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zenscrypt · 9 months ago

Text

"keep counting (for patterns to repeat)"

read on ao3 here!

Rated: T (Teen and Up Audiences)

Content Warning: suicidal ideation/thoughts

Summary:

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah. “Good left-click, Richas,” he jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

-- It's a quiet night on Quesadilla Island when Tallulah comes to visit her tío's cave for some training. Along the way, Etoiles gets more visitors.

Tallulah is not a fighter.

Quesadilla Island is not built for pacifists.

Purgatory especially was not. The feeling of an axe sitting in her paws was unfamiliar, unwieldy, even uncomfortable, makeshift and knobby because she made it herself at Dapper’s insistence. There were so many mobs -- so many summonings -- and she tried so hard to remember what her papa taught her, to mimic what Chay would do to protect her, to follow the words one of her tíos gave as advice. “Tallulah, when you’re sad, just kill mobs!”

Needless to say, Tallulah was really sad in purgatory. She wasn’t a fighter then, despite everything she went through, and still, she doesn’t think of herself as one now. But she wants to try.

“Tallulah? You don’t need to learn to fight, you are already amazing with your flowers?”

Emphasis on try.

It’s a quiet night when she joins Richar and Pomme on their late-night adventures. Not much happened with Tío Bad, thankfully, besides Richar insisting on breaking Bad’s machines consecutively to see if he would notice, and Pomme and Tallulah watching the chaos unfold. Bad shooed them off eventually after a goodbye with the ghosties; it was late enough Tallulah considered going to sleep, until Bad voiced his surprise of Tío Etoiles being awake at this hour. Pomme disappeared in a flash, as expected, and Richar asked Tallulah if she would stay up to hang out.

It wasn’t often Tallulah got to spend time with her tío. He seemed so busy nowadays, either sleeping through the week or completely gone from sight despite being online, which she wouldn’t want to interrupt. She doesn’t know how badly that code infection is impacting him either -- if it was the cause for him sleeping so much, or the reason she and her family never saw him as often, or if it did anything at all.

Turns out, he’s working on rebuilding his cave entrance when she agrees to come with Richar. Well -- Pomme is, Richar is helping her with the design, and Tío Etoiles is gathering whatever few supplies he can easily grind for. It reminded her of decorating the nest with herself, Chay, and Papa Phil.

It’s a little funny. Tío Etoiles really hasn’t changed, has he?

That brings her to this moment, adjusting the speaker block Pomme gave her. “Tallulah says,” the machine-voice in the block says, which grates Tallulah’s ears a bit as it says her own words, “i want to be a better fighter to defend myself tío, flowers can’t do that against withers :p”

Etoiles hums faintly. His inventory covers most of his face as he gathers more wood for the eggs, but she quietly watches the numbers of that warped scar glitch emerald skin into binary data. His eyes, sightless and cloudy-white, squint at each item he selects. There’s a pause between the items that takes… longer than normal. He doesn’t seem focused.

Tallulah can’t tear her eyes away from the code-infected scar. It’s-- is it a scar? It’s a strange shape that took his entire left arm. It’s infected, which is a more pressing worry. It goes into an eye. Is it impacting him that bad, that he looks so exhausted?

It’s pretty late, too; she asked him how he was, and he mentioned being unable to sleep but not having the energy to explore or do dungeons. Which… sounds like his chronic disease also, but…

Well, it reminds Tallulah of herself mostly. She’s stared at the ceiling of her papi’s house for so long she knows exactly how many blocks it takes up. She could recreate it with only her memory if she had the chance. Playing music only reminded her of how empty the house was, on really bad nights. Some nights, she thought the next day would never come.

She caught herself asking if she wanted it to, sometimes.

Maybe asking for fighting lessons wasn’t the right thing to do. It seemed like a good distraction, but she doesn’t want to force him to if he’s feeling the way she felt on bad nights. Guilt wells in her little eggshell -- did she mess up? He hasn’t responded yet--

“Tallulah,” Etoiles calls softly, stirring her out of her spiraling thoughts, “have you seen my dojo?”

Oh.

Oh!

Tallulah jumps to her feet in an instant, shaking her head rapidly. Maybe she didn’t mess up! Maybe her plan will work! Etoiles is pushing himself up to his feet as she bounces in place, chirping with excitement. When he gestures for her to follow him, she’s already scampering down the staircase to his cave.

---

Tallulah is a good fighter, Etoiles learns.

Flower picking is her strong suit, something better suited for her limited breath and less-than-sharp ears, but Phil must be teaching her well because she uses her height to her advantage. Her aim is impeccable too -- she’s quick to find the weaknesses in his armor and swings with enough force that Etoiles can actually feel the stick smacking into skin. Of course, she gets winded after each of her attacks and Etoiles backs away to give her space, quietly observing.

He does his best to deliver the pointers she seemingly asked for, which is shit because another sleepless night doing nothing but thinking means his English is starting to slip. He’s also missing his swings to give her a challenge, unable to focus long enough on stars and stardust to find where she’s at. He nearly trips on her on occasion, easily the most frustrating of this night. How can he not see a little egg in front of him?

During a moment where Tallulah’s breath starts to sound like a whistle, Etoiles calls for a break. “You did well,” he says, reaching over to pat her mushroom head. Inside her shell, her breath rattles, but she manages a wheezy chirp of satisfaction -- and then faceplants into the tatami mats. Etoiles huffs out a laugh.

“Pick yourself up, queen, you play so well! You can fuck up everyone in your path, no problem. You don’t need my help.” Which he means. He was just about as clumsy and shit as any regular mob on this island, and if he had no armor, he would’ve been dead. Her biggest issue is trying to do so many jumping attacks for critical damage, but if her threats are mobs, she’s perfect. Her form wasn’t even sloppy.

In the distance, he hears the sounds of teleportation and lifts his head to the dojo entrance.

While still face-down and breathing hard, Tallulah slaps a sign on the ground. Keeping his ears alert, Etoiles reaches to translate it. [ you were good target practice tho :D ]

More teleportation sounds go off. He grins at the sign. “Good target practice? Tallulah, I was shit and you know it. I was like- like that horse riding mob, Tallulah. A meature. You could’ve killed me no problem. If you had your flowers, I would be dead in one hit.”

Tallulah trills, and her blurry shape shifts back to a proper sitting position. She’s close enough that her eggshell brushes against his knee, bleeding warmth into his padded leggings. The next sign she places is directly in front of him. [ papa phil thinks roses are pretty strong ]

Does he? Etoiles scoffs, bumping his knee against her goodnaturedly. “Of course Felipe Minecraft knows this. To him, roses must do plus ten damages, and- and Pomme’s favorite flowers do twenty! Sunflowers do three, I know this because they’re a shit flower.”

That wins him another delighted trill and a keyboard smash of a sign, which he takes as a victory.

Faintly, he hears footsteps, clicking on his quartz floors. Richas and Pomme’s footsteps are quieter than that, but the fact that he can hear this visitor is reassuring. Whoever it is wouldn’t announce their presence so easily if they wanted to harm Tallulah.

He can barely see Tallulah’s stardust pattern next to him, so he doesn’t bother trying to figure out who this is. They’re approaching him anyway. He’ll find out soon enough.

To his left, there’s a gentle rattling noise -- a maraca, he registers, because Tallulah stops shaking it when he looks over. There’s a new sign she’s written, replacing the one in front of him, [ here tío, i think papa phil would want you to have this ]

In her extended paws sits something with a vibrant, rich red color.

A rose. Oh, of course -- what else could it have been? A stray thorn pricks his finger as he takes it, and his dark blood beads onto the soft, scarlet petals just before his body heals over the wound in the next half-second. He huffs out a quiet laugh, rotating the flower in his hand carefully. “This is for me, Tallulah?”

The purple of her mushroom head dips in an enthusiastic nod. It isn’t blue, and it’s not a cornflower, but Etoiles thinks it matches the collection Pomme’s been giving him in his backpack.

“Thank you, Tallulah,” he says solemnly, switching it to his off-hand to pat her bouncy helmet. “I’ll be the strongest warrior on the island with this.”

Tallulah bumps her head against his hand affectionately with a happy chirp. He can hear her tail wag just slightly, dragging on the mats underneath them, before it gives an audible thump. She trills loudly, sudden, and rocks up to her feet, bounding off and out of the dojo without another word. Etoiles blinks.

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah.

If the noisy, high-pitched chirps now ringing in his ears weren’t enough of an indicator of who’s here, the dark blue sign in front of him and hazy red blob of a cow head is. “Nice left-click, Richas,” Etoiles jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed more gently than the fast (and painless) punches and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

Ah, that explains it. Phil’s here.

Well-- almost Philza. Tallulah and Ph-- Eggza are too far away for him to see, somewhere between his white floors and the distant, dark blackstone of his staircase entrance. “Richas, that is a shit trade, man,” he bemoans, tearing his eyes away but making sure his voice still carries through his cave, “why would I want that piece of shit egg? He doesn’t even have a shell! He- he doesn’t have flowers like Tallulah, and I’m a builder, Richas. I want flowers, not goats.”

It’s pointless to goad on Eggza, he knows, their usual banter tends to fall flat when it’s one-sided -- this man, this tryhard is so focused on grinding for shitty cookies instead of spending time with friends -- but like the grin on his lips, he can’t help himself. Richas lets out a squeaky laugh, reminding him of Pac’s laughter, and swats for his attention again. [ KKKKKKKK ] [ I don’t see any goats but YOU tonton >:D ]

“What!” Etoiles exclaims in mock-offense. “How could you say that, Richas? You’re standing right here?”

Whack. He’s learned, since telling Richas about his blindness, that the egg now communicates his head movements with more punches instead. Somehow, it works for them. Richas paces in front of him with that chirpy laughter before he finally breaks his sign and replaces it with a new one. [ how did llulahs training go??? ]

“She doesn’t need training, actually,” he says. Chayanne is the warrior between the two siblings -- Etoiles would know, constantly ribbing on the egg’s fighting style much to his dismay -- but when your dad is Felipe Minecraft, it makes sense to him that she would impress him so much. To not only fight, but be able to land precise hits when already struggling for breath is black-belt worthy to Etoiles, no stick fight required. “She already knows how to fight well, and I was just a, uh- a body for her to hit. She didn’t need my help.”

Was purgatory what changed her? Fighting to survive would do that, he thinks -- turn pacifists into keen-eyed warriors, even the ones that prefer flowers to weapons like Tallulah. He frowns and presses his thumb against one of the thorns on the rose. What a shitty life, to be forced to fight.

The eggs weren’t forced to fight each other, at least. They weren’t against Badboy and Toby Roblox at least -- or, really, any of their friends. Their siblings. They just had to survive, not compete, not win.

(Ever since that three-day-long dream he had of another purgatory, another chance to win, another fight to survive and kill both strangers and old comrades -- it felt like a dream to him. He hasn’t been sleeping well recently. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of radioactive water, of that brand on his hand staring back at him, of tearing into flesh with his swords and covered in blood and wanting more -- and then he wakes up on this shit island where nothing happens unless he’s unconscious.

Seriously. He sleeps an hour later than usual, and Phil is saying he missed the biggest fight of his lifetime, Empanada died, Tubbo’s armor is gone, Phil was knocked down-- he missed a fun fight because this shit island hates him and so does insomnia.)

Whack! [ so she kicked your ass?? 0_0 ] Richas’ sign says, jerking Etoiles out of his thoughts.

It’s not hard to kick my ass, he wants to say, just stay up until 4AM and log-in right at the spot to turn in your contracts to override all of my team’s hard work. His skin catches on the thorn. Phil’s geta click on quartz again, and Etoiles grins. “Richas, she destroyed me, man. She is- she’s a black belt in my dojo, I stood no chance. She took out this flower and I was on the floor instantly. Minus 70 damages.”

Following right after Phil’s geta are more tapping claws, which wheeze as the egg gets closer -- whack, Tallulah smacks Richas away, startling a bark of laughter from Etoiles. “Like that! See! She’s so cracked!”

His dojo quickly fills with the typical sounds of eggs bickering with each other, the occasional thump or whack of a playfight happening somewhere behind him. Etoiles tilts his head to find a familiar leathery-black mask staring down at him. “Hello, Eggza,” he hums, smiling wide enough to bare his teeth.

Phil makes a muffled, indistinct noise as Etoiles pushes himself up to his feet, and the dark wings behind him rustle quietly, shifting in place. “Are you here to collect your egg, Eggza?” he asks.

A quiet huff. “No?” He raises an eyebrow. Tallulah’s sing-song chirps sound victorious somewhere to his right with Richas’ indignant hisses following right after it. Pomme must’ve stayed at the cave entrance to focus on decorating. What was it Richas asked? “There are no cookies here, Phil. Have you come to my dojo to fight?”

Another huff, this time accentuated with a faint laugh-like noise. Etoiles exclaims in disbelief, “What? You come to my dojo and not want to fight, Felipe? Why the hell are you here then? To say ‘hello, mate’ and be the man that you are?”

Phil laughs that quiet noise again and then turns on his heel in a careful motion, eyeing the ground for a moment. Then-- Etoiles blinks when he hears the sound of… a sign being placed. Phil placed a sign? Curious, he peers around the silhouette of a wing and finds a dark green sign-- dark green?-- “Phil, my bro,” he exclaims, now genuinely incredulous, “you are not an egg? What are these signs? Did you make them just for you?” Sure, maybe that shade he’s never seen before could exist, alongside Gegg’s vibrant-green, but Phil using it?

Is this how deep it goes? he wonders, backing up to give Phil’s wings space. This state that he’s in, Etoiles has only came across Phil around the bakery at spawn, gathering cookies for his eggs -- but he knows Phil like this, too. At least, part of it.

Purgatory didn’t change just Tallulah, after all.

Phil’s wings healed during that time, and with it, something else inside him too. He was coherent in purgatory, though -- coherent enough to speak, stumbling over his bird-like noises to clarify what he was trying to say. Writing with signs is new. (He sees why Fit and Pac call him Eggza now, even if Phil is far from an egg in Etoiles’ eyes.)

How different is he, then? How much is intact since purgatory? His wings were broken from the flight carrying Tubbo, but they weren’t clipped, the Federation hasn’t intervened (yet), they aren’t small and weak and hidden like before the eggs disappeared.

An old itch begins to flare up. Phil’s changed. How far?

The shadows in front of him shift eventually, revealing what Phil’s written. [ can i not say hi to a friend? :> ]

Just as he stooped down to translate it, Etoiles is smacked by a small, fast-tapping paw. Phil’s also hit, eliciting a startled caw from the man and a chorus of tittering egg-laughs. Etoiles hums. “Yes, Richas?”

Richas guides his hand to the signs instead of smacking him again. [ pleasure doing business with you tonton o7 ] [ llulah n i will get back to work >:D ]

Oh, that’s what he asked. Etoiles didn’t even give him an answer -- and he considers complaining again, just to rib on Eggza some more, but instead he ruffles Richas’ cow head. “Okay, Richas,” he says. “Pomme is your leader, don’t forget that.”

Thump. He places another sign. [ don’t forget that ur the best tonton >:] ] Tallulah nudges Phil and chirps something beside Etoiles; Phil echoes it, the noise richer in response, unfamiliar to his ears. Maybe something referring to flock, if he guessed right.

With that, the two eggs head off, their claws scratching at quartz as they run.

Silence follows where Etoiles doesn’t fill it. Phil’s head is turned away, watching the eggs leave, and for a moment, Etoiles wishes he could see. Are there more feathers where there hasn’t been? What else has changed that he can’t see? How much is still Phil?

The elytrian shifts then, remembering himself and the sign he placed at his feet. Soundlessly, he breaks it manually, without an axe, just plucking it from the ground; Etoiles watches the sign disappear into his inventory.

“You come here to say hello,” he voices, catching Phil’s attention with the lilt in his voice, “except you’re writing with signs. You aren’t an egg, Phil. I know your voice, I know where you live -- I know what you are, Phil. You can speak to me, no? You trust me, right?”

It’s not avian-speak Phil makes -- it’s not the typical squawks and chirps Baghera made, nor the noises he catches the eggs making on occasion -- it’s Endspeak. An ancient language that can be disguised as avian, thanks to similar vocal chord structures, but it’s sharper, centered in the chest rather than the throat. If Phil isn’t capable of speech --

How far can he push?

“It’s okay, Phil,” he says quickly. The rose in his left hand is an afterthought as he searches for a stick. “You don’t need to say anything actually. No worries. How about we stick fight? 1v1? You come to my dojo, you should expect a fight, man.”

Unsurprisingly, Phil turns to place a sign again, and Etoiles lets him. Taps the stick he’s holding against his leg, slowly, counting. It can snap easily in his hands if he wanted it to. A clean snap right through the middle, showering the floor in splintering fragments. Phil steps away.

All the text-to-speech translation says is: [ bruh ].

Etoiles sputters -- partially amused by the simple response, the other-- “Bruh, he says, taking 70 years to type it! He can left-click but he can’t type four letters, what the hell? Felipe, my bro, you should know the rules of my dojo. You can’t ‘bruh’ my rules.”

Then, daring, he takes a step forward and smacks the stick against Phil’s leg, where he knows it is. The answering yelp sounds like a bark forced from his chest -- Etoiles grins, sharp. “Come, Phil! Just one fight. It’s all I ask of you.” Just one. One is fair, one is reasonable, one is all he wants. He has to see who this is.

Another sign is placed. Etoiles hums -- and jabs forward, hitting Phil somewhere in his flank. Phil flinches away with a startled hiss, sparks spitting. He takes a step back -- Etoiles matches him, letting his other hand (there’s a flower there?) brush against the sign to translate it as he passes.

[ not fighting you king, its too late ]

Too late, he says, as if they’re sleeping. Phil stops retreating, so he stops advancing, hitting the stick against his knee. He barely registers the pain. The shadows in front of him are massive, but he’s seen bigger -- seen them spread wider as he stood behind them, shielded from view, the rest of the team, Bolas, next to him. Where is it? “Phil, we are here, aren’t we? It won’t take long. You can win and I’ll stop.”

He waits for a sign to be placed, his grip holding the stick tighter. It hasn’t cracked yet, but he aches for the burn. Tap. tap. tap. Just one fight. Just one.

When he hears nothing, he takes another step forward. Phil remains in place. His geta don’t scuff on the dojo’s floors. If Etoiles focuses, he can see that leather-masked gaze holding his somewhere between growing darkness. Wider, wider, it spreads. There? Is that it?

The stick raises into the air.

Shadows flare.

And when a solid force collides into him and knocks him flat on his back, all Etoiles can feel is blinding victory. This is it. This has to be it. He just has to-- he has to fight back--

His weapon is gone. All he has is a- a stupid flower that doesn’t even have the same attack stat as a stick-- Phil’s weight keeps him firmly on the ground and staying there, talons burrowing into wrists and a heavy pressure on his stomach. He isn’t struggling. He can’t, he reasons, his arms are heavy and he can barely focus -- but he’s baring his teeth to the elytrian above him like he’s winning. “Wow!” he barks, something inside him thrashing when he cannot, “No stick fights, says Felipe, so he pins me down like an American! Like an American football star, okay. I see you, Felipe.”

Whatever noise he was expecting, he wasn’t thinking a- a croon, now so much louder than he expected, rumbling against his pinned body. A rubber beak nudges against his jawline, shutting Etoiles up instantly. It’s strange -- something wars inside his head, instincts vs. logic, with a clear loser. He cranes his neck up, further, to give Phil space.

Well? Phil won. Spoils go to the victor, after all.

Through the mask, Phil’s breath comes out in huffs against his neck, right at the sensitive-- vulnerable, weak, prime spot to notch a weapon-- junction of his neck. Something inside him thrills at the attention.

Distantly, Etoiles wonders how they must look. Is it just them in his dojo, in the darkness of Phil’s feathers, in the night sky gleaming with star-shaped flowers? Are Phil’s wings shadowing over him, shielding him from view, like the void enveloping him whole? Is he prey caught by an elytrian with its wings poised for flight against its back, about to be slaughtered?

Oh, what a way to die. Etoiles sinks into the embrace. Craves it. Part of Etoiles wants to beg -- he needs to see if Phil will do it. If Phil had the capacity to kill him. If Phil could give him a death he’ll finally be satisfied with.

Make me bleed, he prays.

Aloud, he whispers, barely audible even to himself, “Phil? Can I take off your mask?”

Phil pulls away only slightly, his breath fanning over Etoiles’ face. To his surprise, Phil chirps only a second later in the affirmative. When Etoiles reaches a freed hand to the buckles of the mask, Phil leans into his touch, rumbling quietly, contentedly.

Suddenly, Etoiles’ fingers are unsure, breath lodged in his throat, unseeing eyes squinting in concentration and, distantly, anticipation.

The mask is loose and slides into Etoiles’ hand. Carefully, he sets it to the side beside his head. Then, indulgent, desperate, he cranes his neck up and cups Phil’s jaw with the same hand.

Please, he begs. His lips stay shut.

He waits for the fangs. He waits for talons. He waits for the searing burn of pain to tear his throat open and let him bleed out inside his own home, in his dojo, in the arms of his captain.

If “Eggza” is his elytrian instincts repaired, then Etoiles aches to be his first blood.

Phil’s lips are soft, when they press against his.

…oh.

Of course.

A small laugh huffs against Phil’s lips -- because Etoiles should’ve expected this answer.

He hadn’t realized he asked. Or that Phil heard.

Still, he leans into the kiss, fitting his hand securely over Phil’s cheek to press deeper. It was light, Phil asking his own question in response; on any other day, Etoiles would push further, fight even harder for Phil to give him what he really wanted, but the elytrian above him lets out a coo so low it vibrates in his chest as he slots their lips together.

If Etoiles had any more fight left in him, he would insist he didn’t deserve this. Phil’s arm braces above his head somewhere, and talons run through his hair and against his scalp, and it’s so nice. There’s no yanking. No tearing. No fight he had to win. Just… being held and kissed.

So instead, he sighs and gives into the gentle, lapping waves of fluttering, midnight wings.

(Maybe I’m already bleeding, he thinks distantly. Just not the way he initially thought.)

Phil’s the one that parts first with a quiet hum. Etoiles takes in a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut to settle against the mats. His mind feels blissfully quiet for once.

A hand brushes down his face, pets his facial hair, runs across his lips. Etoiles lets it trail over him and feels proud that he only briefly wanted to be kissed again.

Pressure leans against his forehead, stirring his eyes open again. It’s habit to open them, obviously, because he already knows it’s Phil pressing their heads together, his nose slotting against Etoiles’. A trill follows, deep in Phil’s throat, that Etoiles recognizes faintly. He doesn’t know the exact translation, no matter how many times he’s heard Phil make it during purgatory, or to his eggs. He thinks it’s a name. A title, maybe. A declaration.

His chest is tight. Etoiles hums quietly. One day, he’ll figure out what it means.

Eventually, Phil takes mercy on him. With one final trill, he backs away fully, his weight disappearing from Etoiles’ body, and is gone before he even realizes it. The roof of his dojo is plain without the borders of void-coated feathers and golden hair. What a shame.

(What a shame -- that Phil left? Or that Phil didn’t kill him? He isn’t sure.)

As he laments, floating somewhere between the clouds and the night sky, he hears something sharp, quick -- a snap of fingers. Etoiles lifts his head.

Instead of grabbing his gas mask like what Etoiles expected, Phil stands over him with a black-tinted hand offered. Oh. He wants to help Etoiles up? A pleasant warmth sits in his chest like a gentle campfire, and with the snap comes reality.

“Oh, look at you, Felipe,” Etoiles says with a grin, breaking the silent air of his dojo. “Giving me your hand to pull me up like the goat that you are? Thank you, my bro.” He sits up and clasps his hand into Phil’s, letting the elytrian yank him up to his feet with a subtle flap of his wings.

It was a forceful tug alongside an amused chitter, enough that Etoiles has to catch himself before he crashed into Phil; that campfire crackles. It’s not the sun he looks it in spite of the warmth, but somehow, it makes it better. “Okay, Phil? You’re so strong? You have big biceps? You don’t need to flex on me, man, I already know you have a nice cock.”

And, because he can, he reaches for Phil’s face to kiss him again.

His advances are met with a scowl he feels against his lips and a firm swat of one heavy wing upside his head. “Oh, he hits me!” Etoiles shouts with a bark of laughter, ducking out of the way. “Felipe hits me because I gave him a kiss! So you won’t accept my affections either, Phil? Okay, man. Sorry. Your cock is shit, actually.”

Whack! Phil’s wings hit hard, what the hell? The next dodge he does skirts him around the elytrian, sidestepping shadows to stand next to Phil, away from any more wing-hits. Phil chitters louder, almost involuntarily; now it really sounds like his cawing laughter.

Etoiles’ laughing along with him. “Deserved, deserved.”

How could he be so stupid? Why would he ever think Phil would change, just like that, from purgatory? Tallulah still gives flowers, Pomme is still headstrong, Richas… hasn’t changed whatsoever, now that he thinks about it -- and, maybe, Etoiles himself hasn’t changed too. Phil hasn’t.

Phil is still the goat, and the man that won’t listen to his braindead desires of dying a cool death. Why did he ever beg the man to kill him? The thought sounds ridiculous the more he thinks about it.

Would it be legendary? Yes. Is it still something Etoiles wants to happen? Perhaps. Will he ever get it? No.

And he’s fine with that.

Thump. Etoiles blinks. A sign?

Phil turns around to look at him, standing in front with something in his hand and the sign placed by his feet. As Etoiles steps forward to translate it, he catches red in Phil’s dark hands. [ where did this rose come from? ]

Oh. “Tallulah gave it to me,” Etoiles says softly. I forgot it was in my hand, he adds to himself. “I hope it’s not broken?”

The red blur in Phil’s hands looks fine, but it’s hard to tell. Phil examines it with a quiet, contemplative noise for a moment. It’s only a flower, Etoiles catches himself thinking -- but it’s a rose, isn’t it? Roses are strong, Tallulah said. He thought maybe she meant it the same way Pomme means it, but… what about Phil?

A black hand raises to his face, bearing that red, red rose. It hesitates just in front of him, asking, and Etoiles stops himself from taking a step back. Instinctively, he tries to search for Phil’s eyes -- but-- Phil makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. The hand wavers.

It’s Phil, he reminds himself.

When he leans forward, into Phil’s hold, he feels the flower stem slide just above his ear. Talons briefly pinch his skin as Phil carefully adjusts the flower, tucking it underneath his eye-mask, securing it in place. The thorns are gone, as if they’ve been plucked off. All that’s left are the soft petals that brush against the side of Etoiles’ face.

When Etoiles finally gives in and leans down, he feels Phil coo against his lips.

(Flowers aren’t weapons, he knows this. They don't have to be. They shouldn’t be, not just for their shitty attack stats, but also because… it’s nice. A few flowers bloom in his hair on occasion, which Pomme loves for decorations -- and Antoine loves to pluck straight from his scalp -- and while he thinks the blooming is an annoyance, it’s only flowers. The flowers that his daughter loves.

Tallulah said roses are strong, and Phil believes they are, for whatever reason, even when he’s like this. Logically, it makes no sense, but…

Well. Etoiles doesn’t give a shit about the semantics now. Flowers can be powerful if Phil thinks so.)

---

Richarlyson’s feet have never moved faster than the way they do now -- and Tallulah has half the mind to join her in the sprint across Tío Etoiles’ cave. Chayanne is not going to like this when I tell him, she thinks, already imagining the horror in Chayanne’s shell.

[ off she goes ] Pomme writes with a sign that stops Tallulah in her tracks, rumbling in her shell with amusement.

Tallulah faceplants into the floor. [ on her way to ruin a sweet moment :’) ]

Yesyes, Pomme chirps in agreement and a comforting pat on Tallulah’s back, silly egg, silly sibling. With a huff, Tallulah stands back up in time for another wine-red sign to appear, and for Richar to make contact with her papa and tío. He’s accosting them as she expected, surrounding them in a myriad of signs, aggressive chirps, and plenty of punches for the both of them. [ oh well. im sure papa is feeling better now :D ]

Hopefully, he is, Tallulah thinks, but she has a feeling Tío Etoiles is. Beside him, Papa Phil looks content, fondly watching the two bicker with his face free from his silly bird mask. Etoiles takes Richar’s swatting in stride, backing away from him and complimenting his strikes just like when Tallulah was sparring with him.

Unlike that moment, though, Etoiles is grinning, not pensive, and he moves a little more sure on his feet, sidestepping and dodging each Richar blow. He looks… happier.

Tallulah eyes her papa again and rumbles, happy papa, happy, silly. He did that to Tío, she’s sure of it. If a spar wasn’t going to do it, and if Tallulah couldn’t, then she’s glad her papa did. Chayannechen can get defensive over Papa and Pa Missa’s relationship another day. She’s certain this was different, in any case.

Pomme mimics her noises warmly, rustling through her backpack to dig out a diary. Richar suddenly whirls to Phil and starts smacking him with enraged squeaks, causing him to yelp, dodging another attack. Whatever they’re talking about seems like fofoca, but Tío Etoiles doesn’t seem embarrassed, neither does Papa. She can see the rose in her tío’s hair too. Good.

Bomp, Pomme’s placing another sign, floating in the air where she sits. [ whats uncle phil doing here btw??? was he looking for you ? ]

Was he? If she’s being honest, Tallulah isn’t really sure. She left Papa Phil in Rosa’s Sanctuary, where he was half-draped across Missa’s sleeping body, and she wasn’t expecting him to be awake at this time. Even when he’s like this, Endspeaking more than normal, she figured it was too early for him to start gathering cookies. Did he know she was with her tíos and came to find her? Was he here for Etoiles? Was it pure luck, or curiosity, to come here?

She doesn’t know. He was fine, he had reassured her when he first appeared in the cave. Chay and Missa were safe still, but he didn’t elaborate any further than that. She has some guesses as to why her papa is here, like this, and even when he’s extra affectionate and gentle with her in this state, he still doesn’t like sharing his feelings. It wasn’t due to a lack of trust -- it’s just her papa being her papa.

It isn’t a bad thing. He wanted to see somebody here, to check in on them, and Tallulah finds it hard to get upset at her papa when he’s cooing and fawning over her and her siblings. Some nights can be too quiet sometimes.

Eventually, she settles with a simple, [ i think he wanted some company ].

Awake company, that is, at this hour of night. Once she's ready to go, she's sure he'll tag along with her back to the sanctuary for some proper sleep. Whether he woke up due to her absence or from a nightmare, she knows he's tired.

Tallulah thinks she’s earned sleep after this. Tío Etoiles especially deserves it.

#qsmp philza #qsmp etoiles #codebreakers #codebreaker duo #qsmp tallulah #was too nervous to post this on my twitter lmao #aro4aro codebreakers is everything to me but there's no media literacy on that platform they will pull out the boundaries card #so here I am #need to post my fics on here more anyway so hi hello #my writing

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