𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 ╱ in bloom.

in spite of everything, it's difficult to look at darika and see a stranger: an interloper who has rooted her feet and bound them to the land that they stand on. she is as cynefinian as they come, is what haoyu tells himself. how can one not think that of her when she has devoted herself to the land, the same way he and his family have for generations? the rotten thing now sitting on his palm is as much hers as it is his. he closes his fingers around it, the sickly black of it leaking over his skin. grace, he thinks, is something he can afford to award right now. those hands fed you. "darika," he says, slowly, as he brings himself to full height again. the gaze he turns to her, neck bent as he looks down, carries none of the contempt it did just mere moments ago. curious. cautious. "these mouths can feed themselves on the eve of the new year. as can you, even when these things are rotten. there is enough food, at the festivities." he doesn't know what came over him—this reassurance that he has no reason to offer. still, it's a welcome distraction, the man at the mudslide temporarily forgotten. then, once more, "you don't need to forage. not tonight, at least."

a flushed embarrassment. fern does, despite popular opinion, still experience it as an emotion. & perhaps it is due to the fact that dante rarely asks, so far as fern themself is concerned, with a judgment preconceived. remaining hostile, though, as it is in their nature. just as it is within his to drip, smear, & be sweetened to the point of drowning. two similar forces sliding towards one another with the apprehension of burning flowers. "oh." prim. proper. "ceri and i simply ... see things differently. even if we're looking at the same exact painting. but isn't that just ... the nature of what it means to interpret?" fern acknowledges it's dismissive. but the mention of ceri sets their heart to throbbing ever quicker. "maybe ceri is just stranger than i."

it’s like pulling teeth with fern sometimes. they’re friends, dante thinks, and yet the friendliness doesn’t always come naturally. not from his side, nor from theirs. it’s enough to make him huff, impatience written clearly across his features. “ceri is stranger than you,” he allows, but it doesn’t sound much like an allowance. merely a truth. it doesn’t make her any less than a friend. he wishes fern would see that their strangeness would not turn him away, too. “have i ever implied otherwise?” at this he settles at their side again, shoulders barely brushing. not a prod or a nudge. he tries again, “i know you don’t see eye to eye. like i said, the feeling cannot be helped, can it? but the way you act around each other…” another exhale, much softer this time. “there’s so much poking and prodding. even when you leave each other alone it doesn’t feel like you’re leaving each other alone.”

strange as it sounds, the closer kova is to the bonfire, the safer he feels. perhaps it is thanks to the fact that he is working, and this alone gives him some form of purpose, a way to keep his thoughts on the correct path instead of drifting. but occasionally, when conversation around him dwindles into whispers, he finds himself staring into the flames - recalling, remembering what he'd seen - only to blink himself back to the present. kova clear his throat and turns slightly, grunting once in response before deciding that that is likely not too acceptable an answer tonight. "as well as it can be. enough firewood to keep the flames rolling for another few hours at least," he replies, voice gravelly. "you didn't happen to bring a drink along, did you?"

how long has dante been doing this, joining the gathering at the town square in the wee hours of the last day of the year to await the new one to come? all his life, comes the answer. this is familiar—normal. as is kova, with no black cat following him around and no knives to fight demons with. for a brief moment, dante wonders if he has ran into darika, if he knows already about the strange sightings at the cliffs. but he doesn’t ask. instead, he says, “ah, planning to ring in the new year with a drink in one hand and a wood chip in the other?” the teasing tone his question adopts allows for his smile to grow. “even if i did bring one along, is it not unwise to not keep all your wits this close to the fire?” and to the new year.

LOCATION : town square, year's end bonfire .

"that's rude," dante says, almost on reflex. for a moment he feels normal again—another new year and another day of running into haliya. they'd see the fireworks soon. but then he exhales, and the reminder of all the horrors he bore witness to tonight comes crashing down again. fireworks, dante thinks. a desperate attempt to grasp normalcy again. the new year. haliya. he shoulders on. "and i'm not carrying a watch with me, anyway. but surely we'll know soon when the countdown begins. have you never seen the way we welcome the new year?"

nothing but tension now. no other movement created when gwendolyn looks at the caretaker. the set in her jaw, belying her true emotions on the matter. "i would not know." quipped. sharp. "i've grown up here all of my life and yet haven't a clue as to the truth of these secrets." she hailed from the capital in another life ; one that felt far too distant. was it any safer there? "anything else happen?"

it almost feels like a truce. just for tonight. they can speak to each other and figure out these secrets without trying to poke at their own. "else?" lintang echoes. her arms wrap around herself, the air chilly even with the warmth of the fire. an admission leave her lips: "i'm not even quite sure of what has happened in the first place. if anything at all has happened." the demons at the theatre did. aster's voice, a stark reminder. she ignores it. "what happened to you, then?"

demons exist. 

folks from the sea. not the strangest thing that haoyu has heard all night, but he hasn't heard that particular one. too many bad omens tonight. it's a full blown frown that he wears on his face now, gaze fixed on elias—studying him even as the younger man looks at the burning flames. "what folks from the sea? this desire of yours to be cryptic, i hope you know it's not endearing." elias' question goes ignored. instead, haoyu says, wryly, "it's been a long night. trouble is the last thing you should be causing."

anger uncurls. the cupid's bow above fern's upper lip turns into a snarl that even mimics that which skitters across mors's own leonine features. in this, matched in a refusal to be un-seen. this was a bloody mistake. why did you have to become visible. why couldn't you have just stayed mine forever. "my friend. and familiar. if you must be so inclined to ask." fern had no particular issue with haoyu. but there could be one. the distaste from their differences is a bitter drought. this, the reason that they refuse to speak to one another. "are you people?" caustic. "do you think me so blind and unaware of the fact that people will ask questions? but their opinions are not mine to be responsible for."

it should terrify them, this carelessness inflicted in the way fern speaks about the... friend they wear on their shoulders. and yet, it's something else entirely that courses through the red in haoyu's veins. anger. it wraps around him like a friend, an ally that he all too easily grabs and holds onto. anger is easier. it's better than fear on a night like this. "there are no opinions if no one knows what he is." it's an accusation. it sounds a little like, you owe it to us, an explanation of what he is—what you are. "you're no fool, are you? there are people with far less kinder questions than mine out there." the thing is they're no stranger to fern's strangeness, which is not so strange after all when haoyu thinks about it. just a healer bearing the weight of a legacy. he wouldn't know anything about it. "have you been hiding him?"

sometimes he thinks of how different they are. how often haoyu’s brows furrow, their features closing off to the rest of the world, their expression unreadable. compare that to zhiyu, with his widening eyes and raised brows, and all of it all too transparent for haoyu. he wishes he is more like that, sometimes—when he forgets himself and his impossible wants. “it has me—” tired, on edge, angry. “—wound up,” is what they settle for, an agreement as much as it is an explanation. "you know the mudslide hasn't been very kind to us."

it is sacred, this role of being an elder brother. you have to— he's— be kinder, haoyu. he hasn't been good at it lately, this kindness. his is warped and twisted and all kinds of thorny. seeing zhiyu cut themselves on it—words coming out in a stutter a tell-tale for the elder brother who's watched them grow up their entire lives—is enough to soften all the harsh lines on the planes of his face. i don't mean to— haoyu wants to say, but what does he not mean to do? —be harsh with you, perhaps, but has his love not always been like this? "sorry," he says instead. it's no better. "there's— something happened at the mudslide, zhizhi. a man died. fell to his death. you have to be careful." this time, it's not a demand. just care and concern, unwrapped. a hand reaches out to pat zhiyu on the shoulder. "enjoy the festivities. just stay away from the edge of town. have you seen the food stalls at the market? you'll be safe there." then, after a moment of hesitation, "i could take you, i suppose. then we'll both be far from harm's way."

the prodding resembles a poker's sharpness. this, due to the fact that it is not something to which fern has become accustomed to: the welcome sensation of any kind of touch. they remain at a distance from most others, except those who are of the ilk to cross it. dante crossed many distances. sometimes, fern wishes to have their hands throttle him for it. ( but that would be against propriety's healing. ) "i have not the slightest idea what you're talking about." prim. proper. as their appearance of their mannerisms continues to be. he prodded them through the silk of the throw over their shoulder. still, it burns bare. "i behave perfectly fine. savina grows cross with me regardless of what i say. how am i supposed to work with that?"

he means well, —he always means well— but it is also no secret that dante masoe's kindness is not always the kindest. it's too late when he realizes fern is not one to poke and prod at, the finger jabbed against the sharp bone of their shoulder something sticky and sickly sweet. like honey—impossible to get rid of. he sighs, drawing back to put a distance between them anyway, but only enough to study the lines of fern's face. "you don't have to be so—" here, too, he pauses. take it back, dante. his lips form another try. "i'm not talking about savina," he settles for. "her being cross with you is not a strangeness." the honesty is not meant to be unkind. it never is. "i'm talking about ceri. you both are so... you behave so strangely with each other, is all. i've never understood it."