mowiwow

[mowiwow]

dreaming within a dream of a dream (empire ayn)

spoilers for patriarch's [the decameron] story as well as his ssr card story [sink in dasein]

After meeting Miss Traveller, he dreams within a dream.

His memories are fragmented, his mind scattered— which is reality, and which is a dream?

Who is "Ayn"?

Quietly, he yearns.

notes: told in 2nd pov, some descriptions of the little painter, not fully linear, ~6k

PART I · his dream

He is sinking, sinking, sinking deeper still;

The world crumbles at his feet, consumed by writhing shadows staring right at him.

The arms of the bone sword hold onto your wrist tightly, almost possessively. A myriad of emotions flicker through your eyes— confusion, sorrow, anger, regret…

He simply smiles, eyes curving as he holds the blade in his hand.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, gentle, loving, cruel.

The marble pillars disintegrate and crumble, falling snow that melts within the void at his feet.

“None of this is real, after all.”

At the end of the dream, he sees you.

…

…

…

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is you.

His Cardinal, dutifully standing by the steps leading to the sword-crossed throne he rests upon, head slightly lowered. He looks around dazedly. The next things he sees are tall, marble pillars blurring into one blank canvas, his vision foggy and blurred. He falls back on his throne, staring listlessly at the hazy sunlight encasing him within a dreamy glow.

Memories burst forth, not unlike a flood breaking through a dam. It leaves him disoriented, his head aching.

In a few mere seconds, the feeling subsides. His mind calms. Quiets.

He reaches for his armrest.

“Your Holiness,” you call softly, his fingertips just millimetres from grazing the metronome at his side.

“Hmm.”

He sits upright in his throne as the fog gradually clears. Other fragmented memories continue to piece themselves back together, his soul like a jigsaw frantically trying to gather to form the current Patriarch.

His lips curl.

Hah.

“...Your Holiness?” you repeat, brows furrowed ever-so-slightly in concern when you see his odd expression.

“No, it’s nothing…” he murmurs, sighing as he regains control over himself. “Are you here to report your recent results from the training grounds?”

“Yes, though… you probably already know about it…”

He does. In the few months following your very first defeat at the Empire’s training grounds, you haven’t lost a single match since. You’ve been working tirelessly hard to rebuild your temporarily stricken reputation— this time, more fearsome than before and with a newfound determination.

A gloved hand habitually touches the corner of his upturned lips in a poor attempt to conceal his emotions.

He’d told you that you didn’t need to win every battle. That isn’t a burden you need to carry, after all. Nonetheless, he feels pride in seeing your confidence.

“Well, I’ve heard about the results. But I would like to hear the finer details from you.”

Your back straightens, arms folded behind you as though you were about to give him a detailed report about one of your patrols.

You haven’t yet mastered a calm demeanour, unable to hide your excitement, no matter how thinly you press your lips. You speak in an orderly manner, but he catches a hint of breathlessness as you rapidly detail every move you take in all of your battles, your thought processes…

His heart twists into knots, an uncomfortable clash of happiness and regret settling deep within him.

Everything you explain to him is something he’s intimately familiar with.

These are all things I would do, after all.

His gaze softens, and he beckons you forth.

“Come to me.”

You step forth, steps confident and graceful. You’ve grown quickly in just a few, short years— even faster than he had.

“Your Holiness?”

He rests a hand atop your head, lightly messing up your hair with the action.

“You’ve done well.”

Your eyes shine, unable to help the broad smile that forms on your face.

“Thank you, Your Holiness!”

It’s then that something catches the corner of his eye. He raises an eyebrow, lowering his hand to point at something, much to your confusion.

You glance down. Your expression quickly shifts from one of joy to a sheepish one as you instinctively hide your hands behind your back.

“I’ve already seen the bandages,” Patriarch murmurs in a tone used to coax children. “I’m not mad at you; don’t worry.”

You hesitate for a long time, looking around the large palace, at everything but him. From this reaction, he guesses that it’s something you think is embarrassing— maybe a wound from a careless mistake that the perfect soldier shouldn’t have made.

But you don’t need to be the perfect soldier.

He waits patiently for you to explain what the small bandages wrapped around your fingers are. What weapons do the students at the Empire’s bases wield? Which weapons would cause wounds so small? A feather-light graze from a dagger, perhaps?

Finally, you give your answer:

“It’s… It’s a secret..!”

Patriarch’s eyes widen fractionally in unconcealed surprise.

This is a first.

Since he found you, shivering, trembling, in the dark closet with shadows pulling at your clothes, you’d kept no secrets from him.

You were wary of him, at first— of course, you were. After all, the shadow of death clung to your shoulders, the scent stuck to your clothes no matter how many times you changed, and you were wary of the entire world.

Since he gave you a new stuffed toy to hold onto at night— an odd, red-and-white rabbit doll that he had made on a whim to quell your fears— you hadn’t kept a single secret from him. You shared with him your joy, your sorrow, your concerns, all of it. You followed all of his words perfectly, properly communicating to him when you disagreed with something or otherwise.

…So, this is a first.

Patriarch sits on his throne dazedly. What would make you keep a secret from him? Did you kill someone? He wouldn’t exactly encourage it, for that path is not one he wants you to tread down, but he wouldn’t be mad. It’s quite commonplace in the Infinite Empire, and very few would bat an eye at another corpse found in the halls or elsewhere.

Well, you’ll probably tell him once you’re ready.

He meets your nervous, shifty gaze with a warm smile as he leans back on his throne.

“Very well. I won’t pry any further, then.”

You blink owlishly at him, as though you’d expected a different reaction. 

“What?” he continues, with some humour. “Am I that frightening to you?”

“No!” you quickly shake your head, somewhat embarrassed. “Um… I promise it’s not a bad secret!”

Oftentimes, you remind Patriarch of himself. Other times, he feels a startling cold overcome him as he realizes that you aren’t really him.

You’re still naive, starry-eyed, and a little timid. You have learned from him all sorts of combat strategies, but you maintain the innocence of youth.

His mind drifts to old, old memories.

You will not go down the same path as he did.

…He’ll make sure of it.

“I know,” Patriarch replies simply. He knows you’re not plotting against him, because—

Your heart is pure and without a hint of malice towards him.

———

Patriarch blinks, bleary-eyed, as his surroundings come into focus. Immediately, out of habit, he reaches for Dasein.

Tick, tick, tick, tick…

…

The soft, mechanical clicking is lost to silence and stops after a few long seconds.

He rolls his neck, tapping his temple with an odd, inexplicable smile on his face. Memories of reality come flooding in, with some new ones taken from the dream mixed in.

“Hello… Traveler on the run.”

He whispers to himself, then laughs— almost manic.

A very fruitful dream.

After hundreds of attempts to find someone who could carry out the role of the martyr in the script, he’s finally found the perfect match. There’d always been that itch in the back of his mind, a whisper; a whisper he couldn’t make out, a whisper he couldn’t quite quash.

He remembers.

That fragmented memory, lost beneath the thousands of clamouring souls grasping at his mind— he’s located it.

So that’s how it was.

He can’t say he feels much. After all, it has been an unspeakably long, long time since he was “Ayn” in that cycle of servitude. Nonetheless, that’s at least one less voice nagging at him.

He’s looking forward to when he can see you next.

It's been a long time since he’s remembered that feeling of hatred, that feeling of despair. The righteous attitude you showed him, your unwavering stubbornness in carrying out your idea of justice.

The foolishness of the boy who’d long since become one with the dust of that world lost in history.

The memories are fragmented, but it’s enough to remind him that he’d been a human once.

It’s just a pity that “Ayn” is no longer anywhere to be seen.

He can’t help but mull over your confused, torn expression, as though he had betrayed you, somehow. He can’t help but think of the words you had spat out, full of malice.

“I actually once believed you were different from them.”

…How foolish.

But…

Very good, he thinks, with an almost perverted sense of humour.

Everything was almost perfect, down to the boiling hatred. Almost everything. Everything but the very end.

He squints his eyes at seemingly nothing. Then, he flexes his fingers, and millions of threads come to life before him. They all connect in an intricate web, and he is at the centre of it all.

A fly stuck in a spider’s web, maybe.

With a single twitch of his fingers, countless souls shift, restless. Along the threads crawls all sorts of emotions— emotions he couldn’t care less about.

He doesn’t mind having all of the darkest parts of the human heart directed towards him.

It allows him to entertain the notion that he still exists, as something more than a strung puppet perched atop a gilded throne.

So, he thinks, lips curling, Despise me with all you’ve got.

———

You’ve been quite skittish around him recently. He’s had a hard time finding a reason behind your little mannerisms in the past few days— for instance, he has no idea why you seem particularly taken with his military hat.

Patriarch silently escorts you back to the palace located far away on top of a long-abandoned civilization, waiting as he always does.

You follow about two to three steps behind, outside of his view, but he can hear your nervousness.

…Your anxiety is starting to make him anxious.

The last time you were this anxious was several months back when you’d lost your first match, terrified of being scolded, of losing his approval.

He can more or less guess that your unease is related to whatever secret you’ve been trying to keep from him the past few weeks.

How should he handle this?

There aren’t exactly lessons for this in the Empire, after all. Patriarch doesn’t even bother to compare himself to the Empire’s methods of raising children… the bar would be in hell.

He’d like to wait for you to approach him first, but it would be troublesome if the secret was something that would put you in danger.

“How was your time at the Empire’s bases?”

He glances behind him, squinting his eyes slightly when he sees that your hands are hidden behind your back. He knows your walking habits well, and you usually like to keep your hands free at your side, prepared to attack at any given time if need be.

“Huh? Um, I learned a lot…”

He frowns.

It’s the same type of wound, small bandages wrapped around your fingers.

You seldom make the same mistake twice. You’re a remarkably quick learner, studious and hardworking. He guesses that it wasn’t a misstep in the training grounds after all.

So…

What, then?

He narrows his eyes.

“You aren’t being mistreated by the others at the training grounds, are you?”

Your eyebrows fly up, shock evident on your face. “What? No!”

Then, you follow it up with an indignant tone, brows furrowed.

“I wouldn’t let myself get beaten up by those people. You were the one who taught me how to escape any situation and to never bow my head.”

Patriarch raises an eyebrow, nodding in approval.

“Indeed… so where do your injuries come from?”

Immediately, you clam up.

Patriarch sighs, speaking in a softer voice.

“I don’t mind if you keep secrets from me… but I hope you can tell me if something has been hurting you. I want you to know that I’m here for you and I will support you in whatever way possible.”

His gaze lingers on your face, almost wishing he could read your thoughts.

Your figure overlaps with a distant ghost. One of a young child stained with mud, huddled in a dark corner, gritting his teeth with all his might to endure the endless pain in silence. Alone.

“I told you, right? I always win every battle I fight. So, if you tell me who’s hurting you, I can help you.”

Guilt flickers across your expression, fleeting, quickly replaced by determination.

“I know. I will always go to you first, Your Holiness,” you say resolutely. “I promise, nothing bad is happening. I’ve just been… trying new things, and it’s taking some time for me to get used to it.”

He carefully watches your expression, your body language, but you simply look at him straight-on with honest and pure eyes.

Finally, he relaxes.

“Very well. A new hobby? Have you been trying a new technique for your drawings?”

Your eyes curve as you smile excitedly, a single finger held up against your lips.

“It’s a secret!”

———

He’s quick to sort through the memories— through the memories that belong to “Patriarch”, through the memories that belong to the “shadows”.

Patriarch sighs wearily, watching as golden lights come into focus once again.

In these moments, he feels as though he’s floating. He has no anchor, no root, no existence— he is but another shadow amongst millions, shifting endlessly in agonizing misery as they yearn to be whole.

He reaches out to his armrest, the metal of Dasein cold even through his gloves.

Tick, tick, tick…

…

It stopped.

He’s long since stopped being as active in the Empire, now keeping to himself on top of worlds forgotten. The instincts still crawl beneath his skin, clamouring for something— they have never left, and they never will.

It’s just that he’s been too exhausted recently and can’t bring himself to do what he once did.

Patriarch laughs at himself, sneering.

Not for the first time, he thinks of what might end him and this farce.

Your skirt flutters in the corner of his vision, causing him to turn his head.

His lips part, temporarily at a loss.

Then, he chuckles.

…From the dream, he reminds himself. Not from reality.

Recently, he’s been dreaming of you. Since the first encounter, since the dream following that, your ghost seems to have been haunting his soul on a frequent basis.

None of them has been truly you, but rather a phantom conjured by his personal wishes and memories. If it were truly your spirit there, he guesses that the first thing you’d want to do is thrust the bone sword through his chest.

…His Cardinal.

Patriarch covers his eyes with an arm, blocking out the light and temporarily taking sight from himself.

The inky darkness is not so different from the thin boundary separating reality and dreams. It’s not so dissimilar from the void he stands in when he’s about to awaken from a dream, dark mist spilling from him uncontrollably when he plunges the blade through his chest, neck, or even head.

His finger twitches, itching for something.

The phantom pain tends to linger for a few seconds every time he wakes from another dream. It does nothing to ease the sensory overload he experiences whenever he needs to reorient himself, when he returns to true existence.

He reaches for the bone sword propped against his throne, thin and odd. It feels warm to the touch, as though coated in a thin layer of fresh, warm blood.

Your figure overlaps with another, and the line between dreams and reality blurs.

…

This is why I hate dreaming.

———

You weren’t always so confident.

He remembers when he’d first taken you under his wing, Ricky staring at you with great curiosity. Though he never said anything, Patriarch can easily see the astonishment on the Deacon’s expression.

“You will watch over her today, while I’m gone.”

He didn’t want to leave you alone this early on, but the Empire has been nagging him incessantly for the next energy transfer, amongst other things. He guesses he’s being summoned to be reminded of where he stands in the Empire’s hierarchy— and as much as he doesn’t want to go, it’s a summons he cannot ignore.

Or, maybe, they’ve already found out about…

The little girl, standing behind his throne, who shakes violently as she curls up into a little ball.

“Yes, My Lord,” Ricky bows his head, not daring to say anything in front of the Patriarch.

Patriarch only glances back once as he leaves his palace for the Empire, watching as Ricky tries to make himself as small and non-threatening as possible. You shuffle back with wide eyes, squeezing the worn teddy bear in your arms so fiercely that the head might pop off at any second.

…It’s better he get this done and over with sooner rather than later.

Ayn doesn’t often interact with the Empire’s main base, nor the center. He has long stepped back from the front lines, preferring to keep to himself. The Empire is callous, cold, which isn’t bad. It’s almost beneficial to the present-day him, really, with how little they care for their discarded soldiers. He can usually continue existing quietly with the bare minimum energy transfers.

That’s how he’s been living for a long time, in any case, before today’s summons.

The Empire’s base is far, leaving Patriarch with plenty of time to mull over the events that have transpired in the past few days.

Prefect Crimson’s daughter…

The universe continues, the passage of time far crueller than anything the Empire could do. He’d heard whispers of a Prefect betraying the Empire, but he’d waved it off for the most part. It’s somewhat uncommon that Prefects would betray the Empire, but not unheard of.

And Patriarch wants as little to do with the Empire as possible.

Taking you in might’ve been more trouble than you’re worth. It would seem that, by taking you in, he’s disrupted his usual routine.

…But, that look in your eyes, the brief flicker of fury so fleeting that he almost thought he imagined it—

He’s been looking for that spark.

It’s an opportunity he simply can’t ignore.

So, into the room full of everything and nothing, a room where flickering dots of light converge into eyes ever watching.

His eyes smile insincerely as he watches the string of text formed by the Center. He laughs lowly— he figured as much.

Though he’s maintained a neutral relationship with the Empire the last several decades, in the end…

There is nothing he hates more than the Infinite Empire.

The lights flicker, blinking aggressively, as though trying to ward off a predator mere steps away from tearing out their throat.

He simply tilts his head, arms crossed leisurely.”

“I see…”

The text on the system message is bright, reflected in his pupils.

“So, that’s how it is.”

…

…

…

As soon as Patriarch returns, he’s met with Ricky’s poorly concealed anxiety.

He raises an eyebrow— were you that much of a handful?

“My deepest apologies, My Lord. It would seem that the girl has gone missing.”

“...Oh?”

Amusing.

Ricky’s face pales when he sees the smile playing at Patriarch’s lips. He lowers his head further still,  tensed.

“It seems she’s good enough to escape the eyes of my men?”

Patriarch strolls past Ricky, waving a hand carelessly.

“You may return to your usual duties. I will find her.”

“...Yes, My Lord.”

It’s not hard to find you.

It’s so easy that he wonders if he needs to start personally training those who serve him— it seems they’ve gone soft from so many years of inactivity.

This palace is his, and there is no one more intimate with its layout than he.

The scene before him overlaps with his first encounter with you. Trembling, curled up against the corner of the dark closet, looking up at him with the eyes of a cornered animal just one step away from lashing out.

How familiar.

This time, though, you don’t have that big bear of yours.

“Are you fond of closets?”

“...”

“Or, is it the small space that reassures you, knowing you can see every potential location an enemy may attack?”

“...”

Unsurprisingly, you’re just as silent as the first day he met you.

No— he thinks your silence has grown worse, more anxious. He glances at your arms, desperately hugging your knees to fill in the gap left behind by the bear that had accompanied you previously.

“Where did your doll go?”

“...”

Hmm.

You’re stubborn about not saying anything.

Then, perhaps he should do something similar to what he did the first time he saw you curled up in the corner of a dark closet.

Patriarch takes a step back, leaving the closet temporarily. It’s easy enough for him to gather various odd materials lying around, previously dormant red threads tensing and searching. Stitches fall neatly into place, and he creates a new doll in a matter of minutes. He knows his way well around a needle and thread; creating a doll is child’s play to him.

It’s a red-and-white rabbit doll. He made it instinctively, without any particular reason— it was the first design that came to mind. It reminded him a bit of you.

The entire time, he doesn’t hear a single peep from the closet’s shadows.

But he does hear your breath hitch ever-so-slightly when he approaches the closet, his muffled footsteps startlingly loud in the silent bedroom.

The heavy moonlight marks out a clean, thin shape against the polished wood through the closet’s door. He stands with his back to the closed half of the closet, invisible threads attaching to the doll in his hand.

After confirming once, twice, thrice, that nobody is within 500 metres of this room, the rabbit doll peeks around the corner of the closet door.

“Hello?”

Patriarch speaks in a nasally voice, crooking his finger to make the rabbit doll’s head peek around the dark closet.

The rabbit doll stumbles around blindly, flailing around awkwardly. He figures the doll will be less intimidating if it’s unable to walk properly and flopping around everywhere.

And flop it did.

He hears the quiet thump of a soft doll tripping and falling on its face.

The silence is particularly deafening.

…Should I say ‘Ow’ here?

…

“Ow.”

“Pfft.”

Patriarch falls silent for a bit when he hears your muffled laugh, a bit confused, a bit amused. He gathers himself and continues.

“Help me?”

The rabbit doll stretches out its arms, as though asking for a hug or to be lifted up. The threads connected to the doll tighten as the doll is pulled deeper into the closet, then slacken as Patriarch releases the doll from his control.

The bedroom falls silent once more.

He sees the red-and-white rabbit doll peek out from within the closet, a little hand wrapped around its waving paw.

He hears a meek voice from the shadows: “Thank you.”

When he sees you peeking out from the closet alongside the doll, Patriarch crouches down with a slight smile to even out the height difference.

“I have taken you under my wing, and you are now in my domain. In this place, nobody will dare hurt you as I am the most powerful person here.”

You blink up at him with watery eyes, hugging the rabbit doll close to your chest.

Then, you clamber out of the closet and stand as tall as you can.

“How can I be a powerful person like you?”

Your eyes sharpen. It’s a glint of determination familiar to him.

“That way… I can save the people I like. I want to do something about the bad things in the world.”

He’s caught off guard by how quickly you rise to your feet, driven by an invisible courage he doesn’t remember the feeling of.

Patriarch nods seriously, carefully listening to your declaration.

“You want to become a powerful person? Then, the first step to that is…”

You lean forward with wide eyes, rabbit doll in hand.

He gestures towards the large bed in the room.

“...To rest up properly.”

Confusion flickers across your face before you nod determinedly, running over to the big bed and crawling under the sheets. Patriarch holds back an amused huff, standing up and properly closing the closet door.

He draws the curtains, plunging the room into a serene darkness.

“We will talk about where you’ll go from here tomorrow. If you’re looking to become a powerful individual, I will assist in any way I can.”

“Okay…”

He hears the blanket rustle as you try to get more comfortable in the large bed.

Patriarch’s glove rests on the doorknob, about to take his leave, when he hears you call out softly.

“Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately. You hesitate for a long time, watching him timidly. Then, you pull the covers over your head, and he hears your muffled response:

“Nevermind…”

He raises an eyebrow, standing by the door for a few more seconds before he pulls a chair up to your bedside.

Patriarch makes a guess, speaking gently: “You have something on your mind?”

When you don’t reply, he continues.

“It’s okay to tell me. I’ll listen to you.”

You peek out from the covers again, the red-and-white rabbit doll resurfacing alongside you. Patriarch turns on the night lamp on the nightstand, creating a little pocket of gentle, golden light within the dark room.

“I’ve been having scary dreams,” you confess in a mumble.

Ah, he thinks. Patriarch should’ve figured as much.

He was the same in the first weeks he spent at the Empire.

…His dreams have only gotten worse since, but they don’t affect him anymore. He’s learned how to quell the innate fears of his heart, learned to rein in his desires and learned to keep a rational head in the most absurd of dreams.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Patriarch murmurs, reaching out to tap your forehead.

From a distant place, threads lift, and previously set backdrops change scene.

“You are in my domain. Nobody will hurt you, not even dreams, for I am more powerful than all of them.”

Your eyes glitter, with tears, with light, maybe with hope— and you finally let the fatigue rest, eyes drooping in drowsiness.

As you slip into the tangled world of dreams, Patriarch whispers his promise.

“You will never have a bad dream for as long as I am by your side.”

———

You instinctively shield your eyes when you open them to a grand palace, sunlight spilling in through countless windows stretched unreasonably tall.

You feel a sinking sensation, an odd disconnect between your soul and body.

You recognize this place.

From a dream dreamt countless dreams ago.

You look up and finally notice the figure on the throne at the centre of the empty hall. The only items accompanying him are an intricately crafted metronome shaped like a musical instrument, and… a red and white rabbit doll.

Patriarch looks up, blinking slowly, lazily. There’s that fatigue in his expression, body, that you had caught a glimpse of. The weariness that had left an impression in the back of your mind since first seeing it.

Your finger twitches, and you belatedly feel the heavy weight in your hand. It’s the intricate sword of bone he had given you in your first encounter with him. You relax your hand, trying to drop the sword, but to no avail. The claws dig into the soft flesh of your wrist, causing you to wince. The tip of the blade trembles, pointed straight at—

Him.

“...Cardinal?”

You have no time to react before the exhaustion on Patriarch’s face dissipates like smoke.

“Ah, I’m mistaken,” he muses. His eyes narrow playfully, a hint of self-mockery flickering within deep red eyes. 

The man before you seems to laugh at himself. He covers the corner of his curled lips with a gloved hand, surveying you with great intrigue.

“...I see.”

You see the endless void in dull, crimson eyes.

You see—

Vibrant strings take control of your limbs, throwing you out through the gilded gate behind you.

“Let us meet in the next dream, hmm?”

—A profound yearning.

…

…

…

You gasp, eyes flying open.

You sit up in your bed unsteadily, blanket crumpled by your fingers. Carefully, you pore over every detail of your room, desperately trying to confirm something. Trying to ease the confusion muddying your mind.

…This is real. It is four in the morning, and you've awoken from a dream. This is your reality, on Earth, in your room filled with countless sketches, with an unfinished project on the display of your tablet.

You can't help but recall those distant eyes watching you as the doors closed.

Then, you think, what about him?

You steady yourself with a long sigh, the headache eventually clearing. You look out the window at the sky, the murky darkness pierced through by distant stars seemingly watching over your dreams.

Who is the him of reality, and who is the him of dreams?

———

Patriarch is speechless.

For the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t know what to say.

There are moments where he is momentarily stunned, but he has always been quick about gathering his wits and coming up with an adequate response.

This, however…

“Sorry. It might be a bit too ugly, after all…”

You kneel before him, hands outstretched as though presenting an offering to a deity.

…A bit over the top, he thinks, when the object in question is a small red-and-white rabbit doll.

When he sees the rabbit doll before him with visible stitches of an amateur, all of the hints suddenly connect in a laughably simple conclusion.

There’s just one mystery remaining—

Why?

He combs through all of his memories, as fragmented as they are, for any hints as to why you would be presenting him with a gift. He surmises it to be a holiday from that blue planet you’d been born from, as you’d always been particularly stubborn about celebrating your home’s holidays. Christmas, Halloween, Easter… you’d even asked him once about his birthday.

Which holiday is today?

In the end, it’s best to ask you directly.

“My Cardinal, please stand,” he starts, watching as you rise to your feet while keeping your head bowed. It’s less out of reverence towards him, but more to hide your embarrassment. He steps down from his throne, taking the small rabbit doll from your hands.

It’s very close to the one he’d given you several years ago, from before he started teaching you how to wield a sword. But upon closer inspection, there are all sorts of imperfections— a telltale sign of an amateur working blindly without any guidance. The black, beady eyes, for one, are crooked.

That said, the small hat between its ears is detailed and matches the hat of his uniform remarkably well.

“Is… today a special day?”

“Oh… right!”

You straighten your posture, looking at him sheepishly. “I never explained it to you, but… today is Father’s Day.”

Patriarch raises his eyebrows, stunned into silence for a second time within the span of a few minutes.

“I… I was a little too embarrassed to bring it up to you before, but… I did want to do something eventually. It’s not very good, though, because I don’t have much experience with needles.”

“If you so wished, I wouldn’t have minded helping you with sewing. I’m quite good at it.”

“I know— the dresses you made for me were really fancy… but that’s not the point! It was supposed to be a surprise.”

You pause, as though catching your breath.

“Do… you, um…”

Patriarch smiles, eyes curving into little pleased crescents as he gently pats your head. He turns around and returns to his throne, resting the red-and-white rabbit doll on the armrest. He sits back down, lightly patting the hat of the rabbit doll.

“I’m very happy. Thank you.”

Your eyes light up, and the smile on your face is giddy. Your excitement is almost contagious, and all Patriarch can do is poorly conceal his fondness with a gloved hand.

Father’s Day, he muses. I see.

The large palace he’s created for himself doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

What a peaceful existence.

...

But in the end, this was just another form of “fallenness”.

———

“...”

Wordlessly, Patriarch reaches for his armrest, touching Dasein. The pendulum swings back and forth in a steady and constant rhythm once, twice, thrice—

Tick, tick, tick…

Then, it stops.

His hand lightly touches his chest, his heart.

The memories come flooding back as the reality before his eyes comes into focus in the most familiar manner. The blurred lights become clearer, the fuzzy outlines of his hands become sharper, and the bone sword at his side is sharp and dutifully waiting for him to wield it once more.

There is no rabbit doll sitting atop his armrest.

“Ahh…”

Patriarch dreamt of his Cardinal killing him.

He did think you felt vaguely familiar, reminding him of his old teacher—

Crimson… when did she die?

The flow of time has long become muddied, his own memories disordered and confused. A consequence of his power— a price he must pay for his control over souls.

You seem to have had a stronger impact on him than he initially thought. This being the first dream he has right after meeting you in that layered dream…

It seems that even he isn’t immune to “fallenness”, no matter how many dreams he’s dreamt, no matter how many dreams he’s had of a dream within a dream.

With every dream, he learns a little more about himself.

How interesting.

And…

Frightening— but thrilling.

What kinds of dreams will you bring to me the next time we meet?

Until the next dream we dream…

Miss Traveller.

PART II · a dream lost

Tick, tick, tick…

Patriarch, are you… lonely?

“Oh? What makes you say that, Miss Traveller?”

...You know, you never answered me.

“I feel as though I’ve answered plenty, though.”

The Ayn of that world—

It was you, wasn’t it?

“…”

“Miss Traveller, it seems to me that you have already come to your own conclusion.”

“Don’t you find it silly to ask questions that you’ve already answered in your heart?”

“I told you once before, a divine such as myself can get impatient when asked too many questions.”

I want to hear it from you.

Patriarch, who are you?

“…”

You seem confused about yourself, dazed. Tired of something.

Tell me, what happened to you?

“Well, you saw it for yourself, did you not?”

“A poor, foolish horned boy believed in justice and persisted in upholding this even when his friends turned on him, even though nobody on either side of the war could understand him.”

…Tell me about what happened to you after.

“I’m not quite sure myself.”

“Who am I? I wouldn’t mind telling you straightforwardly if I knew the answer myself.”

“I have abandoned my former self. The horns upon my head have been carved into nothingness, and I have integrated with the Empire.”

“I have consumed tens of thousands of souls.”

“I have seen the dreams of countless unique existences scattered across this impossibly vast universe.”

“My memories are fragmented, jumbled, and I do not know where the end begins, nor do I know where the beginning ends.”

…Patriarch.

“I unconsciously seek out remnants of that “Ayn”, looking to calm the constantly raging tides deep beneath the patchwork souls I’ve used to continue my existence.”

“But when I do find these remnants, I’m left dazed in the end.”

“Is it truly me?”

“Or am I a different person from that “Ayn”? I find myself unable to answer this.”

…Ayn.

“..!”

“It’s… been a long time since I’ve last been called this.”

…Ayn, you…

“Haha… hahahaha—”

“Hah..."

What is it that you yearn for?

"I wonder. But..."

“This is just a dream, in the end.”

“So…”

…Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick—

“I’ll be waking up, now.”

“Farewell, my Cardinal.”

“And… hello.”

end notes: i'm never doing fics for holidays. this was so stressful (completely my fault) (person who only thought of this fic the night before father's day. person who was occupied for the majority of father's day. it is june 15th 11:49 at night as i upload this fic. IM TECHNICALLY NOT LATE. IT'S STILL FATHER'S DAY FOR ME.)

[mowiwow]

calluses (eden ayn)

Ayn really, really, really likes your hands.

They’re much smaller, much softer than his. Everything about you is novel to him, all of your softness, in a world where the vast majority of its population have grown up wielding knives and guns. It makes sense— you come from a world far more peaceful than Eden.

He hopes that one day, no child will have to be forced into learning how to wield a knife or gun.

Another thing he likes about holding your hand—

Your thumb will almost always gently rub one of the scars on the back of his hand. He used to hate the scars marring his body, never wanting to show you anything from his unsightly past. These are his scars to bear, and his alone…

…is what he used to think. You don’t let him hide them away, instead coming even closer to him whenever you see his scars.

Over time, he’s become comfortable with having his scars revealed.

Because whenever you see his scars, you rub against him and hug him endlessly. You pepper him with kisses, one for every scar on his body.

A fuzzy warmth fills his chest as he sneaks a peek at your side profile. His gaze drifts down to his hand intertwined with yours, bright red flame marks pressed intimately together. He subconsciously squeezes your hand, drawing your attention away from the wandering stray cats. You smile at him, lips curving in a gentle arc that has his ears flushing pink.

“Ayn?”

His heart flutters wildly with a single word. He lowers his head, fiddling with your hand.

“Your hands are soft,” he mumbles, bringing your hand up to his lips to carefully kiss your fingertips.

He turns your hand over, brushing his callused fingertips against your similarly callused fingertips.

“Your fingertips are so rough, just like mine.”

“Ah, yeah… you can thank hours upon hours of painting for that.”

Sometimes he struggles with the fact that you chose to stay in this world— in this world where his fingertips are callused not because of something as beautiful as practicing hard in art, but because he was forced to use all sorts of makeshift weapons growing up. There isn’t anything gentle or soft about him; every change his body has undergone were for the sake of survival.

As he’s fiddling with your fingers, you suddenly hold his hand in place, your fingers slipping in between his.

“In this regard, we’re the same.”

You grin at him, holding up your hand that’s holding onto his hand.

“I like your calluses,” you hum, shifting your hand so that your fingertips are pressed against his. “I like everything about you.”

His lips part, not a single word coming out. His ears burn even redder, and he lowers his head shyly.

“I like your calluses… everything about you, too.”

You stare at him with rapt interest. After a prolonged silence, he finally looks up and sees the mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Ah…?”

Abruptly, you step towards him, the two shadows cast on the ground by the sunset fully merging together. You hold his cheeks in your hands.

He recognizes this look in your eyes. Obediently, he lowers his head for you to reach.

Your lips find his, playfully biting at his bottom lip, your hands on his cheeks pulling him closer still.

Dazedly, as he feels the rough skin of your fingertips rub against his skin—

He really does love your calluses.

[mowiwow]

predict the future (cael)

He remembers everything about you. All of your mannerisms, preferences, moments of foolishness— he remembers it all.

Today, in particular, as the snowflakes indistinguishable from his hair melt and fade into obscurity, he remembers a question you once asked him.

“Cael,” you had whispered, voice hoarse from crying through the night. Your eyes track him, unblinking, watching his retreating back from your bedroom door— like he'll disappear without a trace if you missed even one milisecond.

When he paused to look at you, he saw your fist holding onto the doorframe in a knuckle-white grip.

“In the future, will you still be by my side?”

To that, he responded smoothly without missing a beat:

“For as long as you need me.”

But he will never get directly involved in your life. He is simply there to ease you back into the world you grew up in. It’s what he promised his predecessor. No matter how nonsensical her final actions appeared to him, he promised her that he would watch over you nonetheless and help you lead a normal life.

What sort of role should he play in your future?

The correct answer to that should be: None— none at all. He will fade from your memory once you are ready to return to the world beyond. Once you can stand on your own and face him, that is when he should take his leave. You will have been fully integrated into this world once more, and you will have no need for his comfort any longer.

Yet, inexplicably, in every future he sees—

He is still there, by your side, unwavering.

Time and time again, he is always there. Sometimes, he is walking you down an aisle filled with gorgeous flowers, your future groom at the end of it. Other times, he becomes but an old friend you only periodically contact, but contact nonetheless. He is always by your side in one way or another, always watching— only ever watching.

In one possible future, he attends an exhibit of yours, face-to-face with a portrait of himself beneath falling ginkgo leaves.

In that timeline, he never once reaches out to you, but you never once leave his side. You grow old, skin wrinkling, movements becoming sluggish, as time takes its toll.

He stays with you until death, and you do not leave him even in your dying moments.

“You’re still so beautiful,” the future you would say to him, voice quiet and teasing. “I feel ashamed being next to you like this, all wrinkled and shrivelled up.”

To that, he would respond: “You’re still beautiful, if you were to ask me.”

“Just beautiful? That’s it?” you ask with a playful smile.

In this future, you look at him with pure eyes, unaware of everything he had hidden from you. He conceals everything without flaw in this timeline, and you live a regular life as a regular person. You do not bear any scars on your body, and all traces of grief and sorrow in your heart seem to have faded with time.

You smile at him helplessly. You still smile at him, because you don’t know of anything he’s done, of his past.

You smile blissfully, drowned in lies.

It’s the last time he tries to deduce your future.

In the end, you choose your own future.

He watches as you curl up alone on cold stone tiles, as you fade into the pure white backdrop, as you shed tear after tear. He watches you stumble as you learn to fight, watches as you meet him head-on with narrowed eyes as you challenge the Silver Knight.

You are breathtakingly beautiful. The vigour in your eyes draws him to you time and time again, like a moth to flame.

He watches as you twirl a ginkgo leaf between your callused fingertips— a result of your hard work in the past year. You’re smiling at him despite knowing everything he’s done. Despite knowing what sort of person he truly is.

“Cael, are you in any of the futures you’ve deduced for me?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I stopped deducing your future a long time ago.”

But I would like to be a part of your future.

“Really? Well, that’s fine. Since I can deduce my own future.”

Cael raises an eyebrow, watching as you slowly approach him with a sparkle in your eye. He subconsciously reaches out, brushing away stray hairs that have flown into your face, easing the scrunched-up expression on your face.

“I wasn’t aware you had such an ability?”

You squint at him with a grin, offering him the ginkgo leaf between your fingers.

“A certain somebody told me that I can choose my own future. And if I can choose my future, that means I can effectively control what my future will be, right?”

That isn’t quite how it works, he thinks, but somehow—

If it’s you, unreasonably stubborn every day of the year, he’s sure you can get anything you want against all odds.

“Then, am I in the future you’ve deduced?”

You chuckle, pressing the ginkgo leaf into his hands.

“What do you think, Cael?”

He twirls the ginkgo leaf in between his fingertips just as you had a few moments ago. It’s thin and fragile— if he so wished, he could easily crush it without a second thought.

Gingerly, he cradles the ginkgo leaf close to his heart, meeting your earnest gaze.

He’d once been envious of all of the vivid emotions he would see flitting across your face at the slightest provocation. You have always shown him every side of you unabashedly, let yourself be vulnerable around him. You don’t try to hide anything even now, bright-eyed as you stand by his side under the ginkgo trees.

He replies, clumsily:

“I think… I am.”

[mowiwow]

those who have never left (modern ayn)

takes place during ayn maudlin dream, floating steam event

When a person dies, where do they go?

Their memories linger, leaving a deep impression and scars on the hearts of those they have separated from. The regrets, the bitterness, the sorrow, the longing— all of it, it might never go away. But, those still living have the chance to grow around these wounds and turn these painful memories into something comforting.

notes: told in 2nd pov, but assumes the setting of "miss painter" (female, her past is brought up), ~7k

When a person dies, where do they go?

You don’t think you could ever reach the dead— no, that is impossible. Even throughout your journeys through time and space, there has always been one constant. Once someone died, that was the end of that person’s life in that timeline. You would no longer be able to interact with that person. If you were to rewind time, you wouldn’t be speaking with that person who died, but rather, another version of them that had yet to experience death and the strife immediately preceding it.

Still, even though you know this, you think about it from time to time.

If you could talk with those who have died…

…Even if you could see your parents again, just one more time, what would you say to them?

You asked Ayn this, once, just once, a few days before the new year.

“Ayn,” you whisper into your phone, turning over in your bed. On the other end, your boyfriend hums in response to let you know he’s listening. “If you were able to see your mom again… what would you say to her?”

A long silence follows. Long enough that, had you not known any better, you would’ve thought that Ayn had fallen asleep right there and then.

“I wouldn’t say anything,” he replied as your eyelids droop. “I would play the piano for her.”

As he says that, you turn around once more in your bed. In the dim moonlight filtering in through your windows, you see all of the loose papers scattered across your desk with all sorts of sketches. All of your past paintings and sketches come to mind at that instance.

The bundle of sketchbooks home to countless of clumsily drawn lines, stiff and uncertain. The canvases with clumpy and muddy colours from when you were first learning to paint. Papers that had been previously crumpled up into balls and then unwrinkled in an attempt to salvage them.

The next bundle of sketchbooks and canvases, tidier and less messily kept. Several instruction books are stashed away in boxes, with some papers in between pages from you trying to follow along with the lessons.

And, on your desk, the art you created today. Various random sketches of the birds you’d seen on your window sill earlier in the day, some loose sketches of your boyfriend practicing the piano he loved so dearly, countless silly doodles of Beanie lounging about in various styles. In your tablet, the partially finished assignment you’ve been agonizing over for the past week.

A lot has changed.

The corners of your eyes sting, so you bury your face into your pillow with a muffled, hoarse laugh.

What a lonely room. What a warm room.

Sometimes, you feel like your room is too big yet too small.

“Miss Painter, what about you?”

After hours of chatting late into the night— far later than you should’ve, really— you finally start to feel drowsy.

If I could see mom and dad again…

If I could see them one more time—

“Yeah,” you whisper sleepily, “Me too.”

Something ticklish brushes against your ankles, snapping you out of your daze. You hadn’t made any progress on your painting in the last few minutes— and the piano that had previously been filling the room has quietly filtered out.

Then, a weight drapes itself against your back as you pick up Beanie and plop him on your lap.

“Let’s take a break,” Ayn mumbles hoarsely into your ear. “Nap?”

You stroke Beanie’s furry back leisurely, basking in the feeling of having two cuddly cats clinging to you.

“Isn’t dinner soon?” you muse, leaning back a little so you can press a light kiss against Ayn’s cheek. “If we try to take a nap now, it’d only be for a few minutes.”

Ever since you arrived at Ayn’s home in Leighton, the two of you have been practically inseparable. Everywhere you go, Ayn would follow you around and cling to you like a kitten. Sometimes, he’d show you around and delight in your impressed reactions. Secretly, you think it’s the cutest thing ever— not that you would ever say it out loud. You fear that if you do, Ayn would start pouting, and then you’d really pass away from your boyfriend being too cute.

“Mmmmh….”

“If you’re that sleepy, we can skip dinner,” you say with a hint of a laugh in your voice. In your lap, Beanie meows in protest and stares up at you.

Similarly, the black cat behind you shakes his head, tickling your neck. “You should eat. You haven’t been eating well ever since you got here, thanks to that old man.”

“Actually, this is probably the healthiest I’ve eaten in years…” you muse, packing up your paints. “It’s too healthy. I miss the sugar and fat.”

Ayn grumbles in agreement. “Dad’s been like that my entire life.”

“Maybe that’s why you don’t ever seem to gain weight despite how awful your diet is,” you muse. “All the vegetables you had growing up far outweigh all the sweets you have now.”

“My diet isn’t that bad.”

Wordlessly, you raise an eyebrow at him. “At that supermarket during Christmas last year, I recall—”

“I put those instant noodles away,” Ayn interrupts. Then, his eyes narrow at me as he pinches my cheek. “And anyways, it’s not like you don’t often join me in eating instant noodles. You’re an accomplice, Miss Painter.”

“...Let’s eat healthily and not touch instant noodles this year.”

“Sure,” Ayn agrees easily. Confidently, he adds: “There’s still takeout and cakes and cola, anyway.”

Then he pauses, as though he just thought of something.

“You wouldn’t keep me from cola, would you?”

You blink at Ayn slowly, your lips curling up into a grin. You can’t not take this opportunity.

“Well… Ayn, between cola, and me… which would you pick?”

When your boyfriend falls silent, you turn to look him right in the eye. The longer he remains quiet, the more your eyes narrow.

“Ayn…”

“I’m kidding,” Ayn says eventually, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. He picks up Beanie from your lap (who protests fiercely) to set Beanie down and then wraps you up in a tight hug. “Of course, I’d choose Miss Painter over cola.”

“Would you be okay without it? It’s basically your blood at this point,” you joke.

“It’s okay,” Ayn says resolutely. “It can be replaced.”

“Really?” you ask with some surprise. You lean forward with a teasing glint in your eyes, close enough that the tip of your nose brushes against his. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be mad if I replaced all of your bottles of cola with water?”

“.......”

“I’m kidding, of course—”

Your words are promptly cut off by Ayn’s lips on yours. As he kisses you, he rubs against you like he’s trying to melt into you. In the already warm room, Ayn’s hot body temperature makes you overheat.

Idly, you think: He’s gotten better at kissing, compared to the first few times.

Then, Ayn pulls back, looking at you seriously.

“As long as you kiss me whenever I want to drink cola, it’s manageable.”

Speechless, you stare at Ayn with your lips parted. Then, you reach up and pinch his cheeks helplessly.

“Ayn, what happened to your sense of shame?”

“It’s your fault,” he replies, his forehead falling against your shoulder.

As you recall the past year, full of relentlessly teasing Ayn until he was as ripe as a tomato, you guess he’s right.

If it’s like that, though—

“Theoretically, if I started to limit your sweets intake as well…”

Ayn is quick to interrupt. “Miss Painter. Be nice to me, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” you reply, patting Ayn’s back with laughter behind your words. “But really, you’re going to get a nasty cavity sooner or later with just how much sugar you have daily.”

“Well, I’ve gone this long without one, haven’t I?”

“Careful there. You’re asking for it just by saying that.”

Ayn shifts, tightening his hold on you as he prepares his retort. However, Beanie meows loudly in an attempt to grab your attention. You guess he finally got fed up with how Ayn has been clinging to you.

Silently, Ayn glares at Beanie. Unsurprisingly, Beanie glares back with its nastiest glare.

“Okay, break it up you two,” you say, unable to control the growing smile on your face.

“I didn’t do anything,” Ayn huffs.

Before tensions can start rising between Ayn and Beanie, there’s a knock at the door.

“Dinner has been prepared.”

“We’ll be down soon,” you call out.

As the footsteps outside the door fade, Ayn looks at you sincerely.

“Besides, you wouldn’t deprive me of dessert once we return, right? When we’ve barely had any dessert for the past few days…”

You snort, lightly patting Ayn’s cheek. “I miss having cakes and candy, too. Later, let’s secretly order takeout.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features at your words. Before you can comment on it, he replies.

“Okay. Let’s do that,” he nods. Then, Ayn points at Beanie, who is pawing at the closed door. “Also, your cat seems hungry.”

“I’m sure he is,” you grumble, walking over to open the door. The moment the gap is wide enough, Beanie slips through and bounds down the stairs without a single care in the world. “Everybody here keeps spoiling him, so he gets to eat like a king.”

“Give it a few days,” Ayn replies wryly. “Dad will probably start trying to take Beanie out on walks or even jogs.”

As you walk down the stairs with Ayn, you think of all the times you’re unable to play with Beanie. Of all the times Beanie had to walk around in an empty house, or the times when you had to send Beanie to a pet daycare while you left for days at a time.

When I go back to Harp Island, I’ll make sure to spend even more time with Beanie.

Your response comes late, laughing half-heartedly. “I support that. The image of your dad walking Beanie with a few bodyguards in tow is really… something.”

Ayn notices your brief moment of silence, his hand squeezing yours slightly. He doesn’t say anything, however, and just chuckles lowly.

“I’ve seen dad doing weirder things that don’t suit his image.”

You blink owlishly at Ayn as his warmth transfers to your body through your interlocked hands.

The two of your hands are clasped together tightly. You lightly squeeze his hand in return.

If you become stronger soon…

You hope those waiting for you at home won’t have to wait as long anymore.

———

You see a lot of your past self in Ayn. 

Maybe that was part of why you’d been so drawn to the seemingly aloof prince-like idol in the first few months you knew him.

When Ayn told you that he had wanted to introduce you to his father, you’d been surprised— pleasantly so. You don’t think Ayn has realized it himself, but he would sometimes bring up his father during conversations and off-handedly mention some related memories.

Each time, his words were harsh, his tone exasperated. But with Ayn, as you’ve learned, the most important thing to observe is his expression and his body language.

Despite it all, it seems like Ayn cherishes his family.

So, you were ecstatic. You wanted to meet his father.

You were a little scared, though. Or, more accurately a moderate amount of scared. Okay, you were scared stiff. The brief run-in you had with Ayn’s father during his birthday had your imagination going wild, more so than usual.

If Ayn’s father really did demand you leave Ayn alone…

Of course, you wouldn’t give up just like that. No, you would run to Ayn just as you had during White Day, ready to whisk him away. When you told Ayn about the cliché plot you had thought of, he had teased you for your overactive imagination.

Still, he replied sincerely afterwards: “If that really happened, I’ll meet you halfway. I’m not going to sit around in some room because of my dad.”

Thankfully, no such threats were made. If anything, it almost felt like Mr. Alwyn was eager to meet you and ecstatic that you were dating his son.

With that in mind, you’ve mustered up the courage to stand before Mr. Alwyn’s study with your hand positioned to knock. 

Ayn has always been on the clingier side. After the initial awkwardness of a new relationship, he stuck to you like glue and often liked to hug you whenever possible. Even in public, he often made up reasons to hold your hand.

Ever since arriving at Ayn’s home in Leighton, however, his clinginess has increased tenfold. He holds you like you’ll disappear at any moment. He hovers by your side like something will go horribly wrong if he looks away for even a second.

It’s easy to guess why.

The little glances towards the door on the second floor, his quickened footsteps as he ascends the stairs while tugging you along, the dazed expression he occasionally has as he stares out the window…

Ayn’s childhood is etched into the walls of this place, for better or for worse. All of the joyful memories, all of the sorrowful ones, they’re all here in one space.

He rarely talks about his mother, so you very clearly remember every single time he has mentioned her specifically. He speaks about her with a tentative expression; his voice grows quieter, and his eyes lower a little more. 

Ayn is decisive and is like a well-sharpened blade. He knows his goals and is always working diligently towards them no matter what the others say. Some people might see him as too stubborn, too difficult to work with— a girl told you once that many music majors actually dislike Ayn. He stands on a pedestal held up by countless students, praised as an idol of St. Shelter.

But you know about all of his little thoughts, his subtle behaviours, everything he doesn’t like to show others. 

Ayn has a sensitive heart. He loves more intensely than one would think. He doesn’t see the world as his playground, as a place he dominates, but something full of possibilities waiting to be explored. He tries to communicate all of the thoughts he can’t express well in conventional ways through his music.

He’ll listen to the grievances of little kids, learns how to appease them and plays along. He’ll suddenly move into an old attic to take care of a stray plant he’d encountered. He’ll dedicate a performance to those he’s grown to understand. He’ll try to find a way to remember the melodies that everybody else has forgotten, not wanting them to fade into obscurity.

Ayn is gentle. He’s clumsy, and he struggles with many things, but he loves sincerely and kindly. But because of this sort of affection he has in his heart, he’ll also linger on the past longer than most, and he’ll become a bit scared.

You hope he can find the world beyond and discover all of the colours waiting for him.

The few knocks against the door are particularly disruptive in the near-silent corridor.

“Come in.”

Ayn’s father looks up from his desk. Surprisingly, he nods at you briefly in acknowledgement, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” you comment quietly.

“Well, if Ayn needed me for anything, he’d send a rather blunt text. My bodyguards and I have a certain way of communicating through knocks. Here— please take a seat.”

You nod timidly, sitting in the armchair placed in the centre of the room. You peek at Mr. Alwyn, unsure of how to start. 

“Like… a secret code?” you ask slowly.

A playful twinkle dances in his age-worn eyes. “Indeed. Although they look stern, they often entertain me and my whims. They were eager to help come up with a unique code for communication.”

You recall Ayn’s birthday last year. The bodyguards intimidated you at first— like they would pull you away if you so much as harmed a hair on the rich young master. However, when you remember all of the tall, burly men in black gathering together to sing happy birthday to Ayn, you can’t help but laugh a little.

“They seem to love Ayn a lot.”

Mr. Alwyn hums, leaning forward on his desk. His fingers are clasped together as he watches you almost like a hawk.

“Do you think the bodyguards and I are overzealous?”

There’s no discernible emotion in his voice that you can pick up. His expression doesn’t give anything away. You force yourself to remain relaxed, resisting the urge to start tugging at your sleeves.

You answer him truthfully, meeting his stare head-on.

“I do.”

Regarding Ayn’s family situation, you still don’t know a lot. Ayn himself rarely talks about it in detail— you’re sure he probably sees a lot of strange things in his life as normal, having grown up in a mafia family. But you know that, at least, those waiting for him at home do care for him.

“I see,” Mr. Alwyn murmurs, leaning back slightly. “How do you think he’s doing now?”

Really, like father, like son. They can both be incredibly direct but then they’ll go and do things in a roundabout manner.

“I believe that’s something you should ask him yourself.”

Mr. Alwyn seems to take your blunt reply well, chuckling to himself as his gaze drifts off. “I suppose you’re right. Apologies for making you entertain my musings for so long. Did you need something from me?”

“Do you have the key to the room at the end of the hallway on the second floor?”

Mr. Alwyn doesn’t ask any further questions. He pulls out a drawer and rummages around, producing a simple and ordinary key. He stands up, walking over to the armchairs in the middle of the room, and places the key on the table in front of you.

Your eyes widen a little in shock, lips parted as you try to find a response. You’d prepared yourself to convince him to give up the key as you stood in front of the study for a long time.

“Um, is it okay for you to just give me the key like this?”

“Did Ayn tell you about that room?”

“No,” you admit, carefully picking up the key. “But I know his mother isn’t around anymore. With how Ayn wears his heart on his sleeve, it wasn’t hard to put together.”

Mr. Alwyn chuckles, returning to his desk. “Seeing how carefully you watch over my son, I’m sure everything will turn out fine. I was done testing you a long time ago.”

“I still can’t believe you kidnapped your own son,” you mutter, recalling the sheer panic that you felt when Ayn disappeared suddenly before your first White Day together.

“Life has many unexpected challenges, after all,” Mr. Alwyn says. At that moment, it’s particularly clear just how the vicissitudes of life have engraved themselves within his tired eyes and the wrinkles across his brows. “It was important to ensure that the two of you aren’t going into this half-heartedly.”

He pauses briefly.

“Well, that, and I was a bit hesitant to let my son go. You’ll have to forgive this silly, selfish old man.”

“...Ayn’s grown up now,” you reply softly.

Mr. Alwyn’s eyes reflect a mixture of sorrow and joy, as he replies with his head slightly lowered.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “He has grown into a rather fine, young man.”

———

During Ayn’s birthday last year, he told you a little bit about his mother.

Leighton Creek Plaza was covered in a cool shade, the passing winter breeze causing the young couple sharing a scarf to draw nearer still to each other. Despite the cold, it was the warmest you’d ever felt.

Well, it was also thanks to Ayn’s naturally high body temperature.

It was too early for anybody to be awake, so the entire plaza was empty. Even the two of you, at that time, were stumbling around like fools with the poorly knitted scarf scratching at your cheeks, forcing the two of you to occasionally bump into each other’s shoulders. You still remember the gleeful giggles that filled the silence, both you and Ayn teasing each other about both nothing and everything.

It’s a precious place in Ayn’s memory, so it’s a precious place to you, too.

He didn’t get to properly show you around the place he spent his childhood in last time, so the two of you decided to dedicate some time on your trip to walking around Leighton.

The sun is slowly sinking, painting the entire sky a warm orange that softens the chill of February’s lingering winter. Faced with the traces of snow covering the pavement, you think: The snow back home will have melted by the time Ayn and I return.

Holding your hand, Ayn stands next to you as he watches the sunset.

His eyelashes flutter as a soft breeze passes by, the blazing yet gentle sun reflected in his eyes. Under the hazy light, his fierceness is transformed into an innocent softness that makes you think of what Ayn might’ve looked like when he visited this place for the first time as a child.

“Looks like we made it just in time for the last busker’s song,” he murmured, his callused fingers squeezing your hand. “Let’s sit down somewhere.”

When you hear his voice, softer than usual, you recall some words he’d said during his second birthday—

Some places have seen many changes, but there are things that haven’t changed at all.

The good, the bad, it all melds together in a bundle of complicated emotions. Sweetness, bitterness, joy, sorrow— all of these conflicting emotions that lead to hesitation and shyness, you wonder what’s stirring in Ayn’s heart at this moment as he guides you to one of the bleachers. Ayn pauses, taking off his coat and putting it down on the bleacher.

“It’s cold,” he says curtly, looking at you expectantly.

Not one to be outdone, you smile cheekily at him and take your own coat off and lay it on the bleacher right next to his. You relish in Ayn’s baffled expression, mimicking his gesture towards the coat you’ve just laid out.

“You’re right. It’s cold, so it’ll be a bit uncomfortable sitting on the bleachers.”

“Your coat…”

You plop down on the coat he laid out for you, shivering a little as you pat your coat on the bleacher— an invitation for him to sit next to you.

“Come here, won’t my boyfriend cuddle with me? It’s cold,” you say shamelessly, eager to take this opportunity to tease Ayn.

He smiles helplessly, finally sitting down next to you and pulling you into his arms. He’s delightfully warm and you already feel the shivers leaving your body as you rub your cheek against him.

“Like a cat,” he comments quietly.

“I heard that,” you purse your lips, pinching the one of the arms wrapped around you, eliciting a quiet hiss from Ayn. “Between the two of us, you’re the cat.”

Before Ayn is able to make remarks of his own, the final busker walks up to the two of you, maybe because the two of you were the only ones left lingering this late.

“May I sing a song for this young couple here?”

Your eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, you’re the street performer from last time!”

The street performer bows his head humbly with a friendly smile playing at his lips as he glances in Ayn’s direction. “Will I be seeing the two lovely gentlemen in suits shortly?”

“...I’m not a little boy anymore,” Ayn replies, but there isn’t much bite to his words and there’s even a faint smile on his face. “I see you’ve never stopped singing.”

“Why, of course; I haven’t grown sick of music in the past years, but rather, I find myself drawn more to its liveliness,” the street performer chuckles. “But I have grown a bit weary of the cold biting at my fingertips, so I am on the hunt for one last song to perform before I retire for the day.”

Ayn plays with your fingers, looking at you with his head slightly tilted.

“Is there a song you want to hear?”

You look into Ayn’s eyes for a few seconds before looking at the street performer to make your request, “How about that song you sang for that little boy years ago?”

“You like that song a lot. Luckily for you, I think that song is real fun to perform— say no more, miss.”

As the street performer sings his last song for the day, you feel Ayn’s gaze flickering from the street performer to you. Back when you had travelled to Leighton for Ayn’s birthday, you had told him about the street performer you encountered while the bodyguards took you around the city. You don’t know what, exactly, this song means to Ayn, but you hope it’s something he remembers with fondness.

The fingers wrapped around yours tighten slightly as music from the past fills the air. When you hear this melody, you see your figure walking alongside Ayn. During your brief detour to this plaza before the two of you left to return home to Harp Island, you’d tried to sing this song for him despite your lack of experience with singing.

He listened to you with rapture, staying silent until the very end, even when you stumbled over some lines and unfamiliar notes that you’d learned somewhat hastily.

What about him— what is it that he sees, what does he remember, when he sits here in this plaza filled with childhood memories?

The song ends, and the street performer bows exaggeratedly to the two of you before taking his leave. The plaza is then filled with a serene silence, the sky growing darker bit by bit.

You lean against Ayn, letting him feel your weight, as the two of you watch the sky together.

Then, Ayn starts to talk:

“My mom often took me here to play when I was younger.”

As he speaks, you listen carefully.

Ayn has avoided talking about her with you ever since coming to Leighton. If you had to wager a guess, he might not want to show you a gloomier side of himself during the Valentine’s season. Still, no matter how he tries to hide it, Ayn has always been someone who wears his heart on his sleeve.

“The first time she took me here, there was a music festival going on. There were tons of street performers playing music together— there were a lot of different people with different styles coming together to spread their love for music.”

As he recalls old memories, Ayn stands up from the bleachers and walks towards the centre of the open plaza.

“From what I remember, the stage was from here— to here,” Ayn explains, walking from one end of the centre to the other. He pauses for a moment, looking over the empty plaza. “During the festival, there would be colourful, triangular flags, balloons, and streamers everywhere.”

You stand up as well, picking up and lightly shaking any loose snow off of both coats from the bleachers. Calling out tentatively to him, you step closer to Ayn and drape his coat around his shoulders.

“Ayn?”

“Now that I stand here, this place feels a lot smaller than the place in my memory.”

“You’ve grown a lot since then, after all.”

Ayn takes your coat hanging precariously from your arms— you’d been too distracted watching him— and drapes your coat around the shoulders just as you did to him. The two of you face each other, holding onto the other’s coats to prevent it from falling. At this distance, you can feel Ayn’s warmth and smell the faint sweetness that always accompanies him.

“A lot has changed, too.”

His words ring clearly in your ears as he leans in to press his forehead against yours.

“Like what?”

Even though you know the answer, you still want to hear him say it.

“You’re here.”

You smile, leaning forward and tilting your head slightly to press a lingering kiss to his lips. Your eyes squint with satisfaction when you see the faint shyness mixed with adoration in the eyes you’ve become obsessed with.

“Yeah. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Aym hums quietly, nuzzling your cheek with his as he pulls you closer with your coat. His hair, soft and scented the same as yours, tickles you.

Like a cat.

———

Ayn feels a little weird standing here in this room. Everything that he once thought was big feels so much smaller now. He guesses his father must feel the same, with how painfully awkward the silence currently is.

Fed up with the silence, Ayn speaks first.

“You still clean her room.”

“Well, it’s still a part of this house, after all. It wouldn’t be good to let dust accumulate.”

The office is filled with an unbearable silence.

Ayn’s eyes narrow. This is what he hates the most, the roundabout deflections that avoid the core. He refuses to admit it out loud, but he sometimes finds himself doing similar things. He likes to think that he’s better than his father, though.

…If there is something they really do have in common though—

It would seem that neither of them can move on from her death, though. His mother’s death has loomed over his head like a cloud, sometimes gentle and kind, other times dark and gloomy. The sweet memories from his past leave a faintly bitter taste in his mouth, a constant reminder of his helplessness and ignorance.

His father is the first to break this silence, speaking stiffly. “Well… how have you been these past few years? Any new friends at school?”

But Ayn is going to move on.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush, unlike you. I want you to tell me what you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Are you sure you fully understand the severity of the situation, as well as the dangers that come with staying by her side?” his father asks sternly, all of the weariness from the past decade seeping through— like a long extinguished flame.

Ayn recalls his father from his childhood, sitting at his mother’s bedside, jaw clenched tightly and quiet fury soothed only by his mother’s spindly hand.

“Have you heard of the story of Orpheus and…”

“We aren’t anything like Orpheus and Eurydice.”

In the quiet study, Ayn’s voice sounds disproportionately loud, especially when compared to his father’s more tempered steadiness. Still, he continues to speak clearly, confidently.

“I won’t be like you,” Ayn declares. “I won’t repeat the mistakes you’ve made. So, I want you to tell me exactly what you’ve been keeping from me this entire time— I know this concerns her somehow. I’m getting involved. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just find another way.”

He’s no longer that child feigning indifference. He’s grown since, from that child that put his guard up around those he should’ve felt the most comfort in— a feeble attempt to protect his heart. He’s different, now, from that clumsy child who had turned feigned apathy into a shield, fearful of rejection.

Ayn won’t bring his regrets back to Harp Island anymore. 

Right as the tense thread between them feels as though it’s about to snap, his father suddenly sags in his seat.

“Alright,” he says helplessly, “I’ll tell you what I know, starting next month.”

“This better not be you running from all of this.”

His father shakes his head. “No, it’s just…”

“Just?”

“...You should really be asleep at this moment. Staying up late isn’t good for you.”

“Ha?” Ayn laughs incredulously. His father pauses, seemingly hesitating. Ayn narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “What?”

“Like your mother said, you won’t grow any taller if you keep staying up so late…”

Ayn looks at his father, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“You’re still 179 centimetres, aren’t you? That missing centimetre probably comes from you staying up all the time—”

“Since when were you such a naggy old man?” Ayn interrupts with annoyance. “Besides, you’ve been staying up to work, haven’t you? Surely you can put the paperwork down for one night. You don’t get to nag me about my sleep schedule when you stay up late for most days of the week. At least I don’t have eyebags.”

His father appears bewildered by his outburst, not that Ayn really cares.

“Did you ask Gavin about how I’ve been doing?”

“He just ended up talking about you a lot when I mentioned staying in Leighton for a bit,” Ayn retorts. After a brief second, he adds, “You should start sleeping earlier. Gavinator looks like he’s stressed out of his mind about your growing eyebags.”

“Is that so? Are there others aside from the Gavinator?”

Ayn shrugs callously. “I’m sure the other bodyguards are all thinking about how their boss is becoming a panda.”

“...I see.”

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m leaving now.”

As Ayn is about to leave, his father’s voice stalls him. “Hold on.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re about to tell me to eat more vegetables.”

The corner of his father’s eyes crinkle, the action highlighting the traces of time left on him by life.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to eat more healthily. And make sure you’re stretching your legs properly every day. You shouldn’t spend too much time on your devices—”

“I’m leaving if this is all you wanted to say.”

“No, here. I wanted to give this to you.”

Much to Ayn’s surprise, his father pulls out a vinyl record. Ayn carefully takes the vinyl record offered to him.

“Thank you for playing the piano for me,” his father says, stunning Ayn into complete silence. “It’s true that I mostly just wanted to hear you play, but… I thought it would also be nice if your mother could hear how you’ve improved over the years.”

Something catches in Ayn’s throat, making him unable to reply beyond a hoarse, “Oh.”

“This vinyl record is one of your mother’s favourites. I must admit, it hasn’t seen much use in my hands, but perhaps you can better appreciate its music.”

Ayn holds the record a little closer to his chest when he hears this. Quietly, he responds, “Thank you.”

“I won’t keep you any longer. Go sleep now.”

Ayn’s father only speaks again when Ayn has turned the door handle, his voice so quiet that Ayn would’ve missed it if it weren’t for his more sensitive hearing—

“Ayn, you’ve grown well.”

The little boy looks up from the cold, metallic door handle in his hand. He turns his head, seeing his father’s warm smile.

“I’m proud of you.”

For a moment, Ayn is frozen in place. His heart surges with all sorts of emotions— bitterness, curiosity, bewilderment, hope. But above all—

He’s happy.

“Save those words for when I’ve become a world-famous musician,” Ayn snorts, lifting his chin.

His father chuckles. “Remember to invite me to your first performance as a world-famous musician.”

Ayn lowers his head, his voice quieter this time.

“Goodnight, dad.”

“Goodnight, Ayn.”

After a moment of hesitation, Ayn adds—

"And, to answer your very first question..."

He allows a fond smile to slip through when he thinks of your silhouette under the light, of your voice as you call his name, of the smile you greet him with.

"I've been doing well. The world, as it turns out, is a truly colourful place."

The door clicks shut behind Ayn quietly, as though not to disturb the slumbering night.

In the past, the long trek from his father’s office back to his room often filled his heart with a bitterness he desperately ignored. Today, however, his chest feels light and he walks through the warmly lit corridor with a renewed vigor.

He really wants to see you.

———

In the time you’ve spent staying here in the place Ayn grew up in, you found yourself recalling various memories of your own childhood.

And, with it, came the bittersweetness associated with the memories of your mother. Even the most mundane, the silliest and most inconsequential memories, are followed by feelings of sorrow. 

Since the first time after Godheim, you’ve returned to your childhood home a handful of times. Each time, you visited with the excuse of searching for more potential clues relating to your mother, for clues about your past. It was a weak excuse, as you had already thoroughly combed through every photo album, every memo, the first time you visited.

The times following that were driven by that small part of you who still didn’t want to let go of the past.

You hadn’t known anything back then. Even if you had known, you wonder if there was anything at all that you could’ve done while trembling violently in that dark void with your only comfort from the deafening noise beyond being the age-worn stuffed bear in your arms.

Sometimes, when you find yourself unable to sleep, you spend long hours sitting in front of your easel with a paintbrush in hand.

Even now, the night before you’re supposed to leave for Harp Island with Ayn, you are painting.

Don’t bring the regret back to Harp Island anymore.

You’ve changed in many ways, staying the same in some other aspects. You’ve stopped keeping your head down, instead stubbornly keeping your head held high to take in all of the dizzying sights the world has to offer. The death of your mother no longer confines you to your bed, instead becoming the driving force between every line drawn, both the more amateurish lines and the more refined lines.

Sometimes, you paint almost as though you are in a frenzy, eager to experience the vast world in your mother’s stead.

The regret still lingers— it never left, no matter how faint it becomes. No matter how distant it feels on the best of days. Your powerlessness in that moment lingers, almost unbearable on certain dates. You often fall into a more somber mood on dates such as Mother’s Day. You often feel a whole slew of mixed emotions regarding the holiday. Recently, though, it’s not as unbearable as before.

It’s all thanks to Ayn.

In truth, you had ended up crying like a baby in front of him. You had tried to keep the tears back as you recounted random stories about your mother to Ayn, but you quickly devolved into a snivelling mess. At that time, he simply brought you more tissues and some water.

After you finally left your room to explore the world, you never cried on Mother’s Day until last year. You never wanted to worry your mother, wanting to be more independent.

But he was there, standing awkwardly at your front door without a single excuse prepared for why he was visiting on that day.

“Just passing by,” he’d said.

At the memory, you laugh softly.

When you see the awkward boy working his hardest to live well, working his hardest to pursue the things he loves most, you can’t help but feel like you need to do your best as well.

One day, you hope you can capture your mother’s kind smile looking back at you through a field filled with blue hyacinths. You’d like to show her just how much she meant to you and all of the joy she helped you discover in your childhood. One day, you hope you can grow around the bitterness that accompanies the memories of your mother so that you can show her the purest happiness she’s given you.

With a broad stroke of your brush, the melodies fill the air with all sorts of hazy colours. In the middle of the plaza, decorated with colourful, triangular flags, balloons, and streamers, a boy stands behind a keyboard with a carefree smile on his face.

Reflected in his clear eyes— the everburning flame of a passionate love towards the world and all of its possibilities.

You nod to yourself in satisfaction.

It’s done.

This painting’s lines aren’t as distinct as most of your other paintings. The colours almost bleed into one another as the melodic notes spread hazy hues across the entire canvas. Through it all, though, the boy in the middle stands like a beacon through the vivid colours. This boy, dressed in black and white just like the keys he’s intimately familiar with, creates a world full of dizzyingly beautiful colours.

A few days ago, when you were returning to the mansion from Leighton Creek Plaza, Ayn had told you that the music festival he once adored as a child was no longer being hosted. He didn’t know the exact details, but he had roughly gathered that there simply hadn’t been enough interest in the small festival as the years passed by.

Together with Ayn, you’d like to come back to that lonely plaza in the future and host a music festival full of joy and excitement.

You will never forget the way Ayn’s face lit up the same way a child’s would when receiving a brand new toy when you mentioned this to Ayn on the way back. 

“I’ll hold you to it,” he’d said, hooking your pinky with his.

You’re sure the road ahead will be a thorny one, with countless dangers, but you’re sure you can reach a peaceful future. When you walk alongside Ayn, your arm periodically brushing against his, you feel like there isn’t a single thing you can’t conquer.

…First things first, though. You should be worrying about the present.

Your eyes have started to droop, your mouth opening wide in a big yawn. You’ll need to wake up early tomorrow, so you really should get to sleep, lest you start mistaking the paint water for your drinking water.

Speaking of, you’ve grown thirsty.

I’ll get some water before I sleep.

You clean up your workstation, not wanting to leave a mess in a house that doesn’t belong to you, and blearily make your way to the door.

You’re mid-yawn when you open the door to Ayn staring at you with surprise, his hand hanging awkwardly in the air mid-knock.

Ayn reacts first, reaching out to smear something on your cheek. “You have some paint on your face.”

“Oh,” you react slowly. Then, you reach up and pinch his hand with narrowed eyes. “Hey!”

“We’re waking up early tomorrow, you know,” Ayn says leisurely, his eyebrows raised. “Will you be okay staying up so late?”

“Pot calling kettle black,” you pout. “What are you doing up this late? I’m fairly decent with waking up early, but what about you? Mr. Two P.M. Mornings.”

“I’m on my way to sleep right now. But what about you, Miss Five-More-Minutes?”

You pinch his hand again, though he doesn’t react much to this. “I was on my way to get some water before heading to bed. And to clean up the residual paint on me.”

“Do you know where everything is?” Ayn asks.

You hold back a cheeky grin, replying asnonchalantly as possible. “Yeah, don’t worry about me. You go ahead and get some sleep.”

“...Miss Painter,” Ayn says, gently pinching your cheek. “I want to come with you.”

“Sure,” you laugh fondly, taking his hand that has been continuously poking and pinching your cheek into yours. “Let’s go together.”

———

It’s great to be back on Harp Island. Ayn’s home in Leighton was by no means lacklustre, but there’s nothing that can beat cuddling with Ayn in the shared secret base. A blanket with a paw-print pattern bundles the two of you together.

Ayn fiddles around a bit with the record player as you stare at him.

Right before the two of you left Leighton for Harp Island, Ayn had a talk with his father. He didn’t provide too many details about what he had talked about with his father, but you figure the two of them were able to take a step in the right direction.

It seems that Mr. Alwyn left his son with something to bring back to Harp Island. All you know is that it’s an old record of sorts, but Ayn seems to be excited about it. The moment the two of you returned to the secret base, he was eager to pull out his record player.

Then, after the faint sound of vinyl scratching, music begins to play.

You have a certain memory from the first New Year you spent with him. You had found him in a record shop, surrounded by countless vinyl records, a warm hue softening his usually sharp eyes. Though his words can be blunt, his actions were unspeakably gentle as he handled the various records in that shop.

“It’s just a record that I often heard at home when I was little,” he’d explained to you.

You spent the better part of your day going through that record shop with Ayn. Even though the two of you were unable to find the vinyl record he was talking about, you were able to learn a lot about the things that Ayn likes.

Before the two of you left the mansion in Leighton, Ayn found a vinyl record in a deep drawer within his mother’s bedroom.

“This is it,” Ayn says, leaning against you, his body lightly trembling with hints of laughter. “The record I was searching for.”

Oh, you realize, watching Ayn as he smiles with unrestrained happiness. You see all of the warmth and kindness he’d received from his childhood, from his mother— you see the childish spark of excitement and curiosity in his usually subdued expression.

When a person dies, where do they go?

Maybe—

They don’t go anywhere at all. Instead, they remain by our sides, watching quietly as their loved ones grow.

end notes: kind of connected to "next year, the year after, and..." (don't need to read this to know what's going on in this fic though)

[mowiwow]

for every call of your name, "i love you" (modern ayn)

post-deimortem era ayn route fic

The feelings of love that grow stronger with every passing day, the feelings of love that spread like wildfire threatening to consume the entirety of this material world. In this frenzy, the timelines feel like they blur together and confuse your heart and mind.

But in this timeline at least, with him, you think you'll be just fine.

notes: told in 2nd pov, but assumes the setting of "miss painter" (female, her childhood is mentioned, and lowkey more mc centric than ayn), ~3k

There’s always so much to think about.

When you see Ayn, slumped over in a horrible shrimp-like posture on the loveseat (something he bought shortly after the two of you started dating— his old chair was only enough for one person), you’re simultaneously filled with the most complicated and simplest emotions in the world. Sometimes he catches you looking at him with a faint crease in your brows immediately, and other times it takes him a little longer for him to drag his gaze away from the switch in his hands.

But every single time, he will notice your gaze on him, and reach out to smooth out the crease in your brows quietly.

Ayn doesn’t ask about his counterparts often.

In fact, anytime his other selves are brought up, it’s because of you. Be it the theoretical you once asked him before telling him everything, about what he’d do if he could clone himself, or the few times you ran to him to bury your face in his shoulder without explanation.

Each time, he doesn’t try to pry but rather waits.

You don’t know if it’s because he’s secretly scared of what confessions you might make, or if he simply doesn’t care, or what— but he’s always unusually hard to read in those moments. He doesn’t let you see his face but just holds you tightly to him so you can listen to his accelerated heartbeat.

He’s so cute, you think distractedly. He’s gotten better at controlling his blushing, but he can’t ever hide his rapid heartbeat from me.

When you look at your Ayn, your Ayn , the wounds left behind in your heart from other worlds sting a little. It’s dull, and you’ve learned to ignore it most of the time. But sometimes it comes back full force, making you want to almost rip your heart out of your chest to avoid the painful throbbing.

In truth, ever since the Spirit World, your mind has been in disarray. You were never someone amazing to begin with, but just a girl who had lost her family, and a girl who just wanted to be loved by someone. You just wanted to help people, perhaps in order to help the past you.

Of course, nothing is ever simple. The timelines and endless possibilities are always in the back of your mind. All of the tragedies that the lucky you have avoided, the different paths taken, the timelines with a hopeful future, or the ones meeting a grimmer end…

Something you haven’t told Ayn yet is that you sometimes see flashes of these alternate timelines when you fall into a deep slumber. You’ve often struggled with sleeping peacefully, but it’s gotten worse since then. On those many sleepless nights, Ayn quietly hums for you despite his usual aversion to singing. It’s only then that you can sleep peacefully, at least until the next night.

The many “you”s that you’ve seen are all very different. Sometimes you never ended up with Ayn at all, and instead were with another person whose figure you could never make out. The silhouette sometimes changes, but it’s never really clear to you exactly what happens in the other timelines. They all merge together, overlapping with the Ayn you know, and you often grow irritated.

Whenever you have these sorts of dreams, you’re always trying to find out what happened to the Ayn of that timeline. Or, maybe, you just miss him and want to see him and want to return to the reality you’re familiar with.

Very simply, you love Ayn.

It’s this love that drives you almost insane, unreasonably so. You often make fun of Ayn for being whipped, always going along with even your more outrageous whims even if he kicks up a bit of a fuss in the beginning. But truthfully, you think you’re just as crazy as he is.

Right as he finally lifts his head from the screen of his switch, feeling your steady stare on him, you whisper his name.

In turn, he replies with yours.

When you walk closer to the little living area, Ayn straightens his posture and sets the switch down. You raise an eyebrow and crouch down to pick up an empty can of cola from the floor.

“If only you could turn into a Roomba,” you joke wryly, dangling the bright red can in front of him. “Then, maybe your place would be cleaner— or, actually, maybe not. You might end up getting stuck on all of the things lying around instead…"

Immediately, Ayn’s expression sours. “Stop making fun of me.”

His fingertips brush yours as he takes the can from your hand, setting it aside on the small table next to him. He tugs on your wrist and you let him, easily falling into his lap. His mistake. You pinch and pull at his cheeks with a grin, eyes curving. “Making fun of you? Why, I would never.”

Ayn knocks his forehead against yours lightly, pinching your waist with his fingers. “Miss Painter, it’s not good to play dumb.”

A pause.

“...I’ll tidy up the secret base tomorrow. But it’s not like you don’t have a few things that you’ve left lying around. Some of your clothes are mixed in with mine. And you have some painting supplies that you’ve forgotten here.”

To avoid his scrutinizing gaze, you bury your face in his neck.

“Well,” you say muffledly, “I guess it isn’t too bad. As long as you aren’t getting cockroaches in here…”

“My places are not that dirty.”

“So you’ve never found a cockroach once in here?”

“...I think they’ll find a way into any place ever. It doesn’t matter what kind of place it is.”

You pull away from him slightly to look at him with some worry. “That’s not a ‘no’...”

As you start looking around the open base vigilantly, Ayn pinches your cheek and stops your rapid movements. “There aren’t any. You don’t need to be so scared.”

“Really?”

“...Probably?”

“Okay. Tomorrow, we’ll do a deep clean. I’ll take back my paints and brushes, my clothes too… I don’t want to bother a certain Mr. Pianist, after all…”

“No.”

“No?” you echo teasingly.

“You can keep them here,” Ayn says quietly, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You take this opportunity to thread your fingers through his hair, fluffy and soft. You’re pleased that the shampoo you gave him is working well. “Leave whatever you want here. It’s your secret base, too.”

“That’s sweet. But we should probably do some cleaning tomorrow. I never thought much about it before, but I don’t want to wake up to a cockroach crawling on me one day.”

Ayn exhales slowly, his breath tickling your neck. “...Do you want me to get a Roomba?”

“If you do, I’m giving it mechanical wolf ears.”

“Don’t do that.”

You can’t help but laugh a little as Ayn’s hold on you tightens, his voice full of complaint. “Why not? It’ll be cute.”

“Won’t it stop the Roomba from getting into tight spaces.”

“...Damn.”

After a second, though, you realize it’s fine, because—

“Miss Painter,” Ayn says in warning, pulling away from you as he instinctively senses something.

“Then, you’ll just have to wear the ears for it!”

“No, I refuse.”

“You’re so cute with wolf ears, though,” you muse as Ayn falls silent. “I mean, it’s not like I’m asking you to wear a catmaid headband or anything… unless you would prefer that instead?”

Unexpectedly, instead of denial, Ayn stares at you silently for a long time.

“Ayn?” you question.

“Would I be better that way?” he asks quietly.

The words are like a punch to your gut. Immediately, you backtrack in your mind and belatedly realize what you’ve said. Ayn seems to do the same and blinks quickly, lips parting slightly, unsure of what to do with the words that had seemingly slipped out by accident.

The two of you never really spoke about it.

Before then, it was easy to ignore it— the muddled stinging in your heart, the different versions of him that you’ve encountered. There was a clear line between Earth, your home, and the worlds beyond.

But the further the two of you venture onto this path with no return, the more Ayn will be exposed to the other world alongside you.

Here’s the thing you know about Ayn—

Many see him as the cold but handsome prince of the music department. Ayn conducts himself in a very distant way, appearing arrogant to many. He no longer leaves immediately after every performance, instead occasionally staying behind for just a few seconds to give a few words to the crowd, but he still mostly retains his cold prince character.

But this clingy, cat-like person is really just mushy inside and a bit of a romantic, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it.

Ayn will stick to you even during the height of summer, forcing you to push at his cheek so you aren’t dying of heat. He’ll pout and cause a fuss over it. He’ll sulk. He’ll show you the things he’s accomplished, looking for praise. He’ll often tell you about random things throughout the day. And if you’re busy working on something, he’ll sit down somewhere near you and work on his own things in the same room.

Admittedly, you do the same things. You’ll drop by his practice room in the music department at every opportunity you get, and you’re always buying cakes to share with him. Your sketchbook is filled with more loose drawings of him than you can count, and you like to often hug him from behind to see what he’s up to.

If you were to explain it to someone, you guess you’d just say it’s your guys’ way of making sure the other is still there.

You think about it sometimes— the level of attachment you feel towards Ayn. In truth, although you’re able to smile again, a part of your heart has been permanently torn out from your childhood and you can only try and grow around it with Ayn’s help. You think of the first time you spent a night at Ayn’s family home in Leighton, of the way he clung to you, of the way he often spaced out, and you think he’s probably doing something similar.

So, you really want to…

“Ayn.”

“Mm?”

“Ayn.”

“...Are you upset?”

“ Ayn .”

With some struggle, you get him to face you, and carefully hold his cheeks in your hands. Then, you smush them together.

“I don’t care if you’re not as capable as the Lord of the Night, or that you can’t do the things he can. I don’t care if you don’t have the same qualities as some other version of you in another universe. The one I choose to be with, the one I am spending time with right now, the one I hold in my hands, is you .”

You don’t know why you’re starting to feel a lump form in your throat, or why you want to cry— maybe because you haven’t slept well lately, so you’re currently more sleep-deprived than usual.

No, you know why.

You think of all of the other counterparts of your lover that you’ve seen, of their own tragedies. You think of your most recent brush with a counterpart of his, and your inability to do more for that Ayn beyond sitting at the shore quietly by his side, providing him a quiet companionship right before being the one to drive the blade into his heart.

It magnifies the fear you feel towards losing the Ayn you love, the one before you now. You think of the Ark World, of the blade you saw yourself driving into Ayn’s chest. You don’t know how you can handle it once, twice, and however many more times the world might make you kill the people you love, for whatever cruel reasons.

Childishly, you feel it’s unfair. Why can’t you just live peacefully with the boy you like? Why can’t you just live normally and well, with most of your worries being looming deadlines?

Why did your father die, why did your mother have to be taken away from you?

Why doesn’t it really feel like you can save anybody at all?

…Why is it only now that you’re breaking?

You thought you were able to tuck most of these thoughts away in a hidden place that you’d never touch. You know lingering on these things would shatter your heart into little pieces, difficult to retrieve and piece back together. You know that once you get started in this kind of thought process, it’s hard to break out of— the endless cycle of self-blame is only full of misery.

Maybe you were a bit naive for thinking you would be able to keep it all together. You thought you were used to handling all of this.

But, well, you aren’t really keeping yourself together right now.

Ayn covers your hands with his, gently lowering them so he can lean over and kiss the tears on your face.

“Oh…” you utter hoarsely, unsure of what to say.

He whispers your name with the tenderness that made you fall in love with him in the first place, his brows lightly creasing as he pushes your hair out of your face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say fiercely, scrunching up your nose through the tears. You grab a hold of his shirt— a stupid shirt you’d bought for him on a whim with some random mascot character, for some reason he started to wear it around more as loungewear— and pull him closer to you. There’s a hint of anger in your voice. “Don’t you ever apologize. It’s not your fault, it’s—”

“But it’s not yours either, is it?”

Your grip on his shirt slackens, a bit dazed. The brilliantly blooming eyes look at you clearly, reflecting your entire world. You wonder how he can look at you like this, seemingly with no worries.

Oh, but that’s not right. His hold on you periodically tightens, then loosens, and his hands on your back are restless as they tap in a vaguely familiar rhythm.

He’s uneasy, too, you realize.

But, well, it’d be stranger if he wasn’t, as someone in a very bizarre situation.

He’s just him, and you’re just you— two normal university students who are trying to get through some residual grief of the past.

Ayn reaches over behind you, taking some tissues, and he starts to wipe your tears.

“I sometimes dream about different timelines and not just worlds,” you confess quietly, loosely tapping on his chest in the same rhythm he had been using on your back just a few minutes prior.

Something for you to distract yourself with. Now that you tap it out, you realize it follows the same rhythm as that piece you titled for him— World of Possibility.

“A lot of the time, the one I’m with isn’t you, but someone else.”

The hand cradling your face tenses briefly, the hand with the tissue stuttering. Then, he carries on with a quiet hum.

“I don’t like fate,” Ayn says suddenly. “It annoys me.”

He puts the tear-stained tissue down and wraps you in a tight hug, pressing his cheek against yours. The warmth spreads from his body to yours, drawing you closer to him. It’s a little funny, you think— it wasn’t that long ago that you were the one comforting him like this, supporting his body in the ruins that he’d created.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… don’t like the idea that there is a world where we never meet, or we never end up like this, but that also makes this reality all the more special to me. Miss Painter, in this timeline, you chose to stay with me. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?

I am the me of this world, and you are the you of this world. I am the me of this timeline, and you are the you of this timeline. The choices we’ve made aren’t from some sort of pre-set fate where we will always meet each other no matter the timeline, but a unique outcome created by our own hands.”

After a long silence, Ayn clears his throat, following his spiel with a mumble.

“That’s what I think. What about you, Miss Painter?”

Oh , you realize slowly. It’s more like, with every unique counterpart of Ayn I meet, the more I grow to love the Ayn I met in this world I consider home.

“I could leave, one day.”

You meet Ayn’s eyes, and you realize he’s just as scared as you are, just as confused, just as worried. He’s not once let go of you throughout all of this, and despite his words, you can tell he’s still anxious.

“I will not stop you,” he replies eventually. “You are your own person and not someone I can keep tied to me forever. But I— I will probably seek you out and ask for a reason. As long as I can hear it directly from you, and not some puppet, or some other person, I think I could accept it with time.”

He pulls your hand to his cheek, pressing his face into the palm of your hand.

“You’ve already given me enough happiness to last me a lifetime. These memories I have now are enough.”

The hand Ayn has pulled to cup his cheek suddenly starts pinching and stretching it.

“Ow—”

“What do you want? Ayn.”

Ayn purses his lips but meets your eyes honestly.

“I want to share a future with you. I love you so much that it scares me. I don’t want it to turn into the sort of love that binds and strangles. I don’t want to become like my dad, obsessing over safety and danger only, but sometimes I can understand him because whenever you disappear, I’m scared I'll be powerless to help. But I also want you to love me, only me; that sort of possessiveness... but I also don't want to take your freedom from you.”

Ayn falls silent for a long time, but not out of hesitance. He quietly basks in your presence here with him, and holds you in his arms in the present the two of you live in, for a few minutes.

You bury your face into his shoulder, holding onto Ayn frighteningly tight. Because it's not like you don't feel a similar paranoia. Fear. Your mind had been sent into a frenzy during the first white day the two of you spent together, when Ayn suddenly stopped replying and never showed up. And when Ayn had called you, only for you to hear the soft thud of someone falling and nothing else, you felt as though you had been plunged into an icy abyss and had to immediately find him to pull yourself out.

“I want to be someone who can stand by your side. I want to be a part of your story.”

“Ayn.”

“Yeah?”

“Ayn.”

“I’m here, Miss Painter.”

“Ayn.”

The clumsy boy in front of you smiles, normally sharp eyes softening at the corners in a way only you can see in this very moment.

He responds to your confessions of love in kind, murmuring your name.

“I think… for every world I visit, for each unique Ayn I see, I’m reminded of you and fall deeper in love with the you in front of me now. Even though it’s dangerous, and I’m terrified I’ll lose you because of my mistakes, I… also want you to come with me on my adventures because there have been so many wonderful experiences and sights that I hope to share with you.”

The countless figures blurred together in your dreams start to become clearer. Through the focusing lens, you see his silhouette as clear as day— as clear as the notes that had charmed you the very first day you walked into the music building, as clear as the world before you whenever you pick up a paintbrush.

It’s only in this unique world that these specific possibilities were grasped by the two of you. Who you are, and who he is, no matter what happened somewhere else in the universe— this is what has happened and is happening here and now.

“Ayn,” you say softly. “It’s a heavy burden, even when split between two people. It’ll hurt a lot.”

“It sounds like you’ve experienced a lot of pain,” Ayn replies simply. “So let me share it with you. At least we can complain about it together if it gets particularly annoying.”

You don’t really know about the other infinite amount of timelines, but you know in this one—

In this one, you’ve chosen Ayn and he’s chosen you.

end notes: this can kind of be taken as an indirect sequel of "still here" or at least i wrote it with this specific fic in mind

[mowiwow]

stasis (empire lars)

spoilers: references cael's spirit world route & the long way ahead event

There isn’t one second that goes by where he doesn’t think about it.

The glory of his previous home, of those in it. Of the grandiose structures carefully constructed in attempts to mimic those that his people had worshipped— of the laurels, gold, and wine they all indulged in, obsessively so, just so that they could become just like the god-like entities they bowed to.

And the transience of it all.

The sorrow, the utter despair— it twists into derisive laughter as he thinks back to the fool that he had been back then.

Really, what god was there to worship?

What a joke.

There are several bases dedicated to containing and converting now-fallen travellers to the Infinite Empire’s cause.

However, not once has he visited these bases.

He finds that all of it is simply—

Boring.

The high of victory has long worn down and all that is left is dissatisfaction.

There is nothing but dullness where there should be joy at triumphing over his enemies. Not even the fall of the White City, the most coveted of their conquers, soothes the dull ache in his chest spreading throughout his body and drowning him mutely.

He won’t be satisfied until fate itself is grovelling at his feet.

As he watches the millionth simulation play out, he chuckles to himself with unsmiling eyes.

How adorable, he thinks. The little figures running around, the past silhouette resembling his own, running themselves into the ground for the sake of the very thing that will destroy them.

For a while, such shadows haunted him without any apparent end.

He still remembers each and every face of those he worked with in those bygone days, but any affection he once held for them has dissipated into thin air. He sees their reflections in the shiny goblets of gold he drinks aged wines from, but he has stopped feeling anything in particular for them.

Still, he immerses himself in endless simulations of the same over, and over, and over again.

Why is that?

Perhaps he revels in his own despair. A man who has lost his mind, continuously choosing to drink poison and letting it burn his throat until he cannot speak anymore. It’s somewhat endearing just how foolishly over-eager he once was.

What an adorable fool, that little man running around under the sun.

He’d like to wrap his fingers around his throat and plunge him into a deep, frosty darkness with water filling his body. In that deep, boundless sea, countless memories play back like simulations, engulfing him in an ever-still blue.

Plunge deeper, deeper, and deeper still into the abyss, where perhaps only more darkness awaits.

And there it goes again, with his captain dying a heroic death for their home.

He doesn’t lean back, or stretch; he has no particular interest in taking a break. Instead, he continues to stare at the screen flickering in front of him reporting the data of the most recent simulation.

Again.

Now, how will he triumph and conquer this time?

[mowiwow]

next year, the year after, and… (modern ayn)

The morning after Ayn’s birthday, a few hours before the two of you would return to Harp Island, Ayn sneaks you out of the mansion. The sun has yet to rise, with the entire world still plunged into a deep slumber.

In a way, it almost feels like this world belongs to just you and Ayn, with nobody else in sight.

“Did you wake up early, or did you stay up all night?”

You’re swinging Ayn’s hand back and forth as he guides you somewhere, voice a bit muffled by the scarf you’ve worn to combat the chill of the approaching winter. When you stare at the side of his face, Ayn looks away as he responds vaguely.

“I mean…”

“Well?”

“It’s easier to stay up late than to wake up early,” Ayn explains. When he sees you about to respond, he adds: “You’re not allowed to say anything. You’re always texting me at two. Your sleep schedule isn’t any better than mine.”

Your opened mouth promptly closes. Instead, you pinch the hand you’re holding in retaliation, unable to refute his words.

“Ow,” Ayn deadpans, turning his head to stare at you with the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “That hurt.”

“And?”

“Kiss it better?” he whispers.

You look at Ayn with exasperation, “You’ve become so shameless.”

Nonetheless, you lift his fingers to your lips to kiss them with exaggerated movements and make the silliest kissing noise you can.

“Better?”

“......Enough.”

“What, you don’t like my kisses?” you grin, pulling Ayn closer to you to plant a big kiss on his cheek, making sure to accompany it with a drawn-out, “Mmmmwah!”

“You’re really so…”

“What? Have something to say, dearest boyfriend?”

“I like your kisses,” Ayn mutters. When he sees your broad smile, he pinches your cheek and pulls at it with cold fingers, making you retreat further into your scarf for warmth. He narrows his eyes, moving to press his entire palm against your cheek. “Are you running from me?”

“Your hands are cold,” you complain. “And my scarf is warm.”

Wordlessly, Ayn starts to unwrap the grey plaid scarf around his neck. He wraps half of the scarf around you this time. The amateurish stitches itch at you, a reminder of your inexperience. But it’s this specific scarf that he’s chosen to wear, instead of any other scarf he has at his disposal.

Your cold cheek is now smushed against Ayn’s as he hunches over a bit awkwardly. You snicker, lifting a hand to adjust the scarf wrapped around the two of you.

“I realize that you wearing this scarf and those earmuffs outside comes with a condition, but don’t you think this kind of uncomfortable?”

“No. This is the most comfortable I’ve been.”

Alright, you liar.

“Okay, okay. How are we going to walk, though? You wanted to bring me somewhere, right?”

Ayn replies stubbornly as he takes a step forward, pulling you along with him. “Like this.”

Both of you stumble forward awkwardly, but Ayn is unwilling to part from you. The scarf you gave to Ayn sits awkwardly on top of your own. The cat-shaped earmuffs you made for him press into you uncomfortably and its beady eyes stare at you. Ayn’s probably more uncomfortable, though, as he hunches his back awkwardly to match your height.

“We probably look so stupid.”

“Who cares,” Ayn snorts. “Nobody’s around. Even if they were, it doesn’t matter what they think.”

“Are we really going to walk all the way to our destination like this?”

Ayn leans against you, stopping suddenly.

“We’re already at our destination.”

At some point, the two of you had stopped at—

“Leighton Creek Plaza,” you murmur.

Ayn nods a little, pulling the scarf with him. When he realizes the scarf is scratching at you, he stills.

“I liked to play around this area a lot when I was a kid. There are a lot of interesting musicians who busk here, though nobody’s here right now since it’s too early.”

You catch a trace of disappointment in his voice. Not long from now, the two of you will have to return to Harp Island to catch up on schoolwork now that Ayn’s finished his business in Leighton.

“How about I sing for you?”

Ayn looks at you eagerly, his response almost instantaneous.

“Yes— No, wait, hold on.” With his free hand, Ayn fumbles around a bit and pulls out his phone. “I need to record this.”

“No! No recordings! This is an exclusive concert, no recordings are allowed.”

Ayn looks at you with a frown, pouting slightly. “I know you save those voice clips. Of me singing.”

“...I’ll sing for you again later when I’ve practiced more,” you insist, embarrassed. “You can record me later. Here, let’s take a picture instead, okay?”

He hums reluctantly, holding his phone out as he takes a few pictures of the two of you huddled close together with noses and ears flushed red from the cold, tied together by a clumsily sewn scarf.

“Send me those later.”

“M’kay.”

As Ayn pockets his phone, you clear your throat a bit nervously. You recall the street performer you met yesterday, in this very spot, and the song he sang for you.

The song he sang for that little boy many years ago.

You know you’re definitely missing a few notes, with some off-beat, and your confidence shrinks. As your voice starts to die down, Ayn squeezes your hand in his, and you see the joy in his eyes as he recognizes the song you sing. With that, you continue.

The world falls silent once you finish.

Then, through the silence, your name is whispered, and the cold biting at you fades as two arms wrap around you tightly.

Ayn doesn’t need to say it for you hear the words in his heart.

I love you too, you think, reaching out to return his hug.

The sun begins to rise, bathing this world belonging to just you and Ayn in a sweet, rosy hue. As you both turn to watch the sunrise, you quietly hook his pinky finger with yours.

“Let’s come back here next time,” you whisper. “Next year, let’s listen to the buskers from your childhood together. And the year after that. And the year after that, and…”

“Until the end of our days?”

The overwhelming happiness you feel tickles your heart as you lean contentedly against Ayn. The earmuffs are ticklish as they press against you, and the scarf scratches against your cheeks, a reminder of both your imperfection and his. But, with him by your side, you’ve never felt cozier.

You hum in affirmation as you make your promise to this boy, who once travelled this world alone.

“Until the end of our days.”

[mowiwow]

still here (modern ayn)

spoilers: spirit world ayn route

Your body moves before you can think.

You don’t wonder what time it is now, or think about the assignments you might have due, or about the people on campus who glance your way as you run out of your home blindly.

The campus all around you blurs as your feet hit the ground in a frenzied panic. There’s only one name repeating over and over in your mind—

Ayn.

Countless melodies are mixing in the hallway of the music building. Sounds of the french horn, violins, flutes, tubas, clarinets…

Piano.

But they’re not his piano.

Your heart drops inexplicably when you draw nearer to Ayn’s piano room and don’t hear him.

But he’s there.

Once you're closer, you see him through the window, pencil in hand as he writes something on his sheet music. You open the door without a second thought.

Ayn looks up when he hears the door opening and he—

He smiles when he sees you, smiles gently, fondly, carrying all of the affection the world has to offer just for you. His eyes curve slightly, and he murmurs your name.

“Ayn.”

Ayn’s smile immediately falls and he hurriedly gets up. He crosses the piano room to get to you and he reaches out to hold your shaking hand. He repeats your name, worriedly, as he closes the door behind you and pulls you further into the room.

It’s warm.

It’s warm, unlike the hand that had pressed your fingertips back down onto that blade forged from his spirit. In that moment, you see him again, and you can feel the warmth of the blood beneath your palms. You remember the feeling of the mist lightly brushing the palm of your hand before it coalesces into a red flower in his palm, reminiscent of an inextinguishable flame.

Your eyes sting, your throat grows tight, and you take Ayn’s hand holding yours and hold it tightly. When you see Ayn flinch a little, you loosen your grip and chew your bottom lip.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

In the next second, you’re embraced by the same warmth you had desperately tried to hold onto.

You really thought you’d exhausted all of your tears already.

But they fall, one after the other. You let yourself cry, your tears staining the shoulder that muffles your sobs. Everything comes rushing up again; the sorrow, the regret, the longing, the anger, the helplessness—

You cry, not just for him, but all of those who came before him.

The people you couldn’t save, both in the present and in the past. From Godheim, from Eden, and from your world.

“I’m tired,” you confess to him shakily, unable to steady your hands. You hold onto the fabric of his shirt, the only anchor you have in this very moment. “I— Am I— the people I’ve met, I… Ayn, Ayn, please…”

What do you want to say?

You’re not sure.

The words get all tangled up in your head, even though what you really want to say is a simple sentence.

“I’m here.”

Ayn’s voice is quiet and steady. The piano room is muted, and the only thing you can hear is Ayn’s strong, rhythmic heartbeat.

“Ayn.”

“Yeah.”

“Ayn.”

He hugs you tighter, his hair tickling you as he presses his cheek to yours. You can hear his hum right next to your ear.

“Ayn. Ayn, Ayn, Ayn…”

Don’t go.

Don’t leave, don’t try and protect those around you, don’t try to change the world, just stay here, don’t change—

You can’t utter any of those words.

It’s your own, selfish wish. A hypocritical request, when you know you’ve left Ayn suddenly in the past without any explanation.

Privately, you sometimes wonder what would’ve happened had you run away from it all.

If you hadn’t gone to that movie theatre with him. If you had decided to live a quiet, peaceful life and continue cuddling with Ayn that afternoon in the secret base.

But then you remember his smile. The flower blooming in his hand, the gift from you to the past him—

Had you decided to never continue down this path, you would’ve never had those experiences. The good, the bad, everything in between. You wouldn’t have laughed, cried, screamed— wouldn’t have felt the ticklish sensation of that Ayn nuzzling you in that bygone era.

But you also wouldn’t have felt the fear that drowns you, that suffocates you.

In that moment, as you watched that Ayn disappear, you couldn’t help but think about your Ayn.

Diligently practicing piano every day, napping and playing games when not. Pouting whenever you tease him, gently hooking your pinky finger with his in the lulls of life within the secret base shared between the two of you. The tangled limbs as a result of the two of you taking a nap together.

What would you do, if that were to all disappear one day?

With every world you visit, you think you’re starting to understand why your mother did what she did for you more and more.

This feeling of love choking you until your breaths come out as a stutter— you don’t mind it, don’t mind the pain you’ll have to endure as long as Ayn is safe. You wouldn't mind exchanging your life for his, if you could.

…But you can’t do that.

The two of you promised each other to share the burden.

You don’t want him to be in the dark, you want to tell him about yourself in exchange for what he’s told you about himself. You made that decision, during White Day, to tell him everything.

And—

You can't do that to him.

Not when he's lost his own mother. Not when he, too, is lonely just like you had been back when you were overcome with grief. Sometimes, in his secret base, you'll catch Ayn staring dazedly at the vinyl record player on one of his many shelves. In those moments, you always remember the conversation you had with him during the first new years you spent with him— you see Ayn searching through records as he tries to recover something he's forgotten from the distant past.

In many ways, he's still grieving for the loved one he's lost.

The grief never leaves, not fully. You would know.

You can't leave him, you can't, because that would be too cruel, too unfair to him. You don't know if you want to inflict onto him what that Ayn in that distant world inflicted onto you.

Conflicting feelings tangle in your chest.

“Ayn,” you murmur after a long period of silence. Your voice has grown hoarse from crying, and his shoulder has been soaked with your tears, but you can’t find it in yourself to pull away and recollect yourself. All you can do is repeat his name, like a broken record, whispering your affections to him in the form of the name you’ve grown to love saying.

“I’m still here.”

He is. And so are you.

Maybe that’s all you need for now.

Ayn is still here, and so are you.

[mowiwow]

four a.m. (modern lars)

In the earliest hours of day, or perhaps the latest hours of night, his eyes slowly open.

It takes a second for the world to come into focus. His screensaver, a picture of the very first painting he bought from you, has long since been replaced by a sea of inky darkness. The cold white light of his office forces him to squint his eyes a little as he surveys the room.

With one hand idly running through already messy blonde locks, Lars moves the mouse to his desktop and blinks slowly at the time displayed in the corner.

4:51 A.M.

An odd hour. Not concretely night, nor is it concretely morning.

…He must’ve fallen asleep right after finalizing everything for tomorrow.

Lars supposes that it’s already tomorrow.

Quietly, in that lonely office elevated high above the streets that everybody walks, the CEO laughs to himself. He leans back in his chair, wincing when his limbs protest in the form of a dull ache. He stares blankly at the ceiling, not yet fully awake.

When was the last time he fell asleep like this?

Usually, he would’ve managed to at least move to the couch in the office. Lars thought he had the strength to fight off the ever-pervading sense of exhaustion, but perhaps he thought wrong.

Or…

Maybe not.

He’s pulled his fair share of all-nighters in the past. If he had to make a guess, the thing that was different was…

Well, after being reminded to take frequent rests by a certain someone, Lars has started to remember what it was like to feel exhaustion as any other regular human would. He lets out another groan, as a faint headache pokes and prods at him. No doubt, it was the lack of sleep he’d been getting during this busier season.

In this large room— a room he spent more time in than his own bedroom— Lars lets himself massage his forehead in an attempt to ease the headache. Nobody’s around for him to entertain, so he freely lets his lips purse into a vaguely annoyed and tired frown.

He really should sleep sometime.

Truthfully, it wasn’t only you that reminded him to get more rest. Mrs. Lane, the housekeeper, occasionally hinted to him her concern over the eyebags he tries to hide. His grandmother, when he calls her— something that tends to be rarer nowadays due to his hectic schedule— often checks up on him when she picks up on the slightest sleepy drag of his words.

Even his driver sometimes looked back at him, from the front mirror, and Lars could see the concern in Mr. Bond’s gaze through that reflection.

Maybe he’s losing a bit of his touch. There are far too many people who have been trying to subtly hint at Lars that he needs more sleep.

…What can he do? With much of his day dedicated to discussing with various business partners, or tending to commitments that had been scheduled weeks earlier, the night has to be dedicated towards preparing for the next hectic day.

But when he imagines your puffed-out cheeks, furrowed brows, and eyes peeking at him with blatant concern, he lets out a resigned sigh. 

Lars is stubborn, but he is no fool. He’s aware that he’s pushing the limits of his body, and that it would be wise for him to spend more time— at the very least— napping rather than staring at documents.

After meeting you, he’s been able to dedicate a little more time to relaxation. Not much. Yet it’s just enough that, once Lars has hit the busiest month of the year, he’s filled with an indescribable heaviness. He’d love to crawl into a warm, fluffy bed right about now.

Honestly, he’s not sure how to feel. Should he laugh? Or cry? It would seem that meeting you had made him more prone to noticing his own exhaustion. He fears he might not be as tolerant of all-nighters anymore.

Well, no point in sitting around to think about it. He still feels exhausted, and he can afford a short nap before he’ll have to continue on with the day.

Might as well get in those final hours of sleep somewhere more comfortable than his desk.

Lars stands up, dragging himself over to the couch in his office. The tired shadow that covers his usually brilliant eyes lightens up a little when he spots the blanket carefully folded on one of the couch cushions.

It’s a faintly yellow blanket with a simple, cartoonish lion stitched onto one corner. Beneath it is a plain pillow that stands out amongst the fancier pillows decorating the couch. On it is a sunflower, stitched on in a similar manner as the lion.

He feels warm. And, as he wraps himself up in the blanket, with his head resting on top of the pillow, it’s as though he’s engulfed in a kind and sincere hug.

Some days are harder to get through than others. But, when he remembers all of those who continue to care for him through their own schedules, through their respective hardships…

Well, he thinks he can keep on going for many days to come.

[mowiwow]

about painting (cael)

It feels like the first time he’s picking up a paintbrush.

It is, by no means, the actual first time he has picked up a paintbrush. No— it’s a motion he’s gone through countless times before to recreate this or that scene from his memory on a canvas. With one of his many identities being a famous painter, he has to be familiar with the paintbrush.

But, in many ways, he’s realized that he might’ve not had any familiarity with it at all. The reason for wanting to paint now is no longer the same as before.

He… wants to paint you.

But first, he intends to practice.

Painting people, he thinks, is rather difficult. After meeting you, the world has tilted ever-so-slightly, and everything that was once perfectly in place has become newly unfamiliar to him. Those who walk the earth are less like vague, blurry faces, and have become faces he carefully notes down because these are the people that you are trying to protect.

The more time he spends with you, the more he realizes that humans, too, have a certain fleeting beauty to them that he’d failed to notice previously.

The volatile nature of humanity is difficult to capture.

Cael frowns slightly, lowering the paintbrush he has picked up for the first time, as he stares thoughtfully at the painting before him. A rather standard painting of a stranger in a coffee shop that he’d seen for one second many years ago.

Everything is perfect.

And that is the problem.

Noiselessly, without a single sigh, Cael sets aside the painting and replaces it with a new, blank canvas.

He picks up a pencil.

Should he try to paint you this time? Starting with a sketch.

He doesn’t think he can properly paint you. Not yet. Does he even have the right to paint you? The you, with bright eyes that reflect the world and a boundless love for it, the you with a bizarrely affectionate smile aimed towards him for…

For…

Well, he doesn’t entirely understand the reasons behind it. But something about it makes him feel oddly soft with a fondness blooming in his chest. And it’s a feeling he can’t help but focus on, regardless of whether he wants to or not.

In that way, you’ve left a deep impression on him.

Whether you stay with him or leave him to live out your life… he probably wouldn’t ever be able to fully forget the way you’ve subtly changed his heart. Through you, he’s seen too many new things that confuse his mind, his soul. 

What would you think, seeing the great painter Emerald, struggling to paint? If you were like any other person he’s typically acquainted with, he would’ve imagined you with a disappointed expression on your face. But you’re not.

You don't jeer at him like his old classmates had. You don't gaze down on him like the teachers in the Infinite Empire. You don't respond to him with the coldness of the voice issuing to him his missions.

He thinks, maybe, you would smile.

Then, he would end up commenting on it, and you would reply with a view unique to you and you alone. Probably, he would struggle to fully understand this. He’s sure he could deduce the reason, rationally, but on a more emotional level…

Perhaps that is why the smile he’s painting looks a little off.

It’s not… you. It’s a carefully, perfectly curved arc drawn by a hand that’s accustomed to painting copies of scenes from his perfect memory. 

The tangled knot he feels in his chest is probably— if he were to guess…

Frustration.

A perfect student of the Infinite Empire, yet he cannot do something as simple as painting you. Cael is certain that his colleagues would laugh and mock him for this.

He sets the paintbrush down once again. For a long time, he stares at the newly started sketch of you. Outside, the clouds drift by, birds occasionally peek in through the window while perched on tree branches, and the sun goes from standing tall in the sky to slowly rolling down…

And he randomly recalls an old memory. Several, actually.

The petulant expression you show him when he brings up the memory of you pouring dish soap into the washing machine. The wrinkled smile that you gave him when you made your request to him during that snow-ridden adventure. You, and the contentedness on your face, as you sketch amongst a sea of sunflowers reaching towards the sky.

Cael smiles faintly at your faint, sketched outline. Then, he places the pencil down with one elegant motion.

He’s overthinking things.

Perhaps he should just go for it.

Indeed, he has never been able to fully understand you with his deductions alone. You do not fit a clean mould, nor do you obediently follow the trajectory of fate and the future often becomes unclear when you get involved.

So, perhaps, the solution to all of this is to… follow his heart. Just as you follow yours.

He’s yet to figure out what his “heart” even is, or what it is comprised of. But… he thinks he can learn. Bit by bit.

For the first time, he picks up a paintbrush.

[mowiwow]

little imperfections (modern alkaid)

“What are you looking at?”

You lift your head, smiling when Alkaid approaches you curiously. He sits down on the couch that the two of you had bought together, comfortably finding his place next to you.

A quiet action that only naturally came to the anxiety-ridden man many years later. Up close, despite all of the wrinkles of time littered across his face, he still looks as handsome as the day you first saw him. Easily, you melt into his side and hold out your left hand.

“I was looking at my wedding ring.”

Alkaid tilts his head slightly, blonde hair tickling your cheeks. His own left hand extends and his hand is placed next to yours.

There’s the faintest hint of embarrassment in his voice as he speaks. “Are you remembering the time I proposed to you?”

“Naturally. It was just so memorable.”

“It was a disaster,” he says, with a mixture of embarrassment and fondness.

“It really was. You were shaking so badly. You even dropped the ring box.”

“I caught it though,” Alkaid defends himself, meeting your gaze. “I didn’t let it fall.”

“I’ll give you that,” you reply with a wry smile. “You have great reflexes.”

Alkaid coughs lightly, turning his eyes back to the two wedding rings reflecting the light of the falling sun. 

“Great reflexes won’t help me when my voice ends up cracking.”

The corners of your lips twitch. You withdraw your outstretched hand to pat Alkaid’s thigh pressed against your own consolingly.

“It was endearing because it wasn’t perfect.”

You pause, the numerous little scratches and nicks in your wedding ring catching your eye. You bring your hand closer to you, closer to your heart, and smile softly as you silently count the wear and tear your ring has gone through despite painstakingly meticulous care.

“Y’know, kind of like this ring,” you muse.

No matter how carefully something is maintained, imperfections will crop up eventually. Little nicks in the heart are impossible to avoid in life.

You’re glad you were able to go through this sort of life with Alkaid at your side. You’re glad you were able to be with Alkaid throughout some of the rougher times in his life.

“Even though there are all of these little scratches on my ring when I look at it closely, I wouldn’t ever want to remove them. They all lend themselves to the experiences I’ve had with you and I want to cherish each and every one of them,” you ramble. “So I wouldn’t ever want to try and erase these little scratches of ours.”

You can feel Alkaid’s lingering gaze on you, so you meet his eyes. Even though countless years have passed since the two of you got married, he still occasionally looks at you with intense longing, as though the two of you aren’t a married couple who have already vowed to remain together through life and death.

You think Alkaid has come a long way. But sometimes the ghosts of the past are particularly persistent and nobody can ever fully erase their past experiences from their mind.

“Alkaid?”

Slowly, his fingertips touch yours.

“I’m glad,” is all he whispers.

His eyes lower, fixated on both the scratches in your ring and his own.

Neither of you are perfect. The path of life is very rarely a smooth one. Full of conflict, big and small, full of grievances and grudges, full of the struggles that come with living...

But, when you get to walk along that path with Alkaid— well, it's not so bad.

[mowiwow]

♪ — under 1k/around 1k

♫ — over 1k (will vary greatly)

Ayn Alwyn

MODERN rainbow // ♪ cutest in the world // ♪ still here // ♪ next year, the year after, and... // ♪ for every call of your name, "i love you" // ♫ those who have never left // ♫ dreaming within a dream of a dream // ♫

GODHEIM come spring // ♪ fractured oaths // ♪

EDEN calluses // ♪

Alkaid McGrath

MODERN first loves // ♪ intertwined starlight // ♪ little imperfections // ♪

Lars Rorschach

MODERN four a.m. // ♪

GODHEIM promise // ♪

EMPIRE stasis // ♪

Clarence Clayden

MODERN departure // ♪ irrational // ♪

GODHEIM winter // ♪

Cael Anselm

about painting // ♪ predict the future // ♪

ao3 account

note: to access the rest of my fics, you will need an ao3 account as i have locked all of my fics from public view.

[mowiwow]

intertwined starlight (modern alkaid)

“Ta-dah!”

…

…

…

You feel a little silly with your arms spread out while doing the good old jazz hands motion. Still, Alkaid doesn't miss a beat and applauds you enthusiastically.

You turn your gaze to the mirror, holding a reflection of both you and Alkaid. Little star and comet-shaped hair clips decorate Alkaid's hair, scattered about in an artistic chaos. You're in no better condition, with similarly themed hair clips in your own hair.

"We look silly, don't we?" you muse, laughing a little at how absurd the two of you look in the mirror.

"I think we look great," Alkaid replies sincerely with a bright smile. "These hairclips you made look amazing."

"Yours look great too, Alkaid. They're so detailed," you hum, reaching up to lightly touch one of the many hair clips in your hair. It shimmers and gleams under the warm, golden glow of the ceiling light above. "You really have an eye for detail."

"I like your designs more," he says, turning around slightly so he could look at you directly. "Your style of making things is my favourite."

"Happy to please!" you grin, leaning over to press a light kiss to the forehead of the seated Alkaid. "Oh, also! Hold on, stay there, let me just..."

A few steps across the room and a flick of a switch later, the room is quickly plunged into darkness. You hear your name being called out amidst the darkness, confusion clear in Alkaid’s voice.

“What…”

His question dies on his lips as his attention is caught by brightly shining lights in the mirror. Alkaid’s reflection is illuminated by countless stars of different colours, all coming together to form a little galaxy of his own. Giddily, you make your way over back to Alkaid, happy that the hair clips have worked as intended.

“I made the clips so that they would glow in the dark!”

Pausing, you remember a list you once sent Alkaid— one full of cheesy pickup lines.

“...Because you light up my world," you add.

Alkaid blinks owlishly at your reflection for a few moments before laughing softly. His eyes crinkle happily as he turns around to face you.

“May you come closer?” he asks.

“Of course,” you reply in a heartbeat.

As you lean towards him, curious, you watch as he unclips one of the many star-shaped hair clips from his hair. His fingers gently graze the side of your face as he pins the hair clip to your hair.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “My lovely little star. Though there’s nothing in this world that can compare to your brilliance, this will have to do for the time being.”

From the corner of your eyes, you catch sight of your reflection standing along with Alkaid’s. Two stars standing close to each other, basking in each other’s light.

You stare at him, flabbergasted, for a few moments before you laugh in defeat with warmed cheeks. “You sap,” you reply affectionately, leaning over to lightly bump your forehead against his. “It’s your birthday today, this is supposed to be about you, not me.”

“Is it?” he says with a hint of mischief. “What if I want to make it about you, though?”

His hand finds yours in the dark, fingers shyly brushing up against yours. With a grin, you securely intertwine your fingers with his.

“I’ll turn it around, then. I can talk about you all day.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asks cheekily.

“You’re on,” you laugh, squeezing his hand lightly.

The two of you lapse into a momentary silence, taking the time to listen to each other’s steady breathing.

“Happy birthday, Alkaid,” you whisper. “I’m glad I met you on that mountain that day.”

Alkaid hums quietly, his hold on your hand tightening ever so slightly. “Me too,” he replies quietly.

It takes a few moments for him to break the silence that follows. Alkaid’s voice is almost fragile yet resolute as he says sincerely—

“Thank you for finding me, my lovely star.”

[mowiwow]

fractured oaths (godheim ayn)

NOTES: the reader is not the mc here! this takes place somewhere before godheim’s main story.

“Be mine.”

It’s a whispered plea through dark iron bars. Ayn’s voice is ever-so fragile— a side he doesn’t often show others in fear of being ridiculed. Yet he shows this side to you. He lays everything down for you, tells you everything but…

“We will rule together,” the fallen prince murmurs. “That’s what you said. We’d reclaim Godheim together.”

Your body aches as you stand up, fingers curling around the cold bars that separate you from him.

“I will find a way to get you out—”

“No,” you say, finally. Between the gaps, your hand lightly touches Ayn’s cheek. It’s freezing cold, you realize. You have little warmth left in your body but you try to give it all to him anyway.

Though his skin is cold, his eyes hold a spark that will never fade out even amidst the harshest of blizzards.

“If I just…”

“No,” you repeat yourself, firmer. You try to pull your hand back but he stops you, his hand trapping yours against his cheek.

“You promised.”

You did, god, you did promise him. He continues to hold onto the words of the past, continues to wander through his memories even as time progresses. He is trapped, a captive of the past.

And you’re holding him back.

“Ayn, everything you’ve been setting up these past years will crumble apart. There are people counting on you.”

You don’t ask if he’d throw that all away for a mere servant.

You know he would.

But he can’t. You won’t let him.

As his hand trembles against yours, you offer him a small smile.

“Let go of me,” you say quietly. “Ayn.”

“I can’t,” he says fervently. “I can’t.”

You see the young prince you grew up with. You can’t help but remember the time he climbed a tree, the time he taught you how. Or the time the two of you snuck into the kitchen late at night, together, to filch some sweets under the moonlight. The quiet, sweet murmurings exchanged between just the two of you when nobody else was awake.

“You have to,” is your steadfast response.

The crown prince has lost everything.

You had hoped that you could withstand it all and stay with him until the two of you could see spring again, but…

“Our fates aren’t intertwined in this world,” you say softly. His hand slackens for a fraction of a second and you take this chance to pull away from him.

His eyes shine as his gaze searches you desperately.

“Who cares about fate?” he says harshly. “Who’s to say I cannot have you, that we cannot have each other?”

What an Ayn-like response.

He reaches for you desperately through the bars. Wordlessly, you grasp his hand in both of yours. You press a feather-light kiss to the knuckle of his index finger.

A farewell.

Perhaps he would. Ayn has never been one to let the world tie him down— what he wants, he will fight for. He will carve out a path for himself if that’s what he desires. It’s something that had drawn you to him but…

“I am not yours, nor are you mine.”

You step back just far enough for his fingertips to graze your face if he were to reach out— and he does, still clinging onto you even now.

“Are you..?”

“Leave, Ayn,” you reply amidst the quiet, crackling fire of the torches mounted on the wall. His hand falls and his knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands into fists.

“Do you not want me anymore?” he whispers.

You choke back your thoughts—

I’ve never wanted you more.

“Yes,” you say drily, biting back the sting in your eyes for his sake and yours. “I’m throwing you away, so do the same to me.”

I’m sorry, you want to say.

You hate yourself for doing this. Once upon a time, you had promised to Ayn that you would never leave him. You remember all too vividly his expression when he heard about his mother’s death— watched as the mist of despair and hatred clouded over his world…

It’s too late now.

Footsteps reverberate through the dimly-lit dungeon halls. They do not belong to Ayn nor you.

“Go,” you say, finally, turning around. “And don’t come back. You have a future, Ayn.”

And I will not be in it— words you leave unspoken.

He cannot betray the emperor now. It’s not the right time.

As the footsteps grow louder and the world colder, you hear words of an oath— of an undying allegiance to you. But even then, you don’t turn around, too scared of the things you will ruin if you do.

But his words he whispered that night will stay in your head up until your very last breath—

“I love you. And I always will.”

[mowiwow]

come spring (godheim ayn)

Colourful flowers bloom throughout the lands of Godheim. The residents of the world cheer and celebrate as they welcome the first day of spring— though it’s not their first spring, everybody gathers for festivities to celebrate the day Godheim was released from the clutches of eternal suffering.

As others celebrate, however, one mourns.

There is a little corner within Ayn’s mind that will forever be stuck in that eternal winter. It never stops snowing there as it consumes everything under the sun.

Wordlessly, he kneels in front of a well-maintained headstone.

Though the world moves on, and he must move on for the sake of his people, Ayn will never forget. He will keep the memory of his beloved mother close to him. 

His mother is no longer here.

But she lives on with him and will live as long as he practices her swordsmanship. She will continue to live, through the teachings he provides for the next generation of Godheim.

…It doesn’t make the pain disappear, however.

Ayn lowers his head in a moment of silence.

A gentle voice. Calloused hands pinching at his cheeks full of baby fat, roughly messing up his hair. Lively laughter filling the air as his mother taunts the little Ayn with the wooden sword, encouraging the fallen Ayn to stand up and keep fighting.

His mother was a brilliantly burning flame.

Even when the flame had shrunk, stifled by the frigidity of the world, she had continued quietly burning and crackling stubbornly.

He doesn’t say anything and quietly ruminates in front of his mother’s grave.

Though it has been years since that bloody day, the numbing sensation in his chest that appears whenever he thinks of his mother remains. He takes this feeling and takes care to remember it.

The feeling of grief, of guilt. The memory of those that Ayn has lost.

Once upon a time, he would bang his fists tirelessly against cold, unfeeling metal bars. He would cry and scream and seethe with all-consuming anger as he curses out the cheerless gray walls of the underground prison.

He would spend nights curled up against the corner of the wall alone, wishing that he could see his parents. That he could reunite with them.

Now, he just quietly lowers his head as he remembers the warm memories of the past. The first time he picked up a sword. The first piece he played for his mother with the lyre. His mother’s eager voice as she reads to him passages from her book on swordsmanship. He looks upon the past.

“Ayn?”

…And when he looks up, he sees the future.

He watches as your gaze trails over to the headstone that Ayn is kneeling in front of. Recognition flickers over your expression as you read the name carefully carved into the stone and you bow your head silently for a few moments.

The two of you let the song of spring play out. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of swallows as they arrive to signify the beginning of spring, the pleasantly cool spring breeze that whistles by.

And once it is over, Ayn speaks.

“So, how has the festival been?”

Your lips curve into a small smile that he goes crazy for, stepping forward to casually link your fingers together with his.

“The festival has been wonderful,” you answer, peeking over at him quietly. “But I was starting to miss a certain someone…” you trail off, looking at Ayn meaningfully. “There’s still a lot of stalls I haven’t visited.”

Ayn grins, wanting to tease you.

“Is that so? You should go check them out before it’s too late.”

Your eyes narrow a little. The hand holding Ayn loosens— to which Ayn responds by holding onto you even tighter.

“That’s a good idea,” you say casually, trying to pull away. “I’ll go look through the stalls and report back to you at the end of the day.”

“Wait.”

Played like a fiddle— he always is, when it comes to you.

And you know it, too, as you look at him with a sly grin.

“Let’s go together,” Ayn says, trying to make eye contact with you but failing as he settles on staring at the tree behind you instead. “We haven’t spent much time together since you came back to this world, so…”

“Of course,” you laugh lightly, squeezing his hand. “Maybe you’ll find something to buy for the young palace musicians.”

He squeezes your hand back. “You should help me. It would be helpful to have the artist’s keen eye in selecting gifts.”

“Sure thing!” you beam, the warmth of spring standing behind you. You tug him along gently. “Let’s get going before there’s nothing left to look at.”

And as he follows you out of the forest, he glances back to the headstone peacefully resting amid nature’s embrace.

I’ll make you proud, mother.

[mowiwow]

winter (godheim clarence)

spoilers: godheim clarence route

He does not have much to live for.

His parents have forsaken him, many fear him, and his companions have all turned into frozen monsters.

He, too, has become a monster.

The Archmage has seen death more than anybody else. He wanders the snowy tundra even within the spatio-temporal gap. All he has to cling onto are his memories, but it’s cruel, truly—

For he can only remember the frigid cold of an eternal winter. He only knows of the white blanket of death, of the lives trapped beneath an impenetrable layer of ice. He only remembers watching helplessly the first time he realizes the true nature of mages. He only remembers the lives he had to take for the sake of the world—

Footprints buried by snowfall.

All traces of him silently covered up.

What colour, he wonders, is hope? What colour are the flowers that bloom after winter? What colour are the eyes of his old friends?

He doesn’t remember.

An endless expanse. The spatio-temporal gap is not so different, he thinks, from the eternally blank canvas he wandered within Godheim.

(That’s what he tells himself, but his heart aches still.)

(He’s surprised he still has a heart at all that can feel.)

It’s only when the Archmage is truly alone that he makes a key realization—

I miss them.

He misses the playful quips of the lonely emperor, despite having no tolerance for his jokes at the time. He misses his old companions, whom he once shared warm food and drink with. He misses the sweet little girl whose stomach had no limits, the occasional moments of lightheartedness within a place as cruel as the Magi Tower. It’s a place rife with sin and the deepest depths of humanity’s greed but still, they were people who shared his burden.

“May Spring live where you go next,” the Archmage had once said to the mage he had put to rest. And the following, an oath that he cannot keep; “—and may we be reunited once more.”

And…

He misses you.

A tender, gentle warmth. A single flower standing tall and proud despite the relentless onslaught of sleet. The artist who threw themselves into the thick of things, the artist of spring. Hope.

A part of him solemnly wishes he had never met you.

The Archmage had forgotten the warmth of companionship. The warmth of someone whose fate was not looming over their head—

Ah, but that’s not right.

You, the sacrifice, meant to be killed for the sake of a world that you don’t even belong to.

The artist who still had hope. Who had a determination in their eyes to defy fate; someone who has not fallen to the numbing acceptance of their fate. The ghost of a smile forms upon the Archmage’s chapped lips as he draws out your visage within his mind.

The unexpectedly pleasant ticklish sensation of an innocent emotion. One that he cannot put the name to, but one he feels nonetheless.

Nobody bears witness to the softening corners of his eyes, the light sheen that highlights deep, melancholic blues.

(But, of course, he deserves no such happiness. It is not tragic, he thinks. Just a mere matter of fact.)

(The fall still hurt greatly, though. It is rather cruel to show a starving man the promise of a feast only to rip it all way from him.)

Quietly, the Archmage stops walking in the endless, pure white void reminiscent of Godheim’s snowy fields.

Ah, he thinks vaguely. I suppose I am no longer the Archmage.

When he looks up to see the sky, the void stares back unflinchingly.

Clarence, he thinks. His name sounds a little odd in his thoughts. I suppose I am just ‘Clarence’ now.

He’s a little tired.

After living hundreds of years pursuing one specific goal, he is now lost. An aimless wanderer with no clear destination; nothing to fight for. The Archmage’s— no, Clarence’s— head hurts as a barrage of disorganized thoughts fill his mind.

His battle has long since ended (or was it actually not that long ago? Time does not exist here, after all) and he is now reaping the rewards. The fruits of his labour; his reward is eternity.

(Hardly a reward. It’s a punishment, rather; but he isn’t complaining. His sins have gone unpunished for too long, after all.)

(A small voice in the back of his mind cries— "What sin is there in the desire to live?")

(“Everything,” another replies matter-of-factly.)

The feeling of saving a world he has been working tirelessly to save… it’s…

It’s cold.

He has spent all his life with the snow as his cloak. Clarence had forgotten how horribly unpleasant the cold was.

No snow falls. But he feels the sensation of snowflakes lightly falling upon his cheeks, of snowflakes turning dark hair white. But unlike before, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shake the snowflakes off. He remains stagnant, suddenly too tired to lift a limb.

He is rather weary. He’d like to rest.

There is no chilled winds, but he feels the tips of his fingers growing numb all the same. And when he looks down, he thinks he can see his reflection within the ice of a frozen lake.

It seems, Clarence thinks, wordlessly staring out into the endless abyss. There is no horizon to look at, no sun to anticipate in his personal prison of endless winter. I have a lot to remember.

(And as his heart aches inexplicably, he can only stand there quietly in rumination. His tears have long frozen and he no longer has the energy to scream out in pain.)

Well, that’s fine.

He has an eternity to remember everything, after all.

To remember what it’s like to be human.

Maybe he can remember what it is that he lives for.

Though whether or not he can become human once more—

A maple leaf falls and crumbles away somewhere in a world with Spring.

[mowiwow]

irrational (modern clarence)

It's irrational.

Completely and utterly irrational of him. Nonsensical, really.

He doesn't even like sweets; sugar makes him sleepy, after all. Even on Valentine's Day, Clarence has work that needs to be done. Arguably, he has even more work because it's Valentine's Day. Setting up a secret gifting system, organizing Valentine's Day related activities, dealing with lovestruck students meandering about on campus and throughout the halls...

Yes, Valentine's Day is a lot of work. Every holiday usually is. No rest for the wicked, as they say.

It starts as a simple observation. William had barged into the room bragging about how many chocolates he had received (most of which seemed to be obligation chocolates).

And amongst his collection was a small bag tagged with a familiar name.

Your name.

It haunts him throughout the day. It's silly, but every time the doors to the student council room opens, he waits for your voice to call out his name.

He's disappointed every time.

First, it had been William with his chocolates (your chocolates). Making a large fuss, as usual. Slacking off, as usual.

Clarence forcibly puts William to work.

(It's William's fault, Clarence thinks, that Clarence's mind ends up being occupied by the image of your little chocolate bag in William's hands.)

Then, it was two of the other student council members barging in with a panicked expression on their face. A miscommunication regarding the secret Valentine's Day letters, one says; various letters were lost or misplaced.

Turns out that they had just left it in a forgotten drawer somewhere in the student council room.

(He overhears one student council member mention you and how good your chocolates were as they leave the room with a box full of letters.)

And then the former student council president visited him with a lackadaisical gait and some teasing words for Clarence. And a gaggle of enamoured students drawn in by O'Connor's beauty.

He promptly shooed all of them out.

(O'Connor's teasing words about the lack of chocolates that Clarence has received has him unusually ruffled; Clarence shouldn't be one to care about those things. But, also, he does receive chocolates, he just makes sure they're out of the way of things.)

By the end of the day, he's exhausted. Clarence doesn't have any particularly strong opinions about Valentine's Day, but if this is what he'll have to face in the years to come—

He might just end up hating Valentine's Day.

And there's no chocolates on his desk from...

The door opens again.

The student council president's eye twitches as he looks up, ready to deal with whatever life has thrown his way—

"Clarence!"

It's you.

"Do you need something?" Clarence asks, pretending that he's not scanning your person to see if you're carrying anything. You are not.

"Just a little bit of the student council president's time," you reply with a cheeky smile, bounding right on over to his desk like you own the place.

"...For what?" he asks, somewhat warily.

"For this!"

You reach into the bag hanging from your arm and produce a small box the shape of a... ring... box...

Clarence's mouth almost drops open.

"I got you some mints! It's not the traditional chocolates people give on Valentine's Day but I figured you'd like mints more."

"Oh..."

What... was he thinking? Logically speaking, there was no way that the box was actually going to be—

He clears his throat and solemnly accepts the small box from you. For no particular reason, he shakes it a little. As expected, he hears small items rattling around. "Thank you."

"Then, I'll be on my way!" you say cheerfully, already turning to leave with a wave.

"Wait—"

You look back at him, confusion clear on your face. Clarence clears his throat, putting the box of mints down on his desk.

"I'm almost finished here," he says quietly. "It's getting dark out and there's data suggesting that crime rate increases when it's dark and it's always safer to be in pairs than to be alone, so—"

You laugh fondly, turning back to him with an amused grin. "Sure, Clarence. You can walk me home."

He feels a little embarrassed. To hide this, he adjusts his glasses and nods stiffly. "I'll be with you in a second."

And as he turns around to start tidying up his desk, he glimpses the small box of mints he'd put down. And, oddly enough, a pleasant warmth spreads through his chest.

Maybe Valentine's Day isn't so bad after all.