Cry

The wooden deck creeks softly as you step aboard it, eyes wide with wonder as you spin in continuous circles to get the full scope of everything around you. The loud chattering of crew members and the occasional traveler making for a lively atmosphere, and the smell of salty sea breeze brightening up your sullen mood.

It's bittersweet —more sweet than bitter— but even then, you feel light. Lighter than you've ever been your entire life, and that's what matters most.

It smells like home, you think, a home that you'll never return to.

You spend your time strolling around. You've wasted enough of your lifespan sitting still in your sad old little house, and the captain seemed not to mind your innocent curiousity as long as you kept away from the busy workers.

It is amidst your mindless drifting that you saw him for the first time; Sitting alone in a secluded corner of the ship, paper in hand as he repeats poem verses in search for the missing lines. His presence as weightless as the morning dew, red wine —the same liquor you used to drown your sorrows away with when life was at its darkest— poured into kind eyes that peer into the distant horizon with a sad longing, and hay colored strands that gets playfully tousled by the wind.

Shame wells in your stomach upon catching yourself gawking at his form, however before you could retreat to the quaint room you were provided with, the boy calls out to you with the gentlest of voices. "You smell of vanilla¹ and windwheel aster. Yet sorrow follows wherever you wander."

"Non of that, fair maiden from distant land." He stands up to face you properly, hand moving to scribble something on the paper, filling in the empty lines. "Your presence has helped me greatly with completing this haiku... Intrested in hearing it?"

"Ah." You stand there awkwardly, caught red handed in the act of gazing at his otherworldly beauty— or maybe you just spent too much time staring at ugly things that even the most midiocre of men seems far too lovely than he actually is. Nevertheless, whether he is as eye-catching as you saw him to be or not, it doesn't matter right now. "Apologies... for disturbing your peace."

Flustered —and a little alarmed at how fast he broke through your defenses— you fidget with your sleeve, feeling tiny butterflies fluttering in your stomach upon being called "fair maiden." Your eyes searches his for any signs of ill intent, finding none, which makes it all the harder for you to convince yourself to politely reject him.

You have just gotten out of a toxic relationship, and immediately jumping into a new one in your current state won't be doing either of you any favors.

"This... vision—" Leaving it for faith to decide, you take a look at your heaven blessed gift for the first time since you got it. "—Have been my companion for only half a day. You seem to have a rather strong nose, boy, so how about this; you could try guessing what element the archons has bestowed upon me, and I may grace you with my presence for the rest of the evening. Assuming that you got it right, of course."

The silver tongued samurai —or is he a ronin?— hums in thought. You can hear him vaguely sniffing the air, and you swear his eyes has gotten a tad bit sadder as he spoke. "Electro, mayhaps?"

Your shoulder drops —you haven't even noticed they were tense until now— both relieved and disappointed at his answer. "Sorry, young man." Sighing, you force your body to spin around fast, lest you change your mind and take back your soft rejection. "I may retreat into my room, now. Better luck next time." He does not move from where he stands and you can vaguely make out his voice softly bidding you a goodnight.

You do not speak to him for the rest of the way, and when you finally reach your destination, a small part of you chastises you for leaving without a goodbye.

A pity, really. He made for such pretty sight, too...

—

The next time you see him, you are roaming the bustling streets of Port Ormos, having been sent here for "research purposes" by your mentor when he discovered that you didn't even attempt to venture out into the wilderness ever since you came into Sumeru City two years ago.

You didn't really understand the need for it; your senior friend told you that next year would be full of field research, so you would be forced to be out and about whether you liked it or not. But your teacher seemed to digress, and you aren't dumb enough to refuse a free vacation after shedding too many tears trying to pass this grueling semester.

Finding him here was purely by chance, but you were more than happy to strike a conversion with a familiar face —even if he technically still counts as a stranger— as you were left to fend for yourself in this unfamiliar environment.

"Working on another haiku, young man?" Sneaking from behind, you lean casually against the closest wall as you greet him, now much more comfortable in your skin than the you from two years ago.

For whatever reason, however, your surprise attack doesn't appear to faze him at all. If anything the boy seems to have seen it coming from a mile away.

It's... as if he can smell you—

Oh.

"Fair maiden that carries the scent of windwheel aster, I see that your burdens have gotten much lighter." The poet turns around slowly, giving you a polite nod of acknowledgement in return.

"And I see that you are as much of a sweet talker as ever." Now that the threat of him ignoring your existence is gone, you push your back off the wall to slowly walk towards the boy. "Tell me, young man, what brings you here?"

"Would it be bold of me to say that I came looking for you, O Dendro bearing maiden?"

"Pfft... Ha!" You snort at the audacity, successfully denying the existence of a fuzzy feeling in your tummy. "Flattery suits you well, I must admit, but have you ever thought of investing in some realism to further sell the act?"

He seems about to disagree for a moment before retrying it your way. "In that case, may I kindly ask for your assistance? I've found myself in quiet the hurdle."

You pretend to think about it for only half a second before agreeing. "Sure. I'll lead the way."

Felling a little daring, you grab him by the arm to guide him into the busiest street in Port Ormos as you ask him about the specifics of the spare parts Beidou is looking for.

By the time you find the items, it is dark out, and you barely get the time to stop for a quick dinner before having to run all the way back towards The Crux ship.

Unlike last time, you stay behind to bid him a warm goodbye. A little drunk on the high of having played detective for the whole day.

—

"Happy lantern rite."

"Who the—" You almost break your neck with how fast you spin, your heart rate spiking incredibly at being intrrupted while immersed in the zone. "—Oh. It's... you." Letting out a sigh, you return to scribbling your wish into your lantern. "I never got your name, did I?"

"Kazuha. Kaedehara Kazuha." The now known as Kazuha bows stifly as he introduces himself. Something of a habit from his childhood that he never got to unlearn. "What about you, windwheel aster loving maiden?"

"Kaedehara, huh..." You repeat to yourself silently. You know you heard that name before, back then, when your mom was sorting through arranged marriage proposals for little oblivious you. No wonder his clan crest seemed so familiar. "You never guessed what element was bestowed upon me. Wanna try that again, Kazuha-san?"

Kazuha shakes his head at you, voice the slightest bit sheepish as he answers your question. "No need for formality, or have we not spent enough time in each other's company for you to consider me a close friend of yours, wind blessed damsel?"

"[Name]"

"Hm?"

"You got my vision right. My name is [Name]." You repeat yourself, holding out your lantern like a peace offering. "I see that you don't have one of your own. Wanna share our wishes?"

The ronin carefully grabs the offered side of the fragile thing. "If you don't mind."

"Let's count to three!"

"1."

"2!"

"3/3!"

"Happy lantern rite, Kazu~ha!" You singsong his name as you let go of the lantern, watching it dissappearing into the sea of lanterns above you.

"Does that mean I get that promised evening?" He asks a teasing tilt to his voice as he attempts to remind you of your first meeting on The Alcore.

It doesn't seem to affect you in your joyous mood. Which backfires his attempt to fluster you right back at him when you grab him by the arm, shouting: "It's a date!" As you take him to the closest alcohol providing place.

Author's Note(s):

Vanilla is a mood boosting smell, so what Kazuha meant is that reader was carrying around happiness while being depressed themselves. Using this, Kazuha's words can go like this: "You smell of happiness and windwheel aster, yet sorrow follows wherever you wander."

This was hastily edited pls pay no mind to the probably catastrophic amount of errors.

Sorry if characterization is inconsistent🙏 The fic originally had so much more plot and lore going on for it but I had to cut it to finish it in time so we never got to see Reader get their character arc😔

The grassy fields stretch far and wide around you, all long green strands and quiet hums of crystalflies. It’s not quite silent. There’s the rustle of the wind, the occasional chirp from birds up in the canopy, and the rhythmic drone of cicadas somewhere farther off… but it feels removed, somehow, like the world slows down just a little bit here. Above you, the sky is an endless, easy blue, broken only by the heavy limbs of the tree you’ve chosen for shade. It stands tall and grand at the center of the meadow, bark coarse from the consistent teasing of the wind, its branches casting long, shifting shadows underneath it. It’s the heart of Windrise.

Venti is already there, strumming his lyre. Of course he is.

He’s leaning against the trunk of the tree, arms draped around his lyre like it’s an old friend, playing some tune he probably hasn’t bothered to write down yet. Just letting the melody happen, like he always does. Like it’s as easy as breathing. He glances up when he hears you approach, and his grin is immediate. Bright. Teasing.

“There you are,” he says with a snicker. “I was beginning to think I’d have to write this melody alone. Could you imagine the tragedy?”

You set your instrument down beside you as you sit, not answering right away. The grass is warm beneath your legs, despite the shade. “You’d probably enjoy the drama,” you reply dryly.

“You make a great point,” he concedes, plucking a chord with idle fingers as he closes his eyes. “But it would make for quite a lackluster duet if I had to compose it on my own, without you frowning at me half the time.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I don’t frown.” Venti hums as if to politely disagree. The lyre in his hands sings again, something playful this time, light and loose. “You do. But it’s a very musical sort of frown.”

You breathe out through your nose, trying not to smile. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Everything I say is a compliment,” he replies, unbothered. “You’re just… failing to recognize them.”

You decide not to entertain him with an answer to that. Instead, you open your notebook and skim the messy notes you scribbled the night before while you were still soaked in rain. You’re not sure if you’re annoyed or relieved that he’s in a good mood again. Probably both.

The breeze picks up, tousling your hair and rustling the parchment between your fingers. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s still playing. Still not looking at you.

That should make it easier to focus, yet somehow it doesn’t. His melody weaves through the wind like it has come alive, sneaking into your thoughts, slipping between your notes and making it impossible to determine where your ideas end and his intrusions begin.

“I thought we agreed,” you say without looking up, “that you would start with the melody this time so I didn’t waste half the afternoon guessing what key you’re in.”

He lets a soft laugh hum through the strings. “Did we agree on that? I remember you mumbling something very close to surrender, but nothing about melodies.”

You shoot him a tired glare. “Venti, I swear-”

He finally opens his eyes. Only half-lidded, but still bright with amusement. “Relax. I am playing the melody. Or at least the beginnings of it.”

“That’s not a melody,” you mutter, tapping your pencil against the side of your notebook with no rhythm in mind. “That’s wandering. Aimless. Like you.”

He gasps in mock offense, teal eyes sparking with something close to endearment. “I will have you know this wandering is intentional. I am searching for inspiration.”

“... are you gonna find it soon?”

Venti shrugs, reclining a little further against the trunk. “Tsk. You always rush this part.”

You press your lips together, trying not to say something unkind. He always makes it sound so easy. Like music simply arrives when he calls for it. Like there’s no work to it. No strain.

You try focusing again, still tapping your pencil lightly against the parchment.

A moment passes, filled with his strumming which slowly grows less aimless.

Then he shifts, scooting just an inch closer. Not touching you. But close enough that you can feel him watching you now. The melody eases into silence.

“You brought more lyrics,” he says. Not a question.

You keep your eyes on the page, but your heartbeat betrays you. “They’re rough.”

“Rough is promising.”

“They’re messy.”

“Messy is honest.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling your shoulders tense and then ease again. He’s not teasing now. Or, at least, not in the usual way. There’s something gentle under the words, something he doesn’t usually let slip.

It makes the silence that follows feel heavier than it should. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

You tap your pencil against the notebook again. “You’re in a strange mood today.”

He smiles, small but genuine. “Am I?”

Venti looks up from your notes momentarily, gazing out at the grassy fields all around you two.

“... Must be the weather.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches up despite yourself.

Venti moves a bit closer again, leaning forward just enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours, though he’s careful not to actually touch you. His fingers return to the strings of the lyre, lighter this time, plucking out a quiet sequence. Still not quite a full melody yet, but closer to something real.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your notebook, “you always act like you’re bad at this part.”

“I am bad at this part,” you emphasize, refusing to look up from your scribbles. “You just compensate for me.”

He scoffs, soft and warm. “Absolutely untrue! You hear things I don’t. You think in hymns and sonnets. I only chase after whatever crosses my mind.”

“That’s obvious,” you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite. Venti pretends not to hear you. Or maybe he really doesn’t. He seems focused now, watching the way your pencil twitches hesitantly over the page, hovering over the parchment.

“Try something. Anything. A phrase, a line… doesn’t matter if it’s off. I’ll follow.”

You hesitate. His gaze drifts back to his strings, giving you space you didn’t ask for but absolutely needed.

Then you hum.

Barely anything at first. A tiny fragment of an idea that’s been haunting the back of your mind since last night, nothing more than a handful of notes with no real direction. You expect him to laugh. Or interrupt. Or correct you with something too perfect to compete with.

But he doesn’t.

He listens. Really listens.

And then, gently like matching your footsteps, he plays under you. Not overtaking, not leading. Just filling the gaps, weaving soft chords beneath your tentative hum until the shape of something more full begins to form.

You nearly forget to breathe.

The sun, the field, the rustle of the leaves and the gentle bobbing of the grass, everything else slips away, fading into the edges of your awareness. Your voice steadies, finds a tone, and follows it. His accompaniment lifts you, supporting the melody you didn’t even realize you were shaping.

For a moment, you’re not thinking about him. Or the duet. Or the pressure you’ve put on yourself to make it good. You’re just…

Here.

Creating.

And it feels effortless for once.

…

When the melody finally trails off, you blink as if waking up from a dream. The world rushes back in. The warmth of the tree at your back, the wind brushing your cheek, the faint thrum of his final chord hanging in the space between you.

Venti watches you with a look that’s too soft, too knowing.

“…See?” he says quietly. “Told you. You’re better at this than you think.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Absolutely nothing. It’s like the world betrayed you by continuing to exist while your thoughts had abandoned ship.

Venti notices. Because of course he does.

He smiles. Small, crooked, knowing. “Oh,” he says quietly. “There it is.”

“Huh..? What is?” you snap, too fast.

He nods at your face with an infuriating little tilt of his head. “That look. The dumbfounded look you get when your hard work finally bears fruit.”

Your entire body goes hot as you narrow your eyes at him. “I do not make a look.”

“Oh, you do!” He plucks the melody you just created, easy and unhurried, like he’s scoring the moment on purpose. “It’s very endearing. You should do it more often!”

You glare. Or, at least you try to. It comes out more like a wounded blink. “Stop talking.”

“Why?” Venti’s voice rises slightly, clearly delighted by the idea of getting under your skin. “You can admit when you’re overwhelmed, you know. This profession often tugs at the heartstrings.”

You nearly choke. “I’m not overwhelmed.”

“You hummed,” he says, leaning in slightly. “I encouraged you. You created something lovely. And now you’re trying very hard not to smile about it. It’s all very predictable.”

Predictable… Predictable!?

You would shove him if you weren’t stressing over the idea of actually touching him. Which, by the way, you definitely have a reasonable explanation for wanting to avoid right now. A reason that doesn’t need to be dwelt on because it’s so clear, so obvious. Yeah. So you cross your arms instead.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he says lightly, “are timid about your art.”

“I’m going to leave,” you threaten.

“No,” he counters, utterly certain. “You’re going to stay right here and help me turn your very charming melody into a very charming duet.”

You grumble under your breath, because you have a terrible suspicion he’s gonna be right.

He catches the indignant tone of yours and grins in pure delight. “Ah. And now we’ve reached the speechless stage. A personal favorite.”

“I hate you,” you mutter.

Venti strums out your melody again, softer this time. “No, you don’t.”

This time, you don’t argue. Mostly because your throat refuses to cooperate. But also partially because you can’t wait to move past this topic.

“...Whatever. Help me polish these lyrics.”

Whatever you know of him has been gleaned through vague mentions, an eye more watchful than Fontaine’s Marechaussee Phantom and literal, desperate research. For some reason. Even though Wanderer, on the other hand, is privy to every inch of your past, every bit of your personal life. For some reason.

Years of friendship have taught you– who cares. After all, if Wanderer himself does not wish to offer any information– begging will only achieve a lashing via those pretty, poisonous lips. He’s not the nicest. His momma never taught him please, or no, thank you, or excuse me, after all. Quite literally.

And so you’re stuck muttering curses under your breath, with mixed horror and pity, as you watch Wanderer widen his eyes in mock shock and laugh at the poor boy giving him a love letter. Argh. You’d told him not to do it, but oh well. At least his suitor had the wisdom to pull them both away to a quieter spot around the Akademiya– there’s no one else around their gazebo, thankfully. 

No one to watch as Wanderer tilts his head, looking dire for a moment as he says something to the man in front of him, who hangs his head and quietly leaves. Well. That had a calmer ending than you’d predicted.

Unthankfully this does mean you had to run up a slope to find him, but still.

“Oi!” You yell. It sounds more like something between a wheeze and a bark. “Asshole!”

The Wanderer turns, haughty head tipped prettily over his shoulder, soft, doll-like– no, doll skin catching the warm beams of light filtering through the leaves.

He’s so beau- no, no, stay strong. 

The prick doesn’t move an inch as you weakly make your way towards him– just stands there with his arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It successfully prises them apart when you reach him, and he gives you a wicked grin when you smack a tired fist against his shoulder. He does not stumble.

“Why,” you wheeze, “would you laugh.”

“Why,” he mock-wheezes, “do you care? If someone’s begging to be laughed at, am I not being kind by obliging?”

Ugh.

“You know why it’s mean,” you grumble, plopping down onto one of the gazebo benches. Wanderer sits next to you, mock pouting and solemnly nodding, pretty, iridescent lashes brushing his cheeks with every blink. He’s gorgeous, easily the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Prettier than even the lithe warrior you met once in Liyue’s marshes, prettier than the wandering Inazuman swordsman you recently met, prettier than even Kaveh, somehow. Maybe even prettier than Candace. 

No, you’re getting distracted again. 

“They pourout their hearts to you, and you laugh when they do.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re not pouring jack.” He rolls his eyes. “They don’t know me, so what’s there to fall in love with?”

“How’s anyone supposed to know you when you never tell people about yourself?” 

This is a common, predictable squabble with a common, predictable outcome. Every time Wanderer serves his admirers a scathing rejection, you run to their defence, despite some of them disliking you immensely. (He calls it charity.)

After all, you’re one of the few people Wanderer won’t shove away with a sneer.

You’re not sure why, exactly, but you know you’re in his good graces for some esoteric reason, and you know you’re there to stay. After all–

“Funny you say that,” he muses, rolling a piece of hard candy between thumb and forefinger before propping it against your lips, the candy held between your lip and his thumb. His fingers move from beneath your jaw to tap against your cheek in an impatient, open up sort of way. You hope he can’t feel your face heat up.

You open your mouth, and the candy falls in, and somehow it feels warmer than the sun beating down on Sumeru’s static afternoon. 

“Funny…?” you prompt, scrambling to regain your footing, but it seems he’s not eager to offer any help.

“Yes, funny. As in amusing, as in it makes you giggle.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I know what ‘funny’ means.”

“Then,” he says, prettily leaning back in his seat (because everything he does is pretty, somehow) “you could also tell me what I thought was so funny about what you said earlier.”

Fuck.

“Uh…” Yeah, you have no idea. The stupid candy distracted you. You bite down on it in nervousness and it cracks, sending a jelly-like sour filling spilling onto your tongue, making you adorably scrunch your face for a moment. Wanderer laughs, and after taking a moment to compose yourself, you stick your tongue out at him. Jerk, you think affectionately.

“Your face looks like a dog’s ass right now.” He grins. 

“You’d know, wouldn’t you,” you retort, and he sagely nods.

“I look at you pretty often.” He shrugs. “Hard not to make a comparison.”

“Aw,” you deadpan. “You stare at me?”

“Nah.” He pops a candy into his own mouth, eye twitching at the sweeter exterior, but shoulders relaxing at the sourness inside. “Not the way you stare at Aqaba, at least.”

“Aqaba–? Is that what this is about?”

Wanderer gives you a smile. It emanates neither joy nor amusement.

“And here I thought you’d at least be honest with me,” he says.

Huh? Did he find out you’ve been asking Aqaba if he knows anything about him?

After all– there’s quite literally no one else left to ask. You’ve read all you can about the Shogunate, about Inazuma’s branching noble families and bastard children, anything that would further help you understand what exactly is the reason for your best friend’s fucked up-ness. It’s just not fair that you know nothing, save for ‘my mum didn’t want me, so she chucked me into an empty mansion with a feather.’ 

And so you’ve moved on to enquiring about any major incidents in Inazuma. You heard about the Raiden Gokaden incident already, but learning about it had only left you with more questions. The story made sense in a vacuum, but large portions of it were poorly– or even not documented. To make things worse, the hints Wanderer gave about his past (that you’ve quite literally scribbled in a special notebook somewhere. Documentation.) don’t add up.

And so you decided to ask the only scholar you personally knew that researched it– Aqaba. The only other person you know that might have the relevant information is your Archon herself, and you doubt she’d appreciate you running into her home, clasping your palms together, falling onto your knees and begging like the Kamera-obsessed Fontainian woman that passed through here once.

What’s odd is that Wanderer’s never really had a problem with your nosy habits in the past, though. He really just lets you do whatever, since according to him, it’s funny to see you scrounging around for information only he has. So what’s the issue now? Does he not want you digging around his past? If he’d rather you stay out of it, you’ll happily acquiesce. You care more about him than sating your curiosity. 

Evidently though, that’s not what he meant at all, because the next sentence to fall off his plump, beautiful lips is–

“Didn’t think he was your type, honestly.” He yawns. “But hey, he might figure out what you’d like for your birthday every other year, so go for it.” He gives you a sarcastic thumbs up– or is it sarcastic, because truth be told he sounds the tiniest bit butthurt right now.

You grin, about to laugh when you realise– wait, is he serious? 

“I– pfft, what?” 

Never one to yield to embarrassment, the idiot just sagely nods again. Much to his immense chagrin, if his narrowed eyes are anything to go by, you laugh even harder. 

“Stupid!” You snicker and snatch the candy he was just about to pop into his mouth. He scowls at you as you suckle on it briefly– oh, it’s sour– but crunching it reveals the jelly inside, which is sweet instead.

Wanderer takes out yet another candy from his pocket, discarding the parchment into a tastefully camouflaged trashcan. It misses, and you bite back yet another laugh as he irately swirls it into the trash with a jerk of his finger, the anemo rattling it around a little.

When he bites into the candy, his dour expression tells you it was sour all the way through.

“So.” He stands, rolling his shoulders, and you bite back another shit eating grin. Wanderer is a puppet, with puppet joints. He does not need to roll his shoulders. “I take you’re not taking Aqaba to Sabzeruz?”

Oh. Right, that.

“I didn’t know it was the new Valentines,” you muse, as you both begin to make your way down the slopes, toward the city below. “Who are you going with, by the way? The busy little bee?”

“I just might,” he retorts. “You’re insufferable today.”

You snicker. “Wanderer. Darling. It’s okay to admit you’re wrong sometimes.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You call me that.”

“You think I mean it?”

Ouch. You blink. “Obviously not, I guess,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “You guess?”

Ouch.

“Oh, whatever,” you huff, suddenly not wanting to meet his eyes. You turn to the city laid out below instead. The sun is the tiniest bit closer to setting. You could’ve sworn it was late afternoon just half a minute ago. Time truly is an enigma. 

Some birds are starting to cause a racket near the trashcans again, flipping through paper cartons and thrown-out kitchen remains, looking for leftover rice or lentils or bread to squabble over.

You let out a small, rueful aw as a cat suddenly pounces on one and drags it off. Oof. Cycle of life. 

“Rest in pieces, birdie,” Wanderer mutters, and you shove at him with a scoff. He doesn’t budge an inch.

“Whatever, with you saying shit like this, I might go with Sethos.”

“Not Aqaba?” Scara snickers, and you laugh relievedly. Thank goodness his bad mood’s worn off. What the hell was that even about? Why does he dislike Aqaba?

“Not Aqaba,” you promise. “I was talking to Aqaba because I wanted to figure stuff out about you actually.”

“Bet he didn’t tell you jack.”

You stumble over a rock as you walk and a gust of anemo steadies you. Ordinarily you’d have teased him for not even bothering to use his hands, but you don’t think your heart can take it right now.

“He didn’t,” you instead say. “Nothing about you, anyway. Unless…” You grin.

He tips his head back, raising an eyebrow. The sun reflects off of his eyes, more indigo than the sky when stained with a trailing, lingering dusk. You wonder what he thinks of when he looks at yours.

You’ve stopped now, at a landing between the slopes that overlooks the city below, and Mawtiyima Forest far beyond. 

You wonder if you’ve been staring at the shifting colours of the sky in his eyes for just a moment too long.

“Unless?” he prompts, in a voice that’s leagues softer than the one he usually uses. This seems to annoy him– there’s a tiny crease between his eyes– but still no sarcasm to be seen.

And as much as you adore it, you pray it doesn’t return for a while. 

“Unless the asshole that refuted his essays on Tatarasuna was you,” you say, and the spell is broken as he first scoffs, then lets out one of his villainous laughs.

“I was doing that idiot a favour–”

“Yeah, yeah.” You turn to walk down the path into the Akademiya’s halls. Sabzeruz, huh.

Pausing and turning back, you tip your head thoughtfully. Wanderer hasn’t moved from his spot on the landing, still. Whatever, if he wanted to tell you what was on his mind, he would.

Shrugging, you turn to him. “By the way, I think I’ll go a bit early to Sabzeruz– and for the record, no, I’m not taking Aqaba, I promised to show Kazuha around. Have I told you about him yet?”

Wanderer stills. “Kazuha?” 

“Yeah.” You smile. “He’s this Inazuman–”

“I know Kazuha,” he cuts in. 

“Oh. That should make introductions easier. Or more awkward, maybe? ‘Cause I was asking him stuff about you, but he didn’t really tell me. He did tell me talking to me was like holding hands on a cold night, though.” You grin, obliviously chattering on. “I planned on going with Sethos, but I’ll let you have him.”

Wanderer does not answer.

It’s getting on your nerves a little. Did he and the busy bee get into a fight? But they’re always squabbling, so that can’t be it. Is this about Kazuha? Does he think Kazuha’s cute, too?

“Do you wanna go with Kazuha?” you ask hesitantly. “Is that what you’re mad about– hang on, are you even going?” You peer up at him. When he doesn’t answer, you realise he’ll have to, being the Archon’s…shadow double? Nah he’s twice her size. Familiar, you figure. 

“Nevermind,” you call. The breeze is starting to pick up now. “Who are you going with?”

Oh, you realise. Another stupid question. 

If he’s the Archon’s familiar, he’ll go with the Archon.

You shrug. “Nevermind that either. You coming?”

Wanderer just stares.

Damn, what’s up with him? 

“Your joints lock up?” You ask, smiling, and he lets out a quick, almost angry exhale and looks away. 

“Why not ask me?”

“Huh?” You blink. About what, his joints? You just did. “About– oh, about your mum and stuff?” you ask.

He lets out a shallow breath. An almost-laugh. “About– yeah, sure. There’s a bit more to the story than just her and Miko’s nonsense, though, you know.”

“Yae Miko?” Now you’re curious. The Guuji’s involved, too?

Wanderer, seemingly noticing your expression, nods. There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips, but even that seems rehearsed. “Mhm. Miko. She wanted me dead.”

Your eyes widen. “What?” The Guuji? Why? “Shouldn’t she care for you, since you’re her master’s–?” Shit, you wish you had a notepad. You’re about to tell him to wait while you run to fetch a pencil and some paper but he continues.

“I’ll tell it to you briefly. Don’t you dare run.” Noted, you think. You nod, wide eyed, and the smirk playing along the edge of his lips widens into something a little more candid. “Obedient, aren’t you? No– hush, now. Not a word. Let me finish. My mother made me after her sister, the original Shogun– I said no questions, shut up.”

You bite back a scream. The original Shogun? There’s two?

Wanderer grins now, baring all his teeth. The sky behind him is beginning to bleed into soft oranges, a bloody tint on the horizon far beyond. “No,” he says, as though he can read minds just like his master. “Not two. Three. My mother’s twin was the real Shogun. She died five hundred years ago– by the false sky, you’re surprised at everything, aren’t you?”

“The wh– okay, shutting up now.”

He smiles. It’s starting to look rehearsed again, and suddenly you’re worried he doesn’t really want to tell this story. You’re about to tell him he doesn’t have to, in spite of your feverish desire to know more, but he holds up a hand, looking visibly irked now.

“She died. My mother wanted someone to house her gnosis. She made me, decided I wasn’t worth squat because I had feelings, and dumped me in a mansion with this feather.” He flicks it with a finger and it falls back into place over his chest, beneath his vision. Over where his heart should be. “Then she made my sister, the third Shogun. Vanished into a plane inside her body. She doesn’t have a physical form anymore.

“A man called Katsuragi found me. He’s– he was the servant of this guy called Mikoshi Nagamasa. Nagamasa was the son of Mikoshi Chiyo. Torachiyo, whatever. Ring any bells, scholar?”

He sounds so scathing. There’s something– something wrong. You already know this story isn’t going to have a happy ending, but you’re starting to suspect this is a far bloodier, more convoluted tale than you’d expected. You’d thought this would be more about just him– but Torachiyo?

You’re suddenly glad you didn’t ask him to wait so you could fetch some stationary to take notes. 

You feel like he’s only going to get angrier if you back out now, though. There is an air of grim certainty to him. Arms crossed, feet planted firmly on the ground, not a shred of humour to be found in his eyes, on the edges of his lips. And so all you can do is whisper– “She was… your mum’s friend, right? The one that she had to kill?”

Wanderer stands, still as a doll. He stares straight at your face and somehow past it. Only his lips move. “You’re supposed to be smart, so I’ll let you figure out why he had to kill Katsuragi later.”

Oh. Shit. You do not like where this is going, but more than that you don’t want to put him through this so suddenly. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions– you’ve no time to decipher past soured tempers when he’s staring at you with eyes as cold and hard as marble right now.

“Wanderer?” You take a hesitant step towards him. “If you’d rather not, you don’t have to–”

“Katsuragi took me back to the furnace. This guy, Niwa Hisahide– remember the Niwa clan?”

You’re strapped to a Sumpter beast running straight at a wall. All you can do is answer. “He… um. He was a master of forging blades via the Isshin Art.”

A sneer splits suddenly across Wanderer’s face, and your eyes go from concernedly downturned, to narrowed in defiance when he says, “You’d know all about the Isshin art, wouldn’t you?”

“Is this because I spoke with Kaedehara?” you ask sharply. He rolls his eyes, looking even more incensed somehow and ploughs on. 

“It’s Kaedehara now, is it? Funny. No matter. Niwa took me in, and taught me bladesmithing. A harbinger, The Doctor, pretended to be a technician from Fontaine and caused the Tatarasuna disaster. Impurities in the forge because thanks to him, we were smithing en masse with basically dead god remains.

“They sent me to get help from the Shogunate. My sister refused to see me– hell, I didn’t even know she existed– and while I was busy begging her men for just even an audience, Dottore killed Niwa. When I came back he told me Niwa left me and fucked off to who knows where. 

“He told me I had to walk into the furnace with a device to absorb the impurities.” His expression softens a little as your anger morphs quickly into horror. In a lowered voice, he continues. “I did it. I thought I’d die, but the device saved me. When I came back Dottore told me it was because the heart inside the device protected me.”

“The heart–?”

“Niwa’s. But I didn’t know.”

There’s a long pause, as he regains his breath. You exhale shakily into your palm. 

“Wanderer?” you murmur. “You can stop now.”

He barks a breathless laugh– or at least, you think it’s one. “No, I can’t.” He gives you a tight lipped smile. Your lips part in dismay when his next sentence is–

“Dottore told me Niwa killed a servant to get the heart, so I ran away. Mikoshi killed Katsuragi. I made friends with this kid, and he died and betrayed me. I tried to die in a fire, it didn’t work out. Nothing ever did. Pierro found me a bit later, and made me a Harbinger.

“Dottore tortured me for years, and like a halfwit, I let him. He tried to make me a god after I got my mother’s gnosis and Signora, the Eighth, died.”

“Wanderer–”

“It didn’t work. Kusanali and the Traveller beat me. The glutton fairy was there too, I guess. I found out what actually happened at Tatarasuna. I tried to kill myself, but it didn’t work, and now I’m here. And ah, by the way, it was actually me that ruined the Raiden Gokaden. And your beloved Kaedehara.” He widens his lips into a grotesque imitation of a smile, then drops it. “The other thing I forgot. Miko wanted me dead so she could be my mother’s only lapwarmer. She got what she wanted. Any questions?” You say nothing. You’re not sure you can. Wanderer exhales. “Good. You’re not getting any answers anyway. I’m tired now. But there.” He stiffly shrugs, a poor shot at nonchalance. “Now at least you can stop hassling Aqaba and Kaedehara and Archons knows who else about this.”

“Wanderer–”

“What now?” His voice sounds sharper with every syllable, unjustly close to a snap. What the hell? You’ve done nothing to make him angry like this– he told you everything of his own volition, and you’re nothing if not concerned. 

Did he just not want you shoving your nose into his business? You rack your mind trying to look for a past moment that betrayed his discomfort at your inquisitiveness and fail– this is a game you’ve been playing for years. You look for information and he laughs when you find nothing. 

Your mind’s a mess. Your heart has never beat this hard before, and there’s an uncomfortable flush spreading along your neck and ears, sending goosebumps across your skin. Something is wrong. You open your mouth to say something– anything– but what can you even say? 

Wanderer barks a bitter laugh at your silence. “Wanna find out more about Dottore’s experiments?” he sneers. “What exactly happened with the Raiden Gokaden?”

“What– no.” You couldn’t give less of a shit about the Gokaden. “I just wanted to ask if you’re– are you okay?”

“Am I–? Forget it.” Even his breaths are heavy, and furious. “You know now, and you’re welcome. Happy?”

What is going on? Is he angry or hurt or sad? Or are you? You have no clue. All you know is that he looks and you feel stormier than even Seirai right now. 

“How,” you say, and your voice has risen the way his has, dangerously close to a shout. The sky behind him is rimmed with a deep, bloody red. “How am I supposed to be happy hearing that? And why are you mad at me when I’ve done nothing wrong at all? And that aside–” you step forward to hurriedly take his hands in yours but they’re stiff, almost wooden to the touch. Uncaring, you force them into yours, wrapping your fingers around his tightly, hoping your hands can press the warmth back into his, the warmth that the wind had just blown away. 

“Wanderer,” you whisper, insistent, and he turns his head to the side to look past you. “What the hell?” You hiss. “Look at me!”

He turns to you, and there's a cool look of almost… disconnect in his eyes. He lets out a breath and wrenches his hands from yours.

“I'm fine,” he says. Curtly, but not quite coldly. There's a tautness to his jaw, a tenseness to his shoulders that reaches all the way to his half curled fingers. When he sneers at you then, you can trust the verity of his disdain. “Now hopefully you can stop asking Aqaba and Kaedehara and Archons knows who else about me. Happy?”

“Okay, cool off.” You put your hands on his shoulders with a frown and forced calm. He somehow looks more pained than soothed. “I don't know why you're mad and I won't if you don't tell me why. And yeah, I guess I'm happy to know, but I'm sorry all that happened? We can talk about it, if you want–?”

Wanderer grits his teeth. When he lets out an exhale, you feel it brush against your lips. “Are you going to stop pestering Kaedehara about the Gokaden, or not?”

Your mouth falls open. What the fuck is up with this guy? 

“Yes, I am!” You cry. “And if me bothering him made you so mad, you should have told me that right from the start, instead of–”

“I don't care about you talking to him.” 

Huh?

“Then what is this about?”

He grips your elbows and all of a sudden, his hands are warm, warm. You didn’t quite realise just how close he’d gotten until he presses his forehead to yours, looking incensed. 

Not until he brushes his lips to yours, and you freeze, wide eyed. And when all you do is blink at him, breathless, body warming, your hands tightening on his shoulders, he steps even closer, impossibly so– until his chest brushes yours and his fingers dig into your hips, until he shuts his eyes and kisses you.

Your brain barely registers what you’re even doing before you’ve thrown an arm over his shoulders, the other wrapped firmly round his neck. You’re nothing but want coalesced into one warm being, wrapping around him in a breathless daze.

His lips, cooled first by the wind warm rapidly as yours caress them, insistently pressing and kissing with an urgency that has him gasping into your mouth. His lips part so prettily you can hardly resist brushing at his mouth with your tongue, his own coming to press against yours for a moment. Grabbing him, you yank him even closer, and his head tips back as you break away to pant against his cheek before he’s hovering and forcing your head back with a vengeance, your face cupped in his palms as he kisses you with a passion. A string of spit slides slowly down from the corner of your lips and you grab at his forearms to pull him closer to your torso, to hear him gasp again into your mouth when he suddenly pulls away, burying his face in a hand, and the moment shatters like glass. 

Shit. 

No. No. No. What have you done? What has he done? There’s a sinking feeling in your abdomen that grows only bigger and bigger, engulfing you whole. Wanderer floats above you, staring to the side at the city below, mouth covered with a hand. You can see pink marr the soft skin of his arms where you grabbed him to pull you closer, and if you weren’t heaving for breath already you’d instantly have started apologizing for whatever the fuck this was.

“Hey,” you pant. God, what–? What is even going on right now? Too much is happening and you’re nothing if not confused.

When you look up at Wanderer, and can feel him straining to keep his composure, all the way from here. A tiny, impetuous part of you wants to grab his hand and yank it off his face so you could see his lips, which are likely pink and swollen and glistening. But him not responding– him keeping his eyes steadily on the city– strikes a little fear into your heart for the very first time.

Wanderer never scares you. He irks you, he gladdens you, he makes you rage and laugh and weep– you’ve never wanted to cower from him before.

But right now, suspended above you, is a puppet that nearly twice became a god, that very nearly became the third Shogun, that kissed you so fervently you cleanly lost your senses, and more than anything, you’re terrified– that if you scare him now, he’ll leave and you’d never know. He could sleep for a hundred years if he wanted, to just wait for your passing. He could fly away right now, and–

“What?” He softly asks, finally looking down at you, and in the hulking shadows of the Divine Tree, for a moment, he looks just so small, the blues of his attire swallowed whole by the bloodred behind. 

You don’t know what to say.

His shoulders relax– regal as he is, they never slump– and he lets out a heavy exhale, looking like a god passing judgement. The feather by his heart flutters as a reminder of his divine origin, and for the first time in your life you wish you were an immortal, any immortal, so you could chase him for a hundred years, so you could begin to even find him and beg his forgiveness. For what, you’re not quite sure. And yet.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, in a voice so low no mortal would hear.

Wanderer does.

“You’re sorry,” he echoes, looking as though all the world’s fight and fury just left for the sunset through his lips when he spoke. “You’re sorry.”

You’ve never seen him make that face before.

It’s the barest expression. Just pursed lips and downcast eyes, his shoulders rising as he exhales again. He’s barely moved and yet he looks like he’s slouching into himself, looking not regal, not immortal, just… sad. 

“I’m sorry too, then.”

✦—————————————✦

You end up going to Sabzeruz with Kazuha.

Wanderer goes too, of course, with Nahida. He stands behind her whilst she happily prances around, looking so sincerely ecstatic at the decorations and festival stalls and her people celebrating her that it paints your smile into a wide, genuine one, even if just for a moment. 

For the first time in your life, though, Wanderer is completely unreadable to you. You can’t get a feel for his emotions at all, or even whether they’re on the positive side or otherwise. He’s a statue, a doll– a puppet, standing behind Nahida, accompanying her. 

You see them converse, and whenever she sets her eyes on him, you fancy they look a little rueful. But their parade soon passes by, and the rest of your day is spent with Kazuha.

He’s gentlemanly, his tongue silken and his calloused fingers gentle when they tug you away from a snail you would otherwise have stepped on. When he’s occupied with coaxing it on a leaf to put it somewhere safe, your mind wanders to someone rude, with a barbed tongue and the softest hands you’ve known.

You host Kazuha for some days before he has to leave again, and your heart stings when you see him seated on the couch that he’d otherwise be sprawled on, when Kazuha sweetly compliments your cooking and someone else’s words ring in your mind, softness sealed tightly beneath leagues of sardonic ribbons.

When it’s time for Kazuha to leave, he presses one of your hands in both of his, squeezing them in thanks. When you smile at him in return, he tells you gently that he hopes things work out for you and that hatted gentleman– the one that glanced at you all throughout Sabzeruz.

✦—————————————✦

Part II: Serendipity.

✦—————————————✦

Wanderer still hasn’t talked to you.

Still hasn’t visited, hasn’t so much as glanced your way in the hallways, asked you to move aside in the bazaar, opting to take a longer route instead. 

Whatever molten anguish you’d felt that day has since solidified into quiet, red hot anger.

He used to be such a frequent visitor that your home was well supplied with food enough for two– and hell, even to his taste. His toothbrush in the bathroom is pristine and stiff– he used this new one perhaps twice or thrice before. Well.

Leaving his things out is a painful reminder of him, and, you quietly think to yourself– it's almost, no, fully foolish. Embarrassing, even. 

A month has passed, now nearly two. A new year is nearly upon you– it's just a week or two away, so close you can hear it murmuring round the corner, telling January to be a bit quicker than the previous year’s, and begging March to be exceedingly slow for no reason at all. 

You remember being out on a walk with Wanderer the previous New Year's Eve, giggling as you eavesdropped onto the various resolutions being made around you. A bit mean, but hey, it's not like most people ever stick by those.

And the year before that, you'd been home, watching the fireworks from right here as you peeled and ate overripe oranges. He'd yawned, leaning prettily against a window frame, and you'd chucked an orange segment right into his mouth, making him choke on it for several seconds. He’d chased you all around the house with a vengeance, and you’d subsequently missed most of the lovely display. 

You hadn’t minded in the slightest.

And the year before that–no. You force yourself to stop. Reminiscence only stings.

Although… Now that you think about it, you’ve never spent the new year without Wanderer before. Not since you’ve met. Not that it matters– you’ll be fine. Perhaps you could go pay your family a visit. Perhaps you could go out with some other friends– they’ll be happy to see you venturing out voluntarily, you’re sure. You could touch so much grass that way.

But, truth be told, you don’t really feel up to a party. It’s the last month of the year, and it’s cold, and cold means you celebrate inside, with warm food and cards and chatter. Maybe you could call your friends over. But, you know. The new year could serve as a new beginning, a chance to nurture healthy habits. To eat something homemade and sleep at nine, you’d have to do with just a friend or two. Preferably just one.

On the New Year's Eve two years ago, Wanderer had helped you make a tiny bonfire in a large, broken pot on your balcony. He was surprisingly good at lighting fires. (You wonder if the fall of the Raiden Gokaden involves arson, somehow.)

Reaching over in the dark, you grope around your bedside table for a water bottle, and your hand brushes against some pins, a shirt you’ve been wondering whether or not to wash, and your mora pouch.

(That reminds you– you haven’t begun searching for a present for Wanderer yet.)

And– fine, maybe it wasn’t so much about the new year. Maybe it was more about his birthday. So what?

You heave a soft sigh.

It’s one in the morning. Or is it two? Either way, it is late and you cannot fall asleep. There’s restless, jittery sparkles tumbling around inside your torso, leaving little trails of excited warmth wherever they go. You need to get them out somehow. Perhaps a walk would do the trick.

Is it worth risking at this hour? you wonder. Just how high up on the stupid scale would I rank for taking a walk out at this hour in just my nightclothes and a cardigan?

Pretty fuckin stupid, if you ask me, another voice in your head whispers. This one sounds an awful lot like Wanderer. Archons, you need to get him off your mind. This is insanity.

You know what? Perhaps the sheer anxiety of taking a walk out at this hour might distract you from him for a short while.

✦—————————————✦

Yeah, no, never mind. 

Today is not a day for walking. Well, tonight, and night. There had been a cloying breeze carding through your hair, through the leaves when you’d swept out of the house, wrapping your cardigan tight around you like an angry grandma. The moon had been playing peek-a-boo with the fast moving clouds already, but you hadn’t expected them to lovingly engulf her so soon. By then, though, you were halfway up the Akademiya slopes already, and so sunk cost fallacy for a mission you hadn’t even realised you were carrying out had effectively reeled you in.

Some sweet folks from the Corp of Thirty had already offered to walk you home, concern plainly painted across their faces, but you’d declined. You were on A Mission.

In the dim hours of the night, you tip your head up and confess quietly to the stormy sky– you miss Wanderer, and like any good scholar, when faced with a problem, your first few instincts were to despair and whine, before your sleepy yet simultaneously restless mind decided to steer you towards the source– to try and fix it in the quickest way possible.

Getting over him isn’t an option. Weeks spent in his absence have given you more spare time than you knew what to do with, and it had allowed you to quietly, angrily compose yourself. Pissed or no, you were going to find and drag him back into your life. It's not fair– did all those years of friendship mean nothing to him? (You know for a fact they had– by the Archon, he’d kissed you. What a stupid thing to run from. Were you really such a terrible kisser?)

You square your shoulders grimly, wondering which way to go. Go home? You really, really don’t want to. The other option… Well, the guards at the Sanctuary of Surasthana would not be happy to see you in the slightest, no matter how friendly they were with you ordinarily. Imposing upon your Archon’s place of rest is easily the most uncouth thing you’ll have done this year, if you really go through with this. Argh, the things you do for love.

You should be able to fix things. It can’t be that hard– he’s not stupid. You just need to find him. Maybe you could ask the guards to take just the littlest peek inside? And call out to him, perhaps?

But what if he’s not home at all?

You clutch your chest as whispered doubts and what-ifs spin around your mind in a hazy, whirling dance. You’ve kept yourself busy to avoid thinking of him, but it’s been difficult to truly lock it all away, and now as you watch a stray cat streak over to a dog, who– much to your surprise– attempts to clumsily play with it instead of barking up a storm– you admit to yourself– not only do you miss him, you miss him badly. 

The gall of him, to kiss you and vanish. You’ve racked your mind to figure out what the hell that meant. (You know what it meant, you know you do. But you kissed him back, so why the fuck did he run away?) 

His voice rings through your mind even now.

“You’re sorry,” he’d said. “You’re sorry. I’m sorry too, then.”

“What the fuck does that mean,” you hiss, burying your face in your hands. The Corp members standing some distance behind you glance concernedly at one another.

“Hey,” one of them calls out, a worried frown on his face. You know this one. You’ve seen him around. He’s cute, and incredibly sweet. You know it, because sometimes you see him playing catch with some kids, and you’ve seen him feed every single animal he seems to come across. You’ve seen this guy manage to coax even a finch on his finger, once.

Finches are always following Wanderer around, your brain whispers, and your eyes sting a little.

“Yeah?” You respond, voice wobbly with sudden emotion, and the guy instantly looks at you with so much worry in his eyes you nearly throw yourself at him to let it all out in his arms. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, concerned. You’re about to heroically tell him you’re fine, when someone else interjects.

“What’s going on here?”

Right on cue, there’s the briefest flash of lightning in the distance before a giant crack of thunder rolls all over Sumeru city, making it tremble beneath you. Or perhaps it’s you that’s shaking. Soft, damp pinpricks of water land on the ground, expanding gently as they soak into the dust. All you can do is just stare at Wanderer, nonplussed, as it truly begins to pour.

✦—————————————✦

“Do you need a towel?” 

“There’s one in here.”

“That’s mine,” you say, and there’s a pause. You sigh. “If you’ve used it already, whatever. I’m gonna heat some milk up. You want any?”

“A cup. No honey.”

You sigh again. “I know.” You also know he’d rather have bitter tea, but you’re in no mood to exert more energy than is necessary right now, least of all for him. It’s not like he’s monopolized pettiness. 

You pad over to the kitchen, wrapping your cardigan tighter around yourself. The storm has picked up in earnest now, slamming against the Divine Tree, against your walls and windows. It’s already successfully destroyed the potted plants in your balcony, which you can’t bring yourself to care about right now. You’re just glad you forgot to hang your laundry out today. 

Wanderer’s the one that brought you back home. You’d walked at first and, when the wind picked up, he’d lifted you up in his arms and flown you both here at a speed that nearly had you shrieking. If, you muse as you pour some honey into your cup and lift the pan of hot milk off the stove, you’d felt slightly less petty, you really would have screamed.

You’re busy pouring the milk into the mugs when your bathroom door swings open with a long creak, letting scented tendrils steam drift leisurely out. 

Wanderer steps out, clad in some of your clothes. They’re ill fitting, but he looks alright nonetheless. Good, even, much to your chagrin. He always does. Ethereal beauty and all that. You roll your eyes as you leave his mug on your counter and walk over to your cabinet to get a spoon, refusing to offer any further acknowledgement. 

Wanderer floats to sit on your counter, turning even something so mundane into something regal. That’s just how he is. (You wonder what Inazuma would have been like with a softer Archon, an Archon surrounded by finches. An Archon that sheds tears. Or shed, maybe? You’ve never known him to cry.)

“You’re quiet,” he muses, breaking you out of your thoughts. Never one to shy away from confrontation, he stares straight at you over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. He doesn’t blow on it. You’d normally be secretly beguiled by those eyes, but tonight you just stare sullenly back. Predictably enough, he doesn’t react to your moodiness. You’d figured he wouldn’t– known that he’d never apologize first. He’s too proud. He’d never grovel, least of all for a little mortal like you.

But if he thinks his silence will turn you talkative, he’s dead wrong. 

“And deaf, too,” he adds. “Or maybe just too uncreative to think of a good response.”

“I don’t think I need to be creative for this at all,” you retort. (Maybe not that wrong.) He raises an eyebrow at that, and although there’s no other change to his expression, you know he’s pleased.

“And,” you continue, composure dissolving at the audacity of this jerk, “don’t think you can come around and act the way you used to after leaving me for two months, with zero explanation!” Storming over, you slam your now-empty cup onto the counter with more force than is necessary. A long, splintering crack runs up its side, and you click your tongue, frustrated.

Wanderer only watches.

“Are you serious?” You demand into the silence. “You’re not going to say anything? You’re in my house, asshole, not a shitty motel you’re staying at for the night. Talk, or get out of here.”

Nothing could’ve prepared you for what he says next. “But I just took a shower,” he complains, lounging on your counter, propping himself lazily up with an arm behind him. All of a sudden, he’s smiling, entirely too comfortably. His eyes glint with smug satisfaction, and you can’t help but feel like you’re missing something. A knife, maybe. His fourth (fifth?) betrayal. Heavens, he’s infuriating. “Sorry. Sunk cost fallacy. My favourite.”

You glare. “Sunk cost fallacy sure didn’t make you stick around by a years old friend,” you say bitterly. Wanderer just smiles, the very personification of delight. His eyes seem to shine brighter with every angry word that makes its way out your mouth. It serves only to piss you off further. “Or,” you hiss, “maybe I don’t even count as one? My mistake.” Saying so, you snatch the still mostly-full cup from his hands, forgetting in your anger that the milk inside was still hot, and his eyes widen, delight vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Careful!” he barks, but the warning comes too late. 

Hot milk spills all over your arm, and you cry out in startlement, dropping the mug onto the ground. Being the good little mug that it is, it sullenly drops, spilling milk everywhere, but doesn’t shatter. You wince and nudge it with your toe, and find that the handle has fallen off, but that it’s otherwise completely intact.

“Fuckin loser,” you hiss at the mug on the counter. “Look what your sister can take.”

Shushing you angrily, Wanderer instantly yanks your hands in his and tugs them into the sink, turning on the taps. The pipes, cooled by the rain outside, let in water that is deliciously cold, soothing your overwarm skin nicely. You blink at him as he glares at your hands, lips parted in distress.

“Idiot!” He hisses. “Grabbing it out of my hands like that! Mortals truly are as foolish as they are fragile.” Saying so, he holds your hands firmly in place beneath the running water. You can’t help but notice that he holds you by the elbows, not by the arms, where he thinks the burns are. You’re pressed tight against his side like this, and the planes of his face are right next to yours. His hair is still damp. It smells like your shampoo.

“Well?” He demands, after several moments of you dumbly blinking at him. “Have you been burned stupid?”

Why is he like this? you think ruefully, sighing softly. But fine. You win. 

Feeling your anger melt swiftly away, like a block of salt in running water, you wrench your arms gently out of his hands and turn the taps off. Smiling, you hold your arms out for Wanderer to see.

“I'm fine,” you say. “Completely fine. It wasn't hot enough to burn me, it just stung a bit.” Looking carefully first at your expression, he turns his eyes towards your drenched, but otherwise completely normal, unblemished arms. Finally convinced, he pulls away, lips pursed.

Archons, it's hard to stay angry with him, especially now, with his eyes still strained with worry, lips pressed tightly together as he peers at your arms still, checking for himself. He's not furtive– he never is. 

You've missed him so terribly. 

You hadn’t realised the potency of your jagged, angry hurt, twisting and scraping your heart, making it bleed blue and red and green. Hadn’t realised how much you'd missed bumping into him, the playful smacks and shoves, and on occasion, linked hands. Not until now. Even just this, just his concerned touch, is enough to send the familiar warmth of heartfelt affection coursing through you once more.

You remember when he'd grabbed your bicep on your birthday once, and risen ominously in the air, you shrieking with terror, him chuckling and giving no other answer. The way he'd then grabbed you by the waist and sped through the branches, bursting out of the smooth, tender, newly grown leaves of the Divine Tree’s crown. From up in his arms, you'd seen all of Sumeru City laid beneath you, beyond a soft blanket comprising entirely of new life, the giant tree’s teeny baby leaves. It had been surreal.

What had made it more surreal was the realisation that even in the face of this  impressive vantage point, a small voice in your mind had shyly pointed out just how gently you were cradled in his arms, and sent warmth coursing from your cheeks and neck to every inch of you.

And so when he pulls his hands away from yours, here in your kitchen, you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his hair. It's what he deserves, for kissing you out of nowhere and vanishing without a word. You tighten your arms around him, face warming when you remember the way he'd gasped against your lips.

Wanderer doesn’t hug you back, but he doesn't push you away, either.

Instead, after a long pause, he says, “you're stepping in the milk.” His voice is audible and real and close, right here, right next to your ear. “Gross.”

“I'll clean it up later,” you mumble. Archons, he’s here. There’s a long conversation to be had with him, about his past and your future, but it can wait for now. “Hug me back first.”

“Pathetic. First you throw a fit and now you expect me to hug you back? Have at least a kernel of pride.”

“Shut up.” There's no bite to your words, nor his. You wonder where you put your jar of shitty, bitter tea leaves.

Wanderer breaks you out of your thoughts by sighing against your shoulder and finally bringing his arms up to wrap around you. They're firmer than a human’s would be. Divine strength encased in unassuming, slender arms and soft, unblemished hands. When he tugs you closer, you have no choice but to lean into him, shutting your eyes tight as you bury your face into his neck.

After several long seconds, Wanderer warily asks– “when are you setting me free?” And you laugh softly into his shoulder, consumed by relief.

You give no other answer. You don't pull away, though, and neither does he.

You only speak several moments later to warn– “I'm not letting go first, mind you.” 

“Is this a competition?” He quickly returns. “If it is– well, can't say I particularly care, but I'm not fond of losing.”

“Isn't the bigger loss to hug me forever?”

“No.”

You blink. “No? That's a surprise.”

He heaves a heavy sigh. “Fool. Would I have kissed you if it was?”

You freeze. He freezes too. For just a moment, the storm stills as well, before lightning crackles in the distance with the sound of a thousand sticks shattering, and the rain picks up again.

You pull away.

If Wanderer had ears, you’re sure they’d be flat against his head. His shoulders are held sideways and upright, head tipped high– the prouder he looks, the more disconcerted he is, and right now he looks as though he were standing on the threshold of a mansion made entirely of gold.

You, though, are entirely too tired for pretenses. It is four in the morning. You simply do not have the time. 

And so, you tug Wanderer out of the milk puddle, and cup his face in your hands to kiss him once again.

You’ve barely tugged him closer when his hands are on your waist– gentler and more uncertain this time, featherlight fingers brushing your hips, making you jerk away– they tickle. When he steps away, forehead creased with worry, you groan.

“Man, please. Can I kiss you or not?”

“Can I– you just jumped away like a fucking frog–”

“That’s because you tickled me, smartass!”

“Archons,” he hisses, annoyed, and you’re struck dumb once again by just how pretty he is. “Just come here.”

“Not that easily.” You cross your arms. “Say please.”

His eye twitches. You’re having way too much fun. You know he’ll never actually beg– please is not a word he’s on friendly terms with– but even so. He’s here, in your kitchen once again, and your socks are soaked in milk– which has now turned sticky and cold and you cannot wait to change out of them and climb into bed. You’re definitely not leaving the house tomo– today. Thank goodness for the storm. It’s an easy excuse to stay home. 

You’re busy thanking whoever the Shogun is for the storm she’s so benevolently sent your way, when an exasperated sigh breaks you out of your thoughts.

“...please.”

“What?” Did you hear that right? Did he just say please? Did he?

“I’m not gonna say it again, you hear,” he huffs, as your eyes widen in delight. “Now come here.”

“Nuh uh.” You cross your arms, snickering rather meanly. “Explain yourself first, then I might.”

“Are you serious?” He spreads his arms, looking both frustrated and amused now. “Does now look like the time?”

“The audacity– you pissed me off in my own house–”

“I just want to kiss you and head to bed, is that so much to ask for?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you peel off your socks and drop them onto the floor with a wet thlop. Might as well talk a little now when you can. You’re definitely taking a day off tom– today.

“I’ll talk to you in bed and then kiss you. How’s that sound?”

He sighs as he peels his own wet socks off and tosses them atop yours. You both look at the soggy pile for a long moment before grimly nodding at one another– you’ll deal with that to–day. But several hours later.

Some minutes later, you’re finally in bed, warm and happy, with little bubbles of giddiness floatily making their way from your lungs up your throat, popping just behind your tongue. Wanderer crawls in next to you, setting a water bottle down on your bedside table.

“Great,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

“Let’s talk,” you echo, with an annoying inflection to your voice that makes him snort. You mimic the snort too, and he sighs.

“I think staying up this late is starting to drive you a bit insane.”

“Be nice to me or get out of my bed.”

“You are a normal, functional human being.”

You beam. “Thank you.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, he looks at you for a long, searching moment. The lamplight casts him in the softest glow, making him look a little like an oil painting. “Now,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

“I’ll cut to the chase because unlike some people–” you raise your eyebrows meaningfully– “I’m not a coward. Ergo I don’t kiss pretty people and run away.”

“Pretty?” He scoffs. “If you were just pretty, I wouldn’t look twice at you.” Wait– oh, he wasn’t insulting you. By the moon, does he have to say the sweetest things in the most scathing way? (You wonder why you even ask yourself these things when you know the answer to that is yes.)

“I– okay. Thank you.” You bite back a smile. God. A single compliment, if it can even be called that, and yet. “So. You do like me?”

“I despise the way mortals speak of their romances this era.” He rolls his eyes. “If I just liked you–”

“Yes, okay, okay. Settle down.” You reach out to pat his head and he scoffs, but there’s a smile on his lips nonetheless. 

“I’m not a dog.”

“It talks!”

“Shut up.”

A mosquito comes buzzing along, whispering sweet nothings in your ear in its reedy voice. Wanderer swats it away. 

For some moments, you just lay there, wrapped in the remnants of his voice playing in your head, in your blankets that reflect the warmth of your own body, and his. You throw a leg over his thighs as you shuffle closer and he shifts to make more room for you on his pillow. When you rest your head by his chest, he lays his cheek against your temple, slinging an arm over your torso.

“So?” He asks, and for once his voice is just… soft. Just there. Wanderer talks a lot about hating added flavour, claiming to love bitter tea because its reality isn’t cloaked by cloying sweetness or distracting spices, but he’s guilty of just that. Painting himself with the most unfavourable, forthright brush. 

Words and tones are different. If he really wanted neutrality, ought he not sound more civil? I just tell it like it is, he says, wrapping his blunt words in serrated, barbed ribbons called sarcasm and hauteur. 

Right now, though, the ribbons are off, and his bluntness is accompanied by only his honest, true self. “I love you,” he says, and your heart does a happy little loop in your chest. Your fingers tighten their grip on his– your shirt. “Do you love me? Just say yes and kiss me quick.”

Your joy is so visceral the joyous bubbles in your chest may as well be real and tangible. You imagine opening your mouth and blasting him with them, and laugh softly into his chest. Against your temple, you feel him smile.

“To think I was scared of you.”

“Damn. That really is honest.” Still smiling, you look up at him, your eyes alight with affection. And, skies above, he has no heart but he swears his chest hurts.

“I love you,” you say, the words forming so, so prettily on your warm lips. When he brings a finger up to trace the outline of them, and you kiss his fingertips. He cards them through your hair, stroking it away from your face so he can see you better– the shape of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ridge of your nose. Here, pressed against you, in your room, beneath your blankets, he basks in your scent, in your presence. It makes his face flush a little, and you trail a finger from his cheekbone to his neck. Grabbing your hand in his, he pins it loosely beside you as you shift onto your back.

Leaning closer, he presses his forehead to yours, deliberately squishing your nose. You laugh again, right against his mouth, then reach up to kiss him a second time.

✦ when you get little to no sleep before a lecture, dan heng tries his best to keep you awake— kicking your foot, shaking your shoulder, even blowing in your ear— he's really tried everything, but sleep takes over anyway. dan heng would never admit it, but he finds your sleeping face pretty cute. due to how often you fall asleep, he probably has a secret album on his phone filled with photos of you napping.

✦ speaking of photos, dan heng probably kept up with his photography hobby since high school, possibly even pursuing it as a minor. nevertheless, he likes to snap few pictures of you after school, during events, etc. need a photo to post? he's got you covered.

✦ when the lens turn to him, dan heng doesn't enjoy being photographed. let's suppose he's just a little camera shy. it takes a kiss or two to get him to cooperate for a selfie. i mean, if he's allowed to have over a hundred photos of you on his phone, you need a few of him at least!

✦ dan heng definitely has an album of polaroids the two of you took throughout your school life. the photos range from candid shots, to chaste kisses. naturally, dan heng also wrote the date down in thin, precise sharpie. thanks to his spectacular organization, it's evident that the two of you grow closer with every polaroid. you noticed an empty spot in the album one day, and unbeknownst to you, the missing photo served as his bookmark. it was a simple photo of you smiling. but that alone made him smile too.

✦ dan heng would give you his notes if you asked him. in fact, you don't even need to ask sometimes... he probably saw you scrolling on social media, or doing anything but listening to the lecture. his handwriting is too similar to the declaration of independence: perfect, neat, and in script. you asked him one too many times to translate his chicken scratch, to which dan heng lets out a heavy sigh.

✦ study sessions would go so hard with dan heng. the two of you always go to the local cafe and sit down two tables away from the window (he frequently complains about the glare on his laptop from the sun). after you set down your respective drinks, dan heng mumbles a thanks and gently reminds you to get to work. lastly, he never forgets to pass you an airbud. dan heng probably gets accused of being performative way too often.

✦ during these sessions, you can occassionally catch dan heng staring a moment too long. asking him about it leads to an indifferent reply, but you swear that the tips of his ears are slightly pink. inquire him further, and he ignores you, attempting to focus on work instead.

✦ on other days, you might fall asleep while working— don't worry, dan heng is keeping watch as you take a quick nap. he resists the urge to card his fingers through your hair, but eventually gives in to tuck loose hair behind your ear in a tender, practiced manner.

✦ some days, mismatched schedules meant you were left alone to study in the library. but even so, dan heng surprises you with your favorite drink. you ask how the hell he knew you were in there, to which he shrugs and says it was merely intuition. when he leaves for his next class, you pick up the cup to take a sip, but notice a sticky note beneath the sleeve: "take a break. you're doing well."

✦ in the rare moments you two go to his or your dorm to study instead, there's no doubt that he's always distracted by you and your affections. he's definitely not big on pda, so you respect his boundaries in public. in private? there's no way you're letting him study!

"dan heng, you've been studying for two hours now."

you gently prodded his cheek, hoping to catch a bit of attention from your hardworking boyfriend.

"...enough, [name]. please stop distracting me." dan heng murmured, trying his best not to divert his attention to your antics.

as much as you loved dan heng with his stupidly adorable glasses perched on his nose, you really just wanted to spend some time with him now that exam season was over. unfortunately, it seemed like dan heng wasn't planning to beat nerd allegations anytime soon.

leaning a little closer, you take off dan heng's glasses with a small pout. before dan heng could even think to protest, you quickly put your index finger against his lips.

"let's take a break, please?" you pleaded softly.

after a few moments of silence, you basically hear dan heng give up all hope as he lets out a big, exaggerated sigh.

"fine. a five minute break will suffice."

dan heng could see your sullen face bloom into an expression of pure joy. he watches as you work quickly to remove the overheating laptop from his lap, replacing it with your very presence.

"this is exactly why i don't want to study at either of our dorms," dan heng comments, sounding defeated, "you end up coercing me into—"

dan heng goes silent when you embrace him from the side without much warning. he's rarely off guard, but when it comes to you, it happens way too often.

aeons, it must be your alluring scent— warm, familiar, and impossibly soothing— combined with the ticklish feeling of your hair seeping into his skin, breaching walls he thought were impenetrable…

without even realizing it, dan heng found himself burying his face into your shoulder.

"…dan heng? hey, what's wrong?" you worriedly mumble, rubbing his back for comfort. it wasn't often dan heng just dipped his head and willingly abandoned caution.

"nothing," he murmured without much thought, "just… keep doing that."

you let out a soft laugh at his barely audible words, humming as your hand continued to rhythmatically pat his back.

dan heng could feel himself unraveling at your touch, with thoughts of college and deadlines disappearing for this very moment.

perhaps, dan heng began to realize that the most interesting study of all, is how you love him— endlessly, unconditionally, and without expectation.

The traps are new, recently imported from across the sea, with hard steel teeth and a spring mechanism strong enough to bite through bone: a far cry from the bait-and-netting strategy your village still uses. You do not agree with the method, but it yields results, and from what you have heard, prey is harder to come by these days. Nevertheless, to set these traps on the outskirts of Chinju Forest strikes you as particularly negligent—the work of either a fool or a threat. 

The fox lies with its back leg ensnared in the metal jaws. You approach with trepidation, creeping towards it through the shaded underbrush. Cricketsong chirrs around you; mosquitos whine past your ears as you approach. A twig snags on the hem of your sleeve. Carefully, you release it, and carry on. 

The fox’s eyes snap open and land on you. Their colour is a striking green, like budding leaves in spring. Its look is almost electric. You feel a shock slam through your body, paralysing you as would a lightning strike. Whatever you are nearing, it is of power far surpassing that which you normally find here. You hesitate for a moment longer before advancing further. You are, after all, no stranger to the mystical forces which govern these woods.

You kneel down in the grass and place your hands on the trap. (You will have to find some way to wash your hakama before the new sun rises—but that is a concern for when you return to the shrine.) To no avail, you try to prise the teeth apart. The mechanism is too strong, and your fingers slip on the blood. The fox watches you, unmoving and silent, as the red stains creep further into the grass. From the half-dried appearance of the blood, and keeping in mind the humidity of summer, you surmise it must have been no more than a few hours since the fox was caught. Strange, then, that no flies have come to feed from it.

You search the forest floor for something you can use to assist your effort. Twigs and stones litter the ground in abundance, either too thin or too small to be of any advantage. Wandering a little further away, you find a branch of aralia lying beside a tanuki statue, fallen from one of the trees overhead. You bow your head to the statue before you take the branch back to the fox, and the trap.

You insert the end of the stick into the crack between the metal teeth and push. The trap opens, by a sliver. You push harder. The gap widens, inch by reluctant inch, until there is room for the fox to remove its mangled leg. With a quiet yelp, it wriggles free of the trap and limps away a few paces. You let go. The jaws snap back into place. 

The fox stops and fixes you with a stare. Intelligence flashes in its eyes, bright as lanterns. You draw in a breath in spite of yourself. Now that it is no longer caught in the trap, the severity of the fox’s injury is more evident. White bone pokes through glistening sinew and muscle on the lower part of its back leg, bent at unnatural angles where it is not crushed altogether. If left untended to, an infection may very well end the fox’s life where starvation in the trap has not.  

You mean to treat it somehow—take the fox back to the shrine, perhaps, or fetch medical supplies from elsewhere—but the animal starts the moment you take another step forwards, springing away into the underbrush in a streak of maroon before you can close the distance any further. 

It is getting late. You hurry back to Grand Narukami Shrine before the night can grow any deeper. On the way, you stop at one of the many Inari shrines built beside the mountain path, and make a prayer and an offering of incense. May the goddess take good care of her servant, you think as you lay your smoking incense stick in the bowl. 

You remove your geta sandals before slipping into the sleeping quarters of the Narukami Shrine complex. Treading softly on the edges of your feet so as not to disturb anyone, you slide the fusuma shut behind you with a soft click and pad further into the room. Nobody stirs when you wash and wring out your hakama above the wooden washbasin, nor when you undress and join your fellow miko on your futon at the edge of the tatami mats. 

As you fall asleep that night, an image remains stuck in your mind: a pair of eyes, the colour of leaves in spring.

——————

The next morning, you find a young man waiting outside your sleeping quarters. You have risen early, before the others wake, and dressed under the shelter of darkness. It is not that you are unable to clothe in the presence of others, but rather a distinct preference of yours which has grown habitual over time. When you step outside, ready to begin your morning by sweeping the floors of the main shrine, you see him. You are certain you have never met before, but he strikes you as strangely familiar. 

The man wears a dark brown haori tied around his waist, at once lending him a decided air of unkemptness. His hair, tousled and unshaven, is the same shade of burgundy as the coat of that fox from last night, and his eyes are a striking green, each marked beneath by a dark dot. There is an off-balance in his stance which you initially put down to his laid-back posture—but on closer examination, it seems he is avoiding placing weight on one side of his body. Your eyes trail down to his left leg, where they land on a streak of stained bandage which pokes out from beneath his hakama. 

You stoop into a low bow. “You are very welcome at the Grand Narukami Shrine. Please, why have you come here?” 

“A kitsune always returns a favour,” the young man answers, shrugging, “and you saved my life last night. In turn, I’m indebted to you.”

“Indebted how?” you ask. 

“To ensure your safety and longevity. You can think of me as a kind of guardian spirit, if that helps.”

“Very well.” You consider this development briefly. Certainly you had not expected to gain the favour of a divine spirit when you snuck out last night, but neither is it an unwelcome surprise. Although… you do not know precisely what the guardianship of such a spirit entails. How much privacy you will have, for instance. You place these thoughts aside and decide to focus on what is in front of you first. “If you are to act as my guardian,” you say, “then please, what may I call you?”

“Just ‘Heizou’ is fine,” he replies. 

You smile at the spirit’s evident sense of humour. “Your joke is amusing, but I’m afraid I cannot refer to you so crudely.”

The man frowns and tips his head to the side in an animal-like fashion. His green eyes are sharp, like sparkling knives. “A joke? Human ‘jokes’ are told for the purpose of entertainment, yes?” When you affirm his conjecture, he says, “Then no, that wasn’t a joke.”

You stare at the spirit in front of you, hiding perplexity beneath your unfettered expression. “But to refer to you by your first name alone… only those closest to each other do such a thing. I cannot call upon a divine spirit in the same way I would an old friend.”

He tips his head now towards the other side. “Why not?”

“It is disrespectful towards you.”

“Who says it’s disrespectful?” 

You frown. “It’s tradition, the way our business is conducted. Respect must be given wherever respect is owed, and you are the servant of a kami.”

A smirk lifts the corner of his lip and reveals the flash of a pointed canine. “And this ‘tradition’ of yours is why a shrine maiden was creeping around the spirit-riddled forest at night all by herself?”

You wince a little behind your uniform mask, not only because his point is fair. The white kosode around your torso constricts for a moment. He may have been the one in the hunting trap, but at this moment, you feel like the one caught between metal jaws. 

It is only for a moment that you falter. You soon collect yourself and maintain calmly, “If you are here because I saved your life, surely you are able to tell me your name in return.”

Something in the kitsune’s expression has changed. That intelligent green glint in his eyes surfaces again, sharpened further with keen interest, and he observes you in so calculating a manner that you cannot help but feel you let something slip which you should not have. A twitch of his vulpine ears reminds you how far removed from human this being is, despite his outward appearance. 

After an enduring moment of scrutiny, he gives in. You find yourself thankful that his eyes shift away from you to somewhere in the distance. “Aiyaya, humans are such stubborn creatures, aren’t they?” he says at last, sighing exaggeratedly. “But fine, fine. I suppose the name Shikanoin would be more acceptable to you, wouldn’t it?”

“Shikanoin-sama,” you begin, bowing towards him once again, “I am grateful for your presence, but may I ask how long you plan to stay here?”

I. 

“Are you even watching?”

As the seventh episode of The Residence nears its end, you turn away from the television and glance at the burgundy-haired man behind you. Instead of his eyes focusing on the screens, his piercing green eyes are staring directly at you.

The two of you are in bed together. With you on his lap, and his arms wrapped around you. 

Murder mystery nights have become a bonding activity after numerous stressful days at work. Both of you love to indulge in genres like this; Heizou likes to sharpen his mind—since he’s so obsessed with puzzles and such—and you love the thrill in learning more about unfamiliar cases, even if they do hurt your brain sometimes. 

“Of course I am,” Heizou says, as he tilts his head innocently. “What makes you think I’m not?”

You recall the times he has kissed your shoulder, cheek, and temple the whole time the characters, Cordelia Cupp and Harry Hollinger, talked. “If this is one of your strategies to lose my focus again. . .” You start, narrowing your eyes at him. “I paid attention to this episode. It won’t work.”

Heizou tilts his head more, a lopsided smile appearing on those lips of his. “What won’t work? I’m just—“ Lips make contact on your shoulder again, and your heart flutters. “—mm, admiring my sunshine. Nothing too unusual, don’t you think?”

There is an urge to push him away. But there is also an urge to pull him closer. 

“Do you even know what’s happening in Episode 7 right now?” 

“Well, if you must know, Miss Cordelia Cupp returns to the US and investigates the engineer and the maid.” He replies, and your eyes catch his lips slowly curving into a smirk. He presses another fleeting kiss on your skin. “But it makes me wonder. Why ask me? You did say you were paying attention.”

“Hey now, you’re twisting my words—”

“Mhm, and since you did ask what is happening in Episode 7, here, we learn from the detective’s interrogation that the engineer and the maid are in love with each other.”

“Heizou—”

“And now, Detective Cupp is about to piece the whole thing together. She’s processing all the information she’s gathered - which will soon bring us to the next and final episode. The conclusion. Who, out of all the staff members inside the White House, killed AB Wynter?”

At that, the episode ends, making you blink in surprise. As your lips part open, it proceeds to the credit scene. 

You can hear Heizou chuckling from behind. Of course he is. He digs his chin gently on your shoulder and tightens his hold on you.

“So? Did you think I wasn’t watching? I summarized the episode well enough, ‘no?” Heizou questions. As he comes closer to your ear, his voice lowers. “Hate to break it to you, but I can adore you and watch The Residence at the same time. It’s a feat I’ve mastered these past few series, you see?”

He chuckles again when you don’t respond immediately. You’re always so speechless when it comes to him. Instead, your next course of action is this: you let your cheeks heat up, like a sore loser, while he triumphantly celebrates his win by swaying his body.

He always wins when it comes to these. Be it solving mysteries, making and proving a point, or riling you up. You merely turn to the television again and pick up the remote, turning it off. 

“Oh? Are we not gonna watch the finale anymore?”

“It can wait,” You tell him, though you’re aware that Heizou is being smug as always. Man is always one step ahead, you know that. You poke on his forehead. “Let that mind of yours rest for a bit.”

“But it’s always active.”

“Yeah, yeah. But let's talk about something else,” you begin. No more The Residence-related questions because he’s always going to have an answer anyway. You dip your head and assess the blanket bundled on your legs. “Let’s talk about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Well. You.” You fiddle with your thumbs, unsure why you’re nervous to bring the following topic up. Or maybe you actually know why. “You’re going to meet mom. For the first time.”

“Mhm-mm.” 

“And, um - I’m sorry you had to meet my mom for the first time like this.” You remark, finally glancing at him with a weak smile. “I know we talked about this, like meeting the parents and all that. We had a plan and everything, with dinner and—“

“Shh, it’s no problem,” Heizou is quick to reassure you, his voice softening. It coaxes your apprehensive heart. His hand reaches for yours that’s placed on your thigh, and both of your fingers intertwine automatically. “I’m still happy enough that I’ll be meeting her. It is long overdue, after all.”

“Right.”

“And hmm? My intuition tells me that you are overthinking things, again.” With that, you feel your cheeks heating up once more, due to the fact that he has caught you in the act. Is it really that obvious? “It’ll be fine, my love. You have nothing to worry about.”

You frown, “There are still instances where everything might get wrong.”

“Stubborn as always,” He comments, and his other hand reaches out to your cheek, slightly squeezing it. “Yet there are also instances where everything might get alright.”

“But still—”

“But still. . . oh, no! Negative thoughts are about to be executed because three, two, one,” His lips collide with yours, and well, safe to say, his technique worked. 

II. 

On the way to your childhood home, Heizou from the passenger seat retains his charming smirk.

“It’s funny how you really are more worried than me. I’m meeting the ‘parent’, not you.”

“Still.”

From your peripheral, you can sense how Heizou shortens the distance between the two of you. 

“Do I need to kiss you again?” “H-Heizou, I’m driving.”

III.

So this is how it happens: the door opens, and your mom, who’s all smiles (thankfully), takes the two of you to the living room. Memories of running children for Onikabuto battles, early Christmases, and true crime binges on the TV come flashing in your mind. Oh, where’d all the time go?

You break out of your reminiscence when Heizou finally speaks beside you.

“Oh? I thought we’d be meeting with your mother tonight. I didn’t know we’d meet up with your sister instead. Actually, you had a sister?”

Score. This makes your mother laugh so loudly in delight that she covers her lips with her fingers. “Oh, you! It’s me.”

You watch as Heizou gasps, though it’s evident in your eyes how he’s clearly on an act. No way he hasn’t noticed that in front of him was your mother, when you already showed her pictures to him. You just playfully roll your eyes, with your lips threatening into a small smile.

“Man alive. You must be kidding, you look so young!”

But then again, Heizou is a detective, so he knows his way with people due to his experiences. So another point for him. Your mother seems to be enjoying Heizou’s presence so far, so this melts a bit of your anxiety. 

“My daughter is right, you are indeed charming. She talks so much about you!”

Because of that exposure, your eyes go wide. “Mom, no need to mention—”

“Is that so?” Heizou has his eyebrow lifted, and his hand placed on one hip. There’s no denying that he is going to tease you about this later, when you can see that small smirk making its appearance again to those soft lips of his.

So you immediately change the topic to prevent any further elaboration. “Anyway! Childhood home? Burglary?” But with a weak interjection.

Heizou just snickers. He faces your mother properly again. “Madam, it’s an honor to finally meet you.” He offers his hand, and shakes hands with your mother. “I’m a huge fan of your early work—talking about this wonderful lady right here.”

And your mother is even more amused.

IV.

“Okay, so they did enter through the broken window, rifled through the drawers, and—” Heizou hums, and gestures toward the picture frame he sees. He grabs it, and presents it to you and your mother. “—my tiny sweet, summer sunshine, in her tiny dress, holding a tiny seelie plush?”

“Heizou,” you call out to him, your cheeks heating up again. “What are you doing?”

“That’s the very first of her plushies,” Your mother points out, and you can’t help but be even more stunned. She’s entertaining him, and also calling out your mountain of plushies in your bedroom. “She wouldn’t let go of it to the point that she brought it to her daycare. It was practically glued at her side.”

Heizou coos at your younger self’s image ( “is that so?” ), and your heart skips a beat at the sight. That kind of Heizou is not different to the Heizou when you are both alone together.

You cough, trying to push away those affectionate Heizou thoughts. “If - if you must know, that’s one of the original seelies before production stopped five years ago.” Then, you narrow your eyes at him. “Continue on with the investigation, Detective Heizou.”

He just smiles at you, and doesn’t forget to wink. “Copy that. Anyway, the alarm company said that the break-in happened at around 7:30. Did anybody know that you were out at that time?” “People who were with me at Hexenzirkel.” Your mother answers.

Sensing Heizou’s confusion, you elaborate, “It’s a wine club. Mom frequents it every now and then.”

“How classy of you, Madam.”

Then, your mother gasps lightly. “Oh, I just remembered. Alice’s vacation house was also broken into several months ago.”

“Alice? One of the main members of Hexenzirkel? That’s interesting,” you claim. “Her vacation house is not too far from here. . . so really, that’s interesting.”

“It is. The odds of that happening are small. There are no coincidences,” Heizou states, and he puts on his signature pose - his thinking pose, where he taps on the side of his forehead. “Yet my intuition tells me that I’ll have to look furthermore inside the Hexenzirkel. I may go undercover at the next wine club meeting to see if I’ll get any leads. Madam, think you can get me in?”

“I think I can arrange that, there’s one after three days.”

“Great. I have one final question.” Prepared for anymore, you brace yourself. But nothing can ever prepare you when Heizou suddenly reveals a project of yours back in high school. It’s your diorama created in clay. Where, when, and how did he even get that?! “Is this her concept of utopia for her social sciences class? Why did it only have a 95 score? I’ll rate this a hundred. Not only because she’s the love of my life, but the fact that there are lots of dogs.”

Your mother giggles, endeared. “She loves dogs.” 

V.

“Sometimes, my daughter’s a bit oblivious.”

“Tell me about it. Before we dated, everytime we’re in the car, I always blasted Taylor Swift’s You Belong With Me, and she still didn’t notice! She thought I was just a big fan of Swift.”

( “I am right here,” you say in the background, while pouring yourself a cup of juice. )

“Are you a fan of Taylor Swift?” “Of course. She makes good songs. Reputation’s my favorite album.” 

VI. 

While your mom excused herself to answer a phone call, you find Heizou wandering in the living room and examining other picture frames displayed on the wall—pictures of your family, pictures of achievements, and pictures of treasured memories. You approach him with a cup of juice. “Why am I not surprised you’re close with Mom now?” He accepts the juice and whispers a tender thank you. “Well, Moms love me.”

“Right.”

He takes one sip. “But it’s the truth.”

“Right.”

He grins again. “Oh, come here, you.” Then hooks his finger under your collar, and pulls you closer.

VII. 

As Heizou resumes with his investigation, you also cannot help it but also roam around the house. This house has gotten smaller. 

Or maybe you have just gotten bigger?

You can pick up conversations from your mother and Heizou about the stolen jewelry, and as you get farther, it becomes more of a whisper.

You manage to arrive at your destination after climbing up the creaky wooden stairs. After inserting the key inside and twisting the doorknob, you slowly push the door open, revealing a small bedroom that contains flashbacks of cousins huddled around the floor to watch a crappy horror movie, sweaty friends from high school sharing the craziest gossip while munching on cheap Good Hunter takeouts, and stressful nights in college where coffee became your only company.

You step forward—and suddenly, your mind is pushed back into the previous months.

VIII.

The stars finally aligned. Inside your favorite coffee shop waits two brilliant and beautiful ladies; Navia Caspar and Kuki Shinobu in the flesh. The sight of them had your heart swell from nostalgia, and sharing an embrace with them after so many years had healed something inside of you.

It was a well-deserved reunion, and you all deserved updates.

“Finally, you have a boyfie!” Navia smiled at Heizou sitting beside you, after you told them how the two of you finally became official. She let her chin rest between her fingers. “My, our friend group will surely explode once we inform them of this.”

“Totally. Charlotte and Ayaka would pry for more details.” Shinobu crossed her arms. Though she wore a face mask, you knew that she was also just as happy as Navia was. “I remember how you used to talk about your ‘future boyfriend‘ whenever you were stressed about finals.”

You raised your hands sheepishly. “Oh, we don’t need to dwell into that—“

But Shinobu didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, she looked at Heizou. “She really waited for you for a long time, you know. There were a lot of complaints about your delay. She was always wondering what’s taking you so long.”

Navia giggled, “And I quote — God, if this is the reason why I still don’t have a boyfriend, then the wait better be worth it!”

You pouted at Navia. “Hey now! That’s a bad impersonation of me!”

“But my words were right! And I quote again, years later — God, I really want to kiss Heizou’s moles. A lot. And this was during her crushing stage on you.”

Your face heated up at that. “Navia!!” 

And as the girls chortled in glee because of your reactions ( “This is supposed to be a sweet reunion, not a ‘teasing-me-reunion!” ), you failed to notice the burgundy-haired man’s gaze on you, with his arm perched on the desk to support the hand that was carrying the side of his face. His cheek rested on his palm, and he couldn’t stop smiling. He murmured, “Is that so?”

( Later, when Heizou excused himself to the bathroom, the ladies informed you that your man had been staring at you so lovingly the whole day you told them about your major life updates. “So anyway, I got promoted—” “He was so fixated on you.” “What? Uh. Well, it’s because I’m talking?” “No, it’s because he’s smitten!” )

IX.

“The archons had their own reasons why they didn’t give you Heizou when you were in law school.”

“Why? Because I was a red flag?”

“That, and instead of studying civil code, you might study his body instead.”

You almost dropped your coffee. “Come on, Yanfei, not you, too!”

X.

Heizou heard a knock on the door of his office. Without looking up from his paper, he answered it with a ”come in.”

A familiar doushin appeared from the doorway, and mentioned a homemade lunch. Said doushin put it on his desk, and asked, “She always takes a lot of effort to visit you, sir. But she always refrains from coming inside. Is she scared of criminals?”

“No, she’s not,” Heizou replied, still not removing his gaze away from the files. “She just doesn’t want to see me here.”

“Why not?”

Heizou peeked at your homemade cooking. “For safety measures.” He crossed his arms and looked at the puzzled doushin. “You see, I have this bad habit of not letting go of my paramour.”

“So were you guys the reason why Madam Kujou issued a ban on public displays of affection or…?” 

XI.

Heizou spots you, inside your childhood bedroom, reading notebooks. You are sitting in one of the bean bag chairs, and you haven’t addressed his presence yet. He’s not sure if you’re completely ignoring him or if you just didn’t notice him.

When he nudges your shoulder, you flinch a little - so there goes his answer. “Oh. Hi. Did mom get another call again?”

“Unfortunately. She’s a busy woman, huh?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes scour around. “How’s this room? Nothing got stolen here?”

“Nope, everything’s all good in here,” You reveal to him. “Mom had my room screwed shut after I moved out, so.”

“I see. And what are you reading?” He scans the ragged notebook in your hands, and leans closer. On the front cover, he catches your full name above the word SCIENCE. “Missing your high school days?”

“Kind of,” You turn back to the pages. “I was just impressed by how wordy I can get with essays. Can’t believe I was so passionate about climate change—look at this title: eat the rich? Come on.”

“You still are, though,” Heizou points out in mirth, and pulls a bean bag chair closer to you. He sits on it and remembers an intoxicated you cursing out how unfair it was that the global south is taking all the blame for global warming. “May I take a look?”

You puff your cheeks out, and Heizou resists to kiss you again. “They suck, though.”

“Pretty please?”

“Fine.” You hand him your notebook, and Heizou happily studies it. Heizou can recognize how you’re a little worried again, with the way you are scratching your cheek and averting your gaze. 

He stomps down on his resistance this time and pecks your temple—creating a loud smack. This makes you glow a beautiful red again. “Thank you.”

The quiet …you’re welcome is worth hundreds of thousands of mora.

As he skims through the pages, his brain already works on keywords. The handwritten notes in the first few pages are all neat and organized, and the following are rushed and are overlapping lines. He can discern from this that the high school you were dedicated to making notes for environmental science in the beginning, but got too lazy in the middle and the end.

He bites his lips to prevent himself from grinning. Just check page 97-100 about ecosystems and biodiversity, is written in red. 

And wow, you got good marks from your essays. Impressive. But he’s not surprised that you already have a lot to say at a young age. ( You do observe quite well, even if you’re quite dense sometimes. )

“Also, I would like to apologize,” Heizou says, and closes your notebook. He clarifies when you hum questionably. “My behavior, I mean. I don’t mean to overstep any boundaries. I might’ve made you uncomfortable when I asked your mother about your younger years.”

He’s genuine and sincere. The last thing he really wants is to make you uneasy with his own interrogations, especially at a place like this. Although the more he spends time inside your bedroom, the more his urge to scrutinize every nook and cranny intensifies. The room smells like you, and all the trinkets, clothing, posters, and letters that he has seen here — oh, he wants to drown himself in it. 

Everything in here has a story to tell. There are lives that you’ve lived when he wasn’t still a major character in those plotlines, and he wants to know them all. What were you like back then? What shaped the wonderful and beautiful you of today? 

No matter. Once he learns them all, he’ll embrace and still love those versions of you.

( Based on the amount of pictures pinned on the corkboard, Heizou can deduce that you really love your friends. He can ascertain that some friends have stayed, some friends have gone. The friends who keep on making cameos are the ones that are truly loyal and have the fortunate blessing to have witnessed every growth of your character.

Mhm. He’s doing it again. 

So he shakes his head and focuses on you properly. )

“It’s fine.” You tell him. 

“Are you sure?”

It’s your turn to reach out to him, to do the reassuring, and to hold his hand. Automatically, his hand curls with yours. “Yes. It’s just. . . embarrassing. I had an embarrassing childhood.”

“Because you were a troublemaker? It’s not embarrassing to be young, eat dirt, and serve it to your parents, my sweet, summer sunshine.”

“How did you even—you know what, I’m not gonna ask. It’s because of that photo in the living room, doesn’t it?”

He smiles, very much endeared. “Yes.”

You groan. “Right. I’m gonna ask Mom to put that back down. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m already used to this. Every time my friends come visit for the first time, they’re always like this. Like Shinobu and Navia. Especially Navia! She saw one picture of me back in elementary school, and kept on asking for a copy.”

Oh. That intrigues him. “And what, pray tell, was that picture?” 

Your eyes drift away from him, and suddenly, your pillow is the most interesting thing in the world. “Nothing too important.”

His intuition itches. “Oh, but I think it is important.”

“Really. It’s nothing.”

Again, his intuition begs to differ, and the fact that it’s supported by the sight of your reddening cheeks. But he decides to drop it, even though he really wants to know. “Okay then.” He turns to the left, and detects a piece of material on your bookshelves that piques his interest. “So. . . does this mean I have your permission to look around?”

“Yeah.”

XII.

“Man alive. The famous Journal Number 3 from Gravity Falls? And you say I’m the nerd in the relationship.”

“Because you are? And hey, it was just a phase! Gravity Falls was good, so.”

“It is a classic. Hey, can I kiss you again? I’m so attracted to you right now.”

XIII.

“The famous mountain of plushies.” Heizou bows to the plethora of stuffed plushies meticulously arranged in your bed. “Greetings, I would like to introduce myself. The name’s Shikanoin Heizou. Thank you for being there whenever she sleeps or whenever she cries.”

He stands up properly and smiles widely. “I’ll be taking it from here.” Then, he turns to your astounded self. “So, what are their names?”

XIV.

“So, yeah. That’s pretty much what happened. We thought that she just wanted a casual night of drinking, but the sudden transaction for hard liquor should’ve been the first warning sign.” 

Chevreuse said from the other line, her voice filling up the speakers of Heizou’s phone. It was currently 1 am in the morning, and inside Heizou’s apartment was an intoxicated you murmuring reclusion perpetua or objection every now and then.

You have your head laying on Heizou’s lap. You were in his living room, specifically your body was draped on his sofa—the sofa that he rarely used because he was always out. While conversing with Chevreuse to recount what had happened earlier at the bar, he had his fingers stroking your hair.

“I see. Thanks, Chevreuse. I think that’s all I need to know.”

“Gotcha. It’s a good thing she was with me or you know, it could’ve been a disaster.”

Heizou sighed, “I know.”

“Anyway, let’s end this. I still have to take care of some matters. On behalf of our friend group, I’d like to thank you as well for taking care of our adorable, grumpy, and very stubborn friend.”

He nodded, even if Chevreuse couldn’t see his face. “It’s no problem.” Then, with a playful smile, he sighed again. “All this and yet she still doesn’t notice.”

She guffawed, “Relax, loverboy. Give her time. I know how much love you have there in that big, big heart of yours, but trust me, you’ll be able to flood her with that very soon.”

When the phone call ended, Heizou gently tossed his phone aside and returned to tend to you. He didn’t stop running his fingers through your hair in a slow and steady motion, since he noticed how this soothed the very sleepy and drunk you.

“Aiyaya, what would I do with you? You could’ve told me that you were stressed with work you know. It’s your first year on the job. I understand how frustrating it can get at times, and I’m always one call away.” He said, and recalled those times where you’d always send him a thumbs up whenever he asked how you were doing. Perfectly fine, you’d exclaim, even though his intuition doubted you.

He should have pressed further when he saw how your eyebags grew bigger and hair became messier. “You didn’t have to keep it all in.”

Of course, you didn’t answer. It was still occasional law jargon and other random rambles he couldn’t quite understand, so he just chuckled to himself. You were always, always, and always so endearing to him. 

Then, you shifted. Heizou halted his movements for a bit, and then you turned to his side, giving him a full glimpse of your snoozing and flushed face.

And you were always, always, and always so beautiful. Even if you were a drunken mess on his lap.

Man alive. You have the Detective Shikanoin Heizou wrapped around your finger. How crazy is that? This could be an inciting incident of a romantic novel.

It was really unfortunate that despite having the talent to perceive, comprehend, and discern information in a short amount of time, your greatest weakness was sensing other people’s romantic feelings for you. Especially his. How could you not notice, really?

Or maybe you do, you were just not expressing it. ( You’re also one tough puzzle to crack. )

Heizou was out in the field when he received that text message. Captain Kujou would definitely scold him if he was caught slacking on the job, but hey. It was worth it when you told him that you missed him. Even if they were keyboard smashes. Even if it seemed as if you were under the influence of alcohol.

Heizou resumed his caresses again. 

He leaned closer to your snoring self. “I miss you, too.”

XV.

After doing a thorough investigation in your living room, Heizou plans to report this back at the precinct to make it official. You watch as he finishes his conversation with the forensics, before making his way to you. You usher him to follow you in the kitchen.

“Since the living room is a crime scene for now, I advise your mother to stay somewhere else first.” Heizou says in a professional tone, and you smile at him. “What?”

“It’s nothing, De-tec-tive,” you answer, and he crosses his arms when he realizes. “She can stay in my apartment. She favors my loveseat, so she’ll have no qualms. I think she'll be busy with the new figurines I’ve bought for her. Yes, my mother wants and has many things. She’s a maximalist.”

“Just like my sweet, summer sunshine who also happens to have the tendency to collect.” He raises a brow, and his smirk makes its entrance again. “But really now, Pokémon?”

You flush a bright red. “You got a problem with that?! Arcanine—“ The biggest plushie you have in your bed— “is the manager of my bedroom. Send him an official complaint if you have something to say.” 

As usual, Heizou will entertain your whims. “Oh, I don’t have any complaints. Instead, I might even send him a letter, since we did bond over our love for you. And also the fact that you are obsessed with chocolate chip cookies. Are you still obsessed with cookies?”

You challenge him by lifting your head. “Take a guess.”

Then, he puts his hand below his chin, pondering. “Since you always smell like freshly baked bread every Tuesday, It’s safe to assume that you do.” Then, he flicks his fingers. “Maybe you go to the bakery near your apartment to purchase some, hm?”

Bingo. You put a hand on your forehead. “Note to self: you can’t hide anything. From your detective boyfriend. At all.”

Heizou takes the hand from your forehead, and kisses it. “And I appreciate that.” He kisses your palm. “I trust you as much as you trust me.”

Then, he kisses that forehead of yours, and blood rushes in your heart, making it pound erratically. “So I hope you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

And finally, on the lips. “Okay?”

You feel like you’re about to short-circuit, but you respond anyway. “…Okay.”

“Good.”

He has his eyes closed when he smiles widely. “Though it’s still adorable how Pokémon have been important in a significant time in your life. You wore a Pikachu onesie in your thesis defense?”

XVI.

On the way home, Heizou is still the passenger princess, so his role is to keep on talking and talking. And he also has full rights to your aux cord, even though you are the driver of the car.

So not only are you listening to Taylor Swift’s Call It What You Want, but also to your boyfriend’s calming voice.

“There was a long piece of paper peeking out from the drawer. I didn’t get to see it properly. What was it?”

“Ah, that? It was the bill of rights. I was so determined to memorize Article III of the Constitution to prove to my teacher that I can memorize them all.” You maneuver the wheel to the left, and the car moves to the left. “And that was even before I was a law student. I was such a competitive but also dumb high school kid.”

“Oh? Did he not believe that you can?”

“No, actually. He was one of my teachers who actually really believed in me. But he liked challenging me and was always yapping about not to ‘waste my potential,’ so.”

“You memorized them all.”

“Of course,” You claim, and you fail to notice Heizou’s intense gaze. “It took a lot of tears, but I did it. I would’ve given up if only it weren’t for Yanfei’s tips and Shinobu’s lavender melons.”

And after a minute of dead air from your usually chatty man, you briefly glance at him in concern. “Heizou…? You good?”

“Say, how would you react if I said that I really want to kiss you right now?”

Your heart skips a beat. “H-Heizou, again, I’m driving—“

“Actually, mm, no. Let’s make out. Think you can stop the car?”

“Heizou, we’re on the highway?!”

“Oh, I see a service area. Drive there.”

“Heizou—“

XVII.

“My sweet, summer sunshine, are you even watching?”

Heizou asks, with you on his lap again. As the final episode of The Residence nears its end, you quickly cover your reddening face. “Of course I am.” Though your voice is muffled, Heizou understands you anyway. “What makes you think I’m not?”

Heizou chuckles, and kisses that one spot on your neck he made yesterday. He takes pride in seeing the other marks and thinks that he should make more, since some of them are fading away. 

“Oh, I don’t know — maybe my being admiring you is distracting you. Are you distracted, my sweet, summer sunshine?”

“N-no.”

“Is that so? But you are stammering. Sounds like you really are distracted. By your thoughts.”

You know where he’s leading with this. “You don’t have to—“

“Man alive, it appears that my beloved really is distracted! What to do? What to do? I know!” He cups both of your cheeks. “Thoughts are about to be shut away in three, two, one—“