reverie.

“So you see, this time we’re going to fill out all of the tax forms THREE times, so there’s three copies, right?” 

“Mmmhm...” 

“Sooo... one gets sent to the Capitol, and another goes to our records. That means there’s one just to practice on! Isn’t that fun?” 

“You’ve got an interesting understanding of ‘fun’, Adeline, but I’m excited for you.” 

“You should be excited too! See, if we fill these ones out...” 

Their best friends excited voice started to mix into the background as (Y/n) started to zone out a bit, their chin landing in their hand as they tried to look as though they were keeping up with her excitement over tax forms, a content smile lingering on their lips. Truly, they loved Adeline and her enthusiasm, but filling out paperwork that specifically required math just wasn’t high on their list of things they’d call “fun”; but for her, they’d sit and listen—they'd fill out however many papers she’d hand them—if it meant she was happy. However, something just seemed to be nagging at them today, something sitting heavy on their mind. 

Their eyes started to wander alongside their thoughts—and through the crack in Adeline’s office door, they found exactly what had been pulling them away from their best friend’s speech; across the hall, a certain pink-haired man was fumbling with various scrolls of different sizes, trying to keep them tucked under his arms as he struggled to pull his office door closed behind him. (Y/n)’s eyes seemed to widen involuntarily as they locked onto him and every little movement he had made—their stare surely held some weight as he seemed to look up and lock eyes with them for a moment. Eiland had given a soft smile, one that seemed to only barely reach his eyes—one that seemed a bit more sheepish about being caught fumbling around rather than just genuine happiness—and an attempt at a small wave the best that he could manage without dropping anything. As quickly as they had seen him, he had disappeared out of their line of sight—assumingly out the front door of the manor and off to the museum, if they had to take a guess. 

(Y/n) took a heavy breath, trying to fill their lungs back with the air they had lost holding their breath at the mere sight of him; it may not have been wrong to harbour a bit of feelings for him per say, but it certainly didn’t feel right to have them. Eiland: the brother of their best friend, Eiland: one of the children to the Baron and Baroness, Eiland: the man that unfortunately took residence in most of (Y/n)’s thoughts. Just when did they start feeling like this? The fluttering of their heart, the rising of heat on their skin, the involuntary way the corners of their lips dragged up into a love-struck smile whenever he was simply in their line of sight? The way their body seems to go numb and move in the most embarrassing of ways like stumbling over their own feet or dropping things out of their hands? How about when they find that their mind has gone completely blank, with no capability to string words together and leave their lips—even if they could, they certainly would not make sense. Eiland? Their best friend’s brother. Ridiculous. 

When did it start? Their thoughts turn to a memory, such as when they had visited the beach together last summer; Adeline sat opposite of (Y/n), the both of them excitedly chattering away as they soaked up all the sun had to offer them, letting the light spray of crashing waves fend off the heat for them. (Y/n) couldn’t recall what they had talked about then, but they certainly couldn’t forget looking past their friend to see another head of pink hair pop out from the water a little further away; if they had stopped to think about it, surely they would have just realized he had been scolding one of the other boys for pushing him in, but perhaps the sun had just gotten to (Y/n) that day, clouding their reasoning—for all they could focus on was the seemingly slow-motion raining of sun-kissed water droplets, the halo behind Eiland’s head as he ran his hands through his hair to remove it from his face, and just how stunning he had to have been to rival the clear water surrounding him. It felt as though it were something from a cliche story—maybe even one that Elsie would have recounted to them—but just how did (Y/n) seem to see Eiland like that? How had they been unaware of how quickly their heart had started to beat, or how hot their face had gotten? Their memory had ended with them feeling faint, and something about Adeline reprimanding them for apparently getting too much sun—how could they look her in her eyes and tell her that they’ve looked straight into something brighter than the sun—her very own flesh and blood? 

It isn’t right—the way he looks as though there’s sunshine and flowers floating around him in response to his excitement. It isn’t right—the way (Y/n) wanted to reach out from behind Adeline and caress her brother’s cheek and direct those starstruck eyes in their direction instead. It isn’t right—the way (Y/n) found Eiland so insufferably attractive as he rambles on ecstatically about some relic he had dug up and started explaining the history to his sister when she and (Y/n) had simply come by to ask about some document he had been neglecting. Life simply wasn’t fair—the way their brain had completely shut down and their body had wanted to move on its own to bring him closer, to relish in that smile that lit up his face, to kiss every inch of his face to soak up how adorable he was. It certainly wasn’t fair to Adeline, who had brought (Y/n) along to help back her up and enforce the need to finish his paperwork, only to find that they had clammed up and couldn’t bring themselves to look either of them in the eyes, stuttering through any response they gave as meekly as possible, solely because the sun himself had smiled their way and fried their brain. How were they supposed to tell her that their body had plans of its own the moment their eyes landed on her brother? They wouldn’t-- they waved it away as not wanting to crush his excitement—a half-truth.  

What excuses could (Y/n) possibly give? They hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol that night in the inn—this, they remember very clearly—yet their eyes sat lidded, their gaze far away and glazed over, their head resting in their hand; for what reason? They vaguely remembered what Adeline had been talking to them about, and for this they were truly remorseful—for what good was a friend who sat so close yet so far away in spirit, drunk on their own feelings for a pink-haired boy sitting at the end of a different table across the room? Not that Adeline had known, however, that there was no alcohol in their cup—just eyes full of a man so animated, taking his title of “Drama Maker” to heart. They had been so drunk on every elegant movement, every fluid motion, every ounce of aura he had given off. It was embarrassing, really, when (Y/n) thought back to how hard they had to fight to keep their heart beating within their chest. It was embarrassing, truly, when (Y/n) had to remember how to string together words and peel their eyes away from Eiland whenever Adeline would call for their attention. It was downright pathetic how desperately they wanted to be over there, at his table, with those shining eyes trained on them. They couldn’t tell her that—no no, definitely not—they had lied and said they’ve just had a bit too much, they were starting to get tired. They prayed she wouldn’t question the lack of alcohol on their breath. 

They wanted this man so embarrassingly bad—but God, just how wrong was it of them? The thought of him—their feelings for him, rather—started to make them feel... dirty. Filthy. Not that they were having wicked thoughts of the sinful nature—no no, not to that extent... yet. How long until they’re so far gone that they’re beyond saving? Was that not a level of betrayal to their best friend on par with the layers of the Underworld? They’ve known Adeline long enough, and definitely know her well enough—surely she wouldn’t be irate with them, right? What of the sense of betrayal, though? The level of trust? Would it all diminish in the matter of seconds, if she were to notice the way (Y/n) looked at her brother? Adeline was a very smart woman—maybe she’d already realized by now and simply left things be; would that make things easier, or worse? 

What sense was there in worrying about this here and now? (Y/n) mentally sighed, what good would it do in the end? A problem for tomorrow—or perhaps even the next day, or even three months from now—but certainly not a problem for today. Adeline tapped lightly on (Y/n)’s forehead, snapping them clear out of their head as they looked at her bewildered, eyes wide and on par with that of a frightened owl. 

“You’ve been sighing for a while, are you alright?” 

“Huh?... What...?” (Y/n) blinked rapidly, shaking their head a bit and laughed to themselves, “I just... couldn’t wrap my head around what you were saying, sorry.” 

“Oh, I know, right?!” Adeline seemed to go back to her previous level of excitement. “Isn’t it crazy what they’re asking for this year regarding the paperwork? We’ll have to work even harder! Isn’t it great?!” 

(Y/n) smiled to themselves, a sense of relief that their best friend had misinterpreted their confession. Their chin returned to their hand, a slight nod prompting the pink-haired woman to continue with her explanation. (Y/n) kept their eyes on her, watching every excited movement of her hands and how wide and bright her smile had been; once she turned around to find another stack of papers, (Y/n)’s eyes travelled to the crack in the door once more, staring at the closed door opposite of them. Almost longingly, a faint smile graced their lips as they studied the tall piece of wood. 

Mundane; when something is lacking in excitement. 

Shane’s daily life surely fit the bill. Wake up hungover, take the same path to his shitty job, go to the bar for some drinks once he’s off, stumble on home to sleep, repeat. Rarely did he switch up this routine, and rarely did he enjoy doing so. 

He’s used to keeping his eyes on the ground as he walks, an attempt to block the rest of the world around him out of his senses so he can try to desperately find that little moment of peace. Lately, however, he’s been interrupted time and time again. 

Today, once again, there is the same voice calling out to him far too early in the morning for his tastes. A face only beginning to be familiar to him makes its way into his view; he instantly found his own face falling further into a scowl.  

“Hi there! Good morning, Shane!” 

“We are not friends. Stop calling out to me.” He huffed, shoving his hands further into his pockets and he picked up the pace, walking around them. “Leave me alone.” 

This became the ritual, their own little song and dance. The farmer would stand there in front of Pierre’s in the morning, call out a greeting, sometimes get in his way, and try to make friends. Shane would walk a little faster, try to side-step them, and ignore to the best of his abilities. It was irritating, and if he were honest... confusing. 

Why do they keep bothering him? Especially when he answers with his own spewed venom. Yet, day after day, he finds them in the same spot, smile brighter than the sun—blinding him with the light. It quickly fell into his routine, and he no longer bothered to overly react. 

“Good morning, Shane! Nice to see you!” 

“Yeah, whatever... mornin’.” He’d give a quick flick of his wrist in place of a wave to get them off his back. 

The days started to warm up, as did the feeling in his chest whenever he could just feel their presence coming up in his pathway. The melting of the ice around his heart wasn’t... unwelcome, just, new. Weird. Scary. 

Routine becomes comfortable, especially to a man who believes there’s no future on the horizon. His emotions were in turmoil, his thoughts just as muddled, but there was a bit of peace in the repetitive nature of it all; the empty, anxiety inducing fact that comes with change is heavy on him, however, once he gets comfortable. 

One morning, there is nothing but silence in front of the general store as he passes by; no need to side-step, no need to mind his pleasantries, no need to take his eyes off the ground. There is no comfort to be found bursting through the doors of Joja Mart during his shift, there is no comfort to be found stumbling through the doors of The Stardrop Saloon, and there is certainly no comfort to be found within the confines of his own bed sheets.  

He watches the dancing of branches shadows on his ceiling, trying to rid himself of this new feeling of emptiness in his chest. The void finds home within himself often, but something about this felt off. 

The next day, same song and dance; and the next, and the next. 

Like the coming of rain, Shane’s world returned to grey, a darker shadow cast across him than he was used to. The drops of water pelted against his skin, making him curl into himself; he could hardly see in front of him as he walked and splashed through the puddles with each step, the water never leaving his reach. Taking shelter never worked as the rain seemed to follow him indoors.  

Further and further he’d sink, melting into the puddles as they reached out to grab at his ankles and pull him in. The sky grew darker with each passing day, almost feeling as though it was night. Why did his world feel like this? What need did the void have in presenting itself as the storm above his head? What brought its presence in the first place? His chest twisted, his stomach flipped, his head would pound if he got too close to the right answer. 

Today, once again, there is the same sweet voice calling out to him at just the right time to make his morning. A smile as bright as the sun makes its way into his view; the clouds in the sky finally parting to house the life that was being breathed into him.  

This became the ritual, their own little song and dance. The farmer would bring the sun and place it straight into his chest, sing his name in a way no one else could, and bring the two of them closer and closer, fingertips brushing with one another. Shane would walk a little faster to catch up to them, try his hardest not to step on their toes as they swayed to the same song, and offer a smile that shined more like a star when rivaled to theirs. It was beautiful, and if he were honest... confusing. 

Thankfully, they kept bothering him. Choking on his own venom, he slowly tries his hand at words with honey. Luckily, day after day, he finds them in the same spot, smile brighter than the sun—gracing him with the light. It quickly fell into his routine, and he no longer wanted a single thing to change. 

“Good morning, Shane! Nice to see you!” 

“Yeah, good morning... Sweetheart.”  

The letters on the paperwork in front of him danced along the parchment, not forming a single word he could understand.  

His mind strayed far from his tasks at hand much too often, it was going to start becoming a problem if he couldn’t reign it back in. If his mind were simply idle, it’d be one thing—to have fully formed thoughts soar straight out of the window because of the plague that has become of his mind—now, that was another. There were plenty of times where he’d been asked a question to which he had to blush and stutter his way through it, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t heard it originally asked in the first place. Far too many times had he almost hurt himself because he wasn’t focusing on the fact he had something in his hands, or watching where he had been walking.  

His thoughts were almost like a disease, taking refuge in every crevasse of his brain; all he could ever think about was one person—one voice, one face, one touch—and his skin would light ablaze. Irritating, it was; for not only was it not because of gentle touches or sweet words, but it had been the teasing tone, venom on their lips, and eyes looking at him as though he were prey—and he could do nothing about the way it all made his heart jump straight out of his chest, do nothing about the way it caught in his throat, and do nothing to rid his thoughts of the sin that his imagination had filled between the lines. Yes—the plague, is what it was—a plague of heart, one that grabbed the very organ and crushed it between their fingers. A plague of mind—one that would render himself useless the moment it finds its way inside. A plague of soul; a shadow tainting the purity and light of his very core to ensure he were fully captivated and willing to follow its preacher.  

Yes—his problem was entirely due to the gleam in (Y/n)’s eyes, the curve of their lips, the melody of their words—the problem was the way they had intertwined with his soul and constantly tugged at the strings of his heart as though he were a puppet for their amusement. A heavy sigh left his lips, for deep down, he was well aware that he enjoyed the way they had him dancing across their stage—he was well-versed in the melodies they had him sing, and he would practically beg on his hands and knees if needed be just to hear their praise from behind the curtain. 

They were in no way a malicious God, however. (Y/n) could be teasing, domineering, or tactful, but it didn’t overshadow the level of love behind their words, the fondness behind their touches, or the doting he’d receive from their gaze alone; not that (Y/n) would openly admit that they’d hold their devotee’s heart gently within their hands—this, he knew. In their own way, it was another ruse—another tease—calling for him to participate in their little game of cat and mouse; maybe they were just as afraid of what would happen when one finally caught the other as he was. 

However, they were much, much stronger than he was—resilient, he would say. They seemed to be capable of going about their day, their business, their interactions, without so much as a hint of him on their mind. Maybe they were simply just toying with him, at the end of the day? Maybe he had looked too far past their taunting smirks and thought he saw glimmers of the bright, benevolent smile he wanted so desperately to bathe in. Maybe he was so devoted to a deity that simply did not pay any mind to his existence—would that help him heal from this torment? 

Eiland sighed heavily, for what was probably the thirteenth time this hour. The letters on the page were back to taunting him, mocking him for thinking he could reign them in. Even when he was able to form a word, or two, or three—it did him no good, as they simply passed him by, refusing to stay in his mind since there was no room. He sighed—fourteenth—and gently put his head against his desk. Perhaps the smooth wood would provide his mind with a bit of comfort, or if he rests his forehead enough on the paperwork itself, maybe his mind could simply absorb the information so he no longer had to keep suffering through the act of reading that continued to lead to nowhere. He stayed in this position for a while, drowning out any sounds or any... thoughts that came to his mind, his eyes closing as he tried to breathe in and out—steady himself, relax himself—try to rest his whole-body ache. 

When a knock fell on his door, he refused to acknowledge it. A nagging in his chest had already told him who was at the door, and he was simply in no mood to participate in any little song and dance; the conductor themselves came swaying through the door, however, much to Eiland’s (dis)pleasure. He refused to lift his head, to open his eyes, to give them any of the satisfaction of seeing his metaphorical tail wag. He didn’t greet them, nor did a word fall from their lips either, but the sound of their footsteps intermingled with Eiland’s heartbeat that started to travel to his ears, one sounding much calmer than the other, though it wasn’t the one he was hoping for.  

He could hardly feel their touch—light as a feather—as they gently dragged their fingertip along the exposed skin at the base of his neck where his hair and hem of his shirt no longer met since he laid his head on the table. He couldn’t help the deep shiver that had been sent down his spine though no certainly no part of his body had been cold; the soft laugh that came through their nose as his body reacted had Eiland trying to fight for his life—he blindly tried swatting their hand away as though it were nothing but a pest, never hitting its target. 

“Oh?” their voice broke through the silence, the simple word setting the tone for the rest of their time in his office. “Is that how it is?” 

“What is it that you’re looking for today, (Y/n)?” Eiland spoke against his desk, trying to distance himself from the ever-growing... emotions, within his body.  

“Hmm.” 

They hummed thoughtfully, though Eiland already knew their answer. They were simply feigning innocence, trying to draw out their torture and pleasure. He could hear rustling of papers as they had apparently picked up a few of them and carefully placed them on the other side of his head. With a soft ‘hup’ and a gentle thump, the sudden breeze had alerted Eiland that (Y/n) had jumped to sit on the corner of his desk—a likely spot for them to be, seeing as it was their favourite position of power—they always found a home there whenever they had some... intimate, venom to shoot his way. Only then does Eiland turn his face towards them, laying his cheek against the desk as he can’t help but drag his eyes up their body, starting at the beautiful sight of their thigh just in front of him; once his eyes meet their destination, he’s already gaining such a look of dominance from down (Y/n)’s nose, the small quirk of the corner of their lips tugging into a smirk lights his face ablaze—he's thankful the wood of his desk is cooler in comparison. He nervously starts to interlace his fingers from underneath his desk. 

Nonchalantly, as though they hadn’t just reached through his eyes to grip his heart, they leaned back on the very same blood-stained hands and gave a small, content sigh. 

“Guess I’m just looking to see that beautiful face of yours, Eiland. Won’t you be kind enough to raise your head and show it to me? Please?” 

“I’m currently facing you, is that not enough?” 

“Oh, you know that’s never enough, dear.” 

The sting of the pet name had Eiland biting the inside of his cheek, trying to remind himself not to give in to them so easily—maybe it was his turn to tease them, make them sweat, have them feeling hot and bothered and practically begging for more of his time, more of his attention—though he knew that wasn’t going to be the case. He could already feel himself starting to melt through their fingers as he frantically tried to pull himself together, closing his eyes, hoping that maybe if he could not see just how beautiful and radiant they were, he would have an easier time standing his ground. 

“Well, that is what you’re going to get. At least you’ve gotten this much.” 

“Hmm.” 

Their hum was neither amused, nor upset. Scheming, Eiland would offer in explanation—knowing, almost. Calculated. He could hear the shuffle of their clothes as they crossed one of their legs over the other, presumably the left one as he could feel the slight graze of their shoe down the side of his ribs—gentle, not teasing... more as if it were a warning. A statement. ‘I’m here’. Marking one’s territory, perhaps. He may not have known exactly what was in store for him next, but he knew of what sort of nature it would be—he unconsciously tensed his body a bit, knowing he was going to have to fight off some of the more... sensual urges he knew they were going to be able to drag out of his being without ever lifting a finger; not only was he preparing to get physically excited, but he also knew he needed to steel his heart and guard his soul as well, lest they grab ahold of him and mold his entire being to whatever shape they’d like without him putting up even a fraction of a fight. Truth be told, he sort of... enjoyed, letting them get to him—but should he say that out loud, oh, he would simply be done for. He knew that in this world, he was nothing but prey for the predator whose gaze now burned through his skin with a smirk—was it wrong of him to... like it? 

He certainly did like it—sinful or not. Just as much as they liked to play cat, oh yes, he loved to play mouse. The feeling as though he were being eaten alive by their game was just as thrilling as it was infuriating and frustrating. He wanted them to catch him, truly he did, but if he didn’t put on some sort of show of defiance, would they grow bored of him? But it was so easy to melt into their touch, so easy to dissolve amongst their words, so easy to fall in love with them. It was so hard to pretend he didn’t enjoy the tug at his strings. 

Lost in thought, Eiland snapped back to the reality of the situation he found himself in as the light pressure of the toe of their shoe pressed against the exposed part of his thigh that now found its way out from under his desk in exchange for letting his arms take its place and his head upon the desk. A major error in judgment on his part, he would admit; if he were smart, he would have sat up whenever (Y/n) had asked him to. Perhaps he wasn’t smart—or rather, perhaps he wanted to play this game of theirs; just how far would they go? How far could his body—see: his heart—take it? He ignored the light tap of their shoe and kept his eyes closed, drawing his eyebrows together in false annoyance, trying to save face.  

They tapped again, and again, and again—each tap making their way up his thigh towards the core of his body, as though they were trying to dance their way closer to himself. One tap too close to his hip had him waving them away again, gently, carefully, pushing them away by their ankle as he kept his eyes closed—he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up his act if he saw the look on their face. 

“Alright, stop that.” He said, though they both knew it was not firm.  

Seeing as he had no real desire for them to truly stop, (Y/n) smiled softly, tilting their head as they trailed their foot up the side of his ribs as gently as they had down them earlier. They repeated their actions, over and over again, along the side of his ribs, down the side of his thigh, dancing their way up his thigh until he gave in. 

“Aw, come on, don’t you wanna play, Eiland? Come on, sit up, won’t you?” 

The almost pouting, baby-voice they playfully teased him with finally wore him down—not that it was taking much to begin with. He gave a deep, heavy sigh as he sat upright in his chair, hoping the intake of air would alleviate at least some of the heavy thumping within his chest. Forcing air through his lungs should help get his blood pumping in the appropriate manner (and places), right? Slowly, he allowed his shoulders to slump a bit against the back of his chair, hoping it would keep him steady as he opened his eyes to the torturous sun.  

“Insufferable, you are. What do you really want?” 

“What do I really want?” 

He could almost taste the sickly-sweet tone on their lips—and he was a sweets lover, in the end. Their honeyed words came out so playfully, so sensually, he knew the air around them were only going to grow more strained to the point the tension in the air could be cut with a dull knife; the air was already starting to get heavy—was it hot in here? Eiland tried to tug at his collar a bit to help him breathe. He tried to avoid (Y/n)’s gaze, knowing full well that he was already red in the face, though he would only get more... bothered, as they steadily, with full purpose, start to drag their foot further up towards his inner thigh, heading towards the destination that Eiland very quickly cut off by snapping his knees together and pushing the evil thing as far away as possible by the ankle. 

“Will you quit that!” He couldn’t keep his voice from the small waiver that accompanied it, so he cleared his throat and adjusted his collar once again to ease his nerves. “Haven’t you done enough!” 

He only glanced at (Y/n)’s faux-innocent smile before turning his face away from them, sticking his nose in the air to try and hide his embarrassing arousal and just how flustered they had made him behind a sense of annoyance and distaste. Was it working? Absolutely not. He crossed his own legs now to try and save a little face. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” (Y/n) drawled out, scooting closer towards him to continue their teasing quips. “Care to tell me exactly what I’ve done?” 

“You’re well aware what you’ve done--” He dared to spare a sideways glance, swallowing thickly whenever he saw their face inch a bit closer. “You’ve already stolen my heart—what else are you going to take? The least you could do is tell me what you intend to do with it.” 

Eiland felt his heart stop the moment his words passed his lips, his eyes going wide at his sudden and unexpected confession; his gaze snapped to (Y/n)’s, whose eyes were the size of the moon, mimicking his own. He didn’t know how to feel about being met with just as much shock and confusion he had been feeling—were they also feeling the burn of embarrassment crawling up the back of their neck? Their heart trying to leap from their throat so badly they’re unable to breathe? He couldn’t take his eyes off of them—soaking in any and every inch of their expression, looking for some sort of... of hint, some sort of reaction.  

Much to his dismay, he watched in real time as (Y/n)’s shock wore off, eyes slowing lidding as their gaze turned from something so innocent and in awe to something akin to a hunter locked onto their target. Their tongue lightly pushed passed their lips, their teeth scraping along the bottom one for just a moment before kickstarting the large smirk that spanned from ear to ear. The temperature of the room rose as they moved in close, leaning towards him; their fingertips made it to his chest, their presence just heavy enough to let him know he’s been caught, yet light enough to tease and arouse and pull his beating heart to the front of his chest with every heavy breath that they guided him into. Their fingers walked—danced, rather—up his chest, gliding softly against his neck, down the side of his cheek; all the while, they got closer and closer, their breaths intermingling. 

Purple eyes darted between the pair eating his soul alive and the lips of the siren they belonged to; oh, how he’d love for them to come just a little closer— to feel their soft lips against his own, ridding him of repeated torture—oh, how sinful they could make it if they were to just free him of their song and place just one kiss upon his lips, he could give them ten more in return—however many they wanted. He’d return the blessings of his deity and sing their praises and recite his prayers against their skin—right here, if they so wanted! He could do it all—everything, anything—for them! Just a little more, just a little closer, he’d let out a soft whine as their lips just barely graze his own, their piercing gaze warning him of his defeat. 

“Your heart, huh...?” They whispered, their smirk only lighting up a bit when he lets out another breathy whine. “.... I’ll take such...” venom dripped from their lips—Eiland could almost taste it, “... good care of it.”  

His skin was burning, so hot he thought maybe he’d go numb; though, much to his dismay, he was not numb—he could feel every inch of his own body, and he truly meant that. It was true, he was so easily defeated, but he couldn’t find it in himself to really care. Every inch of him—he wanted them to climb into his skin, fill every inch of his veins with nothing but themselves. He was at their mercy—he knew that, they knew that. His eyes started to flutter shut; he wanted them so bad—so God damn bad—he knew they knew it too. He licked his lips, silently begging for them to ease this carnal desire of his. 

Yet, his deity was not so merciful-- as quickly as the room had heated up, it turned so2 incredibly cold at the sudden loss of contact. (Y/n) had pushed him away gently, by the chest, and the pair of eyes that met him were dark with their pupils just as blown as he was sure his were—a sign of their own desire. Eiland couldn’t get a word to leave his throat, just a soft stutter of a grunt of disbelief as (Y/n) hopped to their feet, removing themselves from his desk and moving quickly away from him. Yet again, they have shown him that they’ve won. They’ve pulled the strings and made him dance, much to their own amusement—though they’ve dolled him up, readying him for the stage. They caressed his face gently, calculated, before completely turning away from him to take their leave. 

They don’t spare him another glance, after it all. The slight swing of their hips, the little pep in their step—torturous. (Y/n) simply sauntered away as if they hadn’t just taken his entire being into their hands and crushed it to the very sand he takes artifacts from; their voice cuts the tension of the room, melodic and sweet—a vast difference between the sultry, heat they just shared. One simple word, turning causing Eiland’s heart to do flips just as easily as they did before. 

“Bye bye!” They drew out, making sure to play at being cute and innocent.  

Completely dumbstruck and every bit as disheveled, Eiland sat in his chair staring at the empty doorway (Y/n) had just exited from. Confusion took hold of his body, unable to process what exactly had just happened to him—if only this were history—if this were written down, he could analyze it. If it were written down, he could understand. These feelings, these actions—he could process everything and know just what to do when (Y/n) came to taunt him once again; he’d know what to do to get them to show him mercy, to just touch him, to just help him with his own excitement that they incited.  

Yet, here he sat, alone again. Slowly, jaggedly, Eiland turned back towards his desk. Staring at the papers strung along the desk looking as disheveled as he did, he took a moment. Silently, he replayed the moment over and over again in his mind, committing every bit—every scent, every feel, every sound, every single bit—to memory. With a loud thud, Eiland threw his head down to his desk, the papers doing nothing to save his forehead from the sudden assault. 

Perhaps the pain would wake him up; he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, groaning loudly out of dissatisfaction. The beating of his heart clouded his ears, making it impossible for him to clearly hear Adeline as she poked her head into the doorway to check on her brother; he was lucky, however, that his face was hidden against the cold desk—how embarrassing would it be to have to explain this to her? Maybe that was also part of (Y/n)’s game—he certainly didn’t know anymore. A quick mumbled dismissal was enough to send her on her way, luckily enough for him. 

A house of fun, a melody of life; a hall of mirrors, a melody of strife. 

Saeran, not quite steady on his feet in this world—this circus—finds his own golden eyes staring back at him. He tilts his head, his reflection follows. He makes a small wave, his reflection follows. He gives a genuine smile, his reflection frowns. 

The room suddenly seems dark, a spotlight focused on him; all the mirrors around him illuminated, as if there were lights of their own within them. Friendly colours and inviting patterns seemed warped, sinister. Looking around, taking a few steps back, Saeran looked back at the reflection in front of him with fear coursing through his veins. 

He—or, not him—stood rigid, tilting his head again and keeping his frown. Gold eyes bore through him, sending a shiver down his spine—emotionless. 

“Who are you?” The image asks.  

“I... am me?” Saeran answers, youthful innocence in his voice. 

“Are you sure? Who are you?” 

He looked around the room again, looking for a way out; mirrors showing him how fearful he truly looked had been the only other thing in the room no matter which way he turned. He started to hear his heartbeat in his ears, muffling the voice of the “him” in the mirror as he repeated his question-- ‘Who are you?’  

Suddenly, mirrors upon mirrors started to show the same false image, all harmoniously asking, ‘Who are you?’; the question bouncing around the room as though it had a will of its own. ‘Who are you?’, why did... they, want to know? ‘Who are you?’, was he even sure he knew? Sheepishly, he stood in front of the original imposter, looking up at him through his eyelashes, afraid of the direct eye contact as the mirror’s eyes bore through him.  

“I’m...” he started, his voice shaky and frail, “...Saeran?” 

“WRONG.” 

The mirror image in front of him shouted, the rest of the mirrors circling him following suit. ‘WRONG!’ they yelled, ‘WRONG!’ they screamed. Wrong? What did they mean, ‘wrong’? He was Saeran, there was no way he couldn’t be. If he didn’t want to leave before, he certainly did now; turning to bolt down a corridor lined with mirrors, warped images of himself standing in them, all chanting the same hurtful word over and over again. He’d turn left, he’d turn right, lost in a maze of himself—until one mirror, at the end of a hall, stood illuminated and void of him. He ran towards it—was it an exit? Was it the end of this nightmare, and he’d simply wake up?  

He ran towards this empty mirror, almost running into it as he put a hand on it to ensure he didn’t. Gently, smoothly, a black gloved hand reached out to take its own place opposite of his, an invisible barrier between them. Saeran watched as a figure appeared; a bit older, a bit more put together in appearance—dressed in a nice, pink suit, not a hair on his head out of place. Saeran dragged his eyes up the figure, only to see the well-dressed man share the same face, though his soul was different. 

Saeran slowly straightened out, looking at this man with the gentle demeanor—he couldn’t bring himself to share the same soft smile he was given. Bright blue eyes met Saeran’s gold ones, still holding onto a sliver of child-like whimsy.  

“Oh my, aren’t you lost?” the reflection asked. “I know who can help with that.” 

“I... guess I am lost.” Saeran tilted his head to the side, confusion written on his face. “What is going on? Aren’t you... me?” 

“Am I you?” The man in the mirror asks, tilting his head like his counterpart and genuinely looking with innocent confusion. “Or are you me?” 

“I--” 

“No no, wait.” The man in the pink suit cuts him off. “No. You can’t be thinking things like that. Just listen to what you’re told—no thoughts, you can’t have any say of your own.” 

Saeran watched as the other version of him started to seem down, anxiously fidgeting as he starts to mutter to himself. He jumps, startled, as the mirror man starts to hold his head and cry. 

“Useless... useless, useless! A moron! I’m nothing but a moron. Useless Ray, pathetic Ray. I’m so lucky... so lucky to have been saved. Given reason, given a chance to prove myself—yes, so lucky... Saviour... my saviour...” 

Saeran tried to look around, find a new path to take to get away from the crying, self-deprecating man. It pained him to see someone share the same face yet look so different from him; the room started to fill with more cries, more name calling, as Saeran started to slowly back away from the crying figure. 

“Huh? Wait!” Ray called out, “Come back! Cleansing—cleansing will help!” 

The mirror in front of Saeran started to drip a mysterious, bright blue liquid, matching the line of liquid that started to leak out of Ray’s mouth. He produced a heart shaped bottle of the same fluid, moving closer to the mirror. 

“The cleansing—the Saviour made this for you! All those who are too weak receives the elixir from the Saviour, it’ll help you!” He seemed to Saeran like he was at the very edge of the mirror. “Let us be saved, together! Come, come face your future. Come here—come here!” 

Saeran jumped back as Ray’s arm flew out of the mirror, the gloved hand trying to grab onto his arm and pull him in. He could see the spilling of the elixir and the desperate storm brewing in Ray’s eyes as he pleaded with him to come closer. Saeran found the small space between mirrors and started running away, his heart beating in his own ears. 

“Wait! Wait, please!” He could hear the desperation, heartbreak, and fear in Ray’s voice, but didn’t dare to look back. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here alone, please!” 

“PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! DON’T LEAVE ME! MORON—SUCH A MORON. GOOD FOR NOTHING! TIME FOR YOUR CLEANSING!” Hundreds of voices similar to his own cried out, blue liquid starting to bleed from the mirrors in the hall and drip down from the ceiling. Saeran tried to shield himself from it, trying to keep it from getting into his eyes. Saeran could feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, more pity and sorrow came to the surface than fear did at this point; why did this man sound so... alone? 

“...Weak.” 

A deeper, more absolute voice cut through the sobs; a flash of a figure ran through the mirrors that lined the halls of Saeran’s nightmare—just out of his view. A sinister laugh rang out, bouncing off of every surface, making him look every which way to find its source. 

Saeran found himself in a new hallway this time, one with mirrors donned with cracks, others shattered and warped—frames broken and falling to the floor. He slowed down, seeing nothing but his own vague figure in this room; he spun around cautiously, tiptoeing through broken glass shards and left-over mysterious blue liquid. His eyes darted around—was his breathing so rapid and ragged because he truly was weak? Or was it the pure fear that started to fill his lungs and twist his chest so tight?  

The crunch of glass made him jump, turning around yet seeing no other people—or footsteps—other than his own. One solid mirror near the other side of the room seemed to light up once again, almost calling out to him with how perfectly preserved it was in this room of chaos; he knew better. Each time he looked into a mirror, he’d find some frightening version of himself looking back at him—why should he look into this one? Yet, it was alluring; too pristine to keep his curiosity at bay—so he approached.  

Each step he took seemed to get louder and louder, the crunching of glass beneath his feet bounced and echoed off of the empty mirrors—only to find that the mirror before him was just as empty. 

Void, empty, desolate; not even his own normal reflection appeared in this mirror. It showed him an empty room, full of broken mirrors, that ironically mirrored the very room he found himself in. Perhaps this was the way out he was seeking? The chance to put all of his fear behind him, leave this nightmare and wake up stronger than before? Saeran started to reach for the mirror, hoping to see his own hand in the reflection, but only seeing a figure in dark clothes instead. 

Again, it looked like it was him—but he had these piercing blue eyes in place of his warm gold ones; what was happening to him? The man in the mirror looked him over, disgust on his face turning into a snark, twisted smile. His black suit was pressed so nicely in contrast to his disheveled hair and strained eyes. A fist hit the invisible wall between the two of them, scaring Saeran—the other man simply used it to lean onto his arm, hoping to flaunt an air of dominance.  

“Well, look at you.” The man gave his nasty remark. “...Weak.” 

Saeran furrowed his brows now; something in him wanted to start standing his ground even though his situation terrified him—why did everyone insist on calling him weak? He gathered all of his courage to look this ‘him’ in the eyes. 

“What do you mean, weak?” He asked, his voice starting strong but growing smaller as his words went on. “Why are you people saying that?” 

Another pound of the man’s fist prefaced maniacal laughter. With a crazy look in his eyes and an unsettlingly wide grin, his face seemed to go dark as he leaned closer.  

“Because you’re weak!” He shouted, his crazed laughter intermingling with unbridled rage. “You’re useless! Weak! Good for nothing!” 

The man in the black suit stood straight, gesturing widely for Saeran to take a good look at him and their surroundings before starting to speak down to him again. 

“You’re worthless—don't tell me you couldn’t see that? You idiot! Moron!” His words flew at Saeran like knives. “You don’t deserve to even breathe—you're so good for nothing! You’re weak—but me? Me? I’m strong—can't you see?” 

The chain of the man’s black suit swung as he brought his hand up to pound at his chest. Saeran didn’t dare take his eyes off of him, though he also couldn’t bring himself to move his shaking legs. 

“I’m Saeran. I’m stronger than that Ray ever will be—I'm strong, I’m untouchable! You... you’re some sad excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to even exist in this world—don't you get it?” ‘Saeran’ had laughed again. “Don’t start asking who I am, or questioning who you are—just know that you’re nothing—NOTHING. You will be nothing but dirt beneath someone’s shoe—if you’re lucky!” 

Saeran felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He shook his head, though he were terrified. This man was supposed to be him? Someone so... volatile? Hostile? ...Mean? How could this be him, in any way? He loved being around others—sure, he thought he were the weaker one of those around him--but he certainly wouldn’t consider talking to someone, let alone himself, this way. He started to shrink away once the ‘Saeran’ in the mirror started to get even louder in his rants, taking small steps backwards as though he were getting cornered against another mirror. 

“Aw, are you scared?” ‘Saeran’ taunted with a smile, though it quickly dropped to a disinterested frown. “Weak. Pathetic. You’re the very thing I worked so hard to stomp out. You can’t exist—you WON’T exist.” 

The mirror between them shattered, the sound only making the tension in the room worse; Saeran quickly backed up against another mirror, horrified to see desperate hands reach out towards him—full of absolute hatred and intent to harm. All the mirrors around now showed a warped dark figure; the suited man twisting and turning to try and find his prey through the shattered fragments. He would move from mirror to mirror, trying to find the one small blind spot Saeran may have been hiding in. 

“There’s no use, you moron.” ‘Saeran’ barked through a menacing smile. “You’ll be stomped out—like a weed! You love your pathetic little flowers, but you’re nothing more than a hindrance to them—don't you see? You’re better off GONE! So, come out come out, wherever you are!” 

His threats danced like a melody around the room, causing Saeran to further panic. His breathing started to get erratic, matching his heartbeat. He had to calm down—he had to quiet down. He couldn’t let himself get caught by this... imposter. He had to get out of here, he had to wake up from the nightmare. He tried to quietly make himself the smallest he could be, almost balling up against mirrors hidden in the shadows, trying to slowly shimmy his way along the row to find his exit. He could hardly think now, mind clouded with fear and his own heartbeat. 

Saeran needed to get out of there; he needed to run, to find safety. He needed away from the crazed man’s sight and especially his reach. If he hadn’t focused solely on the man in black, he might have noticed the arm shoot out from the mirror he stood against. Or, maybe he wouldn’t have—it came out rather fast, like it was desperate and knew it’s mission. 

Saeran couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry for help. This arm wrapped around his throat, laughing softly in his ear. The heat of their breath tickled the side of his face; Saeran’s own hands flew up to try and pull this bare arm off of his throat, but it only tightened its grip, causing Saeran to gag and sputter as he tried to breathe. He could make out some lines of a dark tattoo on this arm, yet nothing came to mind as to what the design could have meant. The glint of something shiny came from this man’s closed fist, some sort of button mechanism. 

“Shhh,” the voice whispered against his ear. He had an enchanting voice about him, one that soothed like a melody, but haunted with a chill down Saeran’s spine. “Don’t worry little lamb, I’ve got you.” 

Saeran continues trying to free himself, trying to twist and turn out of his captor's grasp, all to no avail. His limbs start to feel numb, though his body itself went into a trance while his mind stayed panicked; he tries to take a peek at his captor, only to see himself once again—though this time, bright mint eyes stared back at him, far away in mind and emotionally soft—Saeran knew a darkness was looming over those eyes that threatened to snap at any moment. 

“No need to fight—I'll save you.” This man mumbles against Saeran’s ear. “I’ll take you away from here, if you’ll only let me. I’ll take you away to paradise.” 

“P-paradise?” Saeran managed to sputter out, still very aware of the crushing weight on his throat. 

“Paradise!” The man had such a light laugh, only for his voice to grow quiet once again. “Paradise. Where there is no pain, no need to live through such horrible nightmares. Paradise—where the weak become strong. Paradise! A beautiful hue of Magenta.” 

The man sort of nuzzled against the nape of Saeran’s neck, almost condescending and pitiful. Every sensor in Saeran’s brain had started to ring alarms, but his body could do nothing but mindlessly fight, clawing and kicking as this man pulled his arm tighter, lifting Saeran a bit off of the ground; Saeran could feel the cold of a mirror against his back, slowly growing warmer as he assumed he was getting closer to the man’s own body. 

“You see,” this man whispers against the tip of his ear, warm breath fanning over his skin, “you and I? We’re nothing in this world. We’re the ‘Unknown’, right?” He tilted his head just enough to lay against his own shoulder and smile at Saeran, a gentle action that felt icy. “And the ‘Unknown’ work in the shadows, making sure that we’re strong—even if no one will see us. Isn’t that beautiful, in a way? Being so useful, so strong, that others depend on you even if the world cannot see you?” 

Saeran felt sort of... warm, with the words of this man. To be strong, to be useful—yes, that’s something Saeran desperately wanted. These words, however... the words of a crazed man—the fact that he felt warm and inviting scared Saeran to the bone; he tried to fight harder for his escape. 

“Now now,” ‘Unknown’ let out a slightly breathy laugh, pulling Saeran even closer to his chest and through the mirror. “I’m unknown to the world, therefore, I’m the angel of paradise—Magenta's angel—I can bring you to paradise. I will guide you.” He laid his head against Saeran’s, once again nuzzling gently, as though he were nurturing. “I can show you to be useful—to be strong—so long as you come with me to paradise.” 

‘Unknown’ gently clicks his tongue at Saeran’s increased attempt at escaping, almost as though he’s going to lecture him like a child. Saeran can feel every nerve in his body tingle like static, unsure of what he should do now—fall into this man’s warm words? Fight for his freedom? He becomes increasingly aware of the mechanism in ‘Unknown’s hand, watching as he now opens his fist to reveal what it was; he twisted it around, showing Saeran every inch of it, tightening the grip his arm had on Saeran’s throat as he started to talk again. 

“This? This right here is what will make you the strongest you could ever be—no one will dare question you with it! No one will dare step on you! This, right here, can be the key to paradise—to Magenta, to Mint Eye.” His voice started to change pitch, growing higher as he went on—his eyes started to strain, as did his smile. “This, right here, is a detonator; one click—BOOM! AHAHAHA!” 

Saeran’s eyes grew as wide as the moon, his fight-or-flight senses now kicking into full overdrive as ‘Unknown’s maniacal laughter rang out, effectively shattering any remaining doubt. Saeran started to kick desperately, claw at this bare arm as though his life depended on it. ‘Unknown’s laugh rang through his ears, growing louder than the heartbeat in Saeran’s ears—which was overbearing. As a last-ditch effort, Saeran threw his head back, hitting the man in the head; he ignored the ache he caused himself and flung his head forward again, sinking his teeth into the arm that held him captive. Once ‘Unknown’s grip loosened, Saeran threw himself to the ground, effectively escaping; he had little time, however, to pick himself up off the ground as start running, finding it hard to breathe as the bruising around his throat started to darken. 

“Little lamb,” ‘Unknown’s voice echoed in a sing-song-like tone, “come back here! You can’t run from me forever! 

Saeran’s feet hit the ground hard as each step took him down another dark hallway, then another, then another; no matter where he went, there were broken mirrors lining the wall—all housing their own warped image of Unknown, all leaking that same blue liquid from earlier, all with their own pairs of hands, legs, or even heads belonging to ‘Unknown’ breaching the confinements of the mirror. Saeran ran as fast as he could go, trying to not only outrun the man himself, but the voice that called out for him. 

“Come back here—stop denying your destiny at paradise!” 

Saeran turns another corner, seeing a dark room at the end of the hall—devoid of mirrors, minus one that stood lit up in the middle of the room, pristine. He can barely make out the image within it—a man that looked like him, once again. He had the same light hair and bright eyes as the men before, but this one seemed... happy. There, he stood in a white shirt, smiling, bright. His hand was outstretched, welcoming, inviting; Saeran felt a little sense of hope as he ran towards it. 

“You can’t run from destiny, Saeran!” ‘Unknown’ had started to call out, his voice full of rage. “Take a good look at me—I'm you! I’m your destiny—your chance at being worth something—stop running from yourself, Saeran!” 

Surely that wasn’t true, Saeran thought. It couldn’t be him—none of these could have been him, none of them were happy. Surely, there was more to his life than what he experienced up until now—something bright and hopeful. Surely, he thought... surely. 

Saeran shook his head, trying to rid himself of ‘Unknown’s words, dodging each attempt the man made to grab him as he made his way towards the warmth of the sun. He was relieved to see such a happy future, one with a smile—a genuine smile—one that had no ill intent. One that was free from the pain of his childhood, free of the fear and the hardships. One where he could see and feel just how warm the sun was, smell the flowers as their petals floated through the breeze—one where he may once again find his mirror image.  

He ran; he ran as fast as his legs could take him. He ran though his lungs burned with each attempt at a breath, though his legs burned a cold blue through the pain, though his vision turned cloudy from the pure fear of it all. He ran; he ran towards that future—that hope. 

A crack—it was louder than the voices calling out for him. A crack started to form in the mirror, slowly at first. He pushed himself even harder—to that mirror, he had to get to that mirror before it shattered. He had to get himself out of here; he ran faster, still. Pushing himself through whatever short limits he had on this cursed body of his, willing to deal with the consequences later. He got closer, closer, closing the gap between him and the sweet relief of the sun—crack. 

Shattered pieces of the mirror seemed to float in the air in slow motion. The illuminated pieces seemed light as feathers, drifting around the dark room; Saeran ran to them, sliding down on his knees to try and catch the pieces midair—he could fix it! He could put the pieces back together; he could make his way through this nightmare. He could escape, if only he could put the pieces back together. 

Each piece that touched his skin turned to dust-- sparkling, glittering, twinkling dust. He couldn’t grab ahold of a single piece as the dust started to fall, gracefully, to the cold floor where he now sat. 

Alone, in this cold, dark, empty room. The only source of light was the waning glimmer of the dust still settling around him—of the broken dreams and unattainable happiness he has lost. There is no light—no end—in sight. Slowly, he sits, pulling his knees up to his chest in order to curl up into a ball, as small as possible to stop wasting space with his presence; he cries, burying his face into his knees as the last light of the dust starts to die, leaving him in a life with no escape. 

CHOI, Saeran, found dead in his family home at the age of 14. 

He’s survived by a sense of freedom; a longing for the warmth of the sun and the lull of the breeze. His brother, who had gained his wings first, would free him on days he had felt his loneliest. The sweetness of it all had left him with sticky hands as a treat he once thought far out of his reach had melted slightly within his grasp. He’d want to be remembered not by the bruises littered along his skin, nor the hard words branded into his being—but by the love that surrounded him, the care that he had extended to the ones closest around him, by the time once spent bonded to his brother. 

CHOI, Saeran, found dead in the abandoned cell at the age of 19. 

He’s survived by a lost soul, one confused and begging to be bathed in relief. He had left this world alone, where he called out for one who never answered—only an echo of his own. He would be left there, forced to obey as he once had in his youth; he would be bathed in faux relief—something blue, something new—and would be accepted to one’s heaven should he behave and do as is asked of him. He would want to be remembered not as a weakling, needing the hand of another to hold and share their warmth—but as someone renewed, born again, willing to stumble and fall so long as he walked on his own two legs rather than another’s. 

CHOI, Saeran, found dead in the garden of an unmarked location at the age of 21. 

He’s survived by a lost soul, one drenched in the light of the divine. He’s survived by a lost soul, one dripping in the shadows of the sinner. He has been saved, though it took him many years to come to terms with his passing. He has been saved, though his passing took many years to come to terms with himself. He had gone down kicking, screaming, burning up from his own passion—and from the flames dosed in a blue saviour, he has risen once more from the ashes. He would want to be remembered as a believer, a seeker of truth, someone who whole-heartedly devotes himself to his saviour and begs for the love of the ruler of his heart. He would want to be remembered as a maker, an enforcer of forgiveness, someone who whole-heartedly devotes himself to his saviour and has others beg for the love of the one who can rid them of sin. 

CHOI, Saeran “RAY”, found dead in a sealed off [ERROR] in the [REDACTED] at the age of 22. 

He’s survived by nothing, no one. He’s void of all things that make him, and replaced by something blue—something new. He had been raised from the trenches of Hell, rinsed off and molded into something useful by the divine—by his saviour. He no longer had need for the name [REDACTED], and no need for those who betrayed him, threw him away, left him abandoned. He died surrounded by the only thing he knew anymore, a soft electric hum playing about the room like a melody as he worked on [REDACTED] so his saviour could S A V [ERROR] E others—protect them, rid them of sin, like [REDACTED] had done to him. He had nothing left to do in his life but D E V O T E himself to his saviour, to [ERR O R] and beg for mercy as he would drop to his knees just for a glimpse, a shimmer, of that cleansing light or the taste of tHA T bl U[ERROR] [REBOOTING...]-- blue dream. He’d like to be remembered [ERROR] [FORGIVEN] by his devotion, by his love and care he’d put into his work and into being of use to his saviour. He’d like to be remembered by the one he had chosen [E RR oR] saved all on his own, one he wanted to hold dearly to his heart and [S A V E] from the FILTH-- [ERROR]-- the SINFUL--[ERROR]--he wanted to be rememBERED--[ERROR]-- PLEASE--[ERROR] [ERROR] [ERROR] 

He hadn’t realized it, but March grew fairly used to seeing that new farmer pass by the forge day after day. It became almost... routine, to see them from his peripheral and feel the twitch of his brow, ignoring the sudden increase of heat against his face that was surely from the forge he busied himself with.  

Some days they’d stop to annoy him, while he’d spare a few words out of the kindness of his heart, other days they’d simply throw him a smile and a wave, continuing their walk to wherever it was they’d decide to go that time. There were days they even ignored his presence and hurried on by—those were the days March liked the most, he was unbothered and uninterrupted—coincidentally, they were also the days he had the most trouble trying to fall asleep. Whatever. 

It was a constant, something expected, he would see them walk by his forge at least once a day. They’d dance along the path—hopping, skipping—frolicking through flower petals that danced in the wind alongside them in the crisp, spring air. They’d have days where they would practically sprint by and rush their hellos to make it to the beach, and others where they’d drag their feet and loudly bark up the wrong tree about the heat in the harsh summer sun. Fallen leaves would make constant crunching sounds as they’d make sure to find and step on every damn one just to get on March’s nerves with a giant smile on their face when autumn would roll around. He did get a laugh or two in when hidden ice had made them fall as they goofed around during the winter—he'd be oh-so-kind and let them warm up by the forge for a minute before they went about their day.  

Even through the seasons, this daily greeting was a constant. March hadn’t realized just how much of an impact this would have on his day-to-day schedule—or maybe he had and pushed away the thought—regardless of the true reasoning, it only donned on him when he found himself fidgeting and attempting to keep busy one day, to stay outside just a bit longer to catch sight of them, only to be graced by the lonely presence of the moon instead. 

Where were they today? Not that it mattered to him. They were probably out doing God knows what, making everyone in the town love them even more. Gross. March shook his head, trying to dispel the images of the farmer that continued to pop up in his mind. He didn’t want to see them. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t come by to annoy him. It didn’t bother him. 

But where in the world were they? He stepped onto the road, looking as far along the horizon as he could every which way. Had he just missed them? Maybe they snuck by him earlier, deciding that they’d leave him alone—maybe he’d just gotten so good at tuning them out that he never noticed them go by. Did they make it home alright? Whatever, it wasn’t his problem. He’d go inside and wash the day from him, relax, have a nice dinner with his brother, and get some sleep. 

He thought it’d be so simple. March felt as though his night passed him by—like he was looking at it through a stack of different paintings rather than living it first-hand. He couldn’t get that damn newcomer out of his head! Every waking thought was either accompanied by their face, their voice, or events including them replaying in his head. Now he lay in bed, looking up at his ceiling as the moonlight poured through the window, unable to get his mind to stay still. 

Did they go to the mines today? If they did, were they alright? Did something happen? Were they hurt? Had they exhausted themselves and passed out somewhere? Were they home? Had they eaten, washed up, tucked themselves into bed? March held his head in his hands, hoping if he squeezed it hard enough, he’d shut off his brain. It was driving him crazy! Why was he even thinking any of this—he didn’t care about them, he didn’t like them one bit! They were an annoyance, a pain in his ass, some... outsider! Why couldn’t he just go to sleep!  

The break of dawn welcomed him far too quickly, dragging him out of bed without a wink of sleep. Fine, whatever. He’d see them come by today and he’d just ask what their problem was. Maybe they were just home sick yesterday; sucks for them—maybe they should get better. No, not in a caring way! March rubbed at his face, smacking his cheeks lightly to snap himself out of it. He had things to do, he was going to do them. He was going to set his mind straight, focus, and go about his own day. 

Why weren’t they walking by! March held the hammer in his hand so tightly he started to shake, his teeth would shatter if he kept grinding them as hard as he was. The sun was setting and he still hadn’t seen them—not even a glimpse! He only got a fraction of his tasks done today; constantly looking over his shoulder to check if they had gone by, or standing out in the middle of the road to stare in all directions for a while to see if he could catch them coming. That makes two days now, don’t they know they were ruining his schedule? He found himself tossing and turning again that night, hardly getting any sleep as worry started to creep into his chest. 

Another day, then another, and another after that. Each day that had gone by without so much as a glimpse of them had now made his chest heavy—he didn’t like it. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much. He entertained the thought of going to their home once or twice just to check in on them—yell at them for ruining his work—but something gnawed at him each time. What if they were avoiding him?  

Yeah, he wasn’t the nicest to them. He didn’t care that he wasn’t. Maybe they DID start avoiding him—that was their choice. It’d be good for him, after all! He wouldn’t have to deal with them distracting him, or... trying to be his friend. Maybe it did bother him that he wasn’t very nice to them. Maybe he did care, just a little bit. 

When Friday rolled around, he ended up at the tavern early, and drinking heavy. He just wanted to rid himself of these feelings, these thoughts. If he couldn’t work as a distraction or sleep them away, maybe drinking them away would work instead. It usually didn’t take much for his head to get lighter, to shed all his worries and let himself be all smiles and laughter, but he was desperate to keep his thoughts at bay. What if they were avoiding him so much that they’d even stop showing up to tavern nights? He knocked back another drink and laid his head on the bar’s counter. 

“You doing alright there, March?”  

March turned so he could face the voice, closing his eyes once his cheek touched the cool counter. 

“I’m FINE, Hemlock...” Was that voice coming from him? Which way was the room spinning? “Just fine...” 

“I’m thinking you’ve had enough for tonight,” Hemlock shook his head and tried taking March’s half-empty glass, “but you can talk about what’s wrong if you want. No pressure.” 

“Nooo,” March drew out his protest, not bothering to raise his head as he grabbed onto his glass, “don’t take that.” 

“Fine, alright. It’s the last one though, alright?” 

Hemlock leaned against the counter in front of him, staring at the young disheveled boy in front of him. He cocked an eyebrow, thinking for a moment before his eyes lit up in realization. Mischievously, he leaned even closer to the faux red-head and called out just loud enough for him to hear, while keeping his plan believable. 

“Oh, hey (Y/n)!” 

“WHERE?” 

March sat straight up, unsure if the deep red creeping over his features was from being drunk, thinking about seeing them, or if all the blood rushed to his head at once from how quickly he moved. He did not last very long before laying his head back on the counter, a fist crashing down beside it. 

“Spinning, spinning, should NOT have done that...” 

“Ah, I had a feeling that was the root of your little problem.” Hemlock teased, once he caught his breath after laughing at the poor boy’s expense. “What issue do you have with them now?” 

“No... no issue,” March had to calm his breathing. Was he flustered? Oh, no, just trying not to throw up. Wait, was he sure? “Maybe an issue. I don’t know. Why are they avoiding me?” 

“Could be because you aren’t very nice to them.” 

“I’m sooo super nice to them.” 

“Uh-huh...” Hemlock pushed a glass of water onto the counter, trying to slowly switch out March’s two drinks. “Have you tried going to see them?” 

“...I don’t want to find out it’s because they hate me.” 

“Oh, so that’s the real reason.” 

March lifted his head enough to peek up at the older man before turning his gaze to the hand beside him, now dragging his finger along the counter in circles to distract him. 

“I don’t get it. Why haven’t they been by all week? Why... does it bother me so much in the first place?” March closed his eyes again, trying to steady the room. “I like to come here and have some fun; why am I still all upset?” 

Hemlock pushed the water glass further towards March, slowly bringing his glass of beer closer to the back of the bar counter, stopping whenever March stirred slightly. It was a pity, really; Hemlock was well aware of what (Y/n) had been up to—if they were purposefully avoiding March, then they certainly never expressed it. If he remembered correctly, he questioned why they were walking so painfully slow from the tavern the other night, almost comically dragging out each step as they looked up the road behind them. 

‘Should I book you for your new comedy routine?’ 

‘I’m just... takin’ my time, Hemlock! Nothing odd about it.’ 

He remembered watching as they drug their shoe against the road to make their next step, slow as a snail. 

‘Uh... yup, nothing odd about it all right. Everything alright, (Y/n)?’ 

They had given him a sigh then, their body almost melting to the ground as they voiced their woes—too busy to make it anywhere but their farm and the tavern for some dinner at the end of the day, something about cleaning up the old place. It was almost killing them having to stay there instead of running off—or rather, running by the blacksmith. 

‘Isn’t March always giving you a hard time, anyway?’ He remembered asking, putting the back of his hand on his hip and smiling—he already knew the answer. 

‘That won’t stop me!’ They stood triumphantly then, stomping their foot on the ground. ‘I WILL get that boy to be my friend, whether he likes it or not!’ 

Hemlock remembered the shy heat that crept up their neck, touching their ears first before it reached their smile and they had to turn away from him before getting embarrassed further. 

‘Besides...’ their voice was soft, he thought, ‘when you get into a routine, the withdrawals... suck.’ 

Hemlock was brought back to the present by March blindly dragging his drink back to him, reversing all of his hard, secret work. He sighed, a smile on his face as he gave up and picked up an empty glass to start washing it. 

“Well,” he put on his wise father voice, “’when you get into a routine, the withdrawals... suck.’” 

Silent hung above both men a moment before March lifted his head with a confused glare. 

“Huh?” 

“Huh. I thought that would’ve been much cooler than it was. Context was probably better, in hindsight.” 

Both turned their attention to the opening tavern doors, a familiar figure now gracing the open room. A few others called out to them first, receiving a smile, a wave, and a short conversation in return. March sat up straight, ignoring how light headed it made him feel this time. 

“(Y/N)! Heyyy!" He practically drawled out his greetings. “C’mere, c’mere!” 

The heat from his blush was intermingling with the heat from being drunker than Hell, so he no longer paid it any attention. March eagerly patted the counter next to him, practically begging for them to come sit with him. If he were a dog, his tail would have wagged so intensely as the wide smile on his face mirrored theirs as they made their way over. 

“Uh, hi there March! Had enough to drink already?” 

“You’re here!” March let a genuine, heartfelt giggle bubble up from his chest at how light their presence alone made him feel. 

“I am—oh! Okay--” 

March practically threw himself against them, his head against their shoulder while they tried to hold onto the drink Hemlock has just offered them. His bottom lip jutted out, a very prominent pout, as he started to drag his finger along their extended arm now, drawing little shapes like he had done previously to the counter. 

“...Where were you?” His voice grew oddly quiet. “You haven’t been by in days.” 

“Well, I--” (Y/n) tried to explain. A heavy wave of guilt washed over them, a huge pang of pain shooting through their heart at how March looked up at them—sad, puppy dog eyes, his metaphorical ears and tail drooping as though he were sopping wet from the rain. They had to grip at their heart, almost comically, dramatically, throwing their head back in despair at just how evil they had been! 

“I’m sorry! I had a lot of work on the farm, you know? There’s a lot of cleaning up to do there before I can think about maybe expanding my crops, or working on a barn, you know?” They stuck their lips out into a pout of their own, gently patting March’s exposed cheek with their other hand. “Didn’t mean to make you worry.” 

March looked back down at their arm again, now dragging his finger up and down it, quietly mumbling, hoping that they wouldn’t be able to hear. 

“Wasn’t worried...” he started, mumbling even softer, “Just... missed you.” 

Though he thought it were quiet enough, a drunk person’s reality never seems to match; (Y/n) stared down at him, almost dumbstruck at how loudly he had professed his feelings—they weren’t much, but those words alone proved to (Y/n) that there really WAS some sort of fire in that frozen heart of his! Their gaze softened as they slowly turned their arm over, opening and closing their palm a few times to signal an offer. 

March almost immediately, willingly, took their hand and interlaced their fingers. He kept his eyes trained on their hands, studying the way their fingers seemed to fit perfectly between his. After they gently leaned their head against his, he spoke again—a little more clearly this time. 

“So... you don’t hate me?” It sounded pained. 

“No, I don’t hate you in the slightest, March.” 

“...You weren’t avoiding me?” 

“Not at all.” They gave his hand a little squeeze. “Is that what you thought this whole time? Is that why you’re so clingy tonight?” 

“...No.” March huffed, closing his eyes and turning his face away, though he doesn’t dare take his head off of their shoulder. Their soft laugh surrounded him like a soft melody, and he relished in it a moment before speaking up again. “Don’t ruin my daily schedule. Come by at least once a day.” 

“Alright,” they laughed again, “Demanding, much?” 

“You’re making it difficult to get my work done. To sleep. Just—come by at least once so I can see you and have a good day.” 

(Y/n) nuzzled against the top of his head slightly, a smile hidden from his view as they agreed, choosing to ignore the nervous way March started to fidget, and ignoring the way butterflies flew rampantly in their stomach. With their free hand, they brought the glass of water Hemlock had been trying to push on him all night up to his lips, encouraging him to drink at least a bit. 

At least for the night, tension between them had settled—whatever tension they chose to believe there was. March’s chest felt lighter, a weight lifted off his shoulders, as he basked in their glow rather than the cold, lonely moon’s, just for tonight. A goofy, genuine smile made its way up to his eyes, watching as he messed with (Y/n)’s hand and easily accepted any time they gave him water. 

“You’ll forget all this tomorrow, huh?” 

“Yup.” He smiled, giving their hand a squeeze and slightly cuddling further into their shoulder. 

“You’ll go back to hating me tomorrow too, then?” 

The sand was just warm enough to make him feel weightless, like he was floating on a cloud. Or was it the breeze that tickled his skin, lifting him up and carrying him away softly, gently? Maybe it was the way in which the sun's rays hit his face just right, embracing him like a familiar hug that made him feel like he could take on the skies.  

Or, really, it was the way his company made him feel—the way his heart fluttered and soared and carried him along with it. Alex snuck a look at the person at his side; their face up towards the sun, a smile on their face that could rival it. The sight brought on a smile of his own, warmth in his chest growing stronger than the summer sun.  

Yoba, how beautiful the sun made them look; the light surrounding them hugged them in just the right places, making them look almost ethereal. Well, any light did that to them, in Alex’s eyes. Maybe because they’d hung out for a good while now, he started to actually see them—maybe they’ve always been this beautiful, but he was so absorbed in himself that he couldn’t take notice. Here they sat, however, closer than ever and intertwined in places of his heart that he would have never expected. What was this feeling? 

“Hey Farmer, you’ve gotta move your big head; you’re blocking out the whole sun. How am I supposed to tan?” 

“Uh. Go find your own spot?”  

They were snarky, a faux pout on their lips as they finally turned to look at him. Farmer brought their arms up, waving them in the air and watching as their shadows covered the face of their lounging companion beside them. Alex grumbled, perching himself up with his arms out behind him to get some sun of his own. The Farmer’s laugh was a melody dancing around with the breeze, subconsciously pulling Alex in; he leaned over and bumped into them with his shoulder, playfully. 

“If I go find my own spot, I’ll miss the clown show.” 

“Woooooow.” They drug out the word, feigning hurt. “You’re so mean to me! Why do I even bother calling you my friend?” 

Alex smiled, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, soaking up the sun.  

“Yeah, well.” He laughed a bit to himself, speaking without thinking. “You could probably punch me in the face and I’d still want you, so say what you want.” 

Silence. It felt as though the world itself had stopped moving around him; the waves, the breeze, the Earth itself had stopped moving and froze in time. The air around them suddenly grew so tense it could be cut with a simple piece of paper at this point. Alex snapped his eyes open, whipping his head back up to look at them, completely bewildered. Farmer looked back at him just as shocked, eyes wide yet hiding any emotion from them. 

“What?” 

“What?” 

“Alex, huh?” 

“Huh?” 

There was no way that slipped out, right? What did he even mean by that—did he want them? Oh Yoba, he did, didn’t he? That’s what that feeling was—they weren’t simply just his best friend, they had grown far more than that when he wasn’t looking. Did he already ruin it before anything could have started? What about their friendship? He’d just ruined everything; why didn’t his brain work the right way—like others? Why did he have to have such a hard time watching his mouth!  

His panic was interrupted by Farmer’s voice, Alex’s face never relaxing from his shock and panic. 

“Alex? What did you mean by that?” 

“By what?” 

“By ‘I’d still want you’?” 

“Who said that?” 

“Alex.” 

His curt answers had no effect on the Farmer, nor did his attempts to play it off. He turned to look anywhere but them, but his eyes couldn’t stay in just one spot. His face started to heat up, and it wasn’t from the sun this time. His embarrassment crawled up his neck, burning his ears first; he went from biting his cheek, to scowling, to biting his cheek once again—back and forth—trying to think of something, anything, to get him out of the situation he found himself in. 

“Alex.” They said again, trying to lean into his line of sight as his eyes darted everywhere but on them. “Alex? What did you mean? Do you like me?” 

“Huh?” He started to comically move his head around to follow his line of sight now, trying to blatantly avoid their gaze. 

His eyes shot down to one of his hands that held himself up the second he felt the heat from their own cover it. He could feel as they leaned in, their body now taking up space in his own personal bubble; he could sense that their face had leaned in close to his, but he was far too nervous to look back at them—he kept his eyes on their hands. 

“Alex, do you like me?” They asked again, following up with a soft, feather-light kiss on his cheek bone without giving him a chance to answer. “Do you?”  

Another feather-light kiss, more on his cheek. Another one closer to the corner of his lip. Each peck of their lips left behind a burning mark and an electric shock all the way to his rapidly beating heart. Another. A soft whisper of ‘do you?’ once again by them against his lips, followed by a soft, gentle kiss.  

Their lips, the smell of them, their body heat—all far too fleeting. He turned to finally look at them as they pulled away and sat back up, their smile radiant. He used his other hand to rub at the back of his neck, trying (and failing) to calm himself down. His heart kept leaping out of his throat, out of his chest. His hands were shaking, he’d fall if he wasn’t careful. Alex kept trying to frown, to deny whatever he could and save face, but the corners of his lips had betrayed him as he kept smiling, no matter how hard he attempted to stop. Okay, so, maybe he did. Maybe he did like them a bit.  

“Yoba, you want me so bad.” They joked, trying to clear the air and help ease his embarrassment. 

“What.” His face fell deadpan, too stunned to respond. 

They laughed once again, a hearty one, that had them hunched over; he simply stared at them intensely, leaning into them to stare harder—though all it did was make them laugh even more, until they struggled to catch their breath. Once they did, they turned back to him, finding themselves face to face. They simply kept smiling at him, even as they wiped the tears from their eyes; he started to fail to hide his smile once again, now sharing a small chuckle with them. 

Alex leaned back on his hands again, tilting his head and taking in their entire self, a gentle smile on his lips and soft, loving look in his gaze. Yeah, he did want them, actually. He wasn’t sure why he kept denying it to himself before, but he really did want them—all of them, for the rest of his life, actually. Even if he tried to think of anything else, his brain had fried a bit-- replaying every moment he had experienced clammy hands, rapid heartbeats, or some sort of longing while in their presence; yeah, he did want them, more than he ever thought he would.  

He watched them lean in again, though he let his body do the talking this time. As they got closer, one of his hands moved up to cup their jaw gently, his heartbeat racing through his veins as they leaned into his touch. Alex wanted to leave his eyes open and look at them—how beautiful they were, how ethereal they must have been—but he allowed himself to simply keep them closed, blissfully melting into the feel of their lips interlocking with his own. The feel of their summer-stained lips and the taste of their salty chapstick had lingered as they slowly—reluctantly—pulled away, burning the sensations into his brain for longer than he’d ever know. 

They seemed to mirror him now; nervous, a little awkward, but hopelessly in some sort of love. Farmer looked away, trying to hide just how wide their smile had been now. Alex sat there a moment, trying to let his brain catch up. Oh, so that happened. Oh, so this was happening—with them. He blew air out of his nose, resembling a slight laugh at how dumbfounded he was.  

But, this was where he was meant to be. He hadn’t realized this before, but the world had only seemed to stop earlier because it was time for it to. Time isn’t lost if you’re where you’re meant to be, he believed, because it was time meant to be shared. He was exactly where he was meant to be—exactly who he was meant to be with. It simply took his empty, big ol’ head of his to accidentally spit out words without thinking to get him to realize this; everything made sense the moment the words left his lips—everything made sense the moment their lips touched his own.  

He turned their face back towards him, pulling them gently back down towards them with a large, goofy, happy grin. 

As was natural in Mondstadt, the breeze was gentle and constant, bringing fresh air and freedom along with it. 

With the festivities in full bloom, the flowers joined in as well; petals danced about in the air, spinning and lunging in the most graceful of ways. The entire city was decorated from top to bottom with flowers, pinwheels, and colourful banners while the sounds of the bards' songs and the citizen’s laughter echoed off the building-- all paying homage to the Windblume Festival for a certain archon—the one who happened to be sitting across from (Y/n) at an outside table to one of the taverns. 

“Another glass!” 

“You’ve already had 9, Venti.” 

“Make it 10!” 

His giggle was as airy as the wind he controlled, throwing his arms into the air to stretch against the back of his chair. Aqua green eyes scanned the crowd nearby, a smile plastered to his face. (Y/n) sat back with their arms crossed to their chest, their eyes closed and a small smile on their lips. The two of them enjoyed one another's company in the opposite of silence.  

There was no such thing as quiet in Mondstadt, especially during a festival. As the two of them sat close to the center of town, the music was the loudest among sounds, overpowering the normal hustle and bustle of the locals and those running around enjoying their time. (Y/n) let the music wash over them; an upbeat melody with an undertone of something longing—they felt like it may have been written just for them. They heard Venti call out to them, only minorly interrupting their peace to ask if they’d like another drink as well. They could barely muster enough energy to give him a dismissive wave; they heard him mutter something along the lines of it being their loss.  

Unbeknownst to them, his eyes left the crowd and made their way to their form. They looked so relaxed, serene; the perfect picture of what Venti wanted to provide the world, and what he wanted in the world. He never expected to feel this way in general let alone with one of the most beautiful people he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting; he expected to simply just admire them, enjoy the fact that their soul was so... genuine. However, freedom is as freedom does, and he found himself by their side in no time, easily finding himself unexplainably smitten. 

Venti stood up; his half-finished drink already long forgotten as he made his way closer to them, standing in front of them with a large smile on his face, simply waiting for them to notice—he knew it wouldn’t be long. 

“You’re blocking the light,” they whined, begrudgingly opening one eye to peek at him, “I was enjoying that. Almost took a nap.” 

“You’re like a cat.”  

“Are you gonna start sneezing?” 

“No.” He scrunched his nose, sniffed a little, and lied. “Come on,” Venti held out one of his hands, the smile now returning to his face, “dance with me!” 

“Here?” He had their full attention now as they sat up and looked at him, “In front of all these people?” 

“No one’s paying attention! They’re all dancing with their loved ones too; it’ll be fine!” 

Grabbing onto their wrist, he effortlessly pulled them to their feet, facing them and swiftly moving backwards towards the dancing crowd and upbeat music. His giggle was hardly heard above the sound surrounding them. 

“Loved ones?” Their comment fell on deaf ears. 

Venti was simply enjoying his time; bouncing about, holding (Y/n)’s hands and swinging them around, spinning them in circles only to playfully pull them close and dip them dramatically to get a reaction from them—he only responded in a loud laugh. After a bit of time, (Y/n) loosened up, no longer caring about the people who surrounded them and focused only on the aqua green eyes and bubbly smile in front of them. 

The sun started to dip below the rooftops, eventually making its way past the horizon as well. Normally, time would never really matter to Venti, but with (Y/n) so close to him-- aware of how warm they were within his arms and how tired and sluggish their movements had become—the reality of his situation kicked in. His arms won’t be warm forever. 

Eventually, he’ll lose it all; the sound of their laugh, the shine of their smile, the way they made his heart sing. He lost something special once—though it was a different love—and knowing it was going to happen again was something he always knew would happen, but never made the thought any easier. He simply wanted to stay just like this; his arms around them as they couldn’t help but fall asleep with their head on his shoulder, softly swaying to the music that had carried as gently as the breeze, the odd feeling of his heart getting ready to leap out of his throat. The wind will always die down, but it still had strength behind it; his sign to let go of worries and live in the moment. 

A soft smile and an equally soft kiss to the side of their head, he whispered to the wind he called a friend. 

“I wish we could stay like this forever; you know?” uncharacteristically somber for him, though his tone quickly changed, “But we can’t. So, let me tell you today that I love you.”  

Silence fell upon the two of them again; (Y/n) tightened their grip on his shirt while Venti’s eyes grew wide, not expecting them to have heard him. They moved closer, nuzzling their face against his shoulder to hide their embarrassment, and he let out another giggle that tore through his body. In an attempt to lighten the mood, Venti pulled away, moving his hold to their wrists and swung their arms back and forth, absolutely beaming at them before uttering the words that gained an exasperated sigh and laugh from (Y/n). 

Monet’s brush brings landscapes to life, lighting capturing the purest of emotions. Colour, composition, breathtaking stories—all of which June had spent most of his life admiring, studying, mimicking. 

June had taken it all-- his knowledge, his studies—made it his own. To be like Monet, he thought, would be one of the best feelings in the world. The release of emotions, the longing for connection, the deep-rooted need to be perceived just to make his life mean something—they all flowed through him, through his brush, through the paint on the canvas. However, June knew he’d never be Monet, nor would his life hold any real meaning to the world around him. 

That wouldn’t stop the brushstrokes.  

A self-portrait, he thought, something new. Monet made a few of his own—he didn’t like them, though. Monet thought them to be limitations, pieces that refused to work with the level of talent he knew he could produce. What could he do, though? There was no time left in his life to do them any justice, to truly show how his talent could grow; time that June also didn’t have. 

He knew his life wouldn’t be very long, with this sick body of his. All he could do is tough it out, do as he was told, and hope for the best—he didn’t even know if he wanted to fight anymore. So today, he will simply paint.  

A self-portrait, he thought, something to leave behind. A mirror sat at the table beside the easel, a layer of paint freshly dried on the canvas, filling the room with a nostalgic smell. To paint his face, he thought, shouldn’t be too hard. He thought he were good looking, it shouldn’t be too difficult of a task—a nice learning curve, he thought. Expand his repertoire, get a change of pace to further develop the skills needed for pieces he liked doing. He’d have to leave something behind, after all. Might as well make it beautiful; might as well give it all he’s got. 

The mirror sat there, waiting for his eyes to fall within it. His gaze travelled over mundane parts of his appearance; the drab hospital wear, loose around his neck. The sharpness of his jaw, the sickly flush of his skin. He swept his gaze over his lips, nose, the lack of luster in his hair and no life in his eyes. He stared at himself, tried to look for the missing sparkle in his eye—staring too long as the rest of his appearance in the corners of his vision were starting to twist and distort. Snapping his eyes shut, shaking his head, he rid himself of the sensation and turned his attention back to the canvas his wrist rested upon.  

He could do it; it was fine—don't overthink it, don’t get hung up on it. The brush dipped into the paint, mixing colours among the palate. Start slow, start easy. The loose collar of his shirt started to take form on the canvas—drab, monotone, familiar. A break, a breath. Carefully, the shape of his neck, head, face started to appear—no details, no features. Then, the individual strands of his hair, all messy and unkempt, no matter how hard he had tried to smooth them out in the mirror. Blonde, bright—not like the sun, encompassing others and providing light and happiness, but gentle, muted—like a distant star, far away and long gone by the time it reaches your eyes. Perhaps that meant his whole life should be considered a star—maybe his paintings would take to the sky and paint their own constellation of his life for someone else to see, since he had nothing else to offer.  

A person with no face, the canvas housed. The details were going to be the hardest part, he thought. Might as well take his time, study hard, give it his best shot. His eyes drifted over to the mirror once again, following the lines of his features while the sound of the scratching of a pencil followed along. A curve here, his beauty mark there, he was a little afraid to look at the penciled results and closed his eyes before turning back to his work. Sitting back, peeking just slightly, he took a look at the level of his skills. Not bad, June thought to himself, it could just be... better. It was fine, he thought, not that it would matter; he wasn’t going to make waves in the world that required a good representation.  

Another break, another breath. His health was starting to slow him down; he’d fight it until he couldn’t. He’d rather finish this portrait, toss it to the back, and try not to think of it again. Slowly, carefully, the brush danced across the surface, his face taking shape. The curve of his nose, the lines of his lips, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Hours had passed, the sun had set, but the eyes made of paint were as lifeless as the ones that looked back at them. June sat back with a sigh, wiped the stray paint from his face, and took a long look at the acrylic mirror in front of him.  

What had happened? His hair seemed far too grey compared to his blonde, his eyes seemed to curve differently; his features seemed too sharp, too sunken, aged. His beauty mark had still been there—maybe he was getting tired and simply made mistakes. June took another look, staring so hard that the paint version of him started to morph further, seemingly looking more and more like his father rather than a portrait of his own likeness.  

Is that who he was? His father? Longing for the freedom of the wind and the sea, wanting a simple life with simple means. A life with a more holistic approach to his illness, a life with less dollar signs attached to material means. Was he his father? Maybe he was meant to be; the need to hate and distance himself from wealth or those who have it, the need to be so organic he couldn’t tell himself from the soil he would be buried in. It was a scary sight, to see his father in place of his own presence; who truly was June? Was this him? 

His heart started to race, a slow panic starting to bubble up. He rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to wipe away whatever fatigue must have been doing to him. The image of his father kept staring back at him, no matter how many times June had tried to rub his eyes, blink it away. He brought his brush back to the canvas, slightly shaking; he started again, painting quickly, a little rougher, over previous lines to attempt his own image again. He worked quickly, his heart starting a slow crescendo into his ears as the world around him began to muffle. The corners of his eyes started to grow a bit blurry, tunnel vision focusing on the acrylic sitting in front of him that fueled an impeding pit in his stomach. A little paint here, a shadow there; a new colour here, a messy line there. June tried to fix his image in record time, not worrying about the sloppiness or potential of drop in his skill. His body temperature started to rise, a bead of sweat dripping down his face; he wiped it away and sat back with a sigh of relief, hoping his work would be correct this time. He turned to look out of the window, a break full of unease. The moon was now shining down on him, reminding him just how small he was in the dark. He turned back to the painting. 

What had happened? His heart truly started to race now, the rapid thumping echoing heavy in his chest and all throughout his veins. His body shook as his eyes darted around the person staring back at him. Dark, longer hair, feminine features, eyes holding no lust for life—a broken image of stage lights and nightlife. June’s panic started to rise, the image in front of him morphing further into his mother, no hint of his own likeness left. 

Is that who he was? His mother? Simply falling into line with what is told to him, what is expected of him. A life full of longing for luxury and status; a demand for respect. A life with a price for everything, without bothering to look at the bill. Was he his mother? Maybe he was meant to be; the need to indebt himself to others, to fight tooth and nail in a harsh world to look good but never be truly happy; the need to be known, recognized, safe in a small box like a puppet on strings. It was a scary sight, to see his mother in place of his own presence; who truly was June? Was this him? 

The air felt far too heavy, a weight on his chest. June started to feel like he couldn’t breathe, taking in and letting out heavy breaths, all rapid to match the speed of his heartbeat. It was a downward spiral, the world had felt like. His body had gotten far too hot—or maybe it was cold? He broke out in a cold sweat, shaking profusely, leading to him dropping his paintbrush onto the floor. What was going on? Why couldn’t he get his portrait to look like him—why was it looking like one parent or the other? The painted mother had seemed to move, turning to look June in the eye and call out to him. 

“June?” He could hear her voice echo in his head, as the painted lips did not move. “Who truly is June?” 

His limbs felt heavy, stiff, tied up in string in a neat little bow. He would dance, nod, open the jaw strings to answer with an unfought agreeance. Who truly was June? Was June anyone? Was June anything? Was June truly real? 

What would June leave behind in this world? Nothing, nothing at all—for he was not June. He was a puppet, a doll, an empty shell for his parents to place pieces of themselves in and silence any portion they didn’t agree with. Any original thoughts, wants, needs, desires—nothing of June’s would be respected or acknowledged. He took up quickly, knocking the stool he sat upon over with a loud bang. He threw his hands into his hair, tugging at it slightly while he tried to hold the pain in his head—to keep the thoughts from spilling out. He could hear his mother, his father, swirling around him and reminding him that he was not his; his life would never be his own, for he was sick, weak, needed to be taken care of and indebted to the world. He was nothing extraordinary or special, let alone something unique—let alone someone free.  

The room started to spin, June’s body in a full-blown reaction. He started crying out, strangled noises, anything that might stop the pain of realization—anything that might stop the pain of subjugation. The painting in front of him mocked him, teased him, berated him—shut it up, shut it up!  

June dipped his fingers into black paint and swiped. He swiped, scratched, carved, lines across the faces in the canvas; covered eyes could no longer scrutinize, covered mouths could no longer command. His chest hurt, his body hurt, his soul hurt. Why? Why had a simple portrait turned out this way? Why had a peaceful night turned out like this? Why did he ever think he could leave a mark behind in this sea of stars? 

Who truly was June? He knocked the easel over, splattered paint creating the portrait’s crime scene. He had never been particularly emotional, certainly never to the point of a spontaneous melt-down; why did it hurt? Why did it hurt so bad to see his parents in place of himself? Why did he only see them in the first place? He held his face in his hands and broke out into a sob, standing in place as the room spun around him. He sobbed, cried, trying to expel the pain from his heart and his head and return to a point where he didn’t reflect on his life, he simply lived as he was told—as he was expected. It was a mistake to try, to even think about following Monet’s footsteps—even worse to create a portrait after Monet himself would shy away from his own. 

Something beside him called out softly, vile. Slowly, cautiously, he let his tears hit the floor as he removed his hands, looking towards the voice that called out to him. 

In the mirror held June—was it June? With black paint smeared across his eyes and teardrops staining his face further, making him unrecognizable. The person in the mirror gave him a wicked smile, putting a finger to their lips and hushing him—telling him to be a good boy and listen, though June himself had not moved. 

If there was one thing Sebastian appreciated about Pelican Town, it was the quiet pitter patter of the rain; once it started down, Sebastian could feel the weight of the world wash off his shoulders. Well, there was another reason this little town was alright—he looked down to find a small amphibian friend hop over his boot. He smiled softly to himself. 

Crouching down, he hugged his knees to his chest, watching closely as another small frog friend hopped along after the other. A third hopped up to him, sitting calmly and staring up at Sebastian without so much as a little thought behind its eyes. He chuckled under his breath and reached out, petting its head carefully with his index finger. Opening his palm, Sebastian stood back up straight once his new travel buddy hopped aboard; the both of them travelled slow, soaking up all the rain had to offer—no destination in mind, simply two storm-bound souls heading through the light fog of the unknown. Sebastian cringed to himself when he thought about it. A bit too edgy even for him. 

Making it down the mountain, he stood around the town’s center for a bit, just simply looking around. Where was he going to go now? The beach? Head back up the mountain? Both options made sure he enjoyed the weather longer, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling a bit of unwelcomed loneliness.  

“Where do you wanna go, little guy?” Sebastian brought the frog to his eye level, making sure the little creature knew he was addressing him. 

Well, he hoped it knew he was addressing him. He brought him back down level to his chest. He looked around again, holding his hand out towards where he was suggesting. 

“Wanna head to the beach?” He spun around and held him out again towards the path back home, “Or do you wanna head back home?” 

After an embarrassingly long pause as he was, after all, talking to a frog—the small amphibian jumped from his hand and down a third, unspoken choice pathway. Sebastian couldn’t stop the smile that broke out across his face, accompanied by a warm blush. He took a few large steps to catch up before snatching his friend back up, heading down the path.  

“A nice choice, I guess.” He put up a front, though his words were weak against his smile. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice. I’m not lying, don’t look at me like that.” 

The frog in his hand sat staring up at him, croaking softly as though it were speaking with him. Maybe Sebastian had been alone a bit too long, or maybe the rain was making him sick and he was delusional. Maybe it was both—he didn’t know. He shook his head and put his hand back down to his side, letting his friend continue hanging out the rest of the way. 

So, Sebastian had lied. There may have been at least one more, third reason why Pelican Town wasn’t so bad—but it was only a fairly recent reason, so it didn’t count. He also wouldn’t say it out loud, so it didn’t count. Things only count if you speak them to the world, right? The collar of his hoodie started to feel a bit too tight the more he thought about it; he cleared his throat. 

The farm was looking great—a much better sight than the overgrown, abandoned lot that it had been before. He was in awe of just how well it was doing, and how hard the farmer had been working day in and day out; he didn’t think he had what it took, if he were honest. His eyes scanned the lot—dozens and dozens of rows of vegetables, a few fruits, some flowers sprinkled here and there. The drenched scarecrows stood tall, protecting their respective crops with pride; the crows hiding from the rain in the nearby trees cawed distastefully at them. Small lanterns had a soft glow piercing the fog to line the walkways the farmer had made to navigate. In the short distance, he could hear the soft moo’s from inside a barn and soft clucks from another. Something about it was very… comforting. Everything was so organized yet so unique that it spoke to the farmer’s personality; his chest started to swell with pride—because he was friends with this new farmer, of course—no other reason. Or, well, it’s what he told himself. He shook off the goofy grin he had and replaced it with his usual disinterested scowl and knocked on the door. 

“Oh—yes? Who is it?” A voice called from behind the door. “Sorry, my hands are a little full to open the door.” 

“It’s… Sebastian,” he hesitated. “Do you need… help?” 

“Sebastian!” Sebastian’s heart skipped a small beat at the excitement in their voice. “You can go ahead and come in! Careful though, it’s a bit messy!” 

He opened the front door and stood in the doorway; they weren’t kidding when they said it was a mess—or that their hands were full. A few broken jars of jam splattered across the floor looking like a horror movie scene—the front of them including their arms were just as messy. If the sweet smell of strawberries hadn’t hit him immediately, Sebastian might have thought differently. 

“Are you alright?” He started to worry with the amount of glass surrounding them. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”  

“Oh no, I’m fine! Just an annoying mess to clean up. What brings you out this way?” 

“Oh…” Sebastian looked around for a moment, avoiding their gaze. 

Why was he here again? Following a frog’s advice? He couldn’t say that. Should he just tell them he was missing them? No, that was a little too straightforward at the moment. ‘I wanted to see you’—too strong. ‘I was bored’—it works, sounds kind of rude though. Through his thoughts, he felt the farmer’s stare linger on him a bit too long; a shiver made its way down his spine, but it wasn’t from the rain. The tips of his ears burned a bit. 

“I…” he thought quickly, covering his amphibian friend with his other hand and held it out. “I found something to show you!” 

“Is… it a frog?” They tilted their head with a slight frown. 

Sebastian read their body language—it was clear they weren’t the biggest fans of his favourite little creature, but they were certainly trying to be nice. Was there a slight fear in their eyes? They stared hard at his hands, it almost felt like they were burning a hole into them. He quickly hid his hands behind his back and stepped out of the doorway onto the front porch. 

“I no longer have something to show you.” 

“Ah!” They threw their hands out in front of them, concern and regret evident on all of their features. “I’m so sorry Seb! You can go ahead and show me!” 

“No no, it’s fine.” He took another step backwards. “Don’t worry about it. There isn’t anything to show.”  

“Seb! Please show me your frog!” 

They quickly navigated through the broken glass, which Sebastian watched with bated breath. They continued making their way towards him before he realized; his eyes widened and he just as quickly jumped from the steps of the porch, making his way towards the nearest bush. 

“It’s nothing! I don’t have one! It wasn’t important, anyway.” He called over his shoulder. “Don’t come over here.” 

“It is important!” The closeness of their voice startled him, though not as much as them jumping onto his back had done. “It’s important to you—you like them! Please show me!”  

Sebastian stood still for a moment, hunched over and holding his hands far out in front of him to keep the frog out of the farmer’s reach. He wasn’t sure what to do—his heartbeat was in his ears and he looked like a deer in the headlights at this point. It was, however, pretty cute to watch them from the corner of his eye, so determined to reach his hands this way rather than trying to get down and around him; he smiled up at them and opened his hands to reveal the small frog—not a care in the world, not a thought in its eyes. It stared up at them both. 

“Oh.” They wheezed. “It’s… certainly… a frog.”  

“Isn’t it kinda cute?” 

“It’s…. certainly… a frog,” they repeated.  

Sebastian laughed this time, their indifference now seeming like a cute quirk rather than something dismissive in his eyes. They slid off his back and he crouched down near the bush, placing his hand close enough to the ground to encourage his little friend to hop off. It disappeared into the shadows of the greenery, and Sebastian stared and smiled after it for a while before he heard the farmer speak behind him again. 

“Thanks for coming to show me your frog,” they started, a smile beaming up at him once he stood again. “I like learning about what interests you.”  

He wasn’t sure what to say to something as sweet as that, so Sebastian stared at them a moment, mumbling out a thanks as he switched between playing with the collar of his hoodie and scratching the back of his neck. It was silent for a beat—the only sound the pitter patter of rain once again, the distance moo’s and clucks of animals sheltering from the weather. 

“Sorry,” the farmer broke the silence, “I forgot about the jam. It’s all over the back of your hoodie now.”  

They sheepishly gestured to their clothes—cleaner, but certainly not clean—and laughed a bit embarrassed. They gestured back to their open front door. 

“I might have an extra one—want to borrow it? I could wash that one for you.” 

“It’s fine,” Sebastian shrugged. “It’ll wash off in the rain.” 

“Oh yeah, the rain’s one of your favourites too—right? You gonna keep roaming around in it?” 

“Until I clean off now, yeah.”  

“Hmm…” they hummed. 

Wordlessly, they ran back to close their front door and return to him.  

“I’ll join you! An easier way to clean this off? I’ll take it.” 

Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing, but raised his eyebrow at them. 

“And your floor? What about that—” 

“It’s a problem for a different time. A different me.” They cut him off, holding a hand up as though they jokingly dismissed him. “What would you like to go do?” 

“Normally I just sit on the pier. Take in the atmosphere.”  

“Lead the way!” They grabbed his sleeve and tugged a bit, pulling him down the pathway.  

He sighed in disdain—though it were fake. His smile spoke differently for him, happy in their presence as they started to recount their day and mishap very dramatically. The two of them bumped into each other a few times on accident before they started to do it purposefully—playfully, flirty. After a short pause for breath, the farmer spoke out again. 

The Cavalry Captain was always a tease. It wasn’t always with bad intentions or to cause a reaction from them, but more often than not, to their dismay, it was. This was one of those instances where they felt it was a grey area; Kaeya was hard to read in general, and even harder to read if he’s being genuine or bluffing. His honeyed words and sly smile caused (Y/n) to squint at him, brushing off the hand he had on their shoulder. 

“Come on now, (Y/n), don’t be shy.” 

“I’m not being shy, and I’m not giving you anything to hold against me.” 

“Hold against you? Now, why would I do that?” 

“You aren’t fooling anyone, Kaeya.” They looked out towards the town, leaning on their arms against the railing in front of them. “I can see right through you. Everything you do makes sure you have something to gain from it.” 

“Is that right?”  

“Don’t be so smug, you know it’s right.” 

“Oh, how you wound me so.” He joined them on leaning against the railing on one elbow, his cheek resting upon the back of his hand.  

(Y/n) ignored his comment and continued looking over the town in front of them. Bundles of people had bustled in front of the taverns and a few stragglers were making their way to or from the same places. The lights around were soft, faint, just a calm flicker only shadowed by the rogue dandelion seed among the equally as soft breeze. It was a quiet night, with not much to do, so they wondered why Kaeya was even bothering to... well, bother them. What did he want? Just to tease them? To annoy them?  

They started to bite the inside of their cheek, involuntarily growing warm under the periwinkle stare that focused on every little move of theirs. With an exasperated sigh and eyebrows laced together, they closed their eyes to avoid the look they knew he would give them. 

“Stop smiling at me like that.” 

“Hm?” 

“If you keep smiling at me like that... nevermind.” 

“Oh no, (Y/n),” Kaeya leaned in closer towards them, his smile now turning to a smirk, “please, continue. What will happen?” 

(Y/n) shook their head, opening their eyes only to shoot him a sideways glare. They ignored the fact he had slowly started to move closer to them, and figured he was still just trying to get a rise out of them. They stuck their lip out in a pout, huffing at the realization that he’d simply keep bugging them, which was normally unlike the man to do so. Why was he so invested in this exchange of theirs? They turned their face to him, ready to give him some half-assed answer—a taste of his own medicine—but stopped short once their eyes met the longing expression in his. 

The air between them felt still, though his eye flickered between theirs and their lips. (Y/n) was dumbstruck, unsure of what their next move should be. Their heart was racing and they were positive he could hear it with just how close he had been. Kaeya looked genuine, for once, and very vulnerable compared to his normal stature. Mindlessly, his tongue flicked over his own lips before his very faint voice filled the air. 

“Show me what will happen.” 

Without a second thought, (Y/n) closed the gap between them, turning his at first gentle kiss into something with more power, more desperation behind it. They could feel him smile during it, and practically feel the chuckle he held back. Kaeya kept his kiss gentle, moving to rest his hand at the base of their head to keep them with him. They took a moment to simply look at each other once they parted; (Y/n) felt a rush of emotions as the corners of his lips turned up to his signature smirk. With one hand still holding their head, the other moved to hold the small of their back and bring them flush against him. They could feel that they were in for a long night of teasing as the words left his mouth, and simply sighed in resignation at the fact that they had fallen for the man.