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the wind at dawn | tears of themis | mo yi

spoilers for vyn's mo yi's "gentleman's game" story which references the song and poem the title and quotes are from :> (salut d'amour and the wind at dawn)

i cannot legally use the name vYN riChteR. i cannot.

he sleeps well, most nights. well. well enough— not ever above average. never incredibly far below.

five hours. some nights six. some nights four. not extraordinary for a man of his profession, he likes to think, nor his renown.

he's been extraordinary since birth. he knows what's worth being extraordinary for. not the luxury of royalty, not a life of privilege, but instead, things chosen. things won.

and although it'd be of his own free will, a lack of sleep, among many other impulsive lapses of judgment, varying in the level of severity and thoughtlessness, is markedly not worth the toll it would take on his body.

(the studies will back him up. we are better, researchers say, more alert, more thoughtful, more capable of deep feeling when we've had a good night of sleep. when we're a restful six to eight hours closer to being more healthy, a step closer to being more whole.)

and yet— and yet. this night's different.

“dim the lights,” he says into the silence, and the walls obey.

he closes his eyes. clears all thoughts of the day from his mind. settles his head more comfortably on his pillow. breathes in. breathes out. counts to twenty and back down again, tries to slow his heart rate down.

his body isn't fooled nor does his mind obey.

images rise behind his eyelids, unbidden:

you in your rider's garments, the brisk spring breeze teasing light and playful the strands of your hair,

you and his promise of victory (for you, he'd said, and meant it a hundredfold over, for you, for you, for you, anything for you), your clever mouth upturned warm in a joyful smile, your fierce eyes and fiercer heart, fingers flying fast over the violin strings to bring him soaring to victory, a victory made all the sweeter by the fact that it's not just his alone, no, it's yours, both of yours, your heart and his at one with the music, the sun shining high and golden, nary a cloud in the air.

and you, on the stable's most spirited filly, her wild tempered to gentle obedience, velvet-wrapped steel. sensing a kindred soul, perhaps, in your carry, in your touch, in the way your small frame can hardly hold the weight of your passion, your righteous heart. you, his arms light around your waist, as if he could hold the sun, as if he could be the sky that bears its beams far and wide, that shelters it from the rain, the storms to follow—

you, and his rashness, after: he'd called. he'd asked you out again, hoping beyond ration, beyond reason, that your mind had echoed his on the daydream of a ride back,

the rain, warm and gentle on the green grass, the scent of spring curling up to your noses between hoofbeats, between heartbeats, yours in time with his,

a break in the clouds just clear enough for you to catch the last rays of sun, and the feeling of wanting the moment to last, to stretch into an intimate eternity. maybe two.

he'd asked. you'd said yes. it'd been enough for a bout of impulsivity more.

I meant to tell you, he'd said.

he wishes he'd been there in front of you to see your blush.

he sighs.

“woo thou,” he says to the ceiling, “sweet music? thou woos?”

the control panel flickers briefly at the sound of his voice, but doesn't reply.

he doesn't need it to— his heart already knows.

thou wooed, he thinks, sweetest music. thou won.

“play salut d'amour,” he says abruptly. the wall control flashes again.

“it's past when you set your bedtime, dr. mo,” the automated voice calmly replies. “are you sure you'd like to open the music app?”

“play salut d'amour,” he repeats, firmer. “the performance by yo-yo ma.”

"alright. playing salut d'amour by yo-yo ma."

as the automated voice fades, the soft croon of the cello fills the space it leaves, the melody winding and unwinding, coming to rest warm and tender deep in his chest. it’s a comfort, a coming-home, a door left open for his mind to wander through, for thoughts to nestle deep and dangerous hopeful in his heart.

the most dangerous of the thoughts, the most immediate in nature: he’ll see you again tomorrow.

it sends his heart racing again, and he knows: tonight, he’ll be getting no rest.

"you," he whispers, then repeats it, louder, your name a bold promise, a declaration, an oath sworn to the stars. "you're worth being extraordinary for."

"salut d'amour?" he murmurs as the strings spool into gentle silence. no, salut, amour.

—to glory and light enow.