eth

Jade doesn’t care about taking a piss in the woods while bugs watch. He doesn’t care about the sweat clinging to his body. Actually, he doesn’t seem to be sweating at all.

And yet, you can’t deny that even with the aching exhaustion in your muscles, even with the slick salt on your forehead, even with the tired, wheezing breath fighting its way on every inhale, the forest is undeniably beautiful.

Dapples of light trickle through the leaves and, though the sun has surely tried her best, moisture still clings to the big leaves framing the path. The crowded hallways and noisy cafeteria feel like a distant dream. There’s only the sound of your ragged breath and the occasional rustle in a bush that makes your hair stand on end.

Here, you are alone.

Here, you are alive.

The center of a forest brings its own version of peace. Jade’s expression is one of serenity as he puts one step in front of the other, only occasionally pausing to point out some riveting species of mushroom growing from a rotting trunk.

In the most curious of ways, Jade seems at home here.

Maybe being in the center of a forest is like being at the bottom of the ocean. There is nothing - no one. Empty, save for the myriad of creatures who call it home and the sound of your thoughts to keep you company.

A nightmare for the sociable and a paradise for the recluse.

Though Jade walks ahead, he makes sure to stay in your sight. Whenever there’s a fork in the road, or the clear trail becomes fuzzy, he waits for you until you’re side by side before continuing the trek. Upwards and upwards.

At some point, you stop asking how long is left and fall into a rhythm. One foot in front of the other, over and over again.

It’s always when your mind and legs begin to whisper pleas of surrender when Jade calls to you with a smile.

You’ve reached the summit. There for you to reach but never yours to claim.

Sometimes there’s a pool of crisp water, straight from the glaciers. The two of you will peel off your clothes and plunge right in, hypothermia be damned, splashing until you are both shaking from rib-aching laughter and persistent cold.

Jade will hunt down fungi while you eat your granola and down your water and whatever else you’ve packed. Then you’ll lie on the ground wordlessly, enjoying the silence and scenery, until the forest’s little creatures mistake you for a log and Jade comes lumbering back with several poisonous-looking specimens in hand to chase them away.

Sometimes - and it’s not often - there are natural hot springs. Several pools of water, each of a varying temperature, lie in waiting, from scorching hot to lukewarm to ice-cold. Sulfur permeates the air, and the heat makes it difficult to stay in the hotter ones for too long. Your aching muscles gravitate towards the hot ones anyway. Jade is always the first one to notice when you start getting dizzy, pulling you out of the water for a quick breather before your muscles decide they aren’t done quite yet and pull your body right back in.

But this time, it’s just the view.

And what a view it is.

You take Jade’s outstretched hand to climb over that last rock and find the whole world lying in front of you. Every tree a speck, every lake a drop, every road a thread. It reminds you just how small you really are, just how much of the world goes unseen in the distracting minutiae of everyday life.

The air is so clean, so pure, it’s as if you’re breathing for the very first time. You and Jade take a simultaneous inhale, eyes closed and arms stretched out over your heads as if to pluck the clouds from the sky.

At Jade’s insistence and reassurance, the two of you take a seat at the very edge with your feet dangling off the mountainside. Then you swap snacks. Trail mix for beef jerky, apples for carrots, crackers for chips. You never quite feel it’s a fair trade though…

You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, staring at the wide expanse before you, but you try to take in the moment and push away the dread that tries to creep in, insisting that a few hours from now, you will be back at Night Raven College. Back to staggering amounts of schoolwork and restless nights fraught with strange dreams.

The school is surrounded by woods but it’s never the same. It’s never like this.

Time slips its way past and Jade turns to you, opening his mouth to say something. But as he sees that all-too-familiar look in your eyes, he closes it with a smooth smile.

Jade puts his hand over yours and the two of you look out to the horizon together.

Let’s stay a little while longer.

Leona openly despised your existence. Outwardly, privately, spiritually, catastrophically. Any way he could, he probably did. It was a known fact around campus and especially to whoever knew the two of you, but no one knew why he seemed to be so averse to your existence more than anyone else. When you'd asked Ruggie—mostly joking, but genuinely concerned why Leona looked at you like you ate a decaying apple in front of him—Ruggie could only manage a shrug and a small comfort. "Y'know, maybe you're just too nice for 'em. Wouldn't put it past him if he just strived off negativity… Swear I've never seen a blemish on him."

Which was partially true. To some degree. He did dislike you because of that.

You aided people without thinking twice, always throwing yourself headfirst into something else; always ignoring those who'd told you it was foolish and a waste of time. Which, fine. Whatever. He couldn't be that mad if someone was getting something out of it. Even if it was just the title of being a "good person" in others' eyes, so be it.

But what made you so aggravating was that you never expected things from others. In fact, he'd sometimes argue that you anticipated them not to bat an eye at you afterward, making you yet another nameless face in a crowd of nobodies. And he couldn't fathom why such a person existed. How could someone function like that? Live that way, even.

To him, it only served to remind him of when Cheka first realized he had a tail. The way he'd chase it around fruitlessly, stumbling to his knees before getting back up, again and again. An unbreakable cycle, only halted whenever his nephew found something a little more entertaining than playing cat and mouse with the very thing that was attached to him.

So, he'd pick at you. Consistently. Without fail. Snide comments. Scoffing a little too loudly whenever you found yourself unable to voice that someone had crossed a clear boundary, instead allowing it to be pushed against. So far, a bent swordfish could fit the tip of its nose in the crevice. Broken beyond what could've been repaired. Mocking the apologies you handed out like candy under his breath.

Things you swore you could've handled, including his sly remarks. So what? It wasn't like you could please everybody. Certainly, this wasn't going to irritate you or anything of the sort. Or weigh on your conscience. Nah.

⤷ But Leona had a terrible knack for getting under people's skin. Something you were convinced he was both subconscious and aware of.

⤷ Each time, he'd peel back another layer of paint that you'd coated on in hopes you could still pretend. Covering the mold spores that crawled underneath, act like they never existed. A seemingly invulnerable canvas, ensuring the corruption didn't reach the surface of the shell. But there was a piece of you that acknowledged that it was growing rapidly, despite your efforts. That soon, somewhere deep within your heart, you'd run out of paint, so that everyone would see you as you really are. A brittle mess, hidden beneath the prettiest of shades.

⤷ That was, until, unable to take it anymore, you bared your teeth back at him, unveiling what lay behind closed doors.

The courtyard was empty except for two. A Ramshackle Perfect, and an indigo-haired Heartslabyul first-year with a club marring his cheek, who spilled words at such a rapid pace you weren't too certain you'd caught them.

The indigo-haired student bowed halfway toward you. A habit, despite your badgering and teasing, telling him he didn't have to do that with you. "… Thank you! For promising to help me and Ace study for the upcoming magic history test, Yuu. I promise, I'll get a head start now so you can worry more about your own!" Deuce straightened up, letting you glimpse a confident smile plastered onto his face.

Turning on his heel, he waved goodbye, allowing your shoulders to ease just a smidge. Your smile to falter. But before he crossed the threshold into the school building, he paused, turning back to shout out, "I wouldn't know what to do without you!"

And there that mask went right back up as if it'd never left.

The bit of strain that subsided now swelled with tension as you waved back, beaming. "Any time! Can't leave you two behind now, can I?" Only to receive a snort in response as he ran off, into the abyssal hell that was Night Raven College. Leaving you standing there. Alone. Counting the seconds, your slowing heartbeat, until it was almost a guarantee that he wouldn't bolt back.

A sigh stumbled out of you after a minute. Almost every bone in your body becoming mush but your legs that threatened to capsize under the pressure. Exhaustion bled out of you in waves, and a cruel part of you was so glad that Grim decided to head to Scarabia to gorge on delicacies enough to make a grown, redneck man swoon over. Just for a sliver of peace. Away from anyone. Even if you knew it wouldn't last long.

As much as you loved those three, you swore they were gonna be the death of you sometimes. Literally, too, whenever Grim decided to lie on your neck and nearly suffocate you.

Your tranquility didn't last long, though. Because of course it didn't.

The dull thud of someone's shoes came up from behind you moments after Deuce left, lazy enough where the tips of the soles seemed to drag on for an eternity—clearly someone who couldn’t care less about their personal belongings—before halting. "Crowley should see if those little Royal Sword Academy students wants ya'… They'd just love you," a gruff voice said, sarcastically. You didn't even have to turn back to see who it was. The sheer amount of malice that poured from his every word could only belong to one student.

Your eyes slammed shut, an attempt to rein in that bubbling urge to argue back. Something that was usually as effortless as breathing for you. But against your better judgment, you slipped. "And what's that supposed to mean?" You snipped, glancing back over your shoulder, to find exactly who you expected.

The Housewarden of Savannaclaw, Leona Kingscholar. The one person in this seven-forsaken school that never seemed to be pleased, no matter what you did.

"I think you know what I meant, herbivore."

"That your school is riddled with delinquents, despite being supposedly prestigious?" You squinted at him, taking in his lax posture. The way his hands burrowed deep within his pants pockets. "Is it that shocking that someone wants to be nice for a change around here?"

"It ain't like it workin' well for ya…" Leona sighed out. "Shocker you haven't been eaten alive yet. Thought you'd just be bones within a week."

You stared flatly at him. Of all people who could've bothered you, it just had to be Leona. "Do you always have to act this pretentious?" Whether that was a genuine question or an observation, you weren't quite sure. "I just don't get it. What have I done to upset you this much?" You started, shifting to face him front on. "Are you still that mad about the yowling? Come on. That was forever ago."

"If you think whatever that noise Grim was shriekin' was yowling, we gotta whole other issue," he bristled.

"That's still not answering my question, you know?"

"And what?" Leona crossed his arms over his chest. "If I answer, whatcha gonna do? Try n' fix whatever you've done? Like everything else in this school?"

Your brows knit together. "What are you talking about now, Leona?"

"I'd argue it's pretty obvious."

"It isn't," you bit the words out, teeth scraping together.

"The whole…" He waggled a finger at you. "Helpin' anything with a pulse thing you got goin' on."

"… Helping people?" You drawled. "Is that what this has been about? Are you serious? You can't be."

"When ya' do it, it's pathetic. Hell, I'd be shocked if you didn't hurl yourself off a mountain if someone asked you to," He said before adding, "It's like you're desperate for some form-a' control when ya' have none. Controllin' how others' view you by catering to their every need."

“We all know that if I don't do it, who will, Leona,” you growled out; venom leaking through your every word. Your exhaustion peering from the cracks in your facade.

“It doesn’t matter who does it, or if it gets done." He drew right arm up, gesturing to the entirety of campus. "Let them figure out their issues.”

“It doesn’t work that way… I don’t have a choice!”

“Then quit complainin’ if you aren’t going to just let it up.” He sneered, the tips of his canines poking from his upper lip. Sharp as they were lethal. “Do you really think helpin' Crowley— Helpin' any of us, will get you home faster, herbivore?" He spat out. Those jade green eyes of his flashed a form of hatred you didn't think possible, twisting into an acidic color. "D'ya think, for one second, we care enough to try?”

You flinched, taking a half step back. “…Huh?”

He tread closer in response, his strides consuming the distance between you as if it were nothing. “What progress has been made to get you home?”

Your mouth went dry. Nothing, some part of you told you to say. Instead, you glanced away, unable to look directly at him, only managing a close-lipped smile. “… Headmaster Crowley said that he was still researching. He has responsibilities to the school, you know?" You sounded as convinced as the expression on the beastmen's face.

“Is he, though? The man who nearly bolted to the mirror whenever came to winter vacation?”

“Well—" You started, but he was quicker.

“Is he the one studyin’ in the library whenever they have an ounce of free time?"

"No— but-" Words piled in your throat, arguments to thwart his claims. To prove that what you were doing was helpful for your cause, that Crowley was going to find a way, but none of them made sense strung together. Why didn't they make sense? You couldn't have been doing this for nothing, right? At the sight of Leona's quirked-up brow, practically egging you to go on, you blabbered, "He's busy! Okay?! I don't know! He's the headmaster!"

"You're smart, aren't you? You've survived this long. So get it through ya' thick, damn skull," Leona bellowed. "All you are is a damned pawn. Everyone can see it, so why can't you?"

"Crowley wouldn't. He promised."

"He lied." His voice sounded so close, it pierced your ears. "He's still lying." Closer, now.

No. That wasn't it. He, himself, was close, and when you shifted your gaze, risking a glance to meet his, something shattered in you at what you found.

It wasn't pity nor sympathy that loomed within them. It was blunt. Honest in a way you doubted anyone else could ever come close to. An attack that tore you to pieces better than any sword could, shattering everything and more in its path. His gaze, in that moment, could topple kingdoms, and people could still worship it as seven sent. And to think it'd come from a lion who lounged about the botanical garden like he owned the place, and practically maimed Grim, Deuce, and Ace in spelldrive.

“… Then what good am I if I can’t help others?" Your voice trembled around the edges. A husk of the confidence it'd once held at the start of this conversation. The conviction. Withered by revelations you'd not figured out fully. Not yet. "What am I supposed to be?”

Leona shrugged, drawing away from you. “Don’t go askin’ me. It’s your job to figure that stuff out. I ain't doing it…” He said, bored. Bored! "Go get a therapist or somethin'… Or Ruggie. He'd listen for a thaumark or two. Probably." He paused, looked you up and down, then muttered, purposefully loud enough for you to hear, "Probably not."

And then the prick walked—no, strutted away. Acting like he didn't dismantle your whole life, habits that were so etched into your psyche that you couldn't remember the last time you'd been selfish. Allowed yourself the pleasure of a break. Or even, why you forced yourself into helping so many, only to be let down time and time again, to the point it became a sickening running joke to you; to a point where you'd lost track of how many people walked all over you and then some more.

What a jag off. You thought as you bore holes into his retreating back.

He'd be a horrifically great, although morally corrupt, therapist. Stress your client out until all they want is to wring your neck, then bicker with them about their issues until they get it through their dense heads, was the next thought after he'd gotten far enough away, however traitorous it was.

You looked at your trembling hands that dangled uselessly at your sides. Still a jag off, though.

⤷ After that day, you blanked out for the entire week. Going over previous interactions during class. During anything, truly. Noticing patterns in the way people treated you, compared to what they would do to their friends. Reasons you were like this, why you were like this.

⤷ The first-years worried after the second day, even if they didn't show it outwardly; they stayed by your side, when you could only manage a small shrug in response to whatever they had to say. Letting you lean on them whenever you couldn't stand on your own, but giving you enough space so you could talk about it when you were able to.

⤷ Soon, you'd started to decline people whenever they claimed they so desperately needed your help. It was a slow start, and you certainly had your days when you snapped back into your former self, taking everything on your shoulders, pretending that you could deal with it, when you really couldn't. But you managed. Even if every instinct and sense in you screamed it was wrong. That someone probably despised you, all because you couldn't be at their beck and call.

⤷ With every boundary you'd rebuilt, with every firm no, people started to treat you more of a person, and not some robot people pushed things onto because they knew they could.

And one day, when Grim, who was loafed in your arms, groaned and said that the "lion" is watching again, you blinked. Consumed with confusion and just a tad curious, you turned your head, meeting emerald green eyes from across the corridor. Except it wasn't filled with irritation. Not wholly, at least. Somewhere within those eyes was a spark of something new, a thing you'd never thought possible before. Something akin to respect.

Though it faded quickly as Grim raised, standing on his hind legs, bellowing that he should quit starin' already. Any sort of mutual respect transformed into pure, undiluted annoyance within mere seconds. Dusted into sand. Gone. Probably never to happen again, even in your wildest dreams. Sevens damn you, Grimothy the 3rd. This fuzzball was gonna be the death of you.

But you couldn't help but catch the smirk that came across Leona's face as he turned the corner to the next hallway, when Grim had hopped down onto the ground with a pout, grumbling that the lazy lion was just amazed at his grandness.

⤷ Leona may not be the person who will help you figure yourself out, nor would he comfort you. Hell, you were sure he was gonna be the reason you overblotted countless times. You'd even written it down somewhere, blaming him and Crowley wholeheartedly for any mental turmoil you went through.

⤷ But he knew babying wouldn't get you far, not with how stubborn you could be, and he was almost certain those pesky first-years wouldn't abandon you for the hawks. And, only you could've made the change. All he did was become the catalyst, springing you forward.

⤷ Jade would be the quickest to find out. Particularly, through the duration of stalking careful observation of you during the three days of the contract with Azul, when he was tasked with foiling your plans for snatching the photograph from the museum. Keeping track of your movements, noticing traits and habits as you set off to free your poor, unfortunate friends.

⤷ He'd been aware of your incessant need to help others, or even, accept tasks that were far too grand or heavy to bear alone. It was impossible not to. He'd heard it through the grapevine that was Night Raven College's gossip group. As you grew in popularity after the Heartslabyul and Savannaclaw Overblots, it was hard not to hear about your fervor for it.

⤷ It was a rarity alone in the Night Raven College to witness such a person, so willing to help others, despite rarely ever gaining anything in return. Another thing whenever you account for how vicious the sea could be. Oh, what was that saying land dwellers spoke of? Dog eat dog world? Something similar to the sort. A strange saying, when compared to the sea, but it fit well enough.

⤷ However… It was a whole other thing to witness it in live action. Such a person.

The first time he noticed something unusual about you was during the very conversation with Azul, when you sold your home for the price of 215 students' freedoms, which wasn't even a guarantee.

The smile propped on your face was hesitant, but still appeared easy-going, as he loomed in the corner beside his twin brother, watching as you heard the conditions for freeing the students. A wolf beastman sat beside you on one of the lounges, eyebrows furrowed so low Jade was convinced they'd reach his cupid's bow if they dipped any further. The companion you had from the other day, if the eel remembered correctly, whenever the hoard of anemones collected like fungi in the lounge.

Jade's hands were folded in front of him, with impeccable form as Floyd leaned back on the shelves behind them. Not yet fully putting his weight on it, but enough where it made a difference in the two's posture.

As the wolf beastman's teeth bared at the idea of putting Ramshackle as collateral, your face remained calm, never shifting into one of fear or full-blown worry. Neutral, despite the demands asked of you. Unusual, but Jade couldn't put his finger on why. Were you unable to process it fully? He supposed that'd made sense.

Until the door slammed open, emerging a small ball of bubbles that was more soap than cat, who nearly hacked up suds as he yowled about accepting the contract, loathing working in such a despicable environment. Rude. But Jade figured not everyone could handle the consequences of their own actions. Even direbeasts, apparently.

That was the first time he saw your expression change, and you didn't even have to look over your shoulder to see who it was. As soon as you heard a thunk of the door, your face morphed into a grimace for just a split second. So quick, he was convinced he imagined it at first. Except his eyes never failed him before, unless he'd found a particularly strange mushroom in the forest that emitted such an effect.

Hum.

⤷ Yet. That could've been explained. Seeing your dorm mate in such a sight, especially amidst a discussion of forking over your living arrangements for an expansion of a cafe, could've caused anyone to make such a sour expression. Even his eye would twitch, ever so slightly, if Floyd had done the same to him.

⤷ So, he didn't think much of it, filing it away, storing the information for later if need be. But something was still nagging him about how swift the action was. As if it were practiced. Not realizing a day later, he would find out why it seemed so natural for you.

The hallway was bustling with students without an end in sight. The school day, coming to an end. When people scurried to their clubs and friends or committed to their studies within the library. A good chunk, cursed to the Mostro Lounge. Floyd was already long gone, beckoned by Azul to deal with the anemones that were dragged back to the Mostro Lounge, abandoning him to keep watch of the Ramshackle Perfect, to which Floyd dragged his feet about.

Jade wasn't far from you, at a careful distance to make sure you weren't plotting something after rooming in Savannaclaw, and your previous interaction, finding out that he was a moray eel. Mixed in between students, lurking, as a predator would their prey.

Except… Not so violent of a situation.

A student came up to you. A Pomefiore student, he concluded, by the grape color of their vest, and the royal purple and crimson ribbon that was tied to their left arm, carrying a stack of books. Average height, with gray hair as loosely styled as his uniform. A pompous and arrogant expression was plastered onto his face, enough to make anyone scowl at the mere sight of it.

His voice rang out loud enough to where Jade could hear how boisterous it was, even if the sentences were not entirely tangible, echoing down the corridor. Stating that he was "Terribly busy," "Totally will owe you one," and "if you did this tiny favor." You nodded curtly at him before the Pomefiore student slid the stack of books into your arms.

Yet he didn't stop.

In fact, he became more talkative, even when you stepped away, attempting to flee, but trapped in a societal cage, knowing damn well he'd call you foul nicknames as soon as you scampered away if you left too quickly. A fountain, except only praise poured out of him instead of water, until you finally managed to round the corner. Leaving the student as he waved goodbye.

When he strode closer, resuming his pursuit, the student stayed there. His arms crossed over his chest. Passing him, Jade had noticed a sly, almost knowing smirk out of the corner of his eye before he turned on his heel, waving to his friends that he was now "free" to hang out. How the perfect, in his stead, took the task to return the books to the library.

How interesting… How he knew that you would've taken the bait.

Just how much of a reputation do you have for helping others, Perfect?

A hum escaped him at the thought, turning his attention back ahead of him. Only to find a desolate hallway with one soul to roam it. You, who sagged against the wall as if all of your energy had been depleted in a single interaction. His eyes widened at the sight, and even more so whenever he stepped closer, when he heard all of the grumbles that spilled from you. Words you'd never voice aloud, but to yourself. Where no one could hear your true opinion of them.

"Why can't these people ever do their own work?"

"If they can't even handle this, I feel bad for their future employers who'll have to deal with them… They'll be fired within minutes."

"Man… Nepo babies suck."

The corners of Jade's mouth quirked upward, his head tilting just a fraction. So, this was how you truly felt. Before he knew it, he was right behind you, a grin evident on his face, "Ah, Dear Perfect, are you in need of any assistance?" He said, pointing toward the hardcovers that went just above your collarbones, adding, "Those appear to be quite hefty…"

You leapt out of your skin at the sound of his voice, whirling around, only to find the very eel who booted you out of your house, but smart enough to retain your usual demeanor within milliseconds. "No thanks. I'm good! Just a… Few books. Nothing too strenuous." But your smile was a little too bright; your voice, an octave too high. As if you weren't sure how to react to him—like he was an anomaly, and you were standing on uncharted territory, where your mask couldn't yet solidify into what you needed of it.

"But I insist. After all, it'd be cruel not to help another in need."

"Really, I'll survive! Just gotta-" Before you managed to slip away yet again, he snagged half of the mass of hardcovers, so effortlessly you couldn't help but stare at his back as he sauntered off, without even a shred of hesitancy; momentarily dumbfounded. Realizing he was already at the next fork in the road, you must've snapped out of it, racing up to his side, leveling your expression back seamlessly. Not before whispering under your breath that he was gonna end up taking both your dormitory and your kidney for this, of course.

All the while, he played coy, with that stupidly polite smile on his face. Just as unreadable as the faux grin that was plastered onto yours.

⤷ From that day on, there was a strange sort of enthrallment that bubbled within him about you. How far you could be pushed until you snapped, one of his loudest, whenever he watched you bounce around from place to place. Helping people study. Grabbing entire grocery hauls from Sam's shop for people.

⤷ But he always managed to slither in before you started foaming at the mouth, whether it'd be by assisting you with your truckload of assignments or scaring the person off. You always did wonder why he did. Why didn't he ask for payment in turn? Wasn't it a perfect case for giving you 25% charge for his time? Azul would've been irked if he found out Jade missed out on such an opportunity.

⤷ Even outwardly asked him once. Only to receive a question instead. "Why don't you charge others for yours?" Truly a mystery, one neither of you may find out.

⤷ A strange match, the two of you are.

⤷ Floyd, in some way, did realize that you were exhausted, ever since your first few interactions. But not in the way that you actually were, how others treated you.

⤷ From his perspective, he'd thought it was only directed at him, never taking into account that you didn't grumble under your breath, believing he couldn't hear you, with anyone else. That your irritation, like with everyone else that had met him, came from his own inexplicable hot and cold personality instead of a trait rooted in your very essence. Something that crept under your skin, even prior to Night Raven College.

⤷ Didn't know that with every new order, assignment, and errand placed atop your shoulders, another pebble added to the collection. A weight that felt like it'd never relent, only accumulated as the days progressed. Made you wearier. Because people never pushed you around whenever Floyd was skulking by. They feared to, in some manner. They knew that he despised it when his toys, his entertainment, his shrimpy, were messed with by others.

⤷ So, he'd poke and prod, obliviously. Laugh as you grouched to yourself when you set off on one of his downright stupid tasks that made little to no sense sometimes. Only to surprise him when you returned from whatever expedition he sent you on now, accomplishing it with flying colors, to a point where he wondered if you did have some mystical force within you, encouraging that inquisitive nature he had. To see how much he could push until you finally couldn't secure his foolish wishes. To figure out why.

⤷ Only to find your driving force was spite. And maybe self-deprecation. Probably self-deprecation.

It was lunchtime. Where people collected like families of fish in the hallways and the cafeteria, or sat by themselves, preferring solace over the fast-paced world and drama from friend groups. Or maybe, left alone, abandoned because of a strange illness or flu that overtook their buddy, living only their existence in a crowd, and breaking apart their beloved routine.

The moray eel didn't know. He didn't really care, either. Even if he was, just like them, deserted. Left alone in these corridors. A sole eel, in a crowd of land dwellers of all kinds.

Well. No. Technically, he left Azul and Jade in the lunchroom himself, not feeling like grabbing a snack or anything… Nor did he find anything interesting going on in the lunch room, any people he wanted to be around. Even bothering goldfishie seemed like a waste of time… But that was besides the point, y'know? Let him lament.

But the minnows in the halls were just as boring as the ones who ate in blissful peace, safe from whatever antics Floyd was conducting inside his head. Chatting with one another. Scampering into different classrooms to ask one of the professors a question. Flinching whenever he came into their line of sight before hunching over, hoping he didn't notice; cowering away.

A huff escaped him at the sight, a prominent frown etching deep into his face. Man… He never realized how borin' this place could be sometimes. Was everyone this aggravating all the time? He'd round a corner, only to come across the hallway to his greatest enemy… The library.

The place where even a hushed whisper would get you aggressively and synchronizedly shushed at by every single person in the room, including the many dust bunnies that collected on tomes older than the school itself. Where hopes and dreams of turning a new leaf, becoming an honors student, came to wither and die. Every whiff was a newfound urge to sneeze uncontrollably, where saying watermelon became futile, where people broke records of "most sneezes in a minute."

Even the dark oak door was set ajar, creaking every time the wind blew past, before turning back to its original stance. A beckoning hand, urging people to enter, despite the sounds of weeping looming within it.

He took one look at it, squinted, before going to storm past it. Yeah. Nah. Last time he went in there, the ghosts banished him without a second thought, threatening detention with Professor Red Squid again. He ain't trying that again. He already got yelled at too much for sleeping in Magic History enough; soon, he'd have no ears to talk off.

But he couldn't help but glance in when he passed by, raking his gaze over the scenery many supposedly found "comfort" in. A thing he'd never understood himself from the blasted place, way too quiet…

Floating leather hardcover books and candles. Endless shelved tomes, with one shelf's end carrying splotches of dried crimson—probably someone slamming their head into it from stress. The wails of people studying for their upcoming tests. Wooden decks perched with hunched over students, scribbling down information like their lives depended on it. Carpeted floors that were thicker than the overgrown grass in his brother's terrarium, which Jade claimed was "useful for the environment." Oh. A Shrimpy with their lil baby seal. Talking to some guy.

Huh. That's kinda new. But still. Usual stuff. Nothin' too fun.

He kept walking. Until it hit him, a moment later.

Shrimpy?

He paused. Retreated a few steps. Peered back into the library. And there you were, conversing with one of your peers, Baby Seal at your ankles with his arms crossed, the tip of his forked tail swishing as wildly as a pelican stuck in a whirlpool. You were at the opposite end of the library, your back faced to the door, but he'd still recognize you anywhere, even from a quick, meaningless glance.

Yet the other person he wasn't familiar with. Wasn't the dull red of Crabby's hair or Mackerel's navy blue, the two who usually hung around you. He couldn't see the color of their uniform, either, with you blocking the guy. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was that you were acting strangely. Subconscious habits he'd taken notice of when he'd messed around with you, waiting for how you'd react, were on full display. Ones others would overlook without a second thought.

How your fingers twitched ever so slightly, changing between messing with the hem of your makeshift uniform and cracking your knuckles; to a point, even in the minute he witnessed, he was convinced your knuckles were gonna merge together from stress or fall apart. Your foot tapping incessantly in between the many desk and chair legs as if you couldn't wait to be done with this conversation.

Maybe you just couldn't stand still. He couldn't, often. That made sense. A lot of people couldn't.

But something tasted sour about it, nagging at him, and he didn't like it…

He slithered into the cracked doorway, careful to avoid pushing it too far. Past desks and bookshelves, where people barely tore their gaze away from their textbooks, and if they did, it wasn't for long. His footsteps were nimble, despite his height, the plush carpet cushioning the soles of his shoes.

From this range, he could take notice of the bright cherry colored vest, with gleaming gold buttons—a Heartslabyul student. He skulked closer, and closer, dangerously silent, until he peered over your shoulder. Staring, blatantly, like he wasn't going to stop until the Heartslabyul student forked over his wallet. Or soul. Both, probably.

The Heartslabyul student stuttered, glancing upward toward the eel, meeting his mismatched gleaming irises. Taking in his sharp, pin-prick teeth peering from his lightly parted lips. And Floyd watched as all of the breath from the student came out into a drawn, shuttered breath, retreating until his back slammed against a wall, and further; trying to meld himself into it. To disappear, and pretend he'd never walked up to you.

"Eh? Are you finally stricken by my brilliance?" The feline-shaped monster preened, a smirk overtaking his face. "Can you believe that, henchman? Demandin' all sortsa' stuff—" Only to wither whenever he looked to his side, noticing a pair of legs that his henchman did not just randomly sprout. "Oh, it's this one…" Grim grumbled.

When you turned, perplexed as to why the person in front of you practically leapt out of his skin, and Grim's sudden solemn tone, you squinted at Floyd, studying him with a pinched look. But you weren't quick enough to witness the biting chill of his glare; instead, you were met with a lopsided, lax grin. As if he'd not wilted a man with a mere look. "What are you doing?" You asked, but before he could utter a word, you hissed out, as if you came to the sudden, terrifying realization, "Weren't you banned from the library?"

Floyd beamed, "Temporarily."

"… Ghosts said for two weeks, y'know? Not a day n' a half," Grim muttered, his ears flat against his round, fuzzy head.

Floyd shrugged. "Ehh… They can't be that mad. Who can ban a student from a library anyh—"

"Intruder!" A ghost shrieked, spotting the teal-haired student.

"The library is off-limits!" Another caroled, mist coiling around them like they were a ballerina, their drifting a dance no living soul could replicate.

"How dare you encroach upon our sanctuary!" One bemoaned, their ghostly figure trembling at the edges.

"Your banishment is not yet lifted!" And lastly, the leader of the four, bellowed. Ghostly glasses perched on the bridge of their nose. Did ghosts even need glasses?

As soon as the roar of the ghosts shot out, shattering the peaceful cove that was the library as they phased through the desks. Aiming directly for the moray eel. You three looked at the apparitions. Your eye twitching ever so slightly, Floyd's dumb grin still plastered on his face, Grim, already plotting to run for the hills or damn the place in eternal flame.

You risked a glance at Floyd, and when he met your eyes, your face contorted into one of genuine, pure irritation. "No. Don't you do it." You pointed your finger at him, accusation heavy in your eyes. But in Floyd fashion, he ignored every bit of warning in your gaze that told him you were gonna swat him later for this, or snitch to Riddle that he was bullying one of his students.

He picked you up. Hoisted you over his shoulder. Yoinked Grim by the scruff before slinging him in the crevice between his side and inner elbow. And bolted out of the library, despite your incessant shrieking that this was, as you deemed it, "shrimpy-napping." The ghosts following behind.

⤷ But from that day on, Floyd Leech became a constant in your life. More so than he was before, which you didn't think was possible. Always trailing behind you with his hands in his pockets, looming over your shoulder with the kind of vicious glare that promised he'd bite dozens of holes into anything that irritated you. Except him, of course. Maybe Baby Seal too, n' your other lil freshmen friends. He liked 'em enough. Sometimes. Depended on his mood.

⤷ And even when he wasn't around due to the Mostro Lounge or during classes, rumors always seemed to float about. That messing with you would lead to someone doomed to servitude in the Mostro Lounge one way or another, or fish food. Whether that was Floyd himself or an actual trout, there was no clear answer.

⤷ Great job, Perfect. You've scored yourself a glorified guard eel who's threatened to squeeze at least 1/3 of the school for you, who gets paid by annoying the living hell out of you. Seriously, why does he keep grinning like a fool whenever his around you? You're beginning to think his up to something, and everyone knows that whatever the eel is plotting is never good.

⤷ Honestly, maybe overworking yourself was the better deal here. Maybe Azul will take him back if you beg enough.

⤷ Good luck, Perfect?

⤷ Malleus, I feel like, wouldn't notice for a while. Not because he lacks a sort of observational skill to realize, but because he does eventually notice signs of your exhaustion, even if he presumes it's not as deep-rooted as it really is at first.

⤷ But it'd probably be because of his upbringing being more sheltered than others, paired with the fact that he never hangs out around you as often as the rest of your peers and friends. For they'll never act the way they do in front of you, never be the same in front of the Prince of Briar. He didn't even know if you would change, too, when you became aware of his title, his prowess. Or maybe when he'd start to notice a shift in your demeanor, too.

⤷ So, it didn't feel wise to interact further than the occasional interaction when you'd stumble into each other in front of your dormitory. An upcoming event. The nighttime walks, whenever you just needed to get away from everything and everyone. Small things.

⤷ But the first time he noticed something was off was during one of his nightly "nocturnal constitutionals."

The night was bleak, overcast with a thick layer of impenetrable clouds. The moon was shrouded in the mist, only peering out through sheer, murky splotches of cream white before becoming elusive once more. The stars, not so lucky, unable to twinkle and shine down upon the world. Leaving it in a gloomy darkness, only able to be navigated through tremendous effort or artificial light.

Night Raven College was eerily silent, an unusual feat, seemingly without a soul in sight, including the more… incorporeal ones that roamed about, past their life spans. The crickets refused to chirp their melody, instead choosing to bask in the serenity of the time. Even his own footsteps sounded muted against the stone bricks, without even a thud or click of his heels to announce his presence, as if he were a mere specter, doomed to amble endlessly amongst the people.

Unable and unaware that he wasn't to be seen with a mortal eye.

The deteriorating dormitory, Ramshackle, loomed ahead of him. Its familiarity, despite the state, was oddly comforting, even with the roof crumbling, the windows either shattered or threatening to collapse if someone even attempted to clean it with a rag, held together with cobwebs. Spiders, creeping in through the holes, residing there as if it were their own.

But it was different, now. More… Homely, compared to how desolate it used to be—though it'd not changed much structurally.

Only small changes that made the dusty dormitory seem lived in. Surrounding grass no longer brushed up just below his knees, however patchy it looked in some spots, considering the tenant only held a scythe for a garden tool. The small, cute little welcome mat with paw prints stamped on it at the entryway, just before the rusty wood door that creaked unsettlingly every time someone opened it, audible from the sidewalk. The potted plants that dotted the area—likely stolen from the botanical gardens—so it didn't look like only a bunch of ghosts lived there.

Well. Not only a bunch of ghosts lived there.

Malleus wasn't even certain why he veered in this direction, down the twisting pathways that appeared to go on perpetually. He'd planned to visit the other side of the school grounds, toward the befallen ruins of what was once a ballroom; now a husk of its once ornate beauty, in shambles from lack of care. Yet something drew him here. Fate, perhaps. A captivating force not to be reckoned with, though he was not certain the reason why it'd beckoned him out this far. This way.

But to his surprise, once he came to the edge of the property, he noticed a hunched-over figure over one of the plants, cradling what looked to be a withered leaf within their hand. Possibly one from the stolen foliage. He squinted, focusing his eyes on the shadowed figure, only to find the person who loomed in the halls of such a place, who made it possible to make a haunted, abandoned place seem less ragged. The infamous Ramshackle Perfect. You. Without the fuzzy companion that always seemed to trail behind you or was carried in your arms.

Malleus couldn't see the entirety of your face from his position, only your side profile, but something was odd about you this night. Your eyes, which were usually filled with a sense of inexplicable determination, were diminished. Vacant, almost, as you pinched the leaf into your pointer and thumb, watching the way it crumbled beneath your firm touch before the pieces glided away at the brush of the wind. Your expression, solemn. Exhausted-looking.

Maybe it was that sight that made him take a step back, away from you.

Maybe it was the way you tensed whenever you heard the crunch of leaves, as if you were expecting something—someone—to disrupt you. Your shoulders hunched up, tight as a bowstring just before the arrow launched and burrowed itself into its target. The way you held your breath, waiting for the shoe to drop, that made him turn his heel.

Or maybe it was the way you sagged right after, a guttural sigh of relief that felt as ancient and intangible as he, after realizing that it was a squirrel or rabbit that scurried through the gardens that made him flee, his form whisked away, carried away by the wind. Leaving sparks of emerald light trailing behind. Ones you mistook for the illumination of fireflies, dancing within the breeze that swept through, and not the fae prince you'd befriended months prior.

⤷ Malleus didn't know, and he doubted you'd ever wish for him to find out. Perhaps you were simply tired that night.

⤷But he knew of your actions, the rumors that circulated around you just as much as they did him. Knew from Lilia how "brave" and "courageous" that little Ramshackle Perfect was whenever he'd go on some new story that he'd heard in the halls. Fending off Overblots when you were magic-less.

⤷ But he saw it especially in the few interactions he had with you, too.

⤷ How the days when you dragged your feet to Ramshackle after school, when you hadn't yet seen him. The dark spots underneath your eyes, weariness clinging to them as Grim ran up ahead of you, desperate to get home, complaining aloud how you shouldn't have said you'd tutor those students. Resembling the books he'd read, years back, when he was just a child, on forbidden magics, the lifelessness of the undead.

⤷ Only to snap back into the person everyone else knew when you caught him. With a smile that seemed to twitch at the corners, never quite reaching your eyes, when you greeted him.

⤷ From that day on, Diasomnia students often appeared at your side. Helping you wherever they could, and taking tasks that other students and professors delegated to you to deal with. One common helper was a mint-haired first-year who, for some reason, always went off about how his actions were all for "Waka-sama" or his "liege." How humans could never understand how gracious his prince was, all with a glimmer in his eye, devotion bleeding into his every word and action. Hell, even his aura, at this rate.

Now, Jade Leech. How would one describe such an eel? Asking around, a single description is simply impossible: humble to strangers, calculating to peers, and duplicitous to poor unfortunate souls who have gotten in his way (many of us are forever scarred). However, there is one more, rather unlikely exception to the picture—stressed greatly by his very own twin brother, childhood friend and closest of peers. Smitten. Absolutely and devastatingly so.

That’s right, fellow students of NRC! Rumour has it the Jade Leech, vice-Housewarden of Octivanelle and right hand man of Azul Ashengrotto, has fallen in love.

In the words of the Scarabia Housewarden, Kalim Al-Asim himself, one of Jade’s (self proclaimed) Best friends: “Jade? Oh, Jamil’s not very fond of him, ahaha! I think he’s a great guy, he seems to have a crush on (name)! Huh? No way, they’re dating?? THAT’S SO CUTE, I SHOULD THROW A PARTY TO CELEBRATE THEM!”

Later confirmed by Housewarden Rosehearts, it is revealed that the identity of the lucky(?) lover is our school’s very own (name) Schoenheit! Congratulations to the happy couple!

Following such joyous news, we went around collecting congratulations.

Ace Trappola (Heartslabyul 1st year) : “(name)-senpai and Jade-senpai are dating!? Hey Deuce! Get over here!!”

Deuce Spade (Heartslabyul 1st year) :

“What? THEY’RE DATING?!”

Scarabia B-kun (Scarabia _ year) :

“Ugh, I found out a while ago when I caught them ###### and #### in an empty classroom during club hours… Leech glared at me so hard, I’m still fearing for my life.”

Yuu (Ramshackle prefect) :

“…I’m sorry??? The (name)-senpai? Benevolent and beautiful (name)-senpai is dating Jade-senpai..? Oh, oh! That explains so much!”

Azul Ashengrotto (Octavinelle Housewarden) :

“Yes, a truly joyous event… I have no qualms with their decision to be together, however Jade needs to stop leaving the mostro longue just to go see her during his shifts.”

Floyd Leech (Octavinelle 2nd year) :

“Eh? Jade and (name)? I couldn’t care less… ah, but sometimes I just wanna squeeze the two of them so hard. Jade always has this weird look whenever he’s around (name)… it’s really gross. Not to mention how he keeps—“

Vil Schoenheit (Pomefiore Housewarden) :

“I am aware of my little flower being with Jade, yes. He came to me asking permission to date her after all. Congratulations to the two of them, I suppose…”

There are many notes of celebration for the couple (Buy the Night Raven Rumours magazine: volume 3. For more!) and through it all there is one fact that seems to stand out to everyone around the couple: Jade Leech is hopelessly devoted to his (name). We wish the happy couple all the best!!

-Night Raven Rumours, by nrc’s student paper

——//——

“Sevens!” You laugh out loud, hands crinkling the edges of the mini-magazine in your hands. “Jade, did you read the free copy of this month’s Night Raven Rumours? There’s a whole article about us!”

Jade’s chuckle resonates from his spot by his desk, where he works on another one of his terrariums. He peers up, allowing his gaze to trace over the way you sprawl across his bed. “Indeed, it is quite intriguing. That reminds me, my dear, would you like me to buy the full volume so you may read over all the other comments?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful! I heard Riddle was interviewed as well… what do you think he said? ‘(name) keeps Jade in check, so I must say my thanks’.” You jest half-heartedly, sitting up and placing the article on Jade’s bedside table. “Not so far from the truth, no?”

Your semi-accurate interpretation earns a grin from your boyfriend, who suddenly stalks up towards you before lowering his knees to the floor and pressing a chaste kiss to your nose. “Well, I’m more fascinated by the final statement about my love for you.”

You return the sentiment before he can pull away fully, redirecting his attention straight to your lips.

“Heh, I don’t believe it to be wrong at all.” You mutter out in between the kiss, hands caressing his jaw. “I know well that I am the apple of your eye.”

“Ufufu,” Jade smirks, lips meeting yours again in a fervour. His sharp teeth nibbling slightly at your bottom lip, tantalising you deeper into the kiss. “Certainly, you truly are, my dearest.”

🌊𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝🪸

MEET THE CAST ⟡

mondstadt : a nation known for it’s beautiful landscapes, military prowess & flourishing commerce.

⟡ prince lohen : king varka’s adopted “son”, the heir to mondstadt’s throne and your fiancé. many criticised varka for choosing lohen to carry on the rule over mondstadt, but he’s proven himself countless times to be a master strategist, and an excellent leader. charismatic and charming, much to your annoyance. born into nobility.

⟡ prince durin : varka’s youngest adopted son. sort of timid, but very sweet. a shame his adopted older brother isn’t like him, huh?

⟡ king varka : mondstadt’s king. famous for being a benevolent ruler and listening to his people and infamous for never having biological children of his own. adopted lohen as a toddler following his parents tragic passing. you don’t trust him at first, but he seems nice enough.

⟡

inazuma : your homeland. a prosperous nation famous for it’s deep rooted culture, expansive trade and unique islands.

⟡ emperor ayato : your older brother. he took on the responsibility of emperor from a young age, but is well liked amongst your people. unafraid to pull certain strings behind the scenes to get his way. very protective of his family. childless and unmarried, though he seems to have his eyes set on his personal assistant …

⟡ princess ayaka : your older sister. elegant, graceful and adored by inazuma. you get along with her much better than you do with ayato. a sort of enigma amongst the people due to her reluctance to reveal certain aspects about herself. may or may not be sneaking around with one of the daughters of the businessmen.

author’s note — more characters are included, but these characters are the important ones for the beginning. i’ll make a hierarchy post later if y’all gaf

you'd established a little routine between the two of you a few months after that. after classes, mydei would drive the two of you to the gym, work out, go to either the library or a cafe to "lock in" for a few hours, then you'd get dinner together.

one day, while at the gym, as he was doing single-arm dumbbell rows, one knee and hand on the bench as he lifted 120lbs, and you were doing 350lbs on the leg press, a shout tore through your headphones' music.

"hey blond guy! yeah you! lift me next!"

mydei stared, hand frozen mid-lift, as he just has a blank look on his face, "no, thank you," he says bluntly, "please go find someone else to ask."

you, who also paused mid-push, just pursed your lips and looked away to keep yourself from laughing in his face.

too bad for you, he saw it. the next thing you know, he's already adding two more plates to your load.

"a-ah! mydei, too heavy! enough weight, please, i'm sorry!" but you were still trying not to laugh and he only narrowed his eyes at you and locked the plates in.

oh, but you never did let that incident go.

now, everytime mydei does his single-arm dumbbell rows, you whisper-shout the same line. every. single. time.

it's gone to the point that it's been incorporated into your routine now, before mydei does those rows, he looks to you smiling stupid and trying not to laugh as you whisper shout the same words to him.

"hey blond guy! yes you! lift me next!" you hush down your giggles as you deliver the line and he only looks at you amused, rolls his eyes, and carries on with his rows.

never would you expect that he'd actually be serious about it.

this time, right after you deliver the line, instead of just continuing on with his set, he puts the dumbbell down and places his hands on his hips.

"you wanna try?"

you stare at him for a few seconds in shock before bursting into laughter, "pfft, oh my god, you're actually gonna lift me?"

he shrugs, "why not?"

"i bet you can't," you tease and he just smiles down at you.

"wanna test that theory out?"

before you knew it, you were already laying down on the ground, hands curled underneath your thighs as mydei hooks his arm underneath yours.

"ready?" he asks, hair falling down his face as he looks at you from beneath him.

you only nod and laugh, expecting him to struggle when he starts, but oh, girl, we're you proven wrong.

mydei lifts you like you weighed nothing, pulling you up and lowering you down without even panting or huffing. he makes it look like it he was lifting a ten-pound dumbbell instead.

"keep your head up, you might hit it on the floor," he even says in the middle of the third set.

by the end, he makes a comment that you're not sure how to take:

"you're good weight, we should do this again."

and as he puts you down, you're trying to will the blush you just know is on your cheeks, not meeting mydei's eyes as he puts his hands on his hips and smirks at you.

"so? i can't lift you, huh?" he says in that self-assured tone of his, the one where he knows he's absolutely right and wants to rub it into your face.

you wave him away, "yeah, yeah, whatever, blondielocks."

mydei raises an eyebrow at the nickname but gets his usual dumbbell (now 135 lbs) and continues on with his workout.

you'd think that he wasn't serious with his post-set comment, but again, you were talking to the guy who made it his goal to deadlift the 350 lbs barbell his friend said he couldn't do.

from that day on, it was as if mydei had made it his personal mission to lift you as much as he could.

in the gym, when you stayed on the floor after a particularly long planking session, he swept an arm underneath you and carried you in one arm, scolding you all the while.

"don't lay there, it's dirty, other people's sweat and grime are probably embedded into those mats, we don't know how well they clean those."

he wouldn't listen to you even as you told him to put you down.

eventually, you got used to it, to the point that after you do pull-ups at the bar, you'd hang and drop down into his waiting arm (he spots you, okay?? ><).

but what surprised you, was that he started doing it even outside the gym. you two are on a grocery run for pasta night and you want something on a high shelf? he won't reach it himself, no. he'd drop down on a knee, arm out, waiting for you to sit on it, so he could lift you up.

(who are you to say no to that??)

you're both going to be late for a lecture and the professor is a terror who's a stickler for being on-time? best believe he's already scooping you up into his arms and running towards that lecture room.

and don't even get me started when you fall asleep in his car on the way home.

he won't think twice before pulling off your keys from your ID lace and using one arm to carry you up into your dorm room, unlocking the door with his other as your bag hangs off of it, and tucking you into bed.

and if someday you ask how he's even able to lift you so easily and he answers: "remember when i asked you for your weight?"

"like three weeks into our friendship?" he nods, "i used it as practice weight."

oh, you're screwed.

usagi's note: moral of the story, don't underestimate a gym rat (who's also lowk (not rlly) into you)'s ability to lift you. SEE YOU NEXT WEEK GUYS MWA BYE!

@usagiarchive 2025. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.

“That instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.”

She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, “I was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.”

“I am, only when those new things aren’t looking like they could come alive any second though.” you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.

“Aglaea is out for blood again.” you mumble as you take a seat across from her, “She has a whole theme for the finals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.”

Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, “You say it like that’s not the case.”

You huff a laugh. “Either way, it’s not that much of a problem,” and gesture to yourself with confidence, “I’ll get it done in no time.”

Contrary to your prior statement—and the belief you’ve carefully cultivated with your past achievements—you do not, in fact, get it done in no time.

It’s funny, maybe—or more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.

But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: It’s not in your favor.

You’ve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks… You name it.

You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castorice’s performances, but alas, nothing came out of it—which surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.

You sometimes wonder how she’d have done as an art major—and feel a little relieved she didn’t, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.

A week passes in futile endeavors. And it’s not like you’re running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasn’t any problem to solve, because there wasn’t a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.

Just when you were starting to think you might’ve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.

It’s early in the morning when you’re pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.

Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, he’s next to you.

“Oh, great timing.” Phainon smiles in greeting, “I was about to call you.”

You drop your bag to the floor, it didn’t want to be carried anyways. “Call me? What for?”

“I’m invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?”

You tilt your head slightly,“Concert?”

“You haven’t heard? It’s all over the campus bulletin boards.” Phainon’s eyes widen in disbelief, “It’s this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.” he spreads his hands to emphasize, “We have quite a few joining from our school as well.”

At first, you want to argue. Say it’s going to be a headache and you don’t have the time. Which isn’t exactly wrong. You’re all for music and art and performances, that’s true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, you’re not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.

“I’d love to come, Phai,” you start, already shaking your head in rejection, “But I’m working on Aglaea’s final.”

“Wow.” he raises his eyebrows, “Using art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?”

You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, “Unfortunately, it’s true this time. I’m kind of struggling with this one.”

He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, ‘You? Struggling?’

“Damn, must be a real kicker then.”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” you sigh, “But now I can’t even find the proper inspiration to start. It’s like—It just doesn’t click.” You shake your head in frustration.

Your dear friend must’ve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.

“Tell you what,” he tips his chin, “Come to this performance with me, and maybe it’ll help with your process.”

You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.

“You’re struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.” a confident smile forms on his lips, “A stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.”

And that’s how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.

It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.

And then there was you.

The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with it’s reflection.

Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasn’t a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess that’s the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.

Speaking of Phainon, he wasn’t there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but you’ll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.

The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.

A woman’s flute solo, another one’s piano… It was all so beautiful.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didn’t promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you haven’t tried before and even if you didn’t get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.

But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.

Your pencil stops.

Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like they’re scared to see what’s up there.

Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.

You don’t get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what you’ve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.

It’s enchanting, it’s foreign—and you feel yourself drawn to it.

The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyes…

Just what is this?

Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, it’s impossible to miss it.

Hear me, he’s whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?

Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrument—delicate, yet present. He seems… scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.

He’s either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.

His gaze stays low, he doesn’t look up, doesn’t let anything else catch his attention. It’s obvious. On that stage, it’s just him, his violin, and music.

When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if they’re all in agreement, all know what’s happening. Like they’re conversing, like they’re playing out a script written carefully.

The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the piano’s notes fall like feathers.

And at the center of it all, him.

His violin cries.

You don’t know how he does it, or what that even means. But you’re certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if it’s at the end of it’s days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.

Just like what you were searching for—vulnerable.

After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.

People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. That’s when you know—

You’ve found it.

You don’t even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.

You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if you’re being pulled after him.

But when you finally reach the place, he isn’t there.

Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But you’re only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.

You feel your eyes burn again. This can’t be it right? Surely you find him somehow.

Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, and—a hand on your shoulder?

“What are you doing here?”

Oh, it’s him.

“Phainon?” your eyes widen, you didn’t even realize he was standing there.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the main halls?” he asks confused, “Did I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” you shake your head, “I just—I needed to look for someone.”

“Look for someone?” his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, “Who?”

“The blond guy with red hair? The violinist.” you search his eyes, “It’s him. I need him.”

“Okay,” he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, “Mydei is cool and all but—wow, didn’t know you were into that.”

“Not like that!” you snap, then pause, “Wait, Mydei? That’s his name?”

“Yep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.” he tilts his head, “He’s one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isn’t he?”

He goes to the same school as you?

“From us?” your eyes widen, “You know him? Can you introduce me to him?”

Phainon grins knowingly, “Found what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” you nod your head firmly, certain and final, “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.

He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didn’t get along at first—like, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.

“And now?” you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, “How are the two of you now?”

“Me and Mydei?” he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, “Well… We definitely aren’t like that anymore.”

“Are you close though?”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of his—then it shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

This guys is impossible to get a moment with.

Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydei’s contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon let’s you know when he’s most available in his schedule—which feels even more wrong—so you have a chance to catch him around the campus.

But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:

I’m busy right now. Will text back when I’m available.

Great. An automated message. And what’s with the cold tone?

You don’t want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely don’t want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with him—if you have one, that is.

So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide you’re not just going to sit still and pray.

After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.

No wonder he feels so out of reach.

He started playing when he was very young, but wasn’t really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesn’t say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.

It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if he’s reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing he’s much more closer to you then you thought.

You weren’t allowed to record during the concerto either, so all you’re left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isn’t enough to give you what you need.

Despite your attempts, you can’t seem to get to Mydei.

Then one morning, when you’re making your way to school—kicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you go—you catch a glimpse of something gold.

Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and green—and you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.

Could it be?

It’s only for a short second, and if you hadn’t raised you head just at the right moment, you would’ve missed it.

He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.

You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights ago—out of breath and desperate. He’s not going the same direction as you, but that doesn’t matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.

When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. He’s wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.

He’s walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But then—

“Ow.”

Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.

“Sorry,” he says simply, “I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there aren’t any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?

“It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”

He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.

You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that he’s in front of you, you realize you don’t really know how to talk to him.

“So,” he starts, “Did you want something?”

Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didn’t allow you to do.

And you realize, he’s handsome—or beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You can’t help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or… maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.

His hair catches your attention next—bright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.

Then you look at his amber eyes—golden like his hair, but a lot more fiery—that are staring back at you now, and say—

“Be my muse.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mydei’s face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.

Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to say,” you wince, “Or–maybe it was. But not like that obviously!”

Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.

“Look, I know this’ll sound weird,” you smile weakly at him, “But I promise I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldn’t answer so—”

You take a deep breath—quit stalling, just get to the point—you close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.

“I was at the audience,” you look at his eyes directly, “Around a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.”

He nods again, “That’s great to hear. Did you enjoy it?”

You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.

“Very much so,” you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, “I enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, I’m here to make an offer.”

Mydei raises a brow,

“Even though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.” You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, “I’m an art major, we go to the same school.”

He turns his head at where you’re pointing, then looks back at you, “I see.”

But it’s clear he’s not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.

“And this final I’m talking about,” you sigh, “Is really taking it out on me.”

“I’ve sketched, painted, scrapped, restarted—about a hundred times. Nothing works.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “But when you were on stage that night… It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.”

His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, “Click?”

“Inspiration,” you clarify quickly. “The way you played, the way the orchestra complimented you—everything about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.”

You hesitate for a second before finishing.

“So I thought… maybe if I actually painted you—”

Mydei blinks.

“—as my muse,” you rush, “Not in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.” A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, “I’m the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.”

“The best, you say?”

“That’s my reputation, yes.”

He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like he’s giving it a good thought, or maybe he’s just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope that’s not the case.

Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“You know,” he says, “most people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.”

Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. You’re not stupid, he’s rejecting you without being rude about it—

“I’ll do it.”

You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.

“Really?” you ask loudly, “You agree? That easily?”

Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. It’s a clear sound, coming from the chest.

“Really.” he nods, “But I have one condition.”

Condition? Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.

“Sure,” you beam at him, “What is your condition?”

“I want you to paint me with my violin.”

“Yeah, he agreed!” You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, “Can you believe? I didn’t even have to do anything.”

Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.

“That’s good to hear,” her soft tone graces your ears, “So, you have anything in mind?”

You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.

“We didn’t get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.” you sigh, “But he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.”

Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.

After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the process—which would be in about an hour from now.

He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldn’t be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.

“I gotta go now,” you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, “I don’t have much time left.”

She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.

You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.

Just a painting. Nothing more. It’ll be alright.

Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.

You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.

It probably won’t. But still.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping on your shoes.

Mydei: I’m already at the cafe. Take your time.

Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?

A second message follows.

Mydei: Well, don’t take too much time.

You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he must’ve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.

You type back quickly.

Me: Omw!!

The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You don’t know why it’s doing it, but it is. This isn’t some important commission or for some big contest either. It’s just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And you’ll manage even if things don’t go that well with Mydei.

Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.

When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t seem to be drinking.

Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shakes his head, “I arrived early,” then gestures to the chair in front of him.

You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, “You brought your violin with you.”

“Yeah,” Mydei hums. It’s a sweet sound, you take note, “I come from practice.”

“I see,” you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, “You seem to have a really packed schedule.”

“I guess you could say that,”

Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, it’s hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.

“But I like what I do,” he nods faintly, “So I don’t mind it.”

You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because it’s impossible to miss it, you’d need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.

Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.

To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.

After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. They’re messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.

“I was thinking something more natural,” you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. “Not too staged. Like you’re just… playing.”

He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.

“What are you going for exactly?” he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, “Do you have some sort of theme for this?”

Theme. Right. The theme.

You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.

Vulnerability.

For a second you picture saying it out loud—I want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.

Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.

He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.

You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know where it comes from.

Would he think you were mocking him?

Your eyes meet with Mydei’s for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.

“Strength,” you clear your throat softly, “I needed something powerful.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” you lie with ease, “Your music is exactly what I’m looking for Mydei. Powerful.”

You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasn’t how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tender—vulnerable.

Mydei’s eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.

Then he nods once.

“I see.”

A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesn’t completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.

After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.

The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.

The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, it’s not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so it’s not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You can’t say you hate it.

The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.

You can’t help but huff a laugh at the sight, “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable,”

He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.

While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.

You set it up where it won’t block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.

Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayons—anything you can find, really, even if they don’t quite belong together.

The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you won’t need all of this. But the room is awkward, you’re nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.

Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.

You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydei’s way.

He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, “You can start whenever,”

Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.

He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. You’re supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.

This is only your second time hearing him play, and it’s no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to handle a whole month of this.

“I’ll be moving quite a lot while playing,” Mydei’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “Will you be able to draw?” He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.

It’s not condescending, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll be fine,” your pencil finally meets the paper, “I want to capture the moment anyway.”

He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.

Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like it’s instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.

You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.

In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, “Why did you agree to this?” you meet his eyes, “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I didn’t expect you to say yes so easily either.”

Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,

“It was the look in your eyes, I guess,” he says, “I’ve never heard someone talk about my music like that.”

You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?

“…What kind of look?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mydei’s bow doesn’t pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.

“Just—” he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, “It was as if you’re hearing me for what I actually am.”

And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe it’s the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.

You don’t have an answer back to it, which doesn’t help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydei’s eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.

The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isn’t helping.

It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you don’t want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesn’t fix it.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

And Mydei should’ve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in the air, “It’s just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.”

He hums like that means anything to him, “Anything I can do?”

Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, “I, uh, I don’t think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesn’t charge a fortune per hour, I guess.” You sigh.

Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.

Just when you’re thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydei’s hum brings you back.

“Actually,” he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, “My place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.”

Your brows lift a little.

“You could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.” he says, a little softer. “If it’s weird, it’s weird. Just figured I’d mention it.”

A small “Oh,” is all you let out at first, “Yeah, um—yeah, that would be great actually. You sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugs, “I don’t have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The idea of going to Mydei’s house—to paint him, no less—possibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.

For the drawing, obviously.

“Alright,” you take a deep breath, “When are you available?”

“How about,” he pauses, “Right now?”

The walk to Mydei’s apartment is mostly silent. He isn’t much of a talker, you’ve realized over the little time you’ve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.

“We’re here,” he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.

You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.

His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think that’s kind of in character of him.

He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t really decorated. It’s just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, “Your place is nice.”

He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.

“Will this work?”

You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Way better than the studio.”

A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you don’t mention that to him.

“Where do you want me?” Mydei asks.

You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.

“It would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,” you hum, “Maybe it could hit you from the side?”

He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You don’t have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.

And the silence is back.

It’s not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldn’t mind some more energy in the room. It’s not the stillness of the moment that bothers you—the music is enough to move it—but more so him.

Wouldn’t be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldn’t be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and then—like a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesn’t really give an answer but just hums quietly—even if it wasn’t a question, or when he does literally anything else.

You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.

“So,” you exhale, “Tell me more about yourself?”

His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I mean, haven’t you already read the papers?”

Such a dry tone.

“I don’t really care what the papers say. Surely you’d be a better source, no?”

Mydei’s eyes flicker, and he looks like he’s about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,

“I think they do quite a good job, actually.”

Only to be let down.

“I see.” you don’t mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

“So you two are finally working together?” The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Phai, we really are.” you reply, “I don’t really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.”

The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.

You’ve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if it’ll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if you’re doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. He’s been kind and he doesn’t complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that he’s looking forward to the end product.

It’s obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.

You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. It’s a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.

“Like what you see?” you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.

He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, “Sorry, it looks nice.”

“Don’t apologize,” you lick the juice off your thumb, “It’s you on the paper.”

The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.

Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isn’t much of a talker, although you’re sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesn’t share, you think.

Mydei keeps to himself. It’s been—what, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.

It’s important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, you’re curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, you’ve been curious about him.

And when you’re trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.

A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.

Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?

“It’s him?” Phainon’s blue eyes search your face with anticipation.

He’s enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.

“Yeah, he’s asking to meet up.” You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isn’t due until three days.

“Like, an actual meet up?”

Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, “A session?”

“Yes, that’s what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I don’t really understand why he’s asking for one right now.” You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, “I mean it doesn’t even benefit him.”

Phainon snickers, “Maybe he just misses you.”

That earns him a slap on the shoulder.

You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.

Me: our next one is in three days iirc?

Me: but sure!! my schedule’s empty

Mydei: Sorry if it’s inconvenient. You can come over whenever.

Me: will be there in 20

“You’re excited,” Phainon jokes, “You sure this is strictly professional?”

Not really.

“Stop it already, oh my god,” you give a look to him, “I just don’t have anything better to do, and mind you, he’s the one asking.”

Phainon laughs, it’s a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.

You’re in front of Mydei’s apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.

The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasn’t opened the door.

Well, that might be because you haven’t rang the bell yet, but we’re putting that aside.

It’s just the thought of showing up unplanned, or let’s say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts you’re supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.

Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.

“Oh my gods, Mydei,” you rest your hand against your chest, “You scared the living crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” the blonde purses his lips, “I heard some noises so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, the noises were me.”

Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.

His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything you’ve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry for asking so suddenly,” Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. “I know we said Friday.”

“It’s fine,” you answer too quickly. “I wasn’t doing anything important but, um, you—did you bake something?”

Mydei doesn’t give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You don’t really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.

He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. He’s dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. “You want tea?” he asks after a moment.

“Sure.” You answer without making eye contact with him.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasn’t set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.

“You were practicing before I got here?” you ask.

He hums without turning, “Just some old ones I wanted to remember.”

Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.

You watch all of it in silence.

And when you’re about to ask what’s the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven and—takes out a cake?

“Huh, you really were baking.” you tilt your head, “Are you celebrating something?”

The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.

“It’s my mothers birthday,” he’s quiet while filling the cups with hot water.

“Oh, is she arriving soon?” You ask with a smile, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten something on my way here.”

You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because it’s impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. He’s calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.

“No,” he breathes, “No, she isn’t arriving. I celebrate it by myself.”

Then he looks at you. That’s when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.

You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.

The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.

So this feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.

His brows pinch slightly, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.” You give a helpless little laugh,

For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisingly—

“She used to make that cake every year,” he points at the counter, “I’ve been continuing the tradition, I guess.”

The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most he’s ever spoken to you at once.

You’re terrified of ruining it.

“So…” you say carefully, “Why invite me over today?”

The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydei’s head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.

You don’t know what to feel about that possibility.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe you’re here either, “I guess I thought you’d enjoy the cake.”

You stare at his face for a good minute, it’s probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.

Mydeimos, from the second you’ve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you can’t help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still can’t help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.

“Yeah, I probably would,” you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, “If only you weren’t absolutely murdering that cake right now.”

“I—” Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.

“Let me help. I’m actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.”

“Right,” he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.

As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.

And you understand it. It’s not surprising that he would halter. It’s not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.

Because it’s just frosting. But then it’s not.

It’s not just sugar, milk and cream. It’s today of every year. It’s Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.

The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. It’s then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.

“It smells nice,” you mumble, “Made it yourself too?”

“Lemon and vanilla,” Mydei hums. Knew it. “She used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesn’t taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, y’know.”

“What was her name?”

“Gorgo.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you smile, “I’m sure she would appreciate your efforts.”

Mydei let’s out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.

“She would,” he shakes his head, “Then she’d slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.”

The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.

Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe he’d go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If we’re being honest, you don’t really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you don’t know how he is now.

Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.

“She didn’t use pomegranates, but I like the taste.”

“You’re telling me a lot about yourself today,” and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. You’re sure you’ve ruined it now. “Not that I mind or anything of course but—”

“I just think she would’ve liked you.”

The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.

Because surely he didn't just say that.

“I—I see,” you purse your lips, “What makes you say that?”

Mydei doesn’t answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.

He’s mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding your breath.

“I have a feeling she would,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

That’s when you raise your head to protest about how that’s so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.

Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.

He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if you’d imagined it. “Yeah, she definitely would.”

Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like he’s really focused. On the cake.

While you’re stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.