#cinna fic

The Chosen One's head ached, and his nose itched beneath his heavy mask, his uncomfortable helmet, divided into two equal parts by a zigzag. Both of them, black and pure white, were decorated with golden stars.

Preparations always took longer than he’d like. And now, standing in the middle of the opulent sacristy, he impatiently stamped his foot while his mentor was finishing work on the ceremonial vestments. The Chosen One didn't want to stare at rare but noticeable gray hair. His blue eyes were fixed on the open window. He couldn't pick out anything interesting from there and the protective glass in the mask's slits didn't help to.

"Anakin, be patient," Obi-Wan's hands settled on the boy's shoulders in a soothing gesture, but they didn’t give any warmth through the harsh materials. "You've already rehearsed your performance, and that's all that's required of you."

"Yeah, and just stand there like a statue," a muffled muttering came from under the mask. "Everyone's laughingstock."

"Laughingstock? No. No, Anakin. You give hope to everyone."

What was truly reassuring was the mentor's familiar warm smile.

"I wish someone would give hope to me," Anakin snorted, trying to scratch his nose without touching it.

A flicker of regret flashed in Obi-Wan's eyes. As if he shouldn't have condemned this boy to such a fate. As if he should have argued with the Council and defended Anakin's right to be just Anakin, without this masquerade. But was it really possible? To go against the centuries-old traditions that formed their church, the very faith… So many generations of believers have waited for the appearance of the Son of Suns… They believed that a fatherless child, born in the lands of sand, would be the Universe itself in a human body. And now they simply take this pure fragment of the universe, and present it as a museum exhibit. Everything would be fine, but this fragment is fifteen years old, and he's almost no different from boys of his age — except, perhaps, in his excessive vulnerability and overflowing enthusiasm toward a random set of narrow interests.

Before Anakin, there were others. Every eleven years, the church chose the most disciplined and dedicated child of the future priesthood, who would play the symbolic role of Savior until the age of twenty-two. Obi-Wan never envied them. Even as a child, he was glad to know that he didn't meet any of the criteria. And here's the irony: now he's forced to wallow in guilt every time when he helps his apprentice with multilayered clothes and repeats contradictory instructions over and over again.

Did his Anakin really deserve to spend his youth this way? In empty, silent church halls? In bustling squares, at festivals where everyone but him continued to enjoy a carefree life? And no one will ever relieve Anakin of these responsibilities. One day, another Feast of Balance will mark the boy's twenty-second birthday... But it will mean nothing. He is the Savior. Other children are no longer needed to fill the empty place. The living and immortal symbol is already here.

Obi-Wan thought about this every year.

"And when the festival's over, we'll find you some spare parts for the robot," he promised comfortingly, picking up the roomy sleeves and securing them with silver buckles. "You can come up with some interesting functions for it, maybe even invent something new... You're talented, so you'll definitely come up with something. If only it were a robot to help with all this fuss... It would be priceless," Kenobi sighed, assessing his work critically. The sleeves were taking a while to complete.

Anakin's nose continued to itch, and then a gentle breeze blew into the room, carrying a fresh floral scent. Florists, of all people, benefit most from these festivals, he thought grumpily, leaning slightly toward the window and trying to smell all the scents from the street through his mask.

"Stay still," the last buckle snapped into the wrong place. "You didn’t miss everything I said again, did you?"

It was impossible to see through the mask, but Kenobi could have sworn he saw a guilty smile. Of course, it was just his imagination, but he knew his protégé too well.

"Not exactly," Anakin replied evasively. "Was this a promise to buy me any spares from the black market to build a robot-dresser?"

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan shouted indignantly. A muffled chuckle came from under the mask.

***

When his palms, sweating and trembling, began to slip from the ceremonial staff, and the sounds of the orchestra began to echo loudly somewhere in his solar plexus, it was no longer funny. Anakin closed his eyes, counting the beat and trying to imagine what was happening on the stage in every detail.

Despite all the rehearsals, he still didn't know how much he liked this part.

The dancer enters the stage, tall and slender. Her movements are witchy, predatory, and sharp. The longer she performs her broken pirouettes, the more the dance resembles something convulsive, albeit perfectly following the chaotic, pulsating rhythm. With the sound of the drums, she points with crooked fingers to different areas of the hall, and the lights go out. Only one silhouette is swirling in the spotlight, as if capturing all attention as the darkness deepens. The hem of her dress, a smudged ink stain, follows each leap, barely keeping pace but still catching up with her chiseled silhouette, when the girl suddenly falls to the stage floor — more realistically than expected — and reaches out to the excited audience. She beckons them, but immediately rejects as soon as anyone tries to touch her, and then she rises over them on the stage, feigning silent glee.

One. Two. Three. Four. Anakin caught the moment for the second dancer to enter. It was easy. Even the backstage space became slightly brighter. He knew this part by heart.

And he definitely didn't like it.

The disharmonious music gives way to a completely different one. It sounds more like a cantata, but the same leitmotif emerges, disturbing and sad. The spotlight beam above the dancer gradually widens its diffused light. Dressed in white, he moves completely differently. At first glance, it doesn't even look like a dance: he simply strides to the rhythm of the music toward his partner, with his hand outstretched. And yet, grace and rhythm do their job, and even the most inveterate critic realizes that this character doesn't seem to let the music control him completely. This becomes even more obvious when the first one unceremoniously grabs his hand, trying to draw him into her chaos.

One. Two. Three. Four. From this point on, Anakin should have been even more nervous, but in fact, he had already managed to catch the rhythm well, rehearsed it in his head, and almost calmed down. He was confident in his abilities.

Now the Darkness and the Light dance together, each vying for the lead as the orchestra swirls between two versions of the composition. The choir suddenly falls silent — and the girl buries her fingers in the young man's blond locks, leans him toward her, and whispers something to him (countless rehearsals have been ruined during this moment). She leads her distorted tango — without passion, but with something primal and cruel in her movements. However, with one elusive movement, more like a martial arts technique, he seizes control and, with a deceptively smooth flick of his hand, lowers the girl to her knees, playing a quiet triumph. The heroine feigns submission for the few seconds that the Light's soft and solemn melody lasts, after which she knocks her partner to the stage floor with a footstool that trips his supporting leg.

And now — right now, during the drawn-out chord of the Shadow's theme, as the lights in the hall dim — the final scene of the first part. The girl stands over the fallen boy, and in her hand is a replica of the dagger that had been hidden in a pocket of her dress, invisible to the public.

Anakin took another deep breath, preparing to enter the stage.

Every word of the boy who played the Light echoed in his head relentlessly.

"You're losing the rhythm."

"You should learn the moves; time is running out."

"If you don't mind, I'll give you some tips."

Compared to him, the Chosen One, this boy was nothing. He was just a junior priest who had joined the guards and was respected for it by the entire parish. Rumors said, it was he, eleven-year-old Ferus Olin, who should be initiated into the Chosen One role. Everything was set for his ceremonial declaration as the new symbol at the end of the Feast of Balance, but on that day the prophecy came true, and suddenly a nine-year-old ragamuffin, newly arrived in the Capital, became the Chosen One. So Ferus' envy was expected, as was his eternal desire to needle Anakin. To tell about the twisted belt, to point out all the mistakes in the dance, and then to ask to accompany him on the way to the chambers... How could Anakin sleep peacefully knowing that an arrogant upstart stood behind the door, nursing a grudge for missing a warm spot behind the bars of rules, prohibitions, and masks?

Anyway, Obi-Wan, if he were here now instead of in the box of this concert hall, would have told him to take it easy before the performance. He would have been right. Lost in thought, Anakin missed a few seconds, and the orchestra had to stall for time. No matter. The audience didn't even notice.

Taking another sharp breath, Anakin stepped into the dark space between the backstage wings, behind one of which he had been hiding all this time. Everything seemed slow, yet terribly fleeting.

He gently wrapped his arm around the Shadow's wrist, blocking the attack of her dagger, and extended his staff to the Light (he was just a character, not Ferus Olin, he couldn't think of Ferus now!), drawing them both into a new dance as a mediator. All that remained of the music was a leitmotif (too minor and tragic, in Anakin's opinion, for such a grand celebration), but the pulse of the first melody and the harmony of the second seeped into it. And the world began to move. The Chosen One channeled the fury of the Shadow's dance through himself and transmitted it to the Light as persistence, and the Light's unwavering stubbornness became acceptance within him. So the two dances merged into a third, more trance-like — or had Anakin fallen into a trance and only woken up to a moment of deafening silence? He didn’t even notice when two dozen more dancers had appeared in the background… Frankly, applause would have been more pleasant, but it was considered a bad manner. Anakin couldn't understand why, so he could only mentally lament that he didn't even know how good he'd been, endure the bishop's convoluted speech, and head to the secluded seat assigned to him.

He didn't want to turn toward Obi-Wan. Now, when everything was over, that pause seemed impossibly long, and every movement in the dance seemed awkward. As luck would have it, Ferus soon joined to the guards. He was probably mentally replaying these shameful mistakes of the Chosen One too.

"They should have let him rest longer, so he wouldn't be an eyesore," the Chosen One thought nervously.

Ferus wasn't exactly an eyesore. Anakin glanced sideways at Ferus' slightly tousled dark hair with golden streaks and still flushed face. Even now he looked like he'd just stepped out of a fashion show featuring incredibly nerdy and picky handsome men. It would have been better if the show wasn’t right here, of course, but since it was… The Chosen One's gaze remained undetectable through the glass of his mask. Even Ferus was more interesting than the performance.

Ferus leaned toward Anakin's ear, and Anakin's nerves instantly went into overdrive. Conversation wasn't forbidden, but it was permitted only in exceptional circumstances, such as warning of potential danger or announcing a change in plans.

"Despite all your mistakes, you were beautiful, the Chosen One," Olin said quietly, instead of any of that.

If the mask could blush, it would. Anakin let out a loud sigh of indignation. What did he mean, "despite all your mistakes"? Had he even seen his own? Anakin’s hands, hidden under the long sleeves (one buckle seemed to have come off somewhere during his performance…) scratched his scars. And the most disturbing thing about it all was his own heartbeat, which reacted sensitively to the praise.

"Thank you, but now is not the time, My Guardian," Anakin hastened to score off Ferus in return.

"My apologies," Ferus replied simply.

If not for all this etiquette, which had become so boring, Anakin would definitely have said something in response to this dubious apology. But he could only glare angrily and pretend that the concert interested him far more than the opportunity to punch his arrogant Guardian’s handsome face somewhere in a parallel universe.

In this universe Anakin decided to simply wait for the intermission.

***

At one point, it seemed like the intermission would never come. But the bell rang, and Anakin had to make a titanic effort not to jump up like a schoolboy, driven wild by isolation at his desk. Following every possible rule, he waited until the bulk of the crowd had left the hall before he walked toward the exit sedately. The Guardians followed him like shadows, without a single word (and even that was annoying).

"The Chosen One!" Obi-Wan's soft voice rang out in the hallway.

Anakin paused, waiting for his mentor to catch up. This etiquette advice seemed particularly idiotic to him. He wasn't exactly a fragment of the universe. No more than anyone else, anyway. Ferus, for instance — wasn't he? Although Ferus surely realized that the Chosen One wasn't the only one Child of Suns. The Sun itself kissed his bangs.

"Yes, My Mentor?" Anakin's voice sounded flat and expressionless, but in his mind he was already doing three somersaults from impatience and shame.

"You demonstrated excellent preparation. I enjoyed watching Your performance." The corners of Obi-Wan's eyes crinkled, and that was a good sign. Now Anakin didn't have to worry about a scolding during the change.

Anakin felt as if a weight had been lifted from his heart.

"Thank you, My Mentor," he nodded, experiencing a surge of relief.

"I thank you too," Kenobi nodded politely, turning to Ferus, "for the worthy performance."

"My gratitude," Ferus bowed.

"I need one of the Guardians, if You do not mind," Obi-Wan’s respectful tone was starting to irritate Anakin. He nodded impatiently, hoping that his mentor would lead Ferus away. But of the two Guards, Olin remained.

Anakin spent the rest of the way grumbling at Ferus in his thoughts. So he was being praised by the high priest and mentor of the Chosen One himself, and he responded so dryly and simply? "My gratitude"?  No excitement, not even an embarassed smile? The thought of gossiping about it with Obi-Wan had to be buried — the mentor didn't approve some kinds of gossiping. The rest of his thoughts and emotions couldn't be buried.

Finding himself at the door of the sacristy, Ferus looked at the Chosen One in bewilderment, not quite understanding why they had come here of all places.

"What?!" the Chosen One asked indignantly, momentarily losing his composure, before correcting himself and awkwardly adding, "My Creation..."

Anakin immediately felt ashamed. He was too used to relaxing at the end of the celebration, throwing aside politeness and airing his grievances to Obi-Wan. It had already become a conditioned reflex. Ferus was taken aback and allowed himself to glance askance at his religious figure.

"I just wanted to clarify why we're here," he explained. "The city is holding sacred rituals in Your honor, and everyone who believes in You would like to see You in person on this day."

"I need to straighten my clothes; and something have fallen off here," Anakin pointed to the empty space on his sleeve. "And I can put away the performance pieces."

"I see," Ferus nodded. "Should I assist You? Call Your Mentor?"

"Thanks, but no," and, ending this unproductive dialogue, Anakin darted out the door. Closing it behind him, he exhaled. What a persistent fellow this Olin was... Did he seriously think the Chosen One couldn't dress himself? It was almost insulting.

But there was no time to sit and sulk. Frantically rummaging through the hanging robes and dropping half of them to the floor, Anakin pulled out a half-finished life-sized robot and began rapidly undress himself. Simultaneously he tried to hang the top layer of ceremonial clothes on his True Creation (he hadn't created Ferus and wouldn't have wanted to). The result was somewhat puny. The angular, skinny silhouette created an unsettling effect. Anakin had to remove everything and start over, this time from the very bottom robe. Otherwise, people would come up with the theory that the Chosen One had long since died and withered away.

A short knock on the door.

"The Chosen One?" Ferus's voice sounded unusually confused.

"Don't enter!" Anakin’s voice rang out surprisingly clear, without the mask.

A cold draft blew through the window. Remembering he was completely naked and embarrassed by the fact that he'd spoken to Ferus like that, Anakin threw a random robe on himself and continued working on the mannequin. In his rapt attention, he didn't even bother answering the subsequent knocks on the door.

"Seems decent," he muttered when, from half a meter away, the robot truly did resemble the dummy known by the pompous title "the Chosen One."

Trying to get the robot to its feet, Anakin encountered an unexpected problem: it seemed to be struggling with the balance. Just as he realized this, he heard the sound of a heap of metal falling, and almost a second later, Ferus burst into the sacristy, armed with a stun gun.

"Stay where you are," he said sternly, pointing the weapon at Anakin. Ferus' gaze flickered briefly to the human silhouette in the Chosen One's robes, sprawled on the floor, and to the open window. Anakin's gaze followed the same path. He was preparing to leap out into the street.

"Final warning," Olin said, holding the intruder at gunpoint. "You won't escape."

That was true. The paralysis following a stun gun attack was instantaneous and lasted until the criminal was brought in for questioning. Expecting the one entrusted with protecting the Chosen One himself to miss was foolish. The only reason Anakin wasn't already lying paralyzed on the floor was the lack of a weapon and aggression toward the guard.

"Don't freak out," Anakin’s words didn’t ease the situation. All he could do was hold still and wait. Fortunately, Ferus worked quickly. At least, he was able to distinguish cold metal from cold skin. Some previously dormant gears suddenly started working in his head.

"You’re… The Chosen One?" The guard was stunned, but still tried to maintain a semblance of competence.

"Well, yes" Anakin nodded irritably. His own hands suddenly seemed incredibly interesting to him.

Ferus slowly lowered his weapon, looking distrustfully.

"Care to explain the situation?"

"I'm tired of wandering around..." the Chosen One admitted, shrugging awkwardly. "It doesn't really make any difference. This robot has a few phrases in my voice in his vocab, so no one would even notice. But he fell! It's because of the mask. It's actually so heavy..." He winced at the phantom sensation and scratched the bridge of his nose.

The guard was thinking for some time. A stern dark gaze fixed on this simple boy. Tousled wavy hair, a scattering of barely noticeable freckles across his nose and cheeks, several old scars on his face, impressive bags under his eyes… He was very young and somehow awkward. There was nothing about this boy that suggested he was a religious figure. A living myth. A fragment of the Universe itself. The situation was clearly abnormal, and the guard suddenly felt like a robot, capable of speaking only a few phrases recorded in Ferus Olin's voice.

"This... is not according to the rules."

"Oh, really?" Anakin responded apathetically, not looking up from his hands. He was surprised at himself. How easy it was to be impudent without all that tinsel... Although, really, he shouldn’t be. The guard was about to have a crisis of faith.

"You put yourself at risk."

And only then did Anakin get angry.

"You were the one pointing the gun at me!" the Chosen One exclaimed childishly, clenching his fists. In a matter of moments, his body tensed like a string, ready to lunge into a fight.

At that point, Ferus lost his composure too. His neck turned red with indignation.

"I'm supposed to use my weapon if You're under attack!"

"But not against me! Who starts fights on the Church grounds anyway?" Something in Anakin felt strange warmth because of blaming Ferus, even though deep down he knew the guard was right in this situation.

"A direct attacking Your vessel is a crime against... the Universe," Olin tried to sound firm, but stumbled over the last word. The whole concept didn't quite mesh with this boorish boy. But if that's what the Universe really is... It would clarify a lot, on many levels.

"A crime against the Universe is being a callous bore!" Anakin was surprised at how loudly he blurted it out, and even more surprised that he continued. "What difference does it make whether I'm the one walking around with a stupid face under the mask, or him?" He pointed at the pile of metal and clothing. "He's even more balanced than I am! He has all this calibration in his program. While I don't understand a thing about the Balance!" The young man's voice was brimming with tears. "No one can calibrate me!"

Ferus was silent.

"I'm so sick of this," Anakin said, still unable to calm down.

Ferus listened.

"It's always just a 'fragment'! As if everything else is whole, and I'm the only one who broke away." His eyes stung. Anakin blinked rapidly, but still couldn't hold back the tears. He simply sat on the floor, hugging his knees and trying to wipe his face with the sleeves of his robe. Humiliating. So humiliating — to burst into tears in front of the guardian! In front of Ferus Olin!

Ferus didn't know what to say. Ferus didn't know what to do. There was nothing in the protocol about what to do when the Chosen One has a breakdown. Could the Chosen One even have a breakdown? Of course he could. He's human. That's direct proof. The protocol didn't specify that the Chosen One was human. There was talk of precognition and immortality (both of which were never definitively confirmed). There was talk of restoring the balance of light and darkness, whatever that meant. There was talk of cosmic radiance and even the ability to reverse time. But about the Chosen One being able to cry...

"No robot can replace You," Ferus said quietly, sitting down next to him, "even the most calibrated."

Anakin didn't look up, continuing to sniffle.

"People are drawn not to Your robes, but to Your light and Your void, intertwined."

"Leave me alone," Anakin muttered. "I don't understand any of this anyway."

"You are the highest form of humanity. A combination of opposites, contradictions. And You are destined to learn to live with this and bestow your wisdom upon the world,” Olin spoke measuredly, carefully choosing his words, trying to capture what he had always understood about the role of the Chosen One. “I think something like that.”

“How will I learn if I…” a loud sob. “If I…”

Words were useless.

Ferus carefully, as if handling something incredibly fragile, placed his hand on the trembling shoulder. This was forbidden. No one dared touch the Chosen One in such way. During rehearsals and dances, Ferus tried not to think about how rare and precious this experience was. He tried to focus on his work and ignore the tremor in his heart from touching the vessel of the very essence of things.

But now he was touching not the Chosen One. Not the Universe. But Anakin. The lost and tearful boy, sobbing near the robot, covered in expensive robes. And he didn't pull away, merely moving toward the awkward caress. Catching this movement, Ferus carefully and gently hugged Anakin, stroking his back.

"I built this robot myself," Anakin said quietly, burying his face in Ferus' shoulder.

"Oh. Wow," was all Ferus could say, confused by the abrupt change of topic.

"It's electric. Not steam-powered."

"Really?"

Anakin nodded. It would have been great if Ferus had called him clever and somehow expressed admiration. But he'd had enough of those hugs, awkward and unexpected, clumsy in this position and with the Guardian armor.

"Will you show me its functions then?" Ferus asked. "We don't have to go to the festival anymore, I guess."

[BOXTEN CRUSH HCS]

Boxten is the type to get clammy and sweaty when his crush is around, which he fears is gross, so he'll actively make sure you're not in a situation where you can physically touch him.

He pulls on his bandanna a lot out of nervousness when you talk to him, and it seems like a normal thing for him to do til you realize he does it WAY more frequently with you than everyone else.

Type of guy that can't look his crush in the eye and tends to look everywhere else because eye contact with THIS PERSON IN PARTICULAR is making him extremely nervous and fluttery. (Heh.)

I don't think Boxten is any more nervous around his crush than his is on average, it's just that his behaviors shift accordingly.

He's still as anxious with you as he would be with anyone else but the way it manifests is a bit different since you have the added baggage of "being his crush."

He constantly fantasizes about movielike moments where he drops something and you both bend over to pick it up. Your hands brush and you look into each other's eyes and share a romantic little moment...he gets really shy about the fact his idea of being a couple is so movie-like, but he really can't help it. It's just so appealing to him.

If you're in a setting where the Ichor Operation is going on, I feel like he'd frequently ask you if you'd like to traverse the lower floors together. He feels at ease when you're around.

Though simultaneously if it's JUST the two of you he does fear that he won't be able to keep you safe--so he follows you everywhere even at the cost of the floors being over slower.

Frantically worries over you whenever a Twisted gets the better of you and will patch you up immediately.

He seems a lot braver than usual, but that's mostly due to the fact that his fear is taking a backseat for once and he's tunnel visioning on keeping you safe.

Around others, he's still like this. But he is a bit less hesitant about leaving you alone, since you have teammates to rely on...