ve actually appreciated Childe’s compliment. But right now, he can’t even remember what game he’s referring to; instead, he offers a dry, tight-lipped smile.

“Thanks.”

He peeks around Childe’s arm—you haven’t noticed him yet, too busy counting bills and stuffing them into the register. You’re halfway through a yawn when you call out to him.

“I can help the next person, please!”

Childe shoots him a grin, waving as he steps past him to leave, and suddenly Kinich feels overwhelmingly vulnerable. It feels endless, the drag of your gaze as it turns up to him, falling to his face. Pure shock paints your features.

Something unearths in his chest, kicking up with dust that stings at the corners of his eyes. 

They bloom there, a wealth of feelings that wrap like thorn-lined vines around his heartbeat. Regret speaks the loudest—it screams from where it sits, panging with familiarity at the sight of your face.

“K—Kinich,” you greet once you recover from your initial shock, a rasp. There’s an audible lump in your throat, voice reedy and thin. 

You look even more beautiful than he remembers. That’s all he can think as his brain force feeds him a series of memories—images of hazy sunsets and half-empty spray paint cans and secrets shared between chapped lips. His entire youth is nearly synonymous with your name.

His eyes draw to your neck, the bareness of it; it makes his heart ache.

You toy with the silver chain swinging at your throat, shyly staring down at your feet.

Almost in slow motion, your hand slinks up to your collarbone, reaching for something that isn’t there. It has Kinich’s eyes fluttering shut for a moment, almost painfully.

“Hi,” he starts, sound barely crawling from his throat. “It’s been a long time.”

He waits, but he doesn’t know what for. A change, in expression, in tone, in something, a sign that you remember what the two of you were, or perhaps what you could’ve been. But you’re still blankly staring at him like he’s a stranger.

“Can I help you?”

Kinich forgets about the food entirely. He just can’t get over how different you look, sound, and are. It’s a stupid realization—obviously you would’ve changed in the last three years. But somehow, he feels like he’s been the only one rooted in place all this time.

“Sir?” you repeat pointedly. “Can I help you?”

He utters your name once, soft, then inches forward, an instinct. “Listen, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you interrupt smoothly, devoid of warmth. You back away, defenses up; you’d expected this from him, clearly. “I don’t really want or need it.”

And it hurts to hear that, that you don’t really want or need something from him. Because that always used to be the case, used to be your normal—clinging to each other, wanting and needing and having each other. And though he doesn’t like to live in the past, this is one thing that Kinich is unwilling to let go of.

“Can I…still try?” he starts, hesitant. “To apologize?”

The music still pulses in his veins, in his hands, in his chest—it echoes in his ears as he awaits your reply.

Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t do this. He’d lost any right to pursue you years ago. And he’s certainly not the type to make emotionally-charged confessions in public, but he sees you and he wonders if you still remember his favorite color.

It’s messing with his head.

“Why would you?” Your tone is biting, words sharp as they’re flung off your tongue. “No offense, but we haven’t known each other for years. I don’t see a point.”

And though you’re right, the thought pains him—there had been a time when he was the only one who knew every part of you, and you of him. But you’ve changed so much, you both have, and the evidence is standing before him.

Your eyes fill with frost. His mouth grows dry with regret.

“I know, but at that time, I—”

“You avoided me for months, Kinich,” you cut in quietly, thumbing at the edges of your sleeves. He knows that habit—you always do it when you’re nervous. “Forgive me for thinking that meant you wanted nothing to do with me.”

The bitterness leaks into your voice. You’re trying to be indifferent, but the resentment still feels raw.

And he deserves that, deserves this, he knows; he’s made a lot of mistakes when it comes to you. He more than anyone knows how much he fucked up, and if he could take it back, he would do so in a heartbeat. But he can’t, and your dull eyes and bare neck are evidence of that.

“You’re right,” he breathes, then swallows, gathering himself. “I’m sorry.”

You clear your throat, looking for something else to busy yourself with—anything to avoid eye contact. 

“You don’t have to be.”

Despite your words, the misery is written across your face, like you’re reliving every single moment of that day. And, of course, you have no way of knowing, but he wonders if you realize how often he relives it too.

“Now that we’ve graduated, I just thought you should know…”

Kinich feels completely out of his element, pinned in place.

He wonders what he even wants out of this whole interaction. Your anger? Your hatred? Would it have made him feel better than your disinterest? His fist clenches.

Say something. Don’t let it repeat itself.

It’s always been his vice—he doesn’t think he’s a stupid person, but he does think he’s a quiet one. And sometimes, that comes back to bite him in the worst moments. When he thinks back on the moments he’s shared with you, he can recall so many times that he could’ve said something. And maybe it wouldn’t have saved you both, but what if it would’ve?

You’re sighing in resignation, looking over his shoulder to call the next person when he speaks, hasty. 

“If you ever want to talk about what happened, we can. I can.”

It reeks of desperation, and he has half a mind to be embarrassed, but the feeling doesn’t surface. Instead, he catches a flicker of budding hope in your eyes, a wink of familiarity that has his heart slamming against his ribcage. 

Your lips form the shape of his name, and Kinich finds his breath.

“I like you, Kinich. A lot. For a while now. And, if you’ll have me, I’d like us to be together.”

“What’s going on here?”

Too focused on your expression, Kinich fails to notice the older man sneaking up behind you, a stern frown on his face and arms crossed. You cringe at the intrusion, already struck with a sense of foreboding. 

You whip around, hands drawn meekly to your chest.

“Sir,” you squeak out, a nervous giggle escaping your throat, “I was just—”

“We’ve already talked about this,” your manager hisses, a contrastingly serene smile on his face. “This would be your third strike.”

Despair creeps onto your face, and Kinich finds himself drawn forward, hand outstretched.

“Wait, sir, please. It was my fault. She was just—”

Your boss fixes Kinich with a sour glare, looking him up and down—his lip curls into disapproval when he sees the tattoo on his arm. 

“Don’t make excuses for your friend.”

Everyone around stares at the commotion—when Kinich glances back, Xiao and Aether are watching, wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way.”

“You’ve had enough chances,” your manager starts, deceptively saccharine-sounding.

He looks between the two of you, spiteful. Kinich’s heart drops like a stone. 

“You’re officially fired.”

/

“Wow, you fucked up bad.”

The next day, Aether’s unhelpful commentary is nearly drowned out in the general noise of the quad. 

Fluffy clouds half-obscure the sun above, leaving a permeating warmth and a relaxing breeze. There’s an extensive crowd of students spread out across the grass, studying and laughing and chatting. It would be a beautiful, enjoyable day, if not for Kinich’s overwhelming guilt and the irritating sound of Aether scarfing down his lunch.

And while the blond’s remarks are unhelpful, they aren’t necessarily wrong. Recounting the whole event just makes him more aware of how idiotic he had been. Kinich rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration—he just can’t stop making mistakes when it comes to you.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admits, absentmindedly pulling at the blanket beneath him. “I just wanted to talk to her.”

After the incident, your manager had disappeared with you into the back, likely to work out the details of your termination. You threw him a last glance over your shoulder, eyes pouring with regret—whether it was regret that you had been interrupted, or regret that you had interacted at all, he isn’t sure.

“Oh, you talked to her alright,” Aether chirps, mouth full. Kinich’s face twists in disgust. “Talked her right out of financial stability.”

Lumine jerks an elbow into her brother’s ribs, ignoring his pained yelp. 

“What he means to say,” she starts, shooting her twin a poisonous glare, “is that you made a mistake, and you know it now. All you can do is apologize, or leave her alone if you think that would be best.”

Kinich thinks on that for a moment. Apologizing seems reasonable, but the laundry list of things he should apologize to you for seems to grow longer by the day. He’s not even sure you would hear him out for that long at this point.

Last night had given him a glimpse of hope, but your manager had ruined anything he had built up in that moment. 

And really, he should leave you alone. The guilt building and knotting in his chest is enough, enough that he knows that getting involved with you further would only lead to more heartbreak for both of you. He’s just not sure if he’s capable of letting you go again.

“I mean, no offense, but weren’t you the one who rejected her back then? And then, like…ghosted her?” Aether asks.

Lumine facepalms, thoroughly exhausted by trying to reel in her twin’s complete lack of decorum. It seems to be her full-time job at this point.

“It’s okay,” Kinich sighs, waving her off. “He’s right. I did.”

He’d been going through a lot back then, not that it had been a valid excuse. He’d been far too immature to be honest with you like you deserved. 

With a groan, Kinich shuts his laptop to fully focus on the topic at hand—he hasn’t been studying for a few minutes now anyway.

Lumine and Aether stare at him like they’re awaiting clarification. He shrugs, deflated.

“I was young and stupid. There’s no good explanation for it.”

“I don’t know if was is the right term,” Aether adds thoughtfully. “I mean, you did just get her fired, and that’s because—”

“—Aether.”

Lumine hisses through gritted teeth, and her twin chuckles, suddenly nervous.

“That’s because I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot and I’m going to stop talking now.”

Aether dives back into his chicken fried rice like a kicked puppy, pouting. Lumine glances over at Kinich, gauging the conflict written over his features. She sighs, smoothing her hair over her shoulder.

“Well, the choice is yours.”

If it were just up to him, he would chase after you and apologize endlessly. But he knows that his aren’t the only feelings in play here—if anything, yours matter more. So, he decides to leave it to fate.

He fishes into his bag with one hand, producing his wallet and shaking out a few coins. He holds one out for his friends to see.

“Heads, I apologize. Tails, I leave her alone.”

He swallows hard.

“Forever.”

He’s not sure if he truly means that quite yet, but he tells himself that he does. Steeling his resolve, he tosses the coin in the air. Aether and Lumine’s eyes grow wide as they follow its path, spinning and twisting before landing neatly on the ground.

“Kinich, do you think we’ll still know each other in five years? Ten years?”

“Of course we will.”

Kinich leans forward, peering down at the fallen Mora.

There’s a tinge of relief in his sigh.

Heads.

[fairyfairyfairy]

the heart break that came with kinich and kachina not having a va this patch bc of the fuckin strike. like bro.

stop ai so i can actually hear the pookies pls 😞😞

[fairyfairyfairy]

all day everyday therapist mother maid nymph then a virgin nurse then a servant JUST AN APPENDAGE LIVE TO ATTEND HIM

THE Mother

I made her name in my re-write Evelyn or Eve cause Gartes name is Adam in mine (religious symbolism go brrr) and she is a witch in mine. She was given the title of mother or queen of monsters for protecting mystical beings from humanity.

Plus she sends Garroth to Phoenix Drop to hide him from Adam

She's basically the song Labour personified

[fairyfairyfairy]

k so like hear me out…. mizutoya. right. RIGHT???

THEYD BE CUTE. DONT PLAY.

[fairyfairyfairy]

well shit im making out with them all darn!

More Halloween vibes for the squad 🦇

[fairyfairyfairy]

garrence is one of my quadrillion roman empires

love their homoerotic tension that lasted through three seasons