gotta catch 'em all!

The first time you actually see him you nearly jump straight out of your own skin, magic immediately pooling in your fingers, cold and heavy, ready to wield as your hand flies to your chest in an attempt to ease the startled beating of your heart. Your eyes meet glowing green ones, unnaturally bright against the dimness of the cave, mesmerizing, like sunlight rippling through the surface of the ocean.

He simply tilts his head, curious.

"Hello," you greet gently, letting the rocky walls of the cave carry the sound to him.

His eyes widen a little, as if he's surprised you're speaking to him.

"I didn't mean to intrude, I'm just gathering a bit of these flowers and I'll be on my way."

The creature is still quiet, though you think you see him give you a subtle nod. You turn back to the plants at your feet, slowing your breathing back to normal as you go about snipping carefully just below the buds so they'll still continue growing once they're cut.

You so badly want to turn around and look at him again, your intrigue nearly overwhelming—he's so much more human than you'd thought he'd be based on the quick glances you've caught of him in the past. Somehow you manage, denying yourself another peek until your vials are sufficiently filled with the luminescent foliage, only to be disappointed to find that when you stand again, it's to the soft sound of wings flapping.

"Wait!" you call, taking a stumbling step forward before you can think better of it, though it does no good, you are alone in the cave once again. The shadows whisper to you that he hasn't gone far, but they're stubborn today, refusing to guide you any further.

This is far from the first time you've felt watched when gathering ingredients in this particular cave, but this is the first time you've actually laid eyes on the usually hidden figure. The feeling used to make your chest go tight, worried that you'd stumbled into the den of something dangerous, but that feeling has eased over time. He's let you come and go without incident for months now.

Leather pouch full of mist orchid cuttings, you eventually leave the cave, but not before peering back, hoping to catch another glimpse of fur covered ears and claw tipped fingers. You've never seen a creature like him before, a bat hybrid of sorts if you had to guess, tall frame covered in a mix of smooth pale skin and downy brown fur, large pointed ears, and wings that probably span a good deal further than you are tall.

As soon as you returned to your cottage you're quick to flip to a fresh page of your sketchbook, lest you forget any of the details about him that are currently fresh in your mind, jotting down rough little sketches, all accompanied by scribbled notes and guiding arrows.

Fawn, your familiar, scaled and fluffy in equal measure, a mixture of cat and reptile, rubs against your ankles, meowing and blinking her slitted yellow eyes up at you. You pause the scratching of your charcoal to reach down and smooth your hand over her head, paying special attention to the nearly hidden horns that bud between her ears.

Once your strange encounter of the day has been recorded, you move your bag to the table instead, carefully pulling the flowers you'd gathered from the cave out and arranging them neatly on the wooden surface.

They need to be dried before you can use them, so you take a deep breath, hand hovering over them, taking in the rich, velvety blue of the petals, the slight pinkness of their undersides. With a slow, even exhale, you focus on the flowers, feeling magic well in your fingertips, pulling the life you can feel dwelling in the plants into yourself.

Your skin warms, your blood seeming to rush more quickly through your veins as you watch the buds wither in front of you. Fawn jumps gracefully up onto your shoulder, peering down to watch you work, her little clawed feet kneading into the thick fabric of your cloak all the while.

After a few moments, you feel the steady flow begin to grow sluggish, the flowers giving up their last drops of vitality to you. They now lay in front of you, their petals faded to sepia and gray, visibly withered—hopefully ready to be ground and mixed into a brew you're in desperate need of—it's been two weeks since you began treating one of the elderly women in the town a ways down the road, her frail body wracked with a cough that's proven relentless. You've tried everything you can think of. The potion you're planning on using the dried flowers to create is your last resort.

Carefully, you crush them in the bowl of your mortar and pestle. Moving about your kitchen with practiced ease as they're boiled over a small flame with a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of bone dust, cooled slowly and poured into a clear vial. You cork the bottle, holding the softly shimmering liquid up to the candlelight to watch the way it settles before placing it gingerly into your satchel—you'll bring it to her first thing tomorrow morning.

Before you retire for the night, though the moon has already risen, its figure nearly full, you have a few more odds and ins to collect. You pull your heavier cloak on against the slight chill that still dwells in the early spring air, letting Fawn slip out the cottage door behind you before pulling it shut.

With a flourish of your hand you conjure a lantern light, it's bug-like shape hovering at your shoulder as you cross the grassy expanse between your home and the woods beyond.

Your first stop is the garden, already growing wildly though the season is early, to collect the molted shells of hyacinth beetles, iridescent purple when they catch the light. The second is the coop where you carefully pick downy duck feathers from the ground. Earthy greens and crisp white tucked gingerly into your pouch as to not bend them. The last stop is your favorite, a journey several tens of meters past the treeline and into the forest where moonlight casts dancing shadows onto the leaf-littered ground. You kneel, skirts quietly swishing as you settle comfortably in the soft foliage. Fawn brushes her fluffy cheek against your arm before sitting next to you, tail moving in a slow, calm pattern behind her.

It doesn't take them long to appear, barely noticeable flickers in the corner of your eye at first, shifting into shimmering figures that leave trails of sparkling light in their wake.

Will-o'-the-wisps.

Shy little creatures that you've spent months gaining the favor of, all so that you can collect the fuzzy looking orbs they now cautiously lay at your feet—dream fragments, useful for a number of difficult potions and spells, and always good to have on hand.

Once the willowy procession of spirits slows and eventually stops, you cork the bottle of dream fragments, watching them float aimlessly in the glass container before you stand.

"Mrrph," Fawn chirps, and it's like she's ribbing you for the way your knees crack as you straighten.

"I don't want to hear a thing from you," you grumble as she trots a few steps ahead of you—she's always been a cheeky little thing.

The spread of a small smile onto your lips at her antics is halted by a shift in the wind, barely noticeable even with your enhanced senses. As you feel your arms prickle with gooseflesh beneath your cloak, Fawn stops and turns to look back towards the trees, pupils growing large as she gazes past you and into their shadowed depths. When you turn though, there's nothing out of place.

The forest looks the same, cloaked in darkness as it is.

There's a moment, like a breath being held, and then you turn back to the path, leaving the lofty trees behind in search of familiar candlelight and your warm bed. Sometimes it's hard to sleep after drawing vitality, but dreams come to you easily on this particular night, whispered on the wind that flows lazily into your open kitchen window.

He doesn't necessarily mean to, but from that day on he tends to visit the woods behind your cottage with increasing frequency. The twins catch on irritatingly quickly, chittering at him from their perch on the large stones along the path as he approaches.

Atsumu's snowy blonde hair almost glows in the light of the full moon when he throws his head back to laugh, "Sunarin ya better be careful showin' that ugly mug to the village girls, you'll have all the farm boys showin' up at your cave with torches if yer not careful."

Suna rolls his eyes, glaring at Osamu when he coughs, a pathetic attempt to cover his own teasing laughter. The darker haired twin recovers more quickly than his brother though, features smoothing easily before he asks, "She even know ya exist?"

Their bushy tails swish in time with one another—the unintentionally synchronized movement has always given him the shivers.

"What would you two idiots know," he grumbles instead of answering the question, "s'not like either of you ever leave these woods anyway."

"Hey," Atsumu snaps, bearing his teeth in a way that would have Suna's hair standing on end if he didn't know the fox was full of hot air, "without the two of us this forest wouldn't even exist."

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, and Suna contemplates how much time he wants to spend prodding the blonde on this particular evening. Atsumu is unfortunately correct, there'd be no forest, let alone one this balanced without the two of them acting as caretakers.

Osamu interrupts his pondering, leaning forward to say his name. The timbre of his voice makes Suna's spine straighten a bit, wings shifting almost nervously behind him.

He takes a breath, "She's not just some village girl."

Atsumu sits up a little straighter and Osamu's lips tick up just a fraction into a smirk Suna's more used to seeing on his twin's face.

"She's a witch," he pauses before adding, "I think." Osamu hums but doesn't say anything, so Suna continues, "She collects the flowers that grow in my cave, and the will-o'-the-wisps trust her enough to show themselves when she visits the woods."

"Well I coulda told ya that much," Atsumu muses. He's got that look in his eyes that makes Suna want to shake him, calculating and annoyingly confident. "She's been comin' out to sit with 'em for months, I've never seen her get impatient with them even once, just lets the little things get comfortable—didn't take 'em long to start leaving gifts at her feet."

Suna tries, and fails, not to think too much about the way Atsumu's statement makes his brows furrow. Of all the creatures that could have unfounded jealousy flaring hot in his chest, of course it had to be Atsumu—and like the pain in the ass he is, he seems to realize it much too quickly.

"Sorry," the fox smirks, "didn't realize you were interested."

He does, very notably, not appear apologetic in the least.

"Piss off," Suna grumbles, flaring his wings irritably.

Both of the kitsune stand unexpectedly, like they'd been given a cue, and then Osamu is speaking.

"Rin," he sounds serious, gray eyes flashing in the moonlight, "don't forget that she's a witch."

He hates the way the words make his skin feel cold. You are a witch, he's certain of it now after talking to the twins. Suna's known witches before. He knows what that means for a creature like him, what they may see when they look at him—a rarity, something to study, and sometimes something to take apart for the sake of that study.

"I know," he finally concedes.

Two pairs of eyes watch him for a stretching moment. Suna chews his lip.

Their presence is already starting to vanish by the time Atsumu says, "Stay safe, Sunarin."

Suna stands alone in the forest for a long time after that, spreading his wings in full so that he can feel the moonlight on them, see the way the soft beams pass through his semi-transparent skin.

He thinks.

He thinks about you, and the way you'd called out to him, the timbre of your voice as you'd taken a step towards him with your hand full of soft petals, the rosy tint to your cheeks he could see even in the darkness of the cave.

Tomorrow, he decides, tomorrow he will…well, he's still not exactly sure what he'll do tomorrow, but he will do something.

The next morning you're up early, watching the shadows of the leaves on your hardwood floor as the sun rises. After a quick meal, the last of your fresh bread and a hunk of cheese, you're pulling on your cloak and boots, double checking that your satchel is sufficiently packed. One of the roosters out in the coop crows, waking the rest of the brood. Fawn stands and stretches but doesn't leave the bed, instead moving to settle where the sun is painting bright spots on your quilt. You scratch between her ears before you leave, assuring her you'll be back by nightfall.

Exiting your home, you wave your hand in the direction of the coop, and the soft clucking gets a bit louder as the chickens and ducks take to the yard for their morning stroll. Another gesture, much more precise this time, and your mare trots out of the woods, dark like a starless night and sturdy despite the willowy build of her limbs. She slows a bit to nibble at the peppermint that's reaching past your garden barrier before making her way towards your porch—unsurprising given her favor for the plant is what gave her the name Pepper in the first place.

With a slow, even breath, you grab her saddle from it's spot on the porch rail, using a bit of your magic to ease the muscle strain of hauling the heavy item up onto her back, adjusting buckles and straps before you do a final check of your saddlebags.

The ride into town isn't rushed, but you make good time anyway, reaching the cottage your patient lives in on the outskirts within the hour. Pepper doesn't need to be hitched to stay put after you've unloaded your bag, never one to wander far when you give her a gentle command to wait for you beneath the shade of the old elm trees surrounding the house.

One of the children greets you at the door, beckoning for you to come inside as soon as she recognizes your face, already pulling you by your skirt towards the bedroom at the back of the structure. The aged woman lies still in the bedroll, the only movement that of her chest as it rises and falls steadily. With a little shuffling, you and the child manage to wake her and sit her up enough to sip the contents of the vial you'd prepared last night, a quiet apology on your lips when she winces at the bitter taste.

Once the vial is empty, the child looks to you as if you'll be able to decide if it's working right this second, but the hope in her eyes is quickly masked when you only give her a small smile—this is, after all, the third brew you've tried. Still, you leave her with instructions on how to continue caring for her grandmother and a few remedies that may help ease the cough a little as you give the herbs a chance to begin working.

The day is still young when you step outside again, bright and breezy, birds gathering in the elm trees for their noontime chorus. Pepper whinnies, shaking her head and ruffling her mane when she looks up to see you. You step below the trees to meet her, tucking the now empty vial back into your bag.

Your left foot goes into the stirrup, and then, a split second before you lift your right, you feel it. A barely noticeable vibration that makes its way from your toes all the way up into the base of your skull. The feeling is gentle, like a comforting touch given to you by the shadows that live beneath the trees.

You hum in appreciation, though you're not entirely sure what it aims to communicate, before mounting and turning Pepper in the direction of the path leading further into town.

It's funny, how much even the tiniest bit of energy can make you feel so bright. The life you'd siphoned from the flowers yesterday still warm in your blood, the taste of it on the back of your tongue clean and fresh like summertime. You move about the village, heading towards the market square, stopping when someone calls your name or beckons you over, fielding questions about an aching knee or providing a prediction for the upcoming growing season.

The townsfolk here are kind, trusting of you in a way that was surprising when you first settled here all those years ago—even those who were once smooth faced, now much more weathered and wrinkled though your appearance has steadfastly remained the same.

In the market, you move leisurely between the stalls, taking the time to feel fabrics and smell perfumes, to taste a blueberry offered to you by a calloused hand. Eventually, your bags are full of odds and ins, some necessities and some niceties packed safely for the short journey back home.

It's late afternoon by the time your cottage appears on the top of its hill, the sun beginning to sink behind the tree line, the clouds tinted purple, and the breeze becoming cool. The coop birds still meander across the grassy expanse between the house and the forest, picking at the ground in search of insects or seeds. Pepper joins them for a time before she fades slowly into the encroaching darkness of the forest.

You hadn't noticed it when you'd undone her saddle, but here is a note folded and wedged into the crack between your front door and its frame. Focusing on the paper, your pupils widen as you cautiously try to detect what the contents may be, only to find that it is simply paper and ink, no hidden surprises or ill intentions.

Your breath catches when your fingertips make contact, a little zip of something making it's way across your skin, harmless, but strange. Undoing the crisp folds, the handwriting you find inside is unfamiliar, the letters looping with a smooth rhythm. The contents are brief—

I hope your journey into town went smoothly, and that the plants you gathered from the cave serve you well.

-S

You laugh, a little shocked to find what you assume is a note from the hybrid creature you'd encountered in the cave. You're perhaps a bit offended as well, surely if he can write he can speak too, which makes his vanishing nearly the second you'd made eye contact in the darkness a mere day ago that much more disappointing.

Unsure how long you've stood staring at the paper in your hand, you finally fold it again and go inside, tucking it safely away on your bookshelf before you unpack your bags as Fawn's purring fills the quiet.

When you've finally settled, lighting candles as the sun has almost fully set, you take a seat at the kitchen table with a worn tome, your sketchbook and a pen close by. You've read this one before, but sometimes the words don't truly reveal themselves to you until the third or fourth read.

As you'd hoped, something new sticks out to you this time, and you're quick to flip open your sketchbook, pen in hand, only to pause when your eyes find the page. It's your sketch of the man from the cave. Eyes lingering on your own marks, you can't help but picture him in your mind too. Cunning eyes, lidded but bright, peaked ears covered in soft looking fur, a face that's surprisingly handsome given that he seems to dwell in dark solitude.

You scoff out loud at the heat that pricks your cheeks. You're much too old to be behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush, especially when the man in question you've only laid eyes on for mere seconds—you've never even heard the sound of his voice.

Though he did leave you a note, you muse. Surely he's not as reclusive as he may have initially seemed, but you are curious to know how he'd found your cottage.

Physically shaking the thoughts of him from your head, you flip to a fresh page, focusing on scribbling your notes onto the page instead.

That same night, perhaps in the same moment that he resides in your thoughts, Suna is in the skies, flying quietly over your cottage, careful to stay high enough so that if you were to happen to look out your window you probably wouldn't notice him.

He circles a couple times before landing a little ways into the forest, finding a sturdy branch to hang from. Suna wants to see the way you live, to look at the way you decorate your space and learn what kinds of creatures you keep. He can see the candlelight in your window from the mouth of his cave, but it seems so much warmer from this distance.

The shape and size of his ears means that he can hear a lot, even from this far away, the roosting sounds of the chickens in the coop, the crickets that have made a home beneath the leaves in your flourishing garden, the quiet twinkling of the glass chimes that hang on your front porch. He can hear something else too, soft as a whisper even to his sensitive ears—you're humming, sweet and breathy, punctuated by the quiet clinking of a dish, like maybe you're stirring something or rearranging a shelf.

Your kitchen window is open, he realizes. That's why he can still hear you, far away as he is. He's so tempted to move closer, to approach the edge of the forest for the chance at catching a glimpse of you in the candlelight. The pull is so strong that he's worried maybe he's been alone for too long, maybe it's made him strange.

What kind of man yearns so intensely for the company of someone he's never even spoken to?

The rest of the week passes slowly, you spend most of it pouring over books, old and new, noting interesting information, finding variations in spells you've performed a hundred times, and of course, chiding Fawn for the way she seems to be constantly underfoot.

Slowness is replaced with a frantic energy when you hear a knock on your door late into the afternoon. The granddaughter of the woman you'd treated is standing on your porch, tears in her eyes, catching the light of the setting sun as they create damp tracks down her rounded cheeks. Behind her are two men carrying the feeble woman, wrapped against the evening chill in a worn looking quilt.

You are a doctor, a healer—so you take her into your home.

You are a witch.

You know as soon as she has crossed over the threshold into your home that your potion didn't work, you can feel it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the shadows. You're out of ideas, and it seems that she is out of time as a fit of coughing wracks her once sturdy frame.

She cannot be saved now, you have tried all you can, all you have been taught, and all you have learned. Some ailments seem as if they were not meant to be cured.

Guiding the men to your spare room, you help them settle her into bed, tucking the blanket beneath her chin. She's is much more feverish now than when you saw her a week ago. Her skin burns, yet she shivers beneath layers of clothing and the quilt covering her.

"I will look after her," you assure them softly, "but outside of that there is not much more I can do."

When he hears your words, one of the men pulls the girl close with a hand on her shoulder, her eyes shine like glass when she looks up at you. You leave them, passing Fawn on your way back into your kitchen, though she has obscured herself from any eyes but yours. As you pull the bedroom door shut behind you, she hops up onto the bed and settles in next to the woman. You know that if you were closer you'd be able to hear her purring comfortingly.

After a time the three of them leave the room. You usher them to the front door, assuring them that she'll be comfortable here with you before you return to her bedside.

Her lashes flutter when she opens her eyes at the sound of your footsteps. You watch her take a deep, even breath.

You are a witch, but you still have a heart.

"Are you ready," you ask her quietly, candlelight flickering and creating shadows against the wall, one of which swirls in the opposite direction as the rest.

She's still now, her shivering momentarily abated, though her hand shakes when she puts it gently on your wrist, squeezing once as she nods.

You tell her comfortingly, "It will be quick, like falling asleep."

There are tears in her eyes when she blinks them open again, yet you do not hesitate. Your hands find her cheeks and you dip down just low enough to look into her eyes, framed by wrinkles from how often she had smiled. Heat flares in your palms, a soothing warmth that makes it's way up your arms and into your chest, cheeks flushed with the rush of life you're taking from her.

You're eternally grateful that she doesn't panic when she feels it begin, instead lying still in the bed you've made for her, the rise and fall of her chest slowing until eventually it comes to a stop, the last little trickles of warmth absorbed into your palms.

A shaking exhale quietly rattles your chest. The flickering of the candlelight becomes uniform again.

You are a witch.

The warmth in your body expands, and it's like you can take a full breath again, fingertips buzzing with energy. You pull the sheet over the woman's face, leaving the room momentarily to begin pulling vials from your kitchen shelves, carefully arranging them at the bedside, followed by a sharp pair of scissors and a small pearl-hilted blade.

There's no heaviness in your chest, though if the people of the village could see you now you're sure they would chase you out, waving torches and pitchforks the whole way, but it would be a waste to let valuable ingredients rot away in the ground.

Her hair is first, snipped at the ends in just a few places, enough to fill a good sized vial, then her blood—a tiny incision at the back of her neck, dripping crimson over her skin only to be caught by your steady hand. You're sealing it with a cork when the knock comes, eyes darting over to Fawn, who's sitting on the bed next to you, looking neither perturbed or alarmed by whoever she can sense on the other side.

When you open the door he forgets every word he'd had planned to say.

You're glowing, candlelight flickering behind you like a celestial being. He's eternally grateful for the fur covering his ears, concealing the heated flush he feels at the tips of them. Your eyes are wide and he's afraid that he's frightened you.

His first word comes out stuttered, disjointed by his nerves, "H-hello."

It's a surprise when you take a step towards him, pulling your front door shut behind you, extinguishing the light that had been spilling out. He can still see you well enough, but he misses the way the flame had illuminated your hair, the already rich color splotched with the warm brightness of liquid honey.

"Hello," you finally respond once the door clicks shut, shifting almost uncertainly on your feet.

Suna thinks you're nervous based on the way you stand, but you don't drop your chin, keeping your head held high and your gaze steady on his own. He clears his throat, unsure how to proceed. There's a rustling sound as he tucks his wings closer to his body.

"I'm sorry," he starts, rooting himself in place instead of turning to disappear into the night like he wants to, "for not saying anything the last time you came to the caves—and for coming here unprompted, not only tonight but when I left you that note as well I-,"

You interrupt him with a soft hum, the beginnings of what he hopes is a smile painting your lips.

"I was surprised to see you at all, I thought maybe a particularly friendly shadow was all I'd sensed in that cave." Even now, standing here with you as he is, he's at the edge of your porch, just out of reach of the brightness of the candlelight shining through your window.

"What made you decide to come out?" you ask him.

He tries to think of the least alarming way to answer your question. I've been watching your candlelight from the mouth of the cave for months or I've been flying overhead every night for a week simply won't do.

"I think you're interesting," is what he eventually lands on, the words spoken with a careful cadence, "though I apologize again for coming to your home uninvited."

It's quiet for a moment before he continues on to ask your name, rolling the sounds over his tongue when you give it willingly. After a moment you raise your brows expectantly in return.

He finds himself smiling when he answers, "Suna, Rintarou—Suna Rintarou, ah or Sunarin…if you want." The nickname given to him by those bothersome fox twins falls from his lips before he can think better of it—and of course that's the one you latch onto with a small smile on your lips.

"Sunarin."

For a moment after you say his name you consider him, eyes wandering over his face before they follow the lines of his wings. He's taller than you, broader, a good deal so, and you're sure his talons could easily gut you should he so please. It's probably quite foolish that you proceed to turn your back to him, pulling your front door open and letting the light spill onto weathered wood again.

You don't quite invite him in, simply opting to leave the door ajar behind you.

Suna's not sure he could resist the urge to follow you inside if he tried, tucking his wings close to his body and ducking his head beneath the frame of the door. As soon as he steps across the threshold, Fawn is rounding the corner and approaching him.

"If you so much as harm a hair on my familiar's head I will ignite you where you stand."

It's the coldest he's ever heard your voice, the threat so clear it has his skin breaking out into goosebumps, unnecessary as it is—he'd be loathe to do anything that would even begin to upset you, and the creature that approaches him seems harmless enough anyway. He crouches slowly, extending a clawed hand in her direction—she doesn't even pause before she walks right past his hand to rub her head against his leg. The low, rough rumbling of her purring is loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Shaking your head halfheartedly at her leisurely behavior, you take a couple steps closer to Suna, stopping so that he has to look up at you from where he's crouched, arm still extended so that his fingers almost brush your skirts when they swish with movement. He's quick to curl them away from you, tucking his arm back against his side.

His skin looks exceptionally soft, you think, his nose just a bit upturned at the tip, eyes bright though there's a recognizable look of caution in them. You search his face, unsure what exactly you're looking for, but trusting you'll know it when you find it—the body in the next room over is going cold, and you've still not finished collecting from it all you need.

There—you feel it in your chest more than see it with your eyes, like a weight easing.

"What do you know of witches?" you ask him.

"Probably just about as much as you do about creatures that resemble both man and bat," he retorts after a moment of quiet thought.

The sound of your surprised laughter makes his ears twitch, melodic and chiming.

"Would you help me?" you ask, turning towards the bedroom where the woman still lays.

He can't help but follow you, only hesitating for a second when he steps into the room behind you.

"You are wicked?" his question is puzzled, but not accusatory or offended.

You do detect a bit of caution as he hesitates to cross fully into the room, though you're already back to arranging ruby-filled vials when you answer, "I did all that I could, but the cough would not relent. Now I am simply making use of what would otherwise rot."

Suna nods in understanding, wings rustling a bit restlessly at his sides.

"Do you know the grave digger?" you turn to look at him this time. There's a charming amount of wariness in his expression when you glance at him, though he seems to do his best to hide it.

"…I don't," he answers. "Should I?"

Instead of acknowledging his question, you simply ask him another, "Have you ever been to the village?"

You watch his jaw set, eyes losing a bit of their bright warmth.

"I haven't had a hankering to be chased by humans with foul words and torches thrown in my direction lately."

Your expression softens, and he feels his heartbeat speed in his chest.

"I understand," you tell him gently, "I've spent many years earning their trust, and they still don't know the half of what I am able to do."

Suna steps fully into the room, moving to stand at the bedside, still keeping a healthy amount of space between the two of you. He quietly watches you grab an empty vial, free hand reaching towards the face of the corpse to part her lips, murmuring something so faintly even he can't fully pick it up. Your furred and scaled creature jumps up gingerly to perch on your shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin, taking a half step back at the sudden movement.

There's a twinkling sound, like water over smooth stone, and he realizes that you're laughing at him.

"Sorry," you tell him easily, smiling over your shoulder, "she likes to sit and watch."

He lifts his hand, intent on scratching behind calico-speckled ears when you add, "Her name is Fawn by the way."

"Fawn," he repeats. At the sound of her name she turns to look at him, big eyes blinking slowly, tail swishing against your shoulder. She chirps quietly when he pets her, and he can't help but smile too.

His focus on the small creature is interrupted by your voice, an apology in your tone. "This part is the most brutal, if you are squeamish in the least you may want to wait in the kitchen."

Suna looks over to find one of your hands holding the woman's jaw open, the other waiting with fingers poised like you're going to pluck out her tongue.

"Teeth," you admit when he's quiet for too long, "and her tongue too if I can manage it."

Suna stays put, even leans in a bit further so it's easier to see.

"I am monstrous as well," he whispers, blinking down at you.

The smile that spreads on your face is radiant. You nod, turning back to your work.

"I'm sorry I don't have a perch for you," you tell him, a little teasing.

He's sitting sideways in one of your kitchen chairs, knees pulled in close and his wings tucked tight, resting his cheek on top of his folded arms, sage-colored eyes following you as you extinguish all of the candles except for the one in the kitchen window, the one facing the road to the village, the one he can always see from the mouth of his cave.

The smile on his lips appears slow, almost cat-like. "Even if you did, would you venture to let me stay?"

Suna's not sure what it is that's made him so bold in this moment, but you match it before he can think too hard.

"I would venture to let you stay right now," your smile is unquestionably cheeky, "it's quite nice to have an assistant."

The evening turns misty, time passing in swirling loops, conversation meandering like lazy petals on the wind. His kind is nocturnal, and you are too intrigued to slow for sleep.

Some hours still before the sun is set to rise, Suna's ears perk at the soft sound of a cart on the dirt path outside.

"What is it?" you ask him when he tilts his head further.

Before he can even answer, Fawn chirps at you from her place on the ground. Suna watches you meet her eyes for a moment, and then you're smiling, standing from your chair next to his and moving to open the front door. He hears a single boot meet the wood of your porch and then you're throwing the front door open, leaning against the frame with a wide smile on your face.

"Ah, there's my favorite undertaker," you coo playfully at the man standing outside. He's tall for a human, dark eyes and even darker curls—and he's looking at you in a way that makes Suna's brows pull together in displeasure.

"Mattsun," you say, turning to nod in Suna's direction, "this is my friend,"

There's a fraction of a second of hesitation, and though it's fleeting, that strange feeling in his chest loosens when you introduce him as Suna instead of Sunarin.

The man steps into your home, face remaining unchanged at the sight in front of him save for the slight tick of a polite smile on his lips.

"She's in here," you tell him.

And then the syrupy passing of time from before is moving all too quickly. The body he'd help you gather ingredients from is hauled, gently, from your bedroom and laid in the undertaker's cart. He offers to help, but both of you are quick to tell him not to worry about it, so the whole time, Suna does his best to stay out from underfoot. Watching the two of you move the body into the cart from your front porch.

He can't help that his hearing is so sensitive, and the two of you don't seem to be trying to be very quiet anyway.

"I've been getting better at the hair," you tell Mattsun with a wry smile, "I know that's your least favorite part to fix."

He hums a laugh in response, closing the back of the cart and then dusting his hands off on his woolen trousers, "I appreciate that—do you know how hard it is to match the color? Don't even get me started on the texture, especially when you've been hacking away at it."

Suna lets his eyes gradually lose focus, attention going misty until he hears Mattsun tell you goodbye, and then he hears you shift your stance, as if you're pushing up onto your tip toes. He snaps back into reality just in time to watch you press a kiss to Mattsun's cheek.

Suddenly, he feels incredibly foolish.

"-rin, Sunarin?"

The sound of his name on your lips shocks his system, and he realizes he's been standing in a dark corner on your porch staring off into the night for who knows how long. He snaps his gaze to meet yours, only to find your expression dipped in concern. Your hand is resting on his arm, and his sudden awareness of that fact has his skin breaking out into goosebumps.

Your skin is soft, thumb brushing the fur at his wrist absentmindedly.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly.

You tilt your head at him, pulling gently with your grip on his wrist until he follows you through the front door.

"Are you alright?" you ask him once you've reached the kitchen, hand still steady against him—you even take a half step closer, though you have to crane your neck a bit to peer up at him.

Candlelight flickers on the walls and, like he's being physically pushed forward, he finds himself leaning in, spine curving so that he can bring his face closer to your own. You're looking up at him with this easy openness, cheeks flushed and eyes dancing in the unsteady light.

It's with great effort that he stills when there are only a handful of inches between you.

"I'm sorry," he finally manages to say again, voice raspy as he speaks quietly in the stillness, "I was not aware that you were already being courted."

He's so beautiful it's almost unbelievable, the depth of green that lives in his irises, the soft upturn of his nose, the way his fur shines with warmth, an almost pearly cast to it in the dim light.

"-was not aware that you were already being courted."

You open your mouth but no words fill the space. Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Suna begins to pull away, and in a moment of panic you throw your arms around him, pulling him into an embrace that has you both frozen in place. His arms hang limp at his sides, and you think you can feel him holding his breath.

"I'm not being courted," you babble against his shoulder, breathlessly resisting the urge to bury your face in the downy fur you find there.

It's silent for far too long, neither of you daring to move or speak quite yet.

Your hands flex, just the slightest bit, against him—and then his shoulders begin to shake, laughter tumbling from his lips, the volume increasing from something barely there to loud in the otherwise silent room. It's impossible not to be pulled in by the sound of it, rough and pitchy, like a clattering of sticks or the screeching of cicadas in the summer.

You're thoroughly charmed by the time you're both beginning to breathe evenly again.

"I thought," he starts, still a bit out of breath, "that you and-"

"You thought Mattsun and I-" you interrupt to ask, a hint of laughter on your lips again.

Suna shakes his head, eyes crinkled with a smile, teeth on full display.

"How dare I assume a beautiful woman is being courted by the man whose cheek she kissed," he says, playful now.

Your hands are still on his arms, and you're still standing unnecessarily close.

"I feel like I've known you for a long time," you murmur, eyes flicking down to his lips.

His cheeks dimple, tongue flitting out to wet his bottom lip.

"We've actually spent a lot of time together," he ventures to say.

Any remaining worry he had is thoroughly washed away when you snort, rolling your eyes and looking coyly up at him.

"I'm not sure I'd consider it time spent together if one of us was constantly silent and obscured in shadow."

Limbs feeling pleasantly light, he reaches up to cup your cheek, careful of his clawed fingers. As soon as his palm touches you he feels like he's being illuminated from the inside out, skin warm and eyes bright, each breath like the first of spring, crisp and full of energy. He inhales deep, savoring it as you push up onto your toes, the movement not quite enough to bring your lips together.

"Should we make up for lost time, then," he murmurs against your lips, slowly leaning down to close the gap between you.

What a pleasure it is, when fate twists in a way that leads to something lovely.