#maybe Gloreth is his grandmother actually and holds some high-ranking position and his whole family just--

[mythvoiced]

@misassumed | " here I am, not sure if you should take a chance " ( for 4 ambrosius from ballister @ misassumed 👀👀👀 ) ✧˚ · . so much (for) stardust - fall out boy

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It's the past that defines the future.

As loathsome as that mentality may be in given contexts, so long as it reigns over literally the entire world, no amount of active fighting against it will make the world suddenly spin in the other direction. Fix your own mentality and still watch society around you collapse on the heaps of corpses it itself had put there, while all you can do is stand beside it and watch all the signs that had hinted to this outcome be trampled on like the voices of the innocent in a never-ending stampede.

Ambrosius is stuck in the very middle of it.

He's got voices of upbringing, his own name muttered in awe in his ears until they ring and threaten to bleed, his own face smiling so very self-assured, a beam of light, of hope, splattered on any campaign that will hold him.

He's more face than he is himself, he's more a slogan than he is a voice, he's more a symbol than he is a man, and he's all of those things willingly, he's all of those things because too long has he been told that it was and always will be the right thing to do.

He is what he is.

But according to that logic... he never should have fallen in love with Ballister, should he?

Even now while his fists clench and unclench, skin and familiar plates clanking against his bones so uncomfortably as though he'd finally woken up and realized he'd stolen the Ambrosious of this world and stuffed an impostor into it, whatever he is without any of the glitz and glamour and obedience, Ambrosius wonders...

If he is what he is... then Ballister is what he is, too.

Then Ballister should be all that they've been told him to be for all their lives.

But he's not, he's so much more, he's the only fruit tree to have grown on these soils that don't look chromatic, painted over by Alice from white to red, the only rose to have naturally grown in such a desirable colour.

He wishes he could answer easily.

He wishes there were an easy answer.

He wishes he could reach for it if there were. He wonders, could he, if he saw it?

Is the 'right choice' easier to take than he'd assumed?

And if so, which one is it?

"Bal," a breath of a name, a thousand confessions and a million implorations in a single syllable. His hand lifts, reaches out, more hesitant than half-hearted, unsure of how big the distance between them has grown at this point.

"I've always been on your side. You know that. That doesn't have... If... If you just came back and..."