The morning after Ayn’s birthday, a few hours before the two of you would return to Harp Island, Ayn sneaks you out of the mansion. The sun has yet to rise, with the entire world still plunged into a deep slumber.

In a way, it almost feels like this world belongs to just you and Ayn, with nobody else in sight.

“Did you wake up early, or did you stay up all night?”

You’re swinging Ayn’s hand back and forth as he guides you somewhere, voice a bit muffled by the scarf you’ve worn to combat the chill of the approaching winter. When you stare at the side of his face, Ayn looks away as he responds vaguely.

“I mean…”

“Well?”

“It’s easier to stay up late than to wake up early,” Ayn explains. When he sees you about to respond, he adds: “You’re not allowed to say anything. You’re always texting me at two. Your sleep schedule isn’t any better than mine.”

Your opened mouth promptly closes. Instead, you pinch the hand you’re holding in retaliation, unable to refute his words.

“Ow,” Ayn deadpans, turning his head to stare at you with the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “That hurt.”

“And?”

“Kiss it better?” he whispers.

You look at Ayn with exasperation, “You’ve become so shameless.”

Nonetheless, you lift his fingers to your lips to kiss them with exaggerated movements and make the silliest kissing noise you can.

“Better?”

“......Enough.”

“What, you don’t like my kisses?” you grin, pulling Ayn closer to you to plant a big kiss on his cheek, making sure to accompany it with a drawn-out, “Mmmmwah!”

“You’re really so…”

“What? Have something to say, dearest boyfriend?”

“I like your kisses,” Ayn mutters. When he sees your broad smile, he pinches your cheek and pulls at it with cold fingers, making you retreat further into your scarf for warmth. He narrows his eyes, moving to press his entire palm against your cheek. “Are you running from me?”

“Your hands are cold,” you complain. “And my scarf is warm.”

Wordlessly, Ayn starts to unwrap the grey plaid scarf around his neck. He wraps half of the scarf around you this time. The amateurish stitches itch at you, a reminder of your inexperience. But it’s this specific scarf that he’s chosen to wear, instead of any other scarf he has at his disposal.

Your cold cheek is now smushed against Ayn’s as he hunches over a bit awkwardly. You snicker, lifting a hand to adjust the scarf wrapped around the two of you.

“I realize that you wearing this scarf and those earmuffs outside comes with a condition, but don’t you think this kind of uncomfortable?”

“No. This is the most comfortable I’ve been.”

Alright, you liar.

“Okay, okay. How are we going to walk, though? You wanted to bring me somewhere, right?”

Ayn replies stubbornly as he takes a step forward, pulling you along with him. “Like this.”

Both of you stumble forward awkwardly, but Ayn is unwilling to part from you. The scarf you gave to Ayn sits awkwardly on top of your own. The cat-shaped earmuffs you made for him press into you uncomfortably and its beady eyes stare at you. Ayn’s probably more uncomfortable, though, as he hunches his back awkwardly to match your height.

“We probably look so stupid.”

“Who cares,” Ayn snorts. “Nobody’s around. Even if they were, it doesn’t matter what they think.”

“Are we really going to walk all the way to our destination like this?”

Ayn leans against you, stopping suddenly.

“We’re already at our destination.”

At some point, the two of you had stopped at—

“Leighton Creek Plaza,” you murmur.

Ayn nods a little, pulling the scarf with him. When he realizes the scarf is scratching at you, he stills.

“I liked to play around this area a lot when I was a kid. There are a lot of interesting musicians who busk here, though nobody’s here right now since it’s too early.”

You catch a trace of disappointment in his voice. Not long from now, the two of you will have to return to Harp Island to catch up on schoolwork now that Ayn’s finished his business in Leighton.

“How about I sing for you?”

Ayn looks at you eagerly, his response almost instantaneous.

“Yes— No, wait, hold on.” With his free hand, Ayn fumbles around a bit and pulls out his phone. “I need to record this.”

“No! No recordings! This is an exclusive concert, no recordings are allowed.”

Ayn looks at you with a frown, pouting slightly. “I know you save those voice clips. Of me singing.”

“...I’ll sing for you again later when I’ve practiced more,” you insist, embarrassed. “You can record me later. Here, let’s take a picture instead, okay?”

He hums reluctantly, holding his phone out as he takes a few pictures of the two of you huddled close together with noses and ears flushed red from the cold, tied together by a clumsily sewn scarf.

“Send me those later.”

“M’kay.”

As Ayn pockets his phone, you clear your throat a bit nervously. You recall the street performer you met yesterday, in this very spot, and the song he sang for you.

The song he sang for that little boy many years ago.

You know you’re definitely missing a few notes, with some off-beat, and your confidence shrinks. As your voice starts to die down, Ayn squeezes your hand in his, and you see the joy in his eyes as he recognizes the song you sing. With that, you continue.

The world falls silent once you finish.

Then, through the silence, your name is whispered, and the cold biting at you fades as two arms wrap around you tightly.

Ayn doesn’t need to say it for you hear the words in his heart.

I love you too, you think, reaching out to return his hug.

The sun begins to rise, bathing this world belonging to just you and Ayn in a sweet, rosy hue. As you both turn to watch the sunrise, you quietly hook his pinky finger with yours.

“Let’s come back here next time,” you whisper. “Next year, let’s listen to the buskers from your childhood together. And the year after that. And the year after that, and…”

“Until the end of our days?”

The overwhelming happiness you feel tickles your heart as you lean contentedly against Ayn. The earmuffs are ticklish as they press against you, and the scarf scratches against your cheeks, a reminder of both your imperfection and his. But, with him by your side, you’ve never felt cozier.

You hum in affirmation as you make your promise to this boy, who once travelled this world alone.

In fact, he'd wager it's more embarrassing.

Words spoken will eventually disappear. Only their memory will remain, and only in the hearts of the parties involved. Words written, however, can live on forever. So long as the letter remains, anyone can read it.

…provided they can wrestle it out of your zealous grip.

And, truthfully, not many can.

As he sets down his weapon of choice, his promise to you rings out clearly in his mind, reminding him that there's no escaping his commitment. After all, it was the only way he could think of to ease your disappointment—his deepest thoughts exchanged for another stay in Eden, where you would await his safe return.

Where you'd be safe.

Then a spark of inspiration paves the way for his next paragraph. The truth is, Ayn is aware that his desire to keep you safe is, in many ways, selfish. You were not the one who nearly lost control of your powers. You were not the one bedridden for weeks, vaguely aware of the hand holding yours, yet unable to open your eyes.

That was him.

And if something happened to him out in the harsh world that resides beyond Eden, you would be forced to twiddle your thumbs as the manifestation of your bond left you in agony. But you would be safe. He's allowed to hope for that much, isn't he?

Until he finds an end to the sands outside of Eden, at least.

After all, there were times when the roles nearly reversed, and it was him who had to stay by your bedside, even if only for a night or two.

"Alright, what else?" he mutters to himself, his gaze flickering towards the sizable gap left between his paragraphs. Somehow, it's enough to help him swallow down his guilt. Temporarily, at least. "What to add…what to add…"

Home is where the heart is, and where his heart sits is in the palm of your hands. And with that distinction comes his clumsy dreams for the future—a ring on your finger, and a matching one on his, followed by a kiss that comes too early.

But you laugh against his mouth, painted lips slanting into a smirk as you pull away first. The friends that have followed them both this far have many things to say, and on the topic of his affection, in particular. It boils down to this:

Ayn is whipped for his wife—and proud of it.

In that way, you are also a first.

He just has no idea how to tell you that.

Closing his eyes, Ayn lets out a sigh. It happens to coincide with the creaking of the door. This room was once a bedroom, but you had it converted into an office for the nights when you'd bring your work home with you.

When he asked—jokingly, wanting to have a turn at seeing you stutter and blush—why you couldn't have made this into his bedroom, you merely raised an eyebrow at him. Ayn had read enough of O'Connor's trashy romance novels by then to know that the correct answer was to back out of the discussion entirely.

As he leans back against his chair, twirling the pencil in his hand aimlessly, the feather light footsteps he's grown accustomed to come to a halt. Neither of you dare to breathe. A stalemate—and you're the one to break it.

You draw closer; the anticipation leaves him antsy. His heart is stuck on taking a peek. His mind is intent on biding his time. The hand left empty hovers by the edge of the desk, its owner knowing well how much you love your spoilers.

If he can discretely grab the letter before you notice—

A pair of hands—frosty, despite the lovely weather indoors, not helped by the ring on your finger—cover up his already closed his eyes. The empty hand changes its prerogative. It comes to rest on your wrist, squeezing gently before its other half joins it on your other hand.

Ayn opens his eyes and sees darkness.

"Morning," you say, and even without seeing your face, he knows of your silly grin. "So this is where you've been. Couldn't sleep?"

The weight against his back assures him you have no intention of swiping his draft. Your gentle tone asks, nightmare?

A faint smile slips onto his face. There is a kind of affection he's come to realize exists only for you. And if his heart is a cup, carefully built glued back together with a technique he's read of in the history books (kintsugi, he remembers, the art of mending broken pottery), then the surge of affection he feels is threatening to overflow.

For once, what kept him up was not a nightmare.

It was this letter—and you.

"You tend to snore, remember?" he tells you, mischief dripping from his words.

You do. Just not enough to disturb his sleep. But it's always fun to pretend, especially when it leaves you huffing and pouting indignantly. Like now.

"I do not."

"Ask anyone else." Before you can pull away and cross your arms, Ayn tugs your hands down. They sit encircling his neck, leaving his own hands to properly grasp yours. "They'll say I'm right."

Your hands have always been on the softer side. It's a consequence of your upbringing, in a world that knows mostly peace. Sometimes, he'll catch a paper cut on one of your fingers—and Ayn does not believe kissing it better works, but he makes sure to give it a try anyway.

As his scarlet eyes soften, he leaves a light kiss on the palm of your hand, then on the cool metal band on your ring finger. A simple promise ring, one he'd clumsily welded together with his powers.

"Morning," he greets, for no particular reason.

Something soft presses against his cheek, a flash of muted purple appearing in the corner of his eye. It's succeeded by a soft laugh, one that—like others of its kind—lodges itself in some distant corner of his brain, for the days when he misses you the most.

"You're okay?" you ask softly, seemingly having forgotten your earlier exasperation.

Ayn hums. "I'm okay."

Despite his words, he can feel your skepticism seeping out into the air around you. Letting go of your left hand, he taps the half-finished letter on the table. You lean over his shoulder, your slightly unkempt hair obscuring your side profile.

"It turns out I had a lot to say," he says, mirroring your tone, and watches your hair gleam in the sunlight. "Enough that I couldn't sleep."

Silence, as comfortable as it can be, engulfs them both. You pull back, burying your head in the nape of his neck. Your breath is warm—and if you ever ask why his ears are too, he'll chalk it up to a transfer of heat.

When you pull away, your tone is chipper and he's given up wondering about the words bouncing around in your head. But he thinks I'll miss you and Let me come too might comprise some of them.

"Come on." You exhale, as quietly as you can, and pat his shoulders cheerfully. "Let's get breakfast."

Ayn leaves I'm sorry for the letter, hidden amongst his fear of losing you. Instead, he swivels the chair around and catches you standing under the door frame, one hand holding onto the edge of the door.

And calling your name, he says, "I love you."

You whip your head around, startled. He thinks it has less to do with the frequency with which he says those words—a fact he knows only because you're no longer wide-eyed about it—and more to do with the thoughts in your hand.

Once you recover from your surprise, a grin spreads across your face. "I know."

Laughter accompanies you as you slip out into the corridor. Then, warmth spreads across the palm of his hand, dissolving his annoyed expression into a fonder one. I love you too spell the letters, with a little heart at the end.

Ayn glances at the unfinished letter with a wry smile, before following you to kitchen—where last night's leftovers wait to be devoured.

It isn't until night falls upon Eden once more that he remembers to pick up where he left off.

Your body moves before you can think.

You don’t wonder what time it is now, or think about the assignments you might have due, or about the people on campus who glance your way as you run out of your home blindly.

The campus all around you blurs as your feet hit the ground in a frenzied panic. There’s only one name repeating over and over in your mind—

Ayn.

Countless melodies are mixing in the hallway of the music building. Sounds of the french horn, violins, flutes, tubas, clarinets…

Piano.

But they’re not his piano.

Your heart drops inexplicably when you draw nearer to Ayn’s piano room and don’t hear him.

But he’s there.

Once you're closer, you see him through the window, pencil in hand as he writes something on his sheet music. You open the door without a second thought.

Ayn looks up when he hears the door opening and he—

He smiles when he sees you, smiles gently, fondly, carrying all of the affection the world has to offer just for you. His eyes curve slightly, and he murmurs your name.

“Ayn.”

Ayn’s smile immediately falls and he hurriedly gets up. He crosses the piano room to get to you and he reaches out to hold your shaking hand. He repeats your name, worriedly, as he closes the door behind you and pulls you further into the room.

It’s warm.

It’s warm, unlike the hand that had pressed your fingertips back down onto that blade forged from his spirit. In that moment, you see him again, and you can feel the warmth of the blood beneath your palms. You remember the feeling of the mist lightly brushing the palm of your hand before it coalesces into a red flower in his palm, reminiscent of an inextinguishable flame.

Your eyes sting, your throat grows tight, and you take Ayn’s hand holding yours and hold it tightly. When you see Ayn flinch a little, you loosen your grip and chew your bottom lip.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

In the next second, you’re embraced by the same warmth you had desperately tried to hold onto.

You really thought you’d exhausted all of your tears already.

But they fall, one after the other. You let yourself cry, your tears staining the shoulder that muffles your sobs. Everything comes rushing up again; the sorrow, the regret, the longing, the anger, the helplessness—

You cry, not just for him, but all of those who came before him.

The people you couldn’t save, both in the present and in the past. From Godheim, from Eden, and from your world.

“I’m tired,” you confess to him shakily, unable to steady your hands. You hold onto the fabric of his shirt, the only anchor you have in this very moment. “I— Am I— the people I’ve met, I… Ayn, Ayn, please…”

What do you want to say?

You’re not sure.

The words get all tangled up in your head, even though what you really want to say is a simple sentence.

“I’m here.”

Ayn’s voice is quiet and steady. The piano room is muted, and the only thing you can hear is Ayn’s strong, rhythmic heartbeat.

“Ayn.”

“Yeah.”

“Ayn.”

He hugs you tighter, his hair tickling you as he presses his cheek to yours. You can hear his hum right next to your ear.

“Ayn. Ayn, Ayn, Ayn…”

Don’t go.

Don’t leave, don’t try and protect those around you, don’t try to change the world, just stay here, don’t change—

You can’t utter any of those words.

It’s your own, selfish wish. A hypocritical request, when you know you’ve left Ayn suddenly in the past without any explanation.

Privately, you sometimes wonder what would’ve happened had you run away from it all.

If you hadn’t gone to that movie theatre with him. If you had decided to live a quiet, peaceful life and continue cuddling with Ayn that afternoon in the secret base.

But then you remember his smile. The flower blooming in his hand, the gift from you to the past him—

Had you decided to never continue down this path, you would’ve never had those experiences. The good, the bad, everything in between. You wouldn’t have laughed, cried, screamed— wouldn’t have felt the ticklish sensation of that Ayn nuzzling you in that bygone era.

But you also wouldn’t have felt the fear that drowns you, that suffocates you.

In that moment, as you watched that Ayn disappear, you couldn’t help but think about your Ayn.

Diligently practicing piano every day, napping and playing games when not. Pouting whenever you tease him, gently hooking your pinky finger with his in the lulls of life within the secret base shared between the two of you. The tangled limbs as a result of the two of you taking a nap together.

What would you do, if that were to all disappear one day?

With every world you visit, you think you’re starting to understand why your mother did what she did for you more and more.

This feeling of love choking you until your breaths come out as a stutter— you don’t mind it, don’t mind the pain you’ll have to endure as long as Ayn is safe. You wouldn't mind exchanging your life for his, if you could.

…But you can’t do that.

The two of you promised each other to share the burden.

You don’t want him to be in the dark, you want to tell him about yourself in exchange for what he’s told you about himself. You made that decision, during White Day, to tell him everything.

And—

You can't do that to him.

Not when he's lost his own mother. Not when he, too, is lonely just like you had been back when you were overcome with grief. Sometimes, in his secret base, you'll catch Ayn staring dazedly at the vinyl record player on one of his many shelves. In those moments, you always remember the conversation you had with him during the first new years you spent with him— you see Ayn searching through records as he tries to recover something he's forgotten from the distant past.

In many ways, he's still grieving for the loved one he's lost.

The grief never leaves, not fully. You would know.

You can't leave him, you can't, because that would be too cruel, too unfair to him. You don't know if you want to inflict onto him what that Ayn in that distant world inflicted onto you.

Conflicting feelings tangle in your chest.

“Ayn,” you murmur after a long period of silence. Your voice has grown hoarse from crying, and his shoulder has been soaked with your tears, but you can’t find it in yourself to pull away and recollect yourself. All you can do is repeat his name, like a broken record, whispering your affections to him in the form of the name you’ve grown to love saying.

“I’m still here.”

He is. And so are you.

Maybe that’s all you need for now.

He seizes up, bumping his chopsticks. He’s quick to fix himself as you shoot him a nervous, but questioning smile.

“Sorry, you were saying?” he says smoothly (at least he hopes it’s smooth, he still doesn’t know how to talk to pretty people), eager to move past his minor mishap.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you laugh. “I was just saying that you have a little something on your face.”

Wise feels his cheeks warm. “Oh, really? Thanks for telling me.”

He moves to grab some napkins, but you beat him to it. Wise swears something in him malfunctions when he turns and suddenly you’re all too close to him, your hand reached out to clean up his face.

“Wha- Wait, what’re you-” he sputters, nearly falling off his stool as he lurches back.

“Hey, stand still,” you scold, your slight annoyance only serving to speed up his heart rate because who in the world said it was okay for you to be this cute.

At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam was coming from his head, with how fuzzy his mind feels. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just sit there, dazed as you dab obliviously at the corner of his lip.

As you pull away, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, mentally thanking whatever deities reigned above that he hadn’t fainted on the spot. That would’ve been embarrassing; Belle would never let him live it down.

His face feels cooler - hopefully it isn’t so red anymore. By the time he’s able to think coherently again, you’ve started chatting again. Wise nods along (he has no idea what you’re talking about), and goes to slurp up some of his noodles when he sees General Chop again.

The chef, obviously holding back a cackle, grins encouragingly at him and flashes him a thumbs up in support. Wise internally groans. Would it be a bad idea if he drowned himself in his noodles right now?

And this isn’t the first time either - Wise is pretty sure the entirety of Sixth Street is aware of his… ugh, crush on you (saying it out loud both hurts him and makes him feel warm inside. Which is a terrible feeling. He wants to throw up).

Just last week, he’d seen you at the Coff Café, and Tin Man, being both a gracious cafe owner and a huge romantic, had decided that that day was a good day to have a 50% off deal specifically for pairs if they bought two or more items.

Wise hadn’t questioned it at first, since it was normal for shops to occasionally hold discounts like these to attract more customers. Even he was guilty of it, being a business co-owner himself.

But then you had to call him out in the line, excitedly waving him over as you were at the cashier ordering. Tin Man was behind you, a smile in his eyes that Wise wasn’t sure he liked, but he begrudgingly made his way over.

He still remembers the way your eyes sparkled as you explained the discount to him. They reminded him of the stars he’d see at twilight, when he couldn’t sleep and would climb to the roof just to watch New Eridu’s nightlife.

Naturally, he had accepted your offer of buying him a free drink (no one refuses free food), but he quickly learned to regret it when he saw the mischievous gleam in Tin Man’s artificial eyes.

He still gets flustered thinking of it now - the heart-shaped whipped cream and the whisper of “good luck” haunts him, especially when he thinks about how confused you were at the impromptu decoration.

The amount of times he’s caught his neighbors playing matchmaker, he can’t count on both hands - and that’s not including what Belle has tried. It’d be funny if it wasn’t also incredibly humiliating.

“Master, if you were planning on drifting off, perhaps you should’ve stayed home to take a nap.”

Wise sighs. “Be quiet, Fairy. I’m in public.”

“What?” you blink. Wise blinks back before realizing he’d been a little too loud.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself,” he chuckles awkwardly, hands fiddling with each other - it’s a nervous habit of his. You smile understandingly.

“No, it’s okay,” you say, pushing your bowl towards General Chop to signify you were done with it. “You’ve been out of it today, Wise. Something on your mind?”

You, Wise wants to say, but he doesn’t feel like embarrassing himself further. “I guess I’m just tired. Long day today.”

“I can tell,” you laugh, the sound music to his ears. You hop off the stool after sliding your share of the payment to General Chop. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

Wise’s heart does a little tap dance at your offer, but he manages to keep his cool. He hastily pays General Chop before eagerly joining you in your short walk to Random Play.

“Bro!” Belle greets him enthusiastically as he opens the door. Her eyes light up when she sees you, and she raises her eyebrows suggestively at her brother. Wise shoots her a glare when you aren’t looking. “[Name], too? How was your da- mmghhifjk-”

Wise smiles innocently as he slaps a hand over Belle’s mouth. You can’t help but laugh at the two, and Wise admires the crinkle the corners of your eyes.

“Ignore her,” he says nonchalantly, wrinkling his nose as Belle licks his hand like the little rat she is. “Do you want to come in, or…?”

“No, I shouldn’t.” You wave your hands bashfully. “It’s getting late, so I should be getting back home.”

Wise nods in understanding. Belle pries herself free and he wipes his spit-covered hand on her sleeve, ignoring her sputters and protests (she chose this path. She will reap its consequences).

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

You nod, shifting your feet. “I guess it is.”

Wise’s brows furrow at your behavior - what’s on your mind. But thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long before his inquiry is answered.

You take a step forward, and Wise feels your arms loop around him in a tight hug. Suddenly, his senses are elevated, and it’s almost as if everything is enhanced tenfold. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, the soft sound of your breath, your hair tickling his face and the heat that radiates off of your body against him.

“I really enjoyed today,” you say, stepping back with a smile that could rival an angel’s. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”

Wise tries to formulate a response, but all that comes out is a squeak like a dying balloon. God, if his face was red before, it must be flaming now. You giggle at his response, before you wave both him and Belle goodbye and leave for your home.

It takes a good five minutes before he can speak again.

“Hey sis?”

Belle sounds as shocked as him. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to faint.”

He hears his sister sigh.

“Wise, you’re helpless, you know that?” she shakes her head exasperatingly. “And just when you finally made progress too.”