meowie

The two of you sat under a tree, your head resting against his shoulder, a book in his lap. A small breeze drifts past the two of you every now and then, carrying the scent of flowers. You’re half-asleep, listening to the sound of pages turning.

One of your hands rests in his. Occasionally, you feel the pressure of his thumb pressing against your wrist.

“You’re doing it again,” you call out, flickering your eyes up to his face.

“Do you want me to stop?” He huffs while pressing his thumb harder into your pulse point.

“I didn’t say that,” you roll your eyes, moving to intertwine your fingers with his own. Reluctantly, he lets go of your wrist and reciprocates your movement.

Silence settles between the two of you, and you’re content to not say anything.

“When I was created…” he begins quietly, his voice not rising above a whisper. “I wasn’t given one.”

Your smile fades. 

“I was made to be empty,” his grip tightens and his gaze remains fixated on where your fingers are interlocked. “I don’t need to breathe. I don’t have the need to sleep. I don’t have blood and because I don’t have a heartbeat to circulate it.”

You bite your tongue. As much as you want to reply to him, you’re scared he’ll stop talking. Despite how much improvement he’s made with communicating his emotions, it’s still a rarity when he actually does it.

“I’ve spent so long wondering what it would feel like,” his eyes finally look away from your hands, choosing to instead look at the horizon. “They say people can hear their own heart in their ears when they’re frightened. They can feel them race when they’re excited. They ache when they grieve. They calm when they take deep breaths.”

His expression softens into an expression of vulnerability.

“I’ll never get to experience that.”

Your chest tightens with something akin to pity.

“So…” he gives an almost embarrassed shrug as he runs his thumb over your wrist once more. “I borrowed yours. When I listen to it… I can pretend.”

“Pretend what?” You speak up.

“Pretend I’m real,” he finally redirects his gaze to you. “That I’m a person.”

“Oh, bullshit!” The exclamation slips from your lips before you can process it. You sit up straight to look directly at him as his eyebrow twitches.

“Excuse me?” He looks irritated at your sudden outburst. Wincing, you suppose you can’t blame him. He just opened up to you and that’s how you respond? Good job.

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean,” you apologize frantically, shaking your head. “I just mean, you are a real person. It’s idiotic that you’d think otherwise.”

Wanderer stared at you. For a few minutes, the silence stretches out, becoming increasingly awkward as he continued staring.

“Idiotic?” He repeated flatly. You rubbed the back of your neck. 

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best word choice…” 

“No, continue,” his voice had taken on that dangerously calm edge you knew all too well. He’s pissed. “I’m interested.”

“Kuni,” you sigh, taking his other hand in yours. “You get frustrated when you work on your research papers. You get sad when Durin does. You get annoyed when someone is too close to you. I’ve seen you cry and laugh. I’ve seen you care about people.”

You think of the children in Sumeru City who always seemed to wave at him first when the two of you walked past them. You think of the elderly woman he’d carried groceries home for after saying he was going the same way as her, when in fact, he was meant to be heading in the opposite direction to meet you at a cafe. You think of how Durin immediately lit up whenever he got to spend time with him. You think of how the Traveler and Paimon had sung his praises, saying they trusted him and how he had saved them.

“You worry, regret, you feel emotions,” you continue. “You chose to become someone different. You chose to repent. Do you think missing a heartbeat makes that any different?”

The breeze rustled through the branches overhead. 

He doesn’t answer. So you let go of one of his hands and reach over, placing your palm against the center of his chest. It was warm.

“Being a person isn’t about what you’re made up of,” you trace the patterns that are barely visible through the translucent fabric of his shirt. “You’re a scholar. Surely you know what the five criteria for personhood are.”

“Don’t turn this into a lecture,” he replies, his eyes narrowing in faux irritation.

“Go on,” you teasingly coo. 

He lets out a loud groan.

“Consciousness, reasoning, self-motivated activity and the capacity to communicate.”

“And…?” You draw out.

“...And self-awareness.”

His eyes flicker down to your hand.

“You know what I feel?”

“My chest?”

“My boyfriend.”

“You’re corny,” he clicks his tongue, making no attempt to hide the color slowly flushing his cheeks. 

“I know who you were,” you correct gently. “And I know who you choose to be every day.”

Without another word, he leans sideways until his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m still going to listen to it,” he whispers, his thumb finding purchase against your wrist once again.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I just hope you won’t think less of yourself anymore.”

“I’ll try,” and for now, that’s more than enough for you.