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muzzlemouths · 2 years ago

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I'm glad I didn't die before I met you (this is the first day of my life)

Ten years have passed since you first brought Sun and Moon into your home (and to that extent, your life), and as it happens, today is your anniversary. You talk about the past and reminisce the best of your memories, your love persisting even in the midst of a storm.

After all, you aren't going to let anything dampen your special day.

Sun & Moon centric // Wordcount: 8000 // AO3 Vers.

You check and double-check the ingredients for the umpteenth time to ensure that everything is there and in its place. The pasta is set out in its neat little box on the counter, sat beside two wine glasses and a dreamy chocolate cake. The homemade sauce - an old family recipe - waits patiently in the fridge beside a biscuit tin and potatoes for roasting, eager for its time to shine.

A rather fancy dinner that only one of you could fully enjoy, but they both assured you they didn’t mind pretending for the sake of such a special night. You had joked about recreating the trademark spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, and Sun returned the humor by stating that you could always tape one side of the noodle to his mouth (anything to make you happy) which had you both in a fit of giggles. Tonight meant the world to you - all of you.

It was your anniversary, after all.

Sun himself was outside, for now, tending to the garden. You could see him from the kitchen window, bowed over your tomato plant and speaking with it fondly, a habit you grew to expect - and love, for that matter - even if it did take him ages to get from one crop to the next because he couldn’t resist striking up a conversation with each leaf.

He says something or other to a tomato smaller than the rest (a gentle encouragement, if you had to guess) before straightening up and looking your way, evidently having felt the eyes on his back. Not that he minds; rather, he looks to you with a broad smile and waves, beckoning you to him. You laugh, shaking your head, and humor his wishes.

The sky is somewhat overcast when you make it outside. Not stormy by any means, but a broad enough cloud coverage to keep you mostly in the shade as you make your way to his side, a gentle breeze accompanying it. “What are you still doing out here?” You ask him with a smile, “It’s getting dark already, you know. Our garden needs sleep as much as I do.”

Smiling, he waves you off and instead bends at the knees, gesturing toward the tomato plant. “Look at this!” He beams, pointing out one specific tomato, “It wasn’t nearly this big just a few days ago. It’s doubled in size practically overnight!”

Your own knees bend with an aged groan and you crook an eyebrow, looking in the direction he points to find the runt of the bunch. Sure enough, it’s grown to be quite the shiner since Sun first began giving it special attention. “Well would you look at that,” you give it a whistle, “I guess constructive criticism works on plants, too.”

“No criticizing here!” Sun corrects with a sharp grin, “Just good ol’ fashioned tender loving care , is all.”

“And a healthy dose of Vitamin D straight from the source,” you snicker. He doesn’t immediately get it, so you jab a lighthearted finger right in the center of his chest, “You know,” then turn it upward, “the sun?”

A short beat, then he’s bent over with laughter and pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, “Hardy har har,” he sneers through a smile, “very clever, sunflower. I’m afraid that particular ability isn’t quite in my skillset.”

You give him a shrug, “I’m not so sure,” a casual hum, “you always brighten my day.” (I love you)

Another beat, quiet as the sky, and you swear he blushes red as the roses behind him, “Flatterer,” comes his reply, “but the sun has nothing to shine on if not their favorite flower,” sweet as honey and twice as smooth, “don’t you think so?” (I love you)

“Hey now, mister,” you waggle a finger in his face, a poor attempt at hiding your own cheeks, “I was trying to compliment you , you know, don’t go turning it around on me now.” Your head shakes back and forth and a sigh escapes you as he responds to your taunts with more laughter. Just past him, the rosebush dances in the wind. You march past him and towards it, reaching in blindly, “Do you know what today is?”

“Of course,” he follows, a new shadow enveloping you from behind. Sun’s arms wrap around your waist and he sets his chin against the top of your head, “It’s our anniversary, love. Did you think I forgot?”

“Not at all,” you hum, “maybe I just like hearing you say it.” Your hand upturns the petals on a rose in full bloom, admiring it fondly. Sun had planted these himself. Something nips at your palm, and drawing it away from the bush reveals the smallest bead of crimson.

Sun tsks behind you, reaching for your hand before anything can be said. He brings it above your head and plants a kiss just beside the spot. “A temporary fix,” he tells you with a wink, “until we get you a proper band-aid.”

You turn, slow, to face him. He releases you only to catch your hands again once you’re in front of him, gathering them in his own hands and giving a gentle squeeze, then raising both to kiss at your knuckles. You look away, fumbling for a moment. “You’re always such a sap,” you tell him in a whisper, “come on, you’re going to make me do something I regret.”

“Oh?” With a devilish look in his eyes, he once again raises your hands to his face and, this time, he kisses every finger one by one, sneaking a look in your direction after each, “What about now?”

A whimper escapes you, soft and fond, you melt under his eager touch. Then all at once you pull away from his grip and surround his own wrists, tugging him down to your level for a proper kiss.

He is warm against you, an embrace you never want to leave, but eventually you find yourself needing air.

Winding back, breathless, you look at him with a half-lidded expression.

He returns it with a gaze like he’s mesmerized, still leaning into you, he smiles at you as though he’s looking at a work of art, “Do you regret that?”

“No,” you whisper in reply, finding yourself driven forward for seconds, “not at all.”

One of his hands wiggles free and wraps around you, cradling at the small of your back and pulling you in close until you’re fully pressed against him, and he returns the kiss with a third - just to the left of your lips - then another at your cheek, and your jaw, another still, at your nose and then your forehead, and ten more everywhere in between until you’re squeaking with giggles and forcibly pushing him away.

But he isn’t done. “It’s our anniversary,” he repeats, grabbing for your other hand and crossing his fingers between yours, “ten years, you know.”

“I know,” you smile, “I just said as much, didn’t I?”

“You also said you liked to hear it,” he reminds you. His fingers unwind a moment after, drawing yours upward in a similar manner before pressing your hands palm-to-palm, his dwarfing your own. “So much has changed since the day we met,” he says, stars in his eyes, “your hands were so very soft, back then,” his fingers curl over the top of yours, “now they’re tough from years of work, calloused from the garden,” they intertwine, again, and he goes out of his way to brush over the ring, “so much is different, now,” his eyes find you again, and he’s choked back, “I’m so glad I was there to see it.”

It catches you off guard. Even — if not especially — after all these years, he knows just how to strike straight for the heart. “Hey, none of that. If you start crying I will, too!” You whine at him, but you don’t stop him or dare pull away, instead you tug his hand (still warmly in yours) against your cheek and brush a kiss to his palm from there, “I’m glad, too,” you whisper after a moment, “I can’t imagine my life without you now,” you give it a gentle squeeze, “both of you.”

He somehow goes softer at the kiss, his other hand raising to cradle your cheek, “Oh, don’t say that. I’m sure you could have done better than us,” he insists with a halfhearted chuckle, “you always impressed us, I bet you could have anyone you wanted.”

“What if the person I want is you?”

He pauses, eyes widening as though you’ve confessed for the very first time, and not the tenth, or hundredth, or thousandth, and it puts his new hardware to work; from where you’re standing, up against his heart, you can see the faintest puddle of artificial tears beginning to form under his eyes. “Well,” he sniffles despite the lack of an actual nose and leans in, touching his forehead to yours, “I suppose I can’t argue with that, can I?”

“Mmmhm,” you hum against him, closing your eyes, “I don’t regret choosing you, not ever,” you promise, “if I could go back in time and do it all over again I would, and I would choose you every time.”

Sun had always been sentimental. His new ability to shed tears didn’t change that, only made it more obvious, so you aren’t at all surprised by the trickle of them kissing your cheeks from where he’s pressed against you. “Thank you,” he says softly, “it’s the same for us. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then a bubbling of laughter escapes him, tickling your ear, and he hushes the internal monologue of, ‘ WIll you two get a room already’ from Moon who, for all intents and purposes, can’t be seen with his face in his hands, blushing with twice the ferocity of either of you.

“Besides,” you continue, finally taking the time to pull away so you can view him in full, “if you want to talk nostalgia, we can’t forget how you used to scare away any potential partners,” you poke him gently between the eyes, “ both of you. Don’t think I never noticed.”

‘Uh oh’

“You knew?” He squeaks in return, “It was a bad habit, I’ll admit, a-and if you ever told us to stop we would have. Right away!”

“I know,” you nod, “but I didn’t mind it,” and a sneaky grin comes to your face, “maybe I even enjoyed it a little. Seeing you two get a little jealous.”

“I’m not sure that’s the correct word for it,” he laughs. Possessive is a truer way to put it, but the feeling had never culminated in anything more than puppy guarding you from strangers (and lying about your relationship status from time to time). “Alright, what about the first time we confessed,” he says, “if we’re reminiscing, and all. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” you tell him, “it was right before I got you out of that damn pizzaplex—”

“Language, please.”

You chuckle, “—and again immediately after, like just the once wasn’t enough. You and I were laying in my backyard and—”

“You were teaching me how to spot the clouds,” he finishes for you with an enamored smile, “it made me happy just to be outside, but even more that it was you who brought me there. You pointed out a cloud that looked like a heart—”

“You said it was yours,” now your own eyes begin to sting, your emotions threatening to spill over in the moment, “you told me you loved me. Over and over, until I was sure of it.”

“And I’ll do it again,” he muses, finding your hands in his still, as though you’ll never let go, “I love you,” he says, soft as his heart, “I love you more than the clouds and the birds and all the rainbows in the sky, I love you more than I have the capacity to say.”

You pull one of your own hands away to rub at your eye, and a minute later his follows, gently stopping your hand from the act so he can brush the tears aside with his own thumb. You chuckle beneath his touch with a melty whine, “Look what you’ve done,” you tease, “now we’re both crying.”

An idea strikes you then, and you’re quick to act on it, taking his hand in yours and swiftly pulling him away from the rose bush and out of the garden entirely. Just outside of it is where you flop down onto your back, dragging him with you, and the grass catches your bodies with a soft thump.

“What are we doing?” He asks you with some laughter.

“Cloudspotting!” You say like it’s obvious. Lifting your chin, you look to the sky and point out a particularly odd looking shape. “Look, there! That one looks like a dog.”

He follows where you point. “I see it,” Sun hums, then points to one just beside it himself, “What about this one? It’s like a big oak tree.”

“You’re right! And just under it, that flat cloud with the whisps by it” — your grin broadens, “that could be a tree swing. I used to have one as a kid.” You look across the sky, seeing what else you can find, “Oh, what about that one?” Your finger points just over his head, “It looks kind of like a butt,” you giggle over the idea of it, “don’t you think?” but you hear nothing in return. Eventually, you turn to look at him, “Sun?”

He isn’t playing, anymore. Rather, his eyes are set fondly on you. How long had he been watching you like that?

“Hey, I can’t play this by myself,” you gently jab an elbow against him, hoping to distract from the color rising, again, to your cheeks, “You can’t just stare at me all day, you know.”

“I can’t?”

“No!” You laugh, turning back to the sky, now, “Here, look at this one. I think it could be a car. One of those old fashioned ones.”

Again, there’s no response, but a half-second later your view of the sky is obscured as Sun rolls over and on top of you (careful to avoid crushing you) and leans in with a sly smile, “What about now?” He cooes, “See anything special?”

You bite back another laugh, “Well of course,” you tell him with a nod, “I see the one and only sun, in fact. The most beautiful star in the sky.”

“Mm,” a tint returns to his cheeks, “flattery will get you no where, dewdrop,” despite this, he closes the distance between you and presses a heartfelt kiss to your lips, only deepening it when he feels you embrace both sides of his face with your hands and draw him in closer.

“I dunno,” you hum between breaths, “I think it got me somewhere.”

“Don’t get cocky,” he draws away to look at you, doe-eyed, and it looks like he has more to say, but he freezes before any words spill out, and blinks down at you with a confused expression.

“What?” You stuff down your disappointment in the moment being interrupted, “Is something wrong?”

“I think—” his expression sours into a squint, “I think the sky spit on me.” His faceplate lifts to the sky to get a better look, and the result is immediate; as soon as he’s not there to shield you, a drop of rain lands right in your eye.

“Oh, shit —”

“Language”

“Sunny, it’s raining!” You sit up to your elbows, “I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain until tomorrow.”

He swipes a finger over his mouth (as though that does anything) and holds it up to the sky, “Maybe a shift in the wind,” he tells you with a hum, “it might have brought the storm in faster than expected.”

“Oh, are you a meteorologist now?”

He faces you again with a lighthearted scoff, “Just making observations,” he says, and he climbs off of you in one fell swoop, extending a hand in your direction, “come on, let’s get inside before it comes down any harder.”

“I’m sure it’s just a sprinkle,” you say, taking the offered hand and allowing him to hoist you up by it, “but I don’t feel like getting rained on so uh, yeah, let’s head inside.”

Thunder booms overhead. Sun flinches, sticking to you like glue, and you help each other make a mad dash inside as the rain turns from a drizzle to a downpour in the blink of an eye.

Once inside, Sun reaches for your nearest towel (the rag that hangs over your oven handle) and begins to wordlessly dab away the water on your skin despite dripping all over the floors himself.

You put a hand over his to stop him, “Do you have any idea how badly I need to throw that rag in the wash?” You ask with a chuckle, “I want to go take a hot shower anyway. Stay here and I’ll get a proper towel to dry you off with.”

“And then dinner?” Sun asks with an eager expression.

“You’ve got to wait a bit longer for that,” you tell him, “it’s not for a few more hours, still, and I have homework to do until then.”

It’s not a sentence you ever thought you would catch yourself saying again, but as luck would have it you decided some years ago to give college another go. It isn’t a decision you regret, even if the homework is a lot - as an understatement - and the deadlines remind you of years spent in teenage panic.

Sun helps. He was more than eager to offer his help, in fact, and his constant encouragement is what keeps you going most days. Right on cue, he dabs one last time at the inside of your wrist, and kisses the spot of skin soon after, “I’ll get the book out,” he tells you.

You answer with a fond nod, “Alright, you sap. Let me go get you that towel.”

Somewhere between you getting in the shower and getting out of the shower, Sun left a fresh towel (warm from the dryer) right where you could reach it. You give the act a fond shake of your head before getting dressed, heading out of the bathroom and down the hallway, where you see him preparing a cup of tea for your study session.

You’re used to microwaving it and popping a bag in, but somewhere in the last ten years Sun insisted on a kettle, and you were hard pressed to argue. Now, him making you tea before you sit down to study each evening has become something of a routine. Intricate rituals, and all that.

“What is it today?” You ask.

He looks up from the cup, where he’s just finished stirring in a spoonful of honey, “Chamomile,” he answers, “thought you might like to relax after your shower.”

“Mm, I didn’t know we had any of that left,” your hands cup around the mug, bringing it to your lips. You blow on the drink until some of the steam dissipates, then take a slow and careful sip, coming back with a smile, “Perfect as always,” you tell him. “Thank you for the towel, as well. It was a nice surprise.”

Sun beams at the compliment, “Well, you know I’m good at surprises,” he answers, then gestures for your livingroom, your homework book already fitted snugly under his arm. “Shall we?”

He politely leads you to the couch and takes your tea, and sets it on the coffee table to the side, then takes a seat on the couch and happily pats his lap with an expectant (and hopeful) grin. You humor him with a roll of your eyes, and lay down on the couch in your usual study position — that is, with your head in his lap.

Here, he opens up the book to your bookmarked page and begins to read its contents for the current chapter, the heavy pitter patter of rain outside easily becoming background noise.

This goes on for a couple chapters. Sun reads the page and every so often asks you a question, and you discuss the lesson with the occasional break to sip tea and take notes. You flip on a lamp as the sky darkens with time, the rain raging on outside, without a care. You’re pleasantly warm right where you’re at and more than content to stay that way even as Sun closes the book to end that day’s study session. In fact, you have half a mind to find a blanket and nap just like that until dinner time.

Unfortunately, the weather has other plans.

A more violent gust of wind rushes against the windows, whistling against the frames. Sun looks up towards it with a concerned expression that you’re quick to hush away with a squeeze of his hand. “Just the wind,” you assure him, “the windows will hold just fine.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he admits with a sigh, “it’s getting awfully dark out there, don’t you think?”

“Sun,” you give him a quizzical look without moving from your spot, “it’s evening, remember. The time it normally gets dark?”

“You know what I mean,” he tuts, reaching down to honk your nose, “it’s darker than usual. The rain is really picking up, and now the wind is at our door. Isn’t it dangerous?”

You shrug, not really caring, “We’re safe inside, Sunny, I promise.” Your words apparently bring him little comfort, given the sour expression he gives you, “But if it would make you feel better I can go check the weather report, see where that big bad storm’s headed next.”

This brings the smile back to his face, “It would bring me some relief to know we aren’t in the thick of it, yes,” he answers you honestly, “but don’t be too long, or I’ll start to worry the storm got you.”

Your laugh is punctuated with another roll of your eyes, “Alright, alright, let me up then.” It’s figurative, said in jest as he’s not actually holding you down in the slightest, however, not one to miss an opportunity, Sun suddenly doubles down and wraps his arms around you right as you’re readying to stand up from the couch.

He brings your back to his chest, pulling you into a full sit in his lap, and covers the back of your neck in kisses everywhere he can reach, quickly reducing you to a fit of laughter as you squirm to get away.

“Quit it!” You shrill around the attack, “Come on, do you want me to go check the news or not?”

“Just a few more,” he promises, and suddenly he’s standing, hoisting you into a bridal hold and going at your upper body with a fervor, laying down a smooch on any exposed skin he can find until you’re shrieking with laughter and playfully batting him away, a fruitless endeavor that only makes him work faster.

“C-Come on—” your feet kick at him, hands pushing against his face.

“Mm!”

“Sun—” you gasp for air, “ Sunny— ”

“Not done!”

He peppers another few at your jaw, then another dozen down your chest, bringing your belly in close—

and blowing the biggest, sloppiest raspberry against it.

“Hey!” You shriek, “Enough, enough you big goof! You’re going to make me pass out. Put me down!”

“As you wish~” he cooes, and just as soon he’s dropping you from a few feet above to the plush couch below, where you land with an oof and a soft thud, your head spinning as you come back into focus and glare him down with a not-really-mad expression. “Now, about that weather report?” He grins like he hadn’t just been the one keeping you from it, “I’m going to get a head start on dinner while you’re at it.”

“Mhm,” you scoff, not entirely convinced that he isn’t getting on the task solely to keep you from seeking retaliation. “I’ll get you back for that, mister, mark my words.”

He gives you a wink. You return it with a softening smile. With that, you escape behind him and turn down the hall, and head for your bedroom so you can flip to the weather channel for a quick and easy idea of what’s coming your way.

You dig around for the missing remote for a minute to the sounds of Sun getting into the pots and pans in the kitchen. A minute later you find it, hit the button, flip the channels, land on the right one, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Leaving the tv as is, you quickly make your way down the hallway again, ready to swallow your pride and admit that Sun may have been more right than you wanted to believe.

“Hey so, about that storm--”

It’s then that a particularly loud rumble of thunder echos overhead and instantly, your lights flicker, then go kerpoof , launching the house into total darkness.

Evidently, the power has blown out.

“Well that’s just great,” you sigh from the hallway. Maybe your plans for dinner tonight would be getting an update. “Su—” you stop yourself before the name is fully out, thinking better of it as the situation fully dawns on you. “Moon…?”

“Here,” comes his gravely voice from a few meters away. There’s a flash of lightning from the window, and in the brief time it illuminates your kitchen you can see his form — brandishing a knife, of all things — then your perception of him is again reduced to the trademark crimson glow.

You squint in his direction, taking a few measured steps forward, and blindly, in the dark, “Do you wanna tell me why you’ve got a knife, buddy?”

“Are you scared?” He cooes, much closer now, “Think I’ll do something mean?”

“Hardly,” you snort in return. After ten years, there’s not a single part of you that’s scared of Moon anymore, knife or not. “Seriously, though. Why the weapon?”

“Was cutting potatoes,” he answers from the dark. “Well, Sun was. Then the power—”

“Yeah,” you interrupt him with a sigh, “it’s an ongoing issue.”

Reaching into your back pocket, you retrieve your phone and turn on the flashlight, careful not to shine it immediately in Moon’s direction. Sure enough, there’s a cutting board out on the counter and two potatoes already thinly sliced for roasting. It looks like the lights went out as he was getting started on the third.

Moon lowers the knife and settles it against the cutting board with a quiet tap. He’s squinting just beside you, attempting not to look your flashlight in the eyes. “Guess we’re taking a raincheck on dinner,” he says — and you don’t need to see his cheeky grin to know it’s there, “Get it? Rain check?”

“Ha, ha, very funny” you roll your eyes.

He points toward you a second later, his finger showing up in the thin stripe of light, “Any way you can turn that thing down?”

“No can do, knife boy,” you shake the phone a little for emphasis, “This is the only light source I’ve got. Unless there’s a secret nightlight mode you’ve kept hidden from me all these years.”

“Maybe if I still had my uniform--”

“Oh come on, are you still mad at me about that?”

“The stars glowed in the dark, remember?”

“It had holes , Moon. Both of your uniforms did. Remember that ?”

He answers you with a clipped grunt, shrugging, “What about candles, then? You’ve gotta have one or two around here. Easier on the eyes.��

The suggestion makes you pause. True, candles would certainly be perfect for this exact situation (romantic, too), and you knew for certain there were a handful of them lying around your house, but… “Are you sure?” Your phone lowers slightly, allowing him the chance to look you in the eyes, “That’s a lot of fires at once, even if they're just little ones.”

Another shrug, this one heavier. It’s obvious he gave it some thought. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he assures you, “besides, anything is better than being blinded by your phone.” There’s a pause, then his teeth rise into a smirk, “You know, I can see just fine in the dark. I could always lead you around—”

“No, no, that’s alright,” You wave at him, “candles it is.” Swiveling on your heel (and taking the light with you, much to his relief) you head out in search of enough candles to light at least the most important rooms until the power comes back on.

You manage to find most of them in your bedroom, the majority having been ones you bought but could never bring yourself to light. There’s two more in the bathroom, one in the cupboard, and a whole box of cheap tea lights in your closet. Now all that was left to do was find the lighter, and that’s where the real challenge was.

In the kitchen, Moon can be heard putting away dinner (or what was started of it, anyway), and apparently working on a worthwhile replacement. You thought about just ordering a pizza, but you’d never forgive yourself for doing that to the delivery guy.

You’ve looked in every nook and cranny for the stupid thing by the time you head down the hallway again, searched high and low for a lighter you know you own, and have found yourself right back in the kitchen and rooting through the cabinets there.

Just as you’re readying to give up on the search, you hear a familiar click from the kitchen, and turn to look over your shoulder from where you’re crouched in front of the cabinets to see a tiny flame beside two red eyes. “Looking for something?” He asks with a low chuckle.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” you take it from him with a scoff, “Where was it?”

“Kitchen drawer,” he shrugs, “first one.”

“Of course.” You look back to your phone again and check the battery level, grimacing as your eyes read a weak 22%. “Shit, I forgot how much the flashlight drains my battery.” You decisively turn it off, for now, “Wouldn’t be such an issue if I could charge my phone, but with the power out…” you squint into the darkness, attempting to make out the group of candles that had been laid out on the counter, “Maybe I could light one, and then carry that one around while I light the others—”

“I could help,” Moon says, stopping you mid-thought.

Your weight shifts from foot to foot, a nervous fidget, “How would you do that?” You ask, “I can’t see a thing like this, Moon.”

The light of his eyes illuminates his expression, easing it into something fond, “You will just have to trust me, then,” he tells you softly, “here, let me show you,” and he comes up behind you, reaching around through the darkness to take your hand, resting his own overtop. He guides you, blind, to the wick, and you trust him enough to not flinch when you hear the lighter click , his fingers over yours and shielding you from the flame’s small heat.

“There, see?” His head dips to whisper into your hair, then falls an inch or so, and he presses a kiss against your ear. You go rosy beneath it.

“How chivalrous of you,” comes your reply, “I’m not convinced you aren’t just trying to show off that special night vision of yours.”

The smell of vanilla lavender wafts through the air, this little flame easily illuminating your countertop on its own. You breathe in deep, then exhale with a smile.

“Me? Showing off?” He sneers against your ear, “ Never . I’m only trying to help, starlight.”

“Mmhm… and do you expect to ‘help’ me this way with the other fifteen candles, too?” You scoot it forward on the counter, safely tucked away.

“Well,” another kiss presses against the rim of your ear, then a second to your temple, “I’m not sure there’s any other way around it. Is there?”

“I suppose not,” you hum yourself, smiling softer against each kiss.

“Besides,” his thumbs swipe smooth circles over the back of your skin, “this way I get to hold your hands for as long as I’d like.”

Your chin raises to look directly upward, finding his eyes, “Don’t get all mushy on me, now,” you chastise with small laughter, “if you go and say something like that I’ll start to think you cut the power just to spend time with me. You know you can always just ask to hold hands, right? Really, the storm isn’t necessary—”

“Hush,” his neck turns, face meeting yours as he shuts you up with a kiss square on the lips. He keeps you there, hands in yours and arms wrapped at your waist until your neck is straining and your smile melts against his own.

Warmth pools in his cheeks and at your lips, radiating from behind his chest, and you shudder. Then you shiver. This time for an entirely different reason. Only then does he pull away, looking concerned.

“Just a little cold,” you reassure him, “I think the heater turned off with the power. I’ll grab a blanket from the closet before we have dinner.”

Moon nods, but he isn’t looking at you as he does. Instead, his eyes drift past the counter and into the livingroom, roaming the darkness where you’re left blind. “You know…” and he pauses, as though giving it a good amount of thought, “your house has a fireplace, doesn't it?”

You turn to your side so you can look at him - or what little you can see of him, anyway, “Well, yeah,” you agree with a nod, “but that’s not one little flame, Moon. I mean, we’ve never done it—”

“I want to try,” he says - then, before you can argue, “Sun and I both. We’re ready to try.”

“I…” It’s a dangerous idea. You trust them to go at their own pace, and you had been - for years now - since the incident that first lead to you taking them away from the plex in the first place. But then there was the nightmares, the bad memories, the way that for years they would flinch at the sight of fire on a television screen or shy away from your oven when it grew too hot.

But Moon had braced you against this small, innocent flame, and he seemed sure. Somehow, they both did.

Maybe they were ready for the real thing, too.

“Alright,” you finally agree, “but if it gets too much, you have to tell me immediately, okay? That’s the only way I’ll agree.”

Moon smiles down on you and draws one of his hands from yours, extending only his pinky in your direction. “Promise,” he says. You shake on it. He brings another candle front and center. “Until then, I’m not letting go of your hand.”

You busy yourself with the fireplace as soon as your house isn’t covered in shadows. In a way, it looks nice like this. Romantic, even, if you ignored the storm raging dark outside.

A few yards away, Moon works in your kitchen to finish making up something for dinner. You’re still a little peeved about all your hard work going to waste, but Moon assured you it could be a special dinner for another day. Twice the dates , he said, and you found it hard to argue with that.

At last the embers catch onto the wood you’ve placed inside, and a warm, vivid fire consumes the small area in patterns of quick kindling. You lean back against your heels with a successful huff of breath. Moon watches from behind the counter, saying nothing, and you try your best not to stare at him for any sign of discomfort.

But a minute later he returns to you, not minding the fire in the slightest, now, and extends a plate from his hand. A turkey sandwich — far from the fancy dinner you had planned — but he’s cut it into the shape of a heart.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, and it’s the most sincere he’s been all day, “sorry it’s not spaghetti. Best I could do.”

You take it with a wobbling smile, already feeling yourself on the brink of tears again as you stare down at its poorly trimmed shape, “It’s perfect,” you whisper.

In fact, you think it might be better than anything you could have planned.

He seems relieved to hear it, relaxing at the shoulders. Finally, he turns his head to look into the fire, not immediately saying anything, and you grow worried.

“Are you okay?”

His gaze returns and, with it, his smile, “Never better,” he says, and you think he really means it, “just admiring, is all.”

“The fire?” You ask, “Or…”

His smile turns toothy, riling into a knowing smirk that makes you warm at the cheeks. “Sure,” he says at last, “the fire, too.”

You rub at your face, willing away the color there, “Alright, romeo, calm down,” you tell him with a laugh. As you relax, the feeling blooming in your chest becomes a different kind of fond. “You know, it feels like just yesterday that you were setting up pretend fireplaces on my laptop. Do you remember that?”

“Hard to forget.” He closes the distance and sits down across from you, crossing his legs against the floor. “That was the year Sun burnt the cookies.”

“And the year you made me that sweater,” you remind him - a notion that finally has him looking away with a flush, “It’s a little worn now, but it’s still my favorite, you know.”

His cheeks glow under the light of his eyes, and he doesn’t fight them, instead looking toward the fire with a bashful smile. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he hears you. You know he’ll think about it for the rest of the night.

Feeling wholly content in having flustered him up, you finally take the time to dive into your turkey sandwich, enjoying the dinner twice as much as you thought you would. Moon remains silent as you do, and you don’t mind that. The crackling of the fireplace is enough between the two of you.

It isn’t until you finish up the last bite that he looks your way again, and when he does it’s with a small bout of laughter. He moves your plate out of the way and rests his knees in front of yours, then outstretches a hand and, smiling still, he gently dabs away a bit of condiment from the corner of your mouth.

It’s a silly move, and one that makes you feel entirely childish up until he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss against the spot, wherein you feel yourself growing hot under the collar all over again.

He pulls away, but you catch him by the shirt. “You missed,” your reply comes before he has a chance to question it, hands winding tight in his collar, you bring him back to you for a proper kiss. Something soft, something tender, and you find the warmth in your chest against his rages so much hotter than the fire at your side.

He draws from you again, slouching lazily in your hold, and presses a smaller peck to your nose. “Now who’s the sap?” He tells you with a whisper. You only hum in reply.

And you whine, a little, when he properly pulls away from you again, but you know you can’t keep him there forever.

Still half-lidded yourself, you sigh wistfully and lean back against your wrists. “Well, what should we do now?”

“Go to sleep?” he says flatly.

You have half a mind to toss the plate at him, “Not happening,” you tell him through laughter, “we only just ate dinner, it’s still way too early for sleep. Come on, Moon, you’ve gotta have more ideas than that.”

“You’re always so picky,” he offers you a roll of the eyes. “Well, what’s your suggestion?”

“Tough luck, starlight. Looks like you landed on another licorice space. That means—”

“I know what it means.” You grumble, sticking your character in the same spot for the third consecutive time. “You know, when I suggested we play a board game I wasn’t expecting you to be so good at it.”

“Maybe I’ve just got a lucky hand,” he purrs, fanning himself with the card in his hand, “besides, you’re the one who chose Candy Land. You had every chance to pick a game you didn’t suck at.”

“Hey!” You pick up a spare gingerbread pawn and chuck it at him, smirking as it lands with a sharp metallic ting against his arm, “I’m still not convinced you’re playing fair. I don’t know how, but you’re definitely cheating.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

He draws a card, grins, lays it on the table. Moves his piece forward nine steps.

“Oh, come on !” You toss your hands into the air, “How is that fair? I swear this is the fourth time you’ve pulled that card.”

“Starting to sweat yet, star?” He sneers, “We’ve been playing for an hour already, you might as well just admit defeat now and save yourself the dignity.”

“Dignity!” You scoff, drawing a card, “I’ll show you dignity!”

Two purples.

Your gingerbread pawn is forced back six squares.

Glowering deeply, you keep your eyes on the board so you don’t have to see the shit eating grin on his face. “Not a word, star boy,” you hiss, “not a single fucking word.”

“I hadn’t said a thing,” he cooes, “I’m too busy taking measurements to bother watching you lose.”

The card wrinkles in your hand. Against your better judgment, your eyes snap to meet him, “Taking measurements?” You ask through gritted teeth, “For what?”

“My crown,” he’s quick to say, “you know, for when I reach Candy Castle.”

Your other hand tap tap taps against the board with methodical precision, the shadow of competitiveness overcoming you for a brief second like a werewolf resisting the call, “Oh you’ve done it now, buddy. I am coming for your ass.”

He laughs - it’s brighter than every candle, warmer than the fireplace - and it’s almost enough to make you relent. Almost. He draws a card and moves forward five spaces. “I have all the patience in the world, star,” he tells you, “I can wait here all day for you if needed.”

“Moon, so help me—”

“But hey, at least you’re handling your defeat well,” he continues, “I’ve seen children throw whole life-changing fits after losing this badly.”

You roll your eyes, “Well, I’m not a child,” you state with a blatant huff, “and frankly, you’ll never have to deal with that again.”

“Never?”

“Of course not,” you reach for another card, “ours will be raised better.”

You pick up the gingerbread pawn. Hold it mid-air. Suddenly, your eyes raise to find him staring open-mouthed in your direction. Oh.

“Our—”

“I-It’s your turn!” you’re quick to cover the tracks, but not quick enough. Moon sets a hand on yours so the pawn is settled against the board, and you relent, letting it go with a whine. “Moon, please,” you beg him, “can you just go?”

“I’m skipping my turn,” he says, “keep talking.”

“Well then I’ll go again!” You reach for another card with your other hand.

He reaches forward, stopping this one in its tracks, too. He says nothing, this time, but instead curls both of your hands properly into his and gives them a squeeze. You know he’s looking at you, looking expectant , but you can’t bring yourself to raise your eyes from the board.

“Hey,” he whispers, and it’s so soft, so patient, that it finally draws your eyes to him, “if you’re really against it, you don’t have to tell me. We can drop it and keep playing the game,” he says, “but I—” and there’s a look in his eye that you can’t quite place, “I’d like to hear it. We both would.”

Oh, god. Both of them were listening?

You feel him give your hands another encouraging squeeze. There’s little point in hiding it now that the cat’s out of the bag, you suppose, but admitting to it this early still takes guts.

“I…I’ve been thinking about it, lately,” you confess, “the thought of having kids. Or — adopting, even. But,” your eyes shy away from him once more, guilty, they fall back to the board, “I was worried you wouldn’t like the idea. Like…maybe you’re tired of taking care of kids, you know? And you’re finally free of the obligation. I didn’t want to put that kind of responsibility on you again.”

You hold your breath, keeping it tight to your chest. For the longest time, only the fireplace fills the silence, its snapping embers keeping you company as Moon says nothing.

And then you hear it. Something so small and soft, you nearly miss it; a shaky breath. In, out. You finally dare to look up at him again.

He’s crying.

Not just a single tear, and not a puddle under his eye, but a smooth river that runs down his cheeks in even rhythm. Immediately, you worry you’ve said something to upset him terribly. The pain from that notion is relentless, stinging you sore, but you try to remedy the situation while you still can. “Fuck, I s-shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sor—”

“We’ve been waiting,” he cuts you off, as though suddenly finding his voice again after it was stolen from him, and he raises your hands together and against his wetted cheek, leaning into it, now, his smile returns with shaky courage, “we’ve been waiting for you to ask this whole time, star. Waiting for you to say something.”

All at once, relief floods you, the breath returning to your lungs like a mighty gust of wind, and for the first time that day you finally let your own tears fall as heavily as they please.

“Why didn’t you say anything!” You ask through the sniffles.

“We didn’t want to rush you,” he gives your hands another squeeze, “but we wanted to, Sunshine. Each day, we wanted to.” The name catches you, and your confusion must be obvious because he is quick to continue, “Did you think Sun would miss out on this conversation?” He laughs tearfully, and it’s only then that you see the straight-toothed smile, the way a single ray is peeking out from under the hat, “We’re both here, love. We’re both here for you.”

A joyous sob escapes you, a wonderful, grateful feeling bursting from your chest in warm abundance, “So you’re okay with it?” Another tear falls hot against your cheek, “You want to do this?”

“We’d be—” laughter cracks from his throat, “— over the moon , starlight.”

That’s all the confirmation you need. In only a second you’re across the boardgame and all but crawling into Moon’s lap. His arms outstretch to catch you, and your legs swing to sit on either side, wrapping at his waist as you hug him so tight your bones tremble with the effort, and he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—

Breathlessly you draw your face into the crook of his neck, nuzzling against his chin, and for this one brief moment you’re the happiest you’ve ever been.

“We can start the paperwork or—figure things out tomorrow,” you mumble against his throat, “is that too soon?”

He forces your chin back and kisses you deeply and with a passionate fervor, dipping you, inch by inch, until your back presses neatly against the messied game board, following you every step of the way, and suddenly he makes a grab for your ankles.

“We can’t wait that long,” he tells you.

The rain pours, the fire roars.

You are home.

#happy valentine's day loves!#have something special <3 #drabbles #sun fnaf #sundrop #moon fnaf #moondrop #moon x reader #sun x reader #[scheduled]

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