lovergirl (in theory)

CALL ⠀IT ⠀THE ⠀SILENCE ⠀YOU ⠀NEEDED ⠀—

𝒾. ⠀⠀𝑀𝒜𝑅𝐼 ⠀— ⠀( she + he + they ) ⠀an angel's darling. ⠀a gambler's lucky charm. ⠀a vast avatar's headache. ⠀yumeship & oc blog. not fully private but i do block followers i don't recognise!

「 ⌕ directory 」 ⠀byf. ⠀tag index. ⠀my ocs.⠀ ships.

... ⠀YOU'LL ⠀AWAKEN ⠀MY ⠀WEAKNESS ⠀AND ⠀CALL ⠀IT ⠀A ⠀SIGN .

tulle is a 50/50 depending on how stiff it is... on the one hand, she does need a lot of it under her skirt to keep the shape, but she is very careful when she picks out which kind. brocade is stunning, but weighs her down. woven materials are too itchy, unless it's high-quality stuff. cotton is simple and inoffensive, but strangely comforting in that aspect.

Robin’s chest has been panging for many system hours already — and it only worsens when she fails to spot Lyra in the sea of overwhelming red. The violinist normally comes here to practice alone, and Robin was hoping, in distinct Robin fashion, to come by them via serendipitous chance. Instead, the overarching quietude is all-too harmonious, lacking the occasional discordant hiccup of Halovian hands. 

At 3:00, when the time matched the contrivance of the Moment of Oasis, Robin met with her choir instructor for a routine critique. She didn’t expect it to go as catastrophically as it did; Mr. Gilles raked her over the coals for her recent performance, nitpicking every mistake and minute catch of her voice. 

The Oak girl has grown quite thick-skinned over the years, so she sat there, dutifully taking every suggestion and snide comment to heart. His closing remarks are what did the damage, however. She wouldn’t be seeking her closest confidant if it weren’t for a few scathing barbs:

“I expected more of you,” he’d said. “You are the voice of the Harmony, and yet you still struggle like a beginner might. Is it your Oak heritage? Is that it, girl? Mr. Gopher Wood will be disappointed to hear of your recent mishaps, considering how much he’s sacrificed to assure your progression under my tutelage. A naturally gifted Iris student could’ve had your spot. Are you not made for the spotlight after all? If that’s the case, I should just send you home right now.”

Thinking about it makes her head spin and her vision blurry with tears. She’s already been dismissed as romantic and bright-eyed by her surrogate father, most of her peers and tutors, and now her revered instructor. It remains a significant blow to her self-esteem, even if most of the time she can walk the streets as if she owns them.

Right now she seeks the reprieve of her beloved Ly, wherever she is. If anyone would understand, it’d be them. No judgment or shame or well-meaning comments from Sunday — just their steady presence. Someone to complain to. Someone to simply exist around.

“Ly?” Robin whispers aloud, unsure. She imbues her chords with just enough power, allowing the name to throw and wander throughout the adjoining corridors. “Where are you?”

They have to be here. They just have to.

Finally, there is familiar sound. In the velvet-quilted recesses of the surrounding walls, there is a sniffle. Robin thinks she’s imagining things for a moment (because the sound bleeds from the quilting itself) before realizing that Lyra’s presence is also being thrown.

Her soul aches. They’ve always been meek — but there is something more at play here. Robin is hesitant to call herself an empath, knowing how it sounds coming from Oak lips, but she can sense Ly’s distress. The string of their souls writhes and twists and guides her towards the violinist’s real location. It’s as if they want to be hidden and found at the same time. 

Aeons, that’s just Ly. Beautiful, paradoxical Ly. 

“You don’t have to hide from me,” she whispers hoarsely. The walls hiccup around her in response, as if contesting the notion. The reverberations are twice-shy and hard to nail down, but Robin remains resolute, looking within herself to find the source — find Lyra. “You sound like… you sound like you had a day like I did. Can we talk?”

Ly can only keep up the mirage for so long. Their sniveling wavers, and then it becomes clear where they’re hiding. Robin’s eyes land on the cordoned-off box in the corner, flanked by screens, often used by performers. There is a shaking, curled-up form shadowed within the partitions. 

Ly is not that kind of star. They aren’t going to be pulled from the box in some grand entrance of overture — and to a cutthroat crowd of snobs, no less. There will be no spectacular unveiling or uproarious applause. This is their sacred practice area, however small. And they are shaking and crying, their silhouette leaving little to the imagination in terms of their emotional state. 

“We can,” they finally speak, no Halovian-smoke-and-mirrors involved. Their silhouette shifts, unfurling and admitting defeat, limbs splaying out on the box’s bench. Robin can see the exhausted flare and drop of their headwings, the feathery appendages extending from the shape of their bob. “S-Sorry, just give me a sec.” 

Her breath hitches for them. But she tamps it all down, taking an acute interest in the floorboards.

“Yes, of course.”

Lyra emerges eventually, her freckled visage stained with tears. Robin can’t help but stare. Not in envy or contempt, but in a warring blend of concern and affection. Her own troubles don’t melt away completely in the face of the violinist, but it’s as if the universal weight of everything can’t hold a candle to their presence.

They don’t know it, but they get pretty damn close to eclipsing what often threatens to swallow Robin whole. However, underneath the swell of fondness, there is still the ache from her instructor’s harsh words.

First things first, then. 

Emboldened by the itch under her skin, the Oak girl steps forward. Lyra, at the same time, tries to close the distance — only to back away like a startled animal when Robin takes the initiative.

They both exchange an awkward laugh. There’s no humor in it. Only solidarity.

“I’m coming to you,” Robin announces.

“You always do,” says Lyra.

There is comfort in this universal truth. It carries across the Grand Theater, time, and the things neither of them will name. 

The violinist drapes her arm around the singer and draws her close. At last, there is reprieve.

- 🧶

“Stargazing?”

Canarian’s eyes didn’t move from the sky, even as footsteps came to a halt behind her. She gave a cursory nod in greeting, as she tilted her head slightly to the side to get a better view. Far above her, a blanket of stars stretched as far as she could see, glittering in and out of view. They were notably dimmer than she’d expected, barely more than pinpricks of light. Unlike the projected skies of the Dreamscape, they offered no spectacle, nothing beyond an occasional flicker.

“Yes.” She paused, considering her words. They were pretty, she couldn’t deny that much, but the whole view was strangely… underwhelming. “It’s… nice.”

Kafka crouched down onto the ground beside her, looking upwards as well. “That’s not very convincing.”

Canarian hummed. Her realisation of just how artificial Penacony was had been an eye-opener, leaving her craving glimpses of this so-called ‘real world’ she was missing out on. By the time she was granted that reality, she found herself with a list of all the things she wanted to see, to feel, to experience—everything that was kept from her for so many years.

Watching the stars was at the top of that list. She’d seen meteor showers, light shows, yet none of it compared to the actual sky, the kind that could only be seen upon waking. She fell in love with the idea of it more than anything else, but once she got around to actually doing it for herself…

“I was expecting more, maybe.” Canarian admitted. She felt a twinge of guilt, as if the stars would be offended by her lack of excitement.

At her side, Kafka wasn’t watching the stars at all, but instead studying her face. Her own expression was so calm, so unbothered that it almost entirely hid her intrigue, but there wasn’t any mistaking the glimmer in her eye. It was a strangely common sight, ever since Canarian had joined their ranks. Kafka, for whatever reason, was seemingly fixated on unraveling her to her core, and seeing exactly what made her tick.

“Do you know the constellations?” She finally asked. Canarian shook her head, and Kafka began to smile. “Why don’t I show you?”

Slowly, methodically, Kafka drew her attention to each corner of the sky, pointing out the shapes and formations Canarian’s eyes weren’t yet trained to see. She explained what figure they represented, the stories and myths that were woven behind them, the significance of each and every star. And as she spoke, Canarian listened, entirely mesmerised by what she was hearing. Kafka just had a way with words, that made even the most simple explanations sound utterly enthralling.

By the end of the night, once the pair were interrupted by a rather irritated Blade complaining that they had a mission in the morning and shooing them off to bed, Canarian still wasn’t sure she could say she enjoyed stargazing in practice.

𝒾.⠀⠀⠀𝓛𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐀 : on a sacrifice most divine ; she who is devoted , she who is holy and who will enact the host's will , no matter what it takes. her death will be beautiful , so beautiful we are mourning already in preparation !