#desperately wanted to get this out while it was still his bday but alas

[parkitaco]

Mike has always been the sort of person who likes lazy birthdays. When he was younger, he rarely got them - his mother always had something planned, some party or event or special breakfast or something. Which- okay, is super nice of her when he thinks about it, and he probably shouldn’t be complaining, but- Mike needs his sleep, okay? It’s stressful enough to deal with becoming one whole year older. Being awoken at seven a.m. by an overly excited and well-meaning parent, plus his sisters if they were in the mood, was never a great way to start off a day like that.

And he’d assumed, now that he’s in college, he’d be mercifully free of the cursory birthday celebrations. Not that he doesn’t like his birthday, or celebrations, or having fun or anything like that, because saying he doesn’t like those things makes him sound like a cartoon villain or something, but- Wheeler birthdays are a lot. He’s never been good at them.

So, on the morning of Mike’s nineteenth birthday, he’s expecting to have a nice, languid morning, sleeping in until at least noon before making himself the only breakfast he knows how to make - slightly charred scrambled eggs and toast - and watching TV, or something. He knows the Party is supposed to come over later, because his roommate and best friend is a terrible secret keeper and Mike had found the plans for his surprise party on his desk weeks ago now (which, okay, he might have been snooping a little, but whatever). But that’s not until seven p.m., so his plans for the day had mainly consisted of television, junk food, and maybe going to go bother Will. If he’s in the mood. 

That is not what happens.

Instead, he’s awakened at approximately nine in the morning by his door flying open so violently that it hits the wall and bounces back. Light pours into the room from the hallway, shining directly into Mike’s eyes, and he stirs with a groan, rubbing his eyes and wincing.

“Happy birthday,” Will says, pleased with himself as he stands in the doorway with his hands on his hips, as though he has not entirely disrupted Mike’s beauty rest - or, rather, that he knows he has, and isn’t at all sorry about it. “Wake up, old man.”

“Go away,” Mike groans, slumping back against his pillows and throwing an arm over his eyes. “I want to sleep.”

Will huffs, unimpressed, and Mike’s vaguely aware of his feet pattering across the floor before the mattress creaks and dips, and suddenly Will is right there, and Mike can feel his presence hovering over him even as he steadfastly refuses to open his eyes. “You’re not going to thank me?” Will questions, warm and teasing and right in Mike’s ear, and Mike dares to peek over the sleeve of his sweatshirt just enough to see Will, who is, sure enough, hovering right in Mike’s face. His hands are planted on either side of Mike’s head, a smirk plastered on his dumb, smug face, and- listen, Mike’s not necessarily pleased about being woken up this way, but if Will stays this close to him, he could probably get on board.

“Why would I thank you,” he grumbles anyway, removing his arm from his face so as to glare at Will properly. “You’re being a nuisance.”

Will rolls his eyes, which is probably fair, because he has never and will never be anything but a glowing, entirely positive presence in Mike’s life and they both know it, but- principles. “I said happy birthday,” he points out, “and you didn’t thank me.”

“Well, you also called me an old man, so I’d say we’re even,” Mike mutters, and evidently Will is satisfied by this response, because he sits back on his heels, grinning like an idiot and patting Mike’s chest gently.

Mike might not be fully awake yet, but he’s pretty sure that Will shouldn’t move so far away, and that preferably he’d come back and get in Mike’s face like that again. He just barely resists the urge to grab Will’s wrist and tug him back in, fingers twitching where they rest over the duvet as he tries not to think about how the only other thing nicer than going back to sleep right now was if Will stayed here and slept beside him.

Okay, so Mike is definitely not fully awake yet.

“You should get up,” Will is saying, and he’s still stupidly far away but he hasn’t moved farther, either, seemingly content to sit halfway on top of Mike like this while Mike curls further under the covers. He’s already dressed, Mike notices, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt for some band Mike’s never heard of, and he has Mike’s sweatshirt thrown over, some blue, oversized thing that he stole from Mike a couple weeks ago and Mike still hasn’t gotten the courage to confront him about. Mostly because he’s afraid Will might stop wearing it, if he asked about it.

“I want to sleep,” Mike reiterates, yanking his blanket over his head so that he’s forced to stop looking at the stupid sweatshirt, and Will immediately yanks the blanket back, peering over the edge and smirking down at him. “Go away. I hate you.”

These entirely false statements only serve to egg Will on, if the delighted look on his face is any indication. “No you don’t,” he says evenly, and he’s a little bit infuriating with it, sometimes, with this weird push-and-pull thing they’ve had going on since sometime around their junior year of high school. It’s one thing when Will is teasing with it, the maybe-flirting, because then Mike can at least pretend it’s a joke, but when he says things like this - no you don’t - so plainly, like it’s a fact, it has a tendency to make Mike feel a little bit too exposed. The closet’s made of glass, or whatever it was Will had said to him when they came out to each other a million years ago. 

Today, Mike opts not to react to it, because it is his birthday, and therefore he deserves a little leniency - though, not from Will, apparently. “Go away,” he says again, and still means the opposite.

Will smiles, tapping a fingertip against his nose and letting it linger there a beat longer than strictly necessary. “Come on,” he says quietly, like he means it this time, “I got you breakfast.”

At this, Mike’s whole train of thought - which had mostly been centered around Will’s finger pressed to his face and what it might feel like to lean into that touch - grinds to a screeching halt. “You- what?” he asks, frowning, and Will’s smile widens.

“Breakfast,” he repeats, and there’s another creaking of springs as he launches himself off the bed and heads for the door, pausing to quirk an eyebrow at Mike as he sits up, still frowning in confusion. “Come on, Mike, God. Have to wait on you for everything.”

Mike scowls, kicking the covers off and padding after Will into the kitchen where, sure enough, there are two plates set out with breakfast burritos from Mike’s favorite café, plus two mugs - coffee for Will, tea for Mike - neatly lined up beside them at the table.

It’s- a lot. Mike’s still not really awake. 

“Will,” he says, still frowning as Will gestures for him to sit down and grabs two paper napkins from the roll on the counter, “What is this?”

Will pauses where he’s placing the napkins in front of them, giving him a mildly incredulous look. “I told you,” he huffs, “Breakfast.”

“I- no, I get that,” Mike says, staring at his burrito like it’s somehow dangerous as he sits down at the table, “But- um. Why?”

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Will says, no bite to it, as he sits down across from him, “It’s your birthday, remember?”

Mike takes a sip of tea, hoping the caffeine will jump-start his system a little. No dice. He does note, however, that Will’s made the tea exactly how he likes it - English Breakfast, with oat milk and an ungodly amount of honey.

“I remember,” he says slowly, watching Will take a bite of his own burrito, “I just. Sorry, nevermind.”

It’s not like it’s that special, he tells himself, because he and Will have breakfast together all the time, whenever they both have mornings off from classes and work and whatever else. And it’s not like walking the two blocks to the cafe to buy him breakfast is even that much of a feat - a very large part of the reason Mike loves the restaurant so much is because it’s cheap and close to their apartment. And- it’s good. Good food. But still, it’s not like Will has gone that much out of his way or anything, and it’s not like Mike’s never been awoken to a special birthday breakfast before, but it’s- it’s just different, now. He’s an adult, and his birthday breakfasts up until this point had been entirely provided by his mother, which is nice and all, but it had all felt very cursory. He’d kind of expected to fend for himself a little this year, now that he’s independent and adult or whatever, had expected to dictate his day and spend it mostly alone, doing whatever he felt like.

So it’s just nice, he supposes. That someone else notices, besides himself.

Will arches an eyebrow at him, chewing slowly as he watches the gears in Mike’s head turn. “You okay?” he asks around a mouthful of burrito, which should be gross but is more endearing than anything else.

Mike nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he takes a bite of his food - the food that Will went out and got for him, just because - and kicks his foot gently against Will’s ankle under the table.

Will watches him for another few seconds, bemused and endeared, before humming and returning to his breakfast. They eat in relative silence, Mike still sipping at his tea and trying to cajole his brain into a slightly less mushy, lovesick state. He’s going to embarrass himself very quickly, if he’s not careful, which isn’t to say that he doesn’t constantly embarrass himself in front of Will, but. Principles.

When they’re done eating, Will clears Mike’s plate and mug before Mike can ask him to or make a move to do it himself, dumping them both in the sink and turning to face Mike, a small smile on his face. “What’s on the agenda today, old man?” he asks, and Mike is awake enough now that the old man comment makes him scowl a little. 

“You’re older than me,” he says, just to be petty, and Will lifts a shoulder in a shrug, unperturbed, “And- I mean, I was planning on still being asleep right about now, so you tell me.”

Will fixes him with an unimpressed look, walking back over to the table where he’s sitting and leaning against the edge, and he’s- he’s doing it again, the getting-in-Mike’s-space thing, and it’s scrambling Mike’s brain. “I let you sleep until nine,” he points out calmly, which is true and fair, except that that’s only two hours later than Mike would sleep on a school day, and one of the great benefits to his first birthday as a functioning, real adult is that it happens to fall on a Saturday, and Mike’s made it his personal mission since he was fifteen to never bear witness to anything that happens on a Saturday before noon unless strictly necessary, so. 

It’s kind of ridiculous how many of his principles he’ll compromise for Will, without Will even having to ask. 

“You’re an evil dictator,” he tells Will, whose face splits into a wide smile, which, of course, was exactly what Mike was hoping would happen. Not that he’d ever say that out loud. 

“You love me,” Will says, and brushes past him into the living room, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table and settling himself onto the couch. Mike watches him a little dazedly, still standing dumbly in the kitchen area and wondering what response could he possibly have to that statement that’s not entirely incriminating. 

When he doesn’t immediately follow him to the couch, Will arches an eyebrow, glancing over at him with the remote lifted halfway into the air. “I assume you wanted to spend all day watching your dumb sitcoms,” he says, and Mike can see that he’s already got an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine pulled up, and half-considers protesting that it’s not dumb, and that it’s not his fault that Will’s taste in media consists entirely of thriller movies, “But we don’t have to.”

We, Mike thinks, a little deliriously, and jerks his head in a maybe-nod that Will smirks at. He takes up the seat beside Will on the couch, feeling a little dizzy and overwhelmed and kind of like his entire body is out of sync. Which is sort of annoying, because he’d thought by now he’d have grown into himself a little, but he’s a year older and he’s still clunky and awkward and stupidly in love with Will Byers, and it doesn’t look like any of those things are going to change anytime soon.

Well. There’s only so much a guy can do.

Will leans into his side, and Mike decides it’s going to be a good birthday after all.

---

“I can’t believe we’re celebrating your dumb birthday twice,” Max informs Mike later that evening, after the obligatory surprise reveal of the party they all knew Mike already knew about, while they all sit on the floor of the living room and pass around a cake box. Will and Mike never really got around to buying enough dishware for more than two people, so they’re passing the box back and forth with a singular fork, which at least one of the Party members would probably be protesting if not for the presence of the (slightly illegal) bottle of wine that Lucas had brought.

“It’s not my fault,” Mike tells Max, snatching the fork out of her hand and stealing a bite of cake - his cake, thank you very much- “I didn’t plan the surprise party.”

Max rolls her eyes. “I know that,” she says, like he’s the one being difficult, “But we celebrated your in-between birthday with Will literally last week, so I kind of figured we were done, but then he called us all and begged us to stay in New York for a few extra days so we could do this too.”

In all his snooping about the surprise party, Mike had failed to discover that detail. He glances at Will, eyes wide, and Will coughs, blushing a little and glancing away. “You were gonna spend your whole birthday sitting at home watching TV by yourself,” he says, which Mike had never strictly told him, but he supposes it makes sense that Will would know anyway, “That’s super depressing. I had to at least make sure you weren’t alone for it.”

You care about me, Mike thinks gleefully but doesn’t say aloud, instead opting for the coward’s way out; “What if I wanted to watch TV by myself all day?”

“You didn’t,” Will says plainly, and Mike falters where he’s halfway toward initiating a fake-argument. “You thought you did, but you didn’t.”

Max’s eyebrows lift halfway toward her hairline, and she lets out a low whistle. “That’s presumptuous,” she mutters, and El whacks her shoulder, reproachful.

“I think it’s sweet, Will,” she says, and Mike’s too dumbfounded, too shaken by Will’s painfully accurate reading of him, to be as delighted as usual by the smattering of pink that appears across the bridge of Will’s nose at the words.

“Yeah, I don’t know why we’re complaining,” Dustin agrees, snatching the cake box right out of Mike’s hands, which is maybe a blessing in disguise because his whole body has kind of gone slack as he stares at Will, and he’d been seconds away from dropping it anyway, “This means we get two cakes. And twice the booze.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way,” Lucas says, and Dustin rolls his eyes at him.

They launch into an argument, and Will glances up, shyer than usual as he meets Mike’s eyes. You care about me, Mike thinks again, a little more reverently this time, and Will smiles softly at him, and it feels like an of course I do.

But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. 

Will’s foot nudges Mike’s knee, just firmly enough for Mike to know it’s not an accident, and Mike offers him a smile of his own, fully aware that he’s probably blushing the same shade as Max’s hair. He glances away, clearing his throat and joining whatever conversation the rest of the Party has dissolved into, but he can feel Will’s smile down to his bones for the rest of the night anyway.

---

“You care about me,” Mike says aloud, the second the door closes behind El, after the wine bottle has been entirely decimated and the cake is long gone and he and Will are alone in the apartment again.

Will glances up from where he’s shoving the now-empty cake box into their slightly-overflowing trash can, a small smirk on his face. “Excellent observation skills, Mike,” he says wryly, straightening up and wiping his palms on his jeans. He’s still wearing Mike’s hoodie. Mike, suddenly, wants to confront him about it after all. 

“You really planned all that for me?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the counter as he watches Will wipe down the granite surface with a wet rag.

“Did you or did you not go snooping through my room for my notes about it?” Will asks, not looking up from where he’s scrubbing at a sticky spot on the counter, and Mike flushes a little. He’d known Will knew, of course, because Will rarely keeps secrets from him, and they’re rarely of such a trivial variety, but it’s just slightly embarrassing to be called out on it so bluntly.

“Your fault for not using the notes app like a normal person,” Mike replies, and then, before Will can launch into his standard rant about needing to feel the pen in his hand, or whatever, which doesn’t make sense in any way whatsoever, and Mike should know, being the writer-person out of the two of them- “I- thank you.”

At this, Will pauses, the rag falling slack in his hand as he glances up at Mike, faintly surprised. “What, for the party?”

Mike swallows. “Yeah,” he manages, through the fog that tends to cloud his brain when Will looks at him like that - so open and honest and sincere, like Mike matters- “And for the rest of it, too, because I didn’t say it when you woke me up this morning but that was really nice too, and it’s nice when you sit and watch my dumb sitcoms with me and when you drive me to class on mornings when you’re free, and I just- it’s just, like.”

Will lifts an eyebrow. “Nice?”

Maybe Mike’s not a writer-person after all. “I just,” he tries again, mildly frustrated with himself, and a little bit with Will too, because how is he supposed to focus on words when Will’s looking at him like that and moving closer, edging along the counter toward him, “I guess I’m just saying thanks for, uh. Being here. In my life.”

He winces. That’s terribly corny, he’s sure, and also probably very incriminating, and he still doesn’t have the capacity to process it because Will’s still moving closer, coming to stand in front of Mike and smiling expectantly up at him. 

Will opens his mouth to speak, but before he can Mike blurts; “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

Will falters a little, glancing down and nodding when he sees his hands, covered by the too-big fabric of Mike’s hoodie, like he hadn’t noticed. You’re full of shit, Mike thinks, and is more endeared by the feigned innocence than he has any right to be. “So I am,” Will agrees, glancing up and meeting his eyes again. “Is that a problem?”

Mike shakes his head quickly, not wanting Will to be, like, offended or something, and then immediately realizes that Will is still messing with him, a little, and scowls. “No,” he says anyway, just in case, “But- you’re so annoying, did you know that?”

“You love me,” Will says, in that same infuriatingly calm tone, and this time Mike doesn’t want to brush it off.

He meets Will’s eyes directly, swallows, and despite the fact that his heart rate is currently averaging about 150 beats per minute his voice is calm and low and serious when he responds, “Yeah.”

Will blinks. “Oh.”

Mike is the one smirking now, feeling a little giddy and dizzy but put at ease by the slip in Will’s poker face. “You didn’t know that?”

“I don’t,” Will starts, and then seems to lose his nerve, falling silent and shaking his head, and Mike’s not sure if he means that he doesn’t have a response, or that he didn’t know, or something else that Mike’s not yet aware of. 

They’re standing awfully close together. Mike swallows. “How did you know?”

Will frowns. “That you love me?”

“No,” Mike says, though it sends a little bit of a thrill through his stomach, hearing it said aloud like that, “About- that I didn’t want to be alone, today.”

“Oh,” Will says, and his face splits into an easy smile, shoulders relaxing a little. “Oh, I just- that’s just because I know you, dummy. You think you’re this loner type who wants to be left alone and have chill birthdays and be all detached and whatever, but you’re secretly still just the same kid that likes presents and parties and cake and- and being with the people you love, so.”

Mike swallows hard, caught between hysterical laughter and breaking into sobs, and already halfway toward kissing Will in his stupid perfect face. “You know,” he manages, through the lump in his throat, “If I were anyone else you’d sound so condescending right now.”

Will’s expression does not change. “Good thing you’re you, then,” he says quietly, and there’s barely any space between them now. If Mike tilted his face up just a little- 

-their noses would brush, and he would see Will’s eyes flutter shut, maybe, and then-

“Mike,” Will says, sounding mildly embarrassed, and his voice cuts through Mike’s hazy, lovesick thoughts, “If you want to kiss me, can you please just do it already?”

Mike’s eyes fly open - they’d been half-shut, he now realizes - and he releases a garbled sort of sound of confusion. “What-”

“Mike,” Will says again, and there’s an urgency to it that makes something swoop in Mike’s stomach.

And- well, he can’t really argue when Will says his name like that, can he? 

“Okay,” he whispers, and catches Will in a kiss.

Will tastes like frosting and cheap wine, and he’s warm, soft and pliant under Mike’s hands as he reaches up to cup his face in his hands. It feels- cozy, almost, melting into Will, letting him wrap his arms around Mike’s waist and pull him in closer. It feels like sitcom marathons and warm laughter and the gentle weight of Will hovering over him this morning. It feels comfortable, and safe, and like everything Mike never thought he’d be lucky enough to have, so he can’t be blamed for it, really, when he presses in closer, pulling Will against him and tangling a hand in his hair.

“Mike,” Will sighs against his mouth, and it sounds entirely different this time, different from any way he’s ever said his name before. Like it slipped out of his mouth unbidden, a thought voiced into existence entirely by accident. It sends a shiver down Mike’s spine, and he places a hand over Will’s waist, tucked under the fabric of his sweatshirt - Mike’s sweatshirt - and pulls him in, leaning back against the counter and relishing the gentle caress of Will’s hands against his sides, trailing over his ribcage. 

He pulls back, if only to see the pink glow slowly overtaking Will’s face, the flutter of his eyelids as he blinks at Mike, mouth twisting into a pout at being interrupted. It’s a beautiful sight, leaving Will so flustered and sweet under his palms, and Mike drinks it in, a giddy smile stretching across his features.

Will whines faintly, tugging at the collar of his shirt until Mike’s lips meet his own again, a gentle press that still manages to send a shudder through Mike’s body. The counter is digging into his back, and it’s uncomfortable if he really thinks about it, but it’s sort of hard to think about anything but Will as he holds him close, runs his hands over Will’s arms, threads his fingers through his hair, traces his tongue over Will’s lower lip.

When they finally part, it’s only by a few centimeters, Will pressing his forehead gently against Mike’s. 

“Stay?” Mike asks quietly, even though Will’s made no move to go anywhere else, and it’s not like he’d go far anyway, but he doesn’t know how else to communicate the deep-set feeling in his gut telling him to keep Will close. Like if Will moves away, even if it’s just to stumble off to his room to go to sleep, it will be too much distance.

Will’s mouth ticks upward, and he darts forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of Mike’s lips. “‘Course,” he murmurs, like it’s not a totally nonsensical request, and Mike wonders how it is that Will always knows everything there is to know about him. But then he adds, “Idiot,” and Mike remembers that Will is also just super annoying, all the time, so it all evens out in the end.

“You love me,” he murmurs, and it feels like more of a confession than a confirmation. He’s never said it like that before, even though he knows it’s true. He’s never felt confident or brave enough, but he feels like now, in this quiet little world that exists in the space between his and Will’s lips, he doesn’t need confidence or bravery to know things that are true.

Will smiles. “Yeah,” he confirms, and his hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, ‘course I do. Happy birthday, Mike.”

Happy birthday indeed, Mike thinks, and catches Will in another kiss. 

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

NEVER WAS THERE A TALE OF MORE WOE, THAN THAT OF OUR JEANNE AND FANGDADDIO 😭😭😭

But alas, I will relay what I read back in the day to the best of my abilities! Spoilers for the end of Jeanne’s route under the cut, rated E (for everyone) for maximum uwus (and M for angst bc F U C K):

Okay so basically Jeanne’s route goes a lot like most of the routes, and when MC gets attacked (by the rival vampire turned by Vlad) our eyepatched wonder is not happy about it. He storms over to Comte’s room and demands to have his questions answered. Comte notes how deathly serious he is and breezes past the enmity, telling him to go ahead and ask whatever he needs to. Jeanne threatens to kill Comte if it turns out that he’s lying about anything from this point forward. To which Comte (being a little shit), replies that he literally can’t die so like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Jeanne tells him he doesn’t care what it takes; he’ll rend him apart to the tiniest shred over and over and over again--even if it takes them both to the other side to accomplish it. Comte concedes and says “very well; if I lie, you’re welcome to try.” Jeanne finally asks if Comte has made a revival pact with anyone new. Comte is genuinely confused and confesses that he hasn’t--that he has no idea who Jeanne is talking about. “What ‘comrade in arms’???” Jeanne seems to sense that Comte is responding in earnest (but is also confused bc like, then who the fuck else turned the guy??? WHO IS THE THREAT I MUST STAB)

Jeanne admits that MC was attacked and you can feel the change in gravity in milliseconds. Comte starts asking where she is and if she’s okay, and Jeanne explains that she’s still in the mansion and she’s fine. Jeanne then asks if Shakespeare has the ability to turn people like he does, and Comte is bewildered to put it mildly. He’s like ??????? Where is this coming from, of course he doesn’t???? I turned him myself, he’s a lesser vampire--he doesn’t have that ability???? In a moment of sheer livid impatience, Jeanne grabs Comte by the lapels and screams “Then who can!?!?!?!” Comte stares at him and admits that there are only two people that he is aware of who can accomplish such a thing, himself and someone else. They hear a loud crash and they run to the dining room, only to find a window smashed, Mozart wounded, and MC gone. Comte’s furious sprite appears, and he asks Jeanne to look after MC, he has something to take care of. Isaac asks him where on earth he’s going, and he reveals that he’s going to Will’s house before storming out.

Poor Shakespeare faces the brunt of Comte’s rage--though I get the feeling, knowing now that Shakespeare is Vlad’s puppet--that the threat was meant more for Vlad than for Shakey boy. Comte goes to Shakey’s place and Shakespeare offers to put on tea or wine, says it’s strange for him to appear so late. Comte tells him not to bother, since he isn’t here to exchange pleasantries. Shakespeare seems p shocked given Comte isn’t usually one to be so direct or terse, and when Comte walks in he backs Shakespeare into the wall step. By step. By step. He asks him if he was involved in the harm done to MC, and Shakespeare’s like “Yeah lol what’s it to you.” And when their shoes are nearly touching, Comte grabs him by the throat and lifts him off the ground. He tells Shakespeare that if this goes on, he won’t show any mercy: "To those that would harm a single member of my house, I will hunt them to the ends of the earth. To the very depths of hell." The narration notes that he lets go of whatever dampens his pureblood aura and nearly suffocates Shakespeare with his raw intensity and power, before putting him down again and saying “That’s all I have to say. I have no more questions for you.” Comte walks right back out, slamming the door while Shakespeare is on the floor coughing. 

So, needless to say, things are hella rocky between Comte and Jeanne throughout the better part of the route. But given the odd dichotomy of Comte’s reactions (his complete acceptance of Jeanne’s fury versus his own anger being directed at Vlad), it definitely felt like there was more there. Everything finally comes full circle at the end when Comte gathers everyone inside the dining room to explain precisely what happened (Vlad, etc. I’m assuming) and asks everyone to take proper precautions moving forward: "I'll take steps to make sure this never happens again. But if we are faced with a similar situation, know that I am prepared to protect you all with every fiber of my being." He deems secrecy a moot point given this incident, and just wants everyone to be safe and ask for help should they need it in the future. 

MC notes that he doesn’t have his usual placid demeanor; he’s incredibly serious and grave. She’s like “Oh boy some serious shit went down huh...but if anything, I feel like it’s only made us have more faith in his ability to protect us c:” AND HERE IS WHERE THE BIG HURT HAPPENS KIDS GET YOUR TISSUES AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Jeanne: "...Alright. I will trust in your words. But can I ask just one thing?” Comte: “Yes, Jeanne?” Jeanne: "You know I always hated you, I truly believed you revived me against my will for a long time." Comte just sorta deflates, but he doesn’t say anything (MY POOR BABIE) Jeanne: "But, is that really the case? Did I want to live on, away from that pyre...?" [There was a long silence.] Comte: “...That day, when I appeared, you screamed desperately 'Why must I die here. Whether it be God or the devil, someone make use of me!'” Important note: Jeanne tells MC that he is able to recall thinking that, but he has no acute recollection of saying it; this is the moment at which he lost consciousness. MC: [;-; No matter how hard he tried to stifle it, it (his deep wish to live) came out all the same...] I wasn’t able to transcribe it, but Comte essentially tells him that he tried to ask Jeanne, but he was already barely hanging on--there was no way he could get a proper answer. (This is highly plausible given we know that Jeanne was incarcerated by the Inquisition, tortured, and starved before he was tied to that pyre--it was a miracle he lasted that long. He didn’t even have the strength to move/struggle from where he was tied). Comte goes on to say that Jeanne was pissed to shit when he woke up and there was little he could do to alleviate that (I mean given he was waiting for the sweet release of death it makes sense but also N O ;-;). For a while Jeanne just stares at him before asking: Jeanne: “...Why? Why didn’t you tell me after all this time?” Comte: "Because I thought it was okay if you berated me a little." Jeanne (vine voice: AMERICA EXPLAIN): ?????????? Comte: "Despite being alive...you looked dead to the world ever since the day we met. No matter how hard I tried or whatever I did, I couldn't seem to change that. But...the only emotion I seemed to be able to draw out of you was hate. If hatred was the only thing that could move you, I figured I'd take on that role. Better to see you express something than to see you lifeless beyond any glimmer of hope or change." Jeanne: "Why....why would you go that far?? Why did you bother? I don't...understand" BECAUSE HE HAS SO MUCH LOVE TO GIVE AND HE LOVES YOU I’M SOBBING ALL OVER AGAIN OKAY DEEP BREATHS THE SHOW MUST GO ON MINNIE Comte: "Because I'm the one that revived you...because to me, you're all my precious family." Jeanne: "...............................................................I...I'm sorry" AND JEANNE HANGS HIS HEAD WAAAAAAAAAAAH Comte’s brows rise: “...Jeanne?” Jeanne: "I know an apology doesn't forgive everything I did/said. But I don't know how else to make amends"

It goes on to show them all making amends, and while Jeanne can sometimes be like “ughghhghgh d a d stop nagging I’m fINE” he secretly really loves the guy. In Jeanne’s third bday story he’s literally like [Comte’s a weirdo but I see now that that's just how he cares abt me. He's not just worldly, he's a good guy. c: I just don’t care abt whatever he’s going on abt rn]

So like full disclosure before Jeanne’s route I still loved Comte but I really didn’t know much about him beyond the “eccentric nobleman persona.” Granted we definitely get glimpses into who he really is, but this was a sizeable breakthrough. (And probably a strong allusion to the release of Comte’s MS soon after.) That being said, there were so many things said here that just absolutely shattered my heart. 

Because here’s the thing. I have no qualms with Comte’s wish to be a dad--or even to revive the men, for that matter. If it makes him happy and he intends to take care of them reasonably well, then who am I to criticize him? (Fun fact: Leonardo essentially says the same exact thing; he’s more against it than I am because of the whole turning humans, but he doesn’t necessarily vilify Comte because he knows his intentions are good. And if everyone’s happy with it, what can he say?) But the fact that Comte handles their issues with so much patience and maturity...I’m in love???? There is sincerely nothing sexier than this for me. He’s fully aware that Jeanne was treated like absolute shit by the people he tried to protect, that he never really got to live for himself a single day in his life--never knew a moment’s peace, joy, or appreciation. He tries everything he can think of to get Jeanne to maybe not hate being alive as much, but fails at every turn. He still refuses to give up on the guy despite the less than ideal state of things, and decides that if Jeanne needs an enemy to survive--he will be that enemy. He doesn’t care that the guy he’s trying to help would skewer him the second he had his back turned (Jeanne pls this was a new suit couldn’t this wait). He takes full responsibility for deciding to turn him; knows that since he erred on the side of caution, it’s up to him to offer a life that’s worth keeping/staying alive for. He doesn’t belittle Jeanne’s plight for a moment, never deems him stupid or shortsighted. He’s able to understand that in the wake of so much pain and loss, of course Jeanne might not notice the finer points of Comte’s attempts to cheer him up. Even if it pains him to be on negative terms (HE LOVES HIS BOY HE DOESN’T WANT TO FIGHT) he will fully accept it if it brings Jeanne peace, if it helps Jeanne get to a place where he can begin to accept the affection he wants to offer.

And THAT’S what kills me, kids. Four hundred years, and Comte fucking LEARNED something. He is perceptive to uncanny degrees, and never fails to read a room in milliseconds; not only does he pick up on how people feel, he responds with appropriate, gentle measures. What I love so much about Comte is that he knows full well that genius does not come without its price. You could be the smartest person on earth, the most talented, whatever you choose to call it, but it will invite no shortage of hatred from other people, no shortage of misunderstanding and disdain and violence. If people don’t go mad with power, they are destroyed by the very places that birthed them. As such, the last thing he wants to do is put them under more pressure, or force them to do things against their will; he just wants to give them a chance to live beyond such fickle and hostile circumstances. And he takes this seriously, this isn’t remotely a whim for him despite all evidence to the contrary. He gets that healing takes time, and as much as he wants everyone to be happy he’s more than willing to give them space/resources to figure it out. Like. He is the father everybody DREAMS they had (if they didn’t already have a good one) and the fact that I can’t tell him what a wonderful job he’s doing is killing me on all levels INCLUDING physical.

And I just?????? Jeanne’s palpable remorse when he finds out????? And Comte’s surprise???????? Like Comte wasn’t necessarily expecting that level of apology, he knew he was taking a gamble and he was ready to do whatever he had to, he wasn’t intending to hold it against his boy. But Jeanne just has such a tender and well-meaning heart (no matter how much he struggles to express it) that regret was inevitable. There’s just so much love in that moment, in Comte’s capacity to forgive and take on so much of poor Jeanne’s unhappiness, and Jeanne’s fully ability to admit he was misguided, lower his head, and apologize. THEY JUST GET ME BLUBBERING LIKE A THREE YEAR OLD OKAY THEY ARE BOTH SO IMPORTANT TO ME AND I HURT

Tl;dr: JEANNE’S ROUTE SHOT ME FORTY-SEVEN TIMES IN THE CHEST AND LEFT ME PINING FOR COMTE MORE THAN EVER BEFORE OTL

Also a bonus, because it only just occurred to me (spoilers from the end of Comte’s route):

THEY HAVE A LEGIT REVERSAL AT THE END OF COMTE’S ROUTE???? Comte once again gathers everyone to reveal Vlad’s identity and intentions, and he apologizes for keeping it from everyone, lowering his head. He’s more than ready to face everyone’s ire for keeping secrets, but everyone’s just like “dad pls lift your head it’s okay, we’re just glad we can help you now--you don’t have to carry it all on your own.” AND IT IS IN FACT, JEANNE, THAT ALSO SAYS “No need to bow like that Comte, aren't you the one always saying we're family?" AND WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS IN A PUDDLE OF TEARS?????? I WILL NEVER BE OKAY. POOR COMTE WAS SO MOVED AND MY HEART CAN’T TAKE HAVING THIS KNOWLEDGE WHERE’S MY HANKIE. JEANNE. BEING THE ONE. TO SAY. “Aren’t we family?” WHEN HEARING HOW HARD COMTE WAS WORKING TO PROTECT THEM, BC HE 100% IDENTIFIES WITH THE STRUGGLE OF LOOKING AFTER PEOPLE THAT DON’T KNOW/CARE THAT SOMEBODY ELSE IS THE SACRIFICE FOR THEIR PEACE OF MIND. I--

WHAT IS IT THAT JEANNE AND COMTE SHARE TO THE CORE, SO MUCH THAT JEANNE WOULD NEED NO OTHER EXPLANATION TO CHANGE HIS MIND AFTER YEARS OF BITTER DISDAIN???????? THEIR CAPACITY FOR DEVOTION, THEIR EASY WILLINGNESS TO SACRIFICE ANYTHING TO PROTECT A LIFE. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THIS EPIPHANY IS GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF ME

I’m crying rn I just: Comte: !!!!!!! Somebody who gets it!!! :DDD Jeanne: die. Comte:  Comte: ;-; understandable have a nice day