#f}r}o}s}t

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Stoic mystique doesn’t come from nothing. It takes considerable effort to think of exactly what may charm people into deals. And while Sylph does have a way with words, that comes with the unfortunate trait of over thinking. A devil's advocate perched on his shoulder, nitpicking endlessly. When you need to debate constantly, you master the techniques.

‘Why do you care?’, it whispers, when Frost grasps his hand, beckoning him to sit on a bench with her. And the answer comes easy, as he smiles at her: 

‘I don’t. It’s something to do. And if I don’t care either way, and she clearly does, then shouldn’t I just put up with it? She’s the easiest person to read, shockingly so. But yeah. I don’t mind. She wants something to fix and help, and while there’s nothing wrong with me that can be fixed, the effort she puts in is admirable. She only fixates on helping people because she wants someone to treat her the same way. It’s probably just a way for her to project.’ 

‘Projecting is for people who can’t get what they want.’

He remembers the shock on her face when he offhandedly mentioned not sleeping in years during their wander about Laniss. She was easy to worry, and stubborn as a mule. It was either sit on the bench for a moment, or her trying to haul him into a bed. No amount of teasing comments of exactly that scenario would have deterred her, only prolonged the inevitable– stuttering the whole time as she dug her heels into the ground as she would try throw him under the sheets, and when she inevitably trips herself from this effort, making him feel ever so slightly bad for her, and relenting anyways.

 Sylph sighs, in faux annoyance at the hypothetical (a force of habit at this point). He fails to suppress a smirk. Frost’s too pushy, despite the shyness. Might as well make it easy on them both, and humor her.

‘Not that it was all bad’, he thinks, eyes catching rays of sun over the horizon in between slow blinks, the light leaving slowly, casting a warm purple hue over the lake. Her stubbornness was less of an annoyance, and oddly endearing. Inconveniencing? Perhaps. But her unrelenting kindness, even towards those that don’t deserve it… 

‘Her motivations are selfish. She likes the praise and attention of being a good person, but can’t perceive how others feel. Only how she wants them to feel, for her narrative. You’re no more a person to her than an idea,’ the critic hisses. Sylph feels his hand twitch, squeezing her hand in his, unable to stop himself from openly reacting to– what Frost perceives– is just them holding hands on the bench, watching a sunset. It wasn’t his intention, to react to what he thought of her; the critical part that analyses everything to death. But now that he’s reacted, he needs to perform.

“You feeling better, now that we’ve rested a moment?” he asks softly, turning to look at her. He can see the vapor evaporate from where she grips the armrest of the bench, the tension in her body. She’s dissatisfied, and seems a bit nervous when his eyes meet hers. Sensation is slightly dulled for both of them, but Frost naturally is cold. He could feel her sapping the heat from the bench, chill creeping around where the two sat. 

“It’s not quite what I had in mind... I figured you’d be more… I dunno. Just not. What I thought…” She mumbles, looking askance. Ice shards prickle and melt where their hands are clasped. ‘Oh she is so obvious…’

“No? Did you figure we’d do something more on the bench? We’re still in public, sunshine, how scandalous!” he mummers softly, watching her flinch at the accusation. Despite the teasing, he reaches over before she can object, gently prying her fingers off the armrest, leaving an indent of icicles where she gripped it. Without any force, but with a smooth, and rehearsed confidence, he coaxes her into reclining on the bench more, scooching himself on the bench into a half lean, and press his face into the crook of her neck. He shushes her, half heartedly when she stammers, shepherding her fingers through his hair. They’re cold as ice, but they gently work through his hair, avoiding anywhere that would hurt if touched (like his band and bolts), finding a rhythm with little guidance. 

She is easy to rile up, and it is amusing to watch her react. But, if he acts too teasing, she’ll give up. And that’s not what he wants, just yet. 

It’s all a balancing act. 

When he’s certain she won’t stop, he lets go, letting her do as she pleases, while he shifts one last time, getting as comfortable as one can on a bench cold enough to sting. Turns out, he can get shockingly comfortable, when it’s her. And she must be too. Despite his teasing, she seems to titter to herself about getting him to relax so much. ‘She’s so easy to please,’ his mind purrs. It’s an observation, not an insult, he decides. 

Frost takes care to be still as she can aside from the hand combing through his hair, and let him rest for the first time in centuries. And as he finally stops shifting and his breaths even out into long, quiet rhythm, she can at last hear the wind rustling gently through the leaves, instead of her own heartbeat.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Cold is bad for redstone, right? Frost thinks she vaguely remembers this— while experimenting with her above ground cold-storage. Not all redstone, of course, but ornate designs have problems. Metal traps condensation, which will thaw into water, and water doesn't mesh well with the delicate redstone dust wire trails inside of Dusk's body.

So why is he stripped of his overcoat, and only covered in a red ribbon?

Frost sputters for a solid minute when she opens the door to her lodge, hearing a knocking while she was working on the sauna. Dusk stands there, completely bare, save for a red ribbon and an orange tulip tucked under some layers and holding it close to his chest. His orange tulip. The one Frost gave him. Somehow, despite everything else missing, he maintained the flower.

"Who did this to you?!" she yelps, shaking herself out of her stupor, reaching out, but unsure what to do. Does she grab him and tug him inside so he doesn't get sick? Try to keep him warm while ushering politely? Forcing him by yanking his bindings seems cruel, so she instead moves to wrap an arm around him, tugging her sleeves to stretch out her sweater in an attempt to cover him while guiding him inside.

"Sylph," Comes the blunt answer.

"He forced you to strip and stand in the snow?!"

"I wasn't forced to stand in the snow. I was brought inside soon after removing my coat."

"Did you—" 'tell him you didn't want this?' That's a loaded question. Dusk won't answer questions worded like that, only says he doesn't feel... Choosing her words carefully, she continues: "Doesn't it impede your goals? Make it so you can't do your directive? Helping Ezra, and that..."

Ushered into the living room, Dusk can only stand as she wraps a throw blanket around him, keeping an opening at the side while she grabs shears. "Correct. My arms are under the ribbon. And extreme temperatures can effect my wiring."

"That's horrible! They should never have forced you into this, I'm so sorry!" Frost yelps, as she snips the ribbon with shears; Making sure to keep Dusk wrapped in enough blankets to maintain modesty, and only snip the side, starting from his shoulders down, allowing him to release himself from the rest of the ribbon when his arm is free. Dusk remains silent, even the faint buzz of his face projecting onto his tinted glass screen, or fizzling of redstone dust inside his chassis is still. She wonders if the cold already damaged something, quickly scurrying out of the room to fetch him another blanket.

Thankfully, the lodge is truly empty, except for them. Corven and Florin would have more blankets to raid from their rooms if she needed them, but hopefully the coverings from her bed would be enough.

When she returns to the living room, he reaches out for the blanket instead of just letting Frost cover him. A first for him, as he usually stands still as a statue. Mechanical digits take the blanket from her arms, and lay them folded over his lap in crisp edged rectangles.

"I was never forced to," He says matter of fact. "I cannot be forced into doing something I do not want."

"You do not want? Wouldn't that imply you have wants?"

"Negative."

"Then what...?"

"I do not want. I have directives. Protect, follow, help... I was given the directive to follow and protect you by Ezra."

"Well you don't have to do that, now that Ezra is back. That command ended already."

"No. I cannot be forced into doing something I do not want. I do not want to abandon this directive: Follow, and protect Frost. The task is no longer be assigned by my master, but I can perform this task."

But isn't it still a command? You don't want to do this, then you shouldn't have let Sylph do this to you, or feel like you need to follow me around because someone told you to. She want's to say all these things, she knows they're probably the truth—

"Completing directives is my purpose. I will not delete this task from my data bank. It is important information. I will leave if you ask. But should you allow it, I will stay by your side when I can. Help how I can. Be what I can for you."

Is it the delusion in her heart that makes her hear a strain on 'be'? Did she hallucinate the whole thing, talking to a powered off screen in ribbon shreds and ugly throw blankets?

She thinks so until she feels cold metal clasp lightly over her fingers.

Soft tipped digits press gently, as if testing the calipers behind the metal, grasping without being painful. Treated as gingerly as glass, like any wrong move and she would snatch her hand away from the machine on her couch. His grip is loose in case she does.

When she doesn't yank her wrist out of the gentle hold, Dusk waits silently, staring blankly at Frost with his glowing green screen illuminating the sight of his hand gripping hers as he snakes it out from beneath the blankets, keeping himself covered save for the hand holding.

Dusk feels his internal text cursors keysmash as the algorithm struggles with the lack of input. She isn't responding. Was this too forward?

Her hesitation markers prickle in Dusk's microphones, Frost clearing her throat as she lightly squeezes his calipers. "I want to stay by your side, too. I want to. It isn't an order, or a directive. To me it's just... A desire."

Testing his luck, Dusk lightly pulls her hand towards him, moving himself over on the couch so she can sit next to him if she wants. Followed by her folding herself up on the edge of the couch, next to him, and still holding his hand awkwardly in her new position. Redstone fizzles and pops softly inside his chassis, processing the thrill of a successful interaction. Perhaps not as successful as Icarus and Sylph made this 'Wear a ribbon and only a ribbon' process sound, but he's here, holding her hand, and hopefully this 'desire' of hers is something he can maintain. Something he can express, when the time comes.

xxxx

Later at the tavern, Frost opens the door for Dusk first, allowing the android to step out of the cold, snow already melting off his borrowed leather armor, from Frost's closet.

As the two walk up to the bar-stools, Sylph snickers from a corner: "Enjoy the mechanical bull? Was he coin operated?"

Blood rushes to her face, "We didn't do anything like that!"

His face falls, a mixture is disappointment and confusion. "What? Why not? You're so lame..."

Frost doesn't dignify that with a response, turning to look at Dusk, fiddling with her new gift.

Red ribbon scraps pinched together, singed black middle for the petals to join, and rounded out the edges to make petals. With surgical precision, Dusk frayed the innermost corners to create pistil and stamen, nearly contained in the tiny cup of fabric petals. He brandishes his orange tulip proudly against his monitor. The flower still soft, but covered in cuts and bruises in the delicate petals— even splashing regen potions on it won’t preserve it forever. But this fabric tulip can never wilt.