#scriptura-delirus

Groaning slightly, Felix forces his eyes to flutter open slightly. Immediately a round of dizziness rushes into his head and he slams them shut, willing the nausea to fade away.

What happened?

Mentally, Felix starts going through everything he remembers doing tonight. Nothing much, really – he sent dreams to the children, shone in the Sky, mediated a squabble between a few younger stars, ran away from Donghyuck’s antics, then… falling?

Wait, falling?

His eyes snap open to cold air brushing his skin and dusky green dotting his vision. A stark horror starts to fill his mind, overtaking the growing pain in his head.

I’ve fallen. I’m on Earth.

Panic rises in his chest but he forces it down, if only for a few moments. He must’ve hit his head when he fell. That would explain the throbbing pain. He probably blacked out for some time – he doesn’t know how long, but the Sky’s light is already turning gray in the east so it must be near dawn by now.

If he weren’t immortal, he would be dead right here, right now. Felix gulps at the realization, sitting up slowly. His limbs work, even though they ache a lot. But even that pain can’t compete with the feeling in his head. 

Something shiny glints at the corner of his vision and he turns to see bright ivory ichor on the grass. He slowly reaches a hand to the back of his head and feels a sticky, wet lump. When he lifts his fingers to his face, smears of ivory glitter in the faint daylight.

By the Mother Earth and her child the Sky, how did I get into this mess?

For how long he sits there, trying to get a grip on the situation, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to do – should he try to find people? Should he try to figure out a way back home on his own? Should he just lie down and wait and hope that the Sky will take him back tomorrow night? Why did he even fall in the first place?

A rustling of grass jerks him out of his spiraling thoughts and his head whips to the right. The throbbing intensifies and Felix watches in mute horror as someone emerges from the trees.

For several seconds that could be minutes or even hours, Felix stares at you and you stare at him. Terror adds to the growing pile of emotions in his head and he can’t even act on his instinct to flee because his body feels so tired and pained that it won’t let him move. The fact that you’re a human nearly sends him spiraling again but he forces his mind to cooperate.

Felix has seen many things from his vantage point in the Sky. War. Famine. Greed. Disease. Destruction. So many atrocities that humans have committed against each other and against those they deem different, inferior.

What would they do to a star?

Slightly more mobile, Felix scoots backward as best he can. His eyes remain locked on yours and he can feel himself trembling in your presence.

A being of the heavens, a child of the Sky and the night, trembling in front of a small human. The other stars would laugh if he shared this story with him.

He wonders if his powers still work on earth.

But for now, he doesn’t need to find out. For instead of pressing forward, you back away, holding up your hands in a gesture that does not scream danger to him. Curious eyes look at him with wonder and a little fear, but not enough to warrant harm. It is natural to fear the unknown, but thankfully for Felix, it looks as though you have not given in to the fear so much as to hurt him.

“I’m sorry for scaring you. My name is Y/N.” Your voice is soft, like the one he uses when comforting a startled moon rabbit. “I saw you were injured. Do you need help?”

Yes. Yes, he does. He needs a lot of help, but he’s not sure if he trusts you enough to rely on you.

You sit down, keeping a safe distance away from him, though Felix isn’t sure if the distance is for your safety or his. “You’re bleeding,” you say patiently. “I’m a maiden at a shrine not far away. If you want, I can take you there and clean your wound, then give you directions to wherever you’re headed.” A small, worried smile plays on your face. “The shrine is very deep in the forest, you know. You must be lost.”

Almost against his will, Felix nods. He is lost.

So very lost.

“May I take you to the shrine?” you ask again. “I can help you better there.”

Felix notices his muscles have untensed. He’s relaxed in your presence. He vaguely thinks he should be upping his guard, but the pain in his head has rebounded and the throbbing has turned sharper. He raises a hand to the wound again and his fingers comes back still covered in blood.

Ivory blood.

Hiding his hand is of no use but he does it anyway, heart dropping when he sees your widened eyes.

Dead silence reigns, broken only by the slight rustling of the leaves.

“Ivory blood?” you finally say, smiling tentatively. “It’s okay. At the shrine, we take care of many magical beings. We’ve had pixies, nymphs, a few fae, even a demon, once. Red blood, golden blood, black blood. I’ve never seen ivory before, but we care for all, so long as they show us no harm.”

The momentary panic cleared his head but now that he thinks you still mean no harm, Felix finds himself relaxing again. He nods sluggishly.

You come forward, touch slow and gentle against his bruised skin. You loop one of his arms around your neck, then support him with an arm around his. Step by slow step, you help him across the soft grass, deeper and deeper into the forest.

. . . . .

The bruises are easy to treat – a few dabs of cream, and you promise the boy in front of you that they will be good as new in a few days. The wound on his head takes more time. Ivory blood oozes from a nasty lump on the back of his head, and it takes a lot of water, a lot of flinching, and a lot of murmured apologies before it’s clean and bandaged.

“Done.” You finally give what you hope is a reassuring smile and begin putting away the bandages. “I need to go do my morning chores, but you can stay and lie on my bed awhile. I don’t think many people will come by here, but on the off chance that they do, they won’t hurt you. I promise. I’ll be back soon, probably around midday.”

He nods, luminous eyes staring at you with something unreadable in their depths. Even as you begin walking to your bedroom door, he doesn’t lie down on the bed. He’s still sitting as you close the door quietly behind you.

Your heart pounds as you rush down the hall, hoping the priestesses won’t scold you for being so late to your chores. They know your fascination with the forest, know the long walks you take every morning. Maybe you could just say you got lost in the sunrise? They wouldn’t hold that against you, would they?

Thankfully, no one comes by as you snatch a broom from the shed and begin sweeping the front of the shrine clear of dead leaves. Your stomach scolds you for missing breakfast but really, what’s a missed meal in the face of helping one of the lost?

Even if this lost boy is unlike any being you’ve ever seen before.

A lot of magical beings have strange-colored blood. That didn’t faze you. Fae, sprites, nymphs – golden blood runs through all their veins. Hell, you’ve seen black blood from the demon you helped that one time. Ivory isn’t so different.

But white hair that glows? Eyes as pale and silvery as the moon? You’ve never seen that before. As you finish the chores and begin walking back to your room, you puzzle over what the boy is.

He reminds you of something, but what is it?

Lost in thought, you bump into a heavy table full of small relics. But just as the curse leaves your mouth and pain starts blooming in your hip, a yelp from the sleeping quarters pushes all thought out of your mind and you run to your room.

You nearly smack into Priestess Jeon, the head priestess of fire, who’s standing outside of your room with a shocked look on her face. Peering anxiously into the room, you see the boy, looking scared but thankfully unharmed.

“Y/N.” She turns to you, not angrily, not fearfully, but with confusion. “Why is there a star inside your bedroom?”

It hits you.

A star.

Of course.

He is a star. It explains the glowing candlelit hair, the luminous eyes, the way he seems to exude the calm of night. That’s what he reminded you of – a night sky full of stars.

“A star,” you finally murmur. “I-I’m sorry, Priestess. I found him in the forest and he was hurt, but when I came back I was already late for chores and I saw no one around so I tried to patch him up as best I could and left him here to rest until I finished. I was just coming back to check on him.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the poor star’s gaze flicker from you to the priestess to the door and you feel terrible. He’s a star, one of the luminous children of the sky and night, being forced to face two impure human beings.

How did he even end up on earth in the first place?

Priestess Jeon steps forward slightly and your eyes rivet between her and the star sitting on your bed. She kneels down so that she is eye-level with the boy and beings to speak.

“Hello, little star.” You know the smile she has on her face – it was the one that persuaded you and your brother to stay, and you only hope it has the same calming effect on the star. “I am Jeon Jiyoung, priestess of fire, and one of the head priestesses of this shrine. We are a shrine, but we are also a home for the lost. We welcome all – nymphs, demons, fae. We have never hosted a star before, but it would be our greatest honor to do so. If you are lost, we will take care of you until you can return to the sky.”

“I don’t know how.”

Had it not been so full of anxious terror, the startlingly deep voice that the star speaks with could have belonged to a man. But all you can see is a scared boy in front of you. Cracked, soft, terrified, his words make your heart clench.

“Would our witch know anything about stars?” you ask. “She might have suggestions. Or maybe Changbin?”

“Perhaps.” The priestess stands. “Our witch is very skilled – she might know something. Changbin is a moon child, too. He might know or be able to ask someone how to return you to the sky,” she tells the boy. “But until then, little star, do not fear. The shrine is safe for you. Y/N –” she looks at you – “can I entrust you with caring for our star?”

“Me?” you squeak. “Aren’t there… shouldn’t one of the older maidens… I’m not –”

“Do not doubt your capabilities.” Priestess Jeon puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling gently. “Besides,” she whispers, “I think our star is a little afraid – naturally so. Since you found him, I think he will trust you the most. You have not given him any reason to distrust you, have you?”

Biting your lip, you shake your head. She turns to the star, satisfied. “Is this all right with you?” she asks him.

His pale eyes bore into yours, as though he’s seeing right through your soul. Trapped beneath his gaze, you cannot move until he nods slowly. “Yes.”

“Then it is settled.” The priestess claps her hands. “Y/N, you are excused from the rest of today’s chores. Take our star to the healing ward and check him for any more extensive injuries. He may stay there until he can return home.”

. . . . .

Felix lies awake for most of that first night in the healing ward. He doesn’t like it there. It’s too clean, too silent. He would have preferred sleeping in your room and he wishes the priestess had suggested it, but she didn’t and his shyness prevented him from asking.

Faint sunlight shining through the windows tugs him out of a light sleep the next morning. You come in just as he’s swinging his legs out of the bed.

“Good morn – oh.” You cover your eyes. “I’ll just… wait outside until you… put on a shirt?”

Confused, Felix looks down. Then he remembers that humans have strange rules about covering up their skin in the presence of others. “Sorry,” he mumbles, hastily fumbling for the shirt he was given yesterday.

After a light breakfast – the milk and the bread taste good, but not so much the sour, crunchy thing you say is kimchi – you take him on a walk in the woods to meet the witch.

“I don’t know exactly why she came here,” you explain on the way there. “She just showed up one day, pregnant, and asked for shelter. I think only Priestess Jeon knows truly what happened to her.”

Felix doesn’t know much about witches, but the one he meets is kind. She has a child, a young boy who has her hair and nose and eyes and who quickly takes a shine to Felix. His skin is a little paler than hers, though, and their smiles aren’t quite the same. Maybe those are traits from his father.

“I’ll be honest with you – I don’t know exactly how to return you to the sky.” The witch closes her book and Felix looks up from the cooing little boy you’re holding in your lap. Little fists grab onto Felix’s pants and he almost yelps in surprise, but the boy’s chubby cheeks and laughing eyes render him silent and he deals with it, even though it feels strange. You laugh a little, adoring gaze focused on the child, and Felix pauses at the love he sees within your face.

The witch holds out her hands to her child, who immediately (thankfully) abandons your lap and Felix’s ragged pants to enter her arms. “I do think there is a library in the moon palace where there might be more books on the stars, however. I’ll ask Changbin to help me find some. Until then, I will give you a potion that will help you adjust to life on earth. It will change your sleeping pattern, as well as prevent serious sunburns. I’ll also ask Changbin for one of his moonflowers – I think the moon’s magic will help keep your body stable.”

Felix nods, a little overwhelmed by the information and disappointed that the witch doesn’t know how to return him home, but thankful nonetheless. “Thank you,” he says, dipping his head in respect.

“Thank you,” you echo, standing up from the floor. “Do you know when Changbin will be around?”

“Not exactly,” she replies, detaching her child’s hands from her hair and settling him firmly on her lap, “but he’ll come soon. It’s almost that time of the year, you know.”

A dark silence falls over the small house, something you and the witch understand but that Felix doesn’t. Clearly something bad happened to this Changbin, and he isn’t exactly sure he wants to know what.

Then the child starts babbling and the spell of silence is broken as the witch focuses her attention on him and you laugh at his antics. “Thank you, again,” you say, looking fondly at the small family. “If there is anything you ever need from the shrine, simply ask. You do so much for us.”

A faraway look comes into the witch’s face. Felix wonders what she’s thinking of. “It’s no problem.” She smiles warmly, but with a tinge of melancholy that a less perceptive person might not notice. “Oh, wait.” Hefting her son onto her shoulder, she stands. “Would you give me one of your hairs? I will need it for the potion.”

Bemused, Felix reaches up a hand and plucks out a strand of hair.

“I know it’s strange.” The witch takes it with an embarrassed smile. “But this is a specialized potion, specific for just you, and these potions often need something from the person they will be given to. It’s to ensure that it will be effective on you.” She smirks. “Blood is often temperamental, so I don’t use it unless I have to. And I don’t feel like you would want to drink what used to be one of your nails or a sliver of your skin.”

Felix makes a face. He would not.

“I suppose we should take our leave now.” You bow slightly and Felix scrambles to do the same. “Thank you so much again.”

“Thank you,” Felix echoes, hoping his expression conveys the depth of his gratitude.

“The pleasure is mine.” The witch smiles, patting her son on the back. “I’ll bring over the potion sometime tomorrow.”

Then the boy starts crying, so you quickly leave the hut.

. . . . .

“I need to complete my chores,” you tell the star as you two enter the shrine. “Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay in the healing ward until I finish?”

A slight grimace crosses the star’s ethereal face when he hears your second option. You’re not surprised by his choice to come with you, but you are surprised by his offer of help.

“It’s awkward just standing here, watching you work,” he mumbles shyly. “If I’m staying here for some time, I should at least learn to help out.”

So you fetch him a broom and teach him to sweep, then attempt to teach him to cook. He’s surprisingly good at sweeping – he even looks graceful while doing it, which doesn’t make sense at all – but he’s a terrible cook. You have a hard time stifling your simultaneous laughter and yelps of fear when he nearly cuts off a finger and sends carrot peels flying all over the floor.

In the end, you send him back to the healing ward with a plate of food and a promise to join him after you’ve finished serving the other maidens and priestesses. But by the time you enter the ward, he hasn’t even begun eating yet.

“Are you not hungry?” you ask, sitting on the bed next to him. “We can wait to eat until later, it’s not a problem.”

The blush that settles across his freckled cheeks is strangely adorable. “Um… no.” He holds up his chopsticks. “How do you…?”

“Oh.” You laugh. “It’s not hard. Let me show you.”

So the star learns to use chopsticks as quickly as he learns to use the broom – so not long at all – and within minutes, he’s carefully putting food into his mouth. Silence falls as you fill your stomachs.

“Do you want to go outside?” you finally ask, putting your plate on the floor. Then you look more closely at his face and see pale pink beginning to burn on his skin. “Wait, are you already burning?” You touch his face, alarmed.

He shrugs, leaning back slightly. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Is… that what the pain is? Burning?”

“You felt pain?” you half-screech. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs again. “I thought it was normal?”

You sigh. “Have you ever been out during the day?”

The nonplussed look he gives you is enough of an indication of how dumb that question was. “I’m a star,” he says by way of reply.

“Sor-ry.” You roll your eyes, embarrassed. “Sunburns are common if you stay outside in the sun too long – the heat literally burns your skin. But normally you don’t get burns from walking under the forest canopy. I guess your skin is just extremely sensitive.” You rummage around a nearby drawer, pulling out a bottle of aloe. “Can I put this on you? It’ll soothe the pain.”

Swallowing, the star nods assent. You sit next to him and begin applying the gel to his skin.

“How do you have freckles if you don’t see the light of day?” you mumble, brushing gel over some of the tiny dots on his face. They don’t really look like freckles – they seem to have a pattern, and they’re a little darker – but that’s the best word you have for them.

“Freckles?”

There it is again – that lost, confused expression that he had while holding the chopsticks. He doesn’t know what freckles are.

“Uh, freckles.” You wave your hands somewhere near his cheeks. “The… dots? The dots on your face?”

His mouth forms a little ‘o’ as he realizes.

“Yeah.” You drop your hands. “People are either born with them or get them from the sun. Most of us get them from staying outside too long, it’s not a commonly-born trait.”

“I didn’t get them from the sun,” he mumbles. “They’re… the constellation I’m part of.”

Silence falls again as you put away the aloe. “By the way,” you finally say, trying to start conversation, “may I know your name? I don’t think you ever said anything…”

The star swallows. “I’m sorry. In the sky, we don’t usually give our names to anyone but ourselves. Because to give our name to someone like a fae or another trickster race would be disastrous.” He smiles a little. “You’re not a fae and you’ve been kind, but I don’t think I can give you my name just yet.”

You give him a small smile with the last dab of aloe. “Don’t worry. I know the weight of a name.” Happy memories bring a smile to your face. “We had a fae here once – his love brought him in after he fell out of a tree, trying to impress her.” You roll your eyes. “The priestesses had to give up their names and all of the maidens’, too, to know the fae’s and his lover’s. It was worth it, though.” You close the drawer, smiling at him. “The fae and his love are some of our favorite and most frequent visitors now.”

“A fae,” the star murmurs. “You have a lot of strange visitors.”

“We do, but it makes life interesting.” You lean forward. “Did I tell you about the demon?”

He shakes his head slightly. “You mentioned it, but didn’t go into detail.”

“Well, let me tell you, he had the wildest blood pressure.”

And so story after story turns afternoon into evening, the light outside the window dimming until you have to light a candle and one of the maidens comes in with food for you too. Guilt-stricken, you apologize for not cooking, but Jiae simply waves you off, reminding you that your duty is with the star and a few missed chores are nothing. Felix doesn’t speak much, but his features begin to relax as the hours tick by and that’s all that matters, really.

The candle has almost burnt out by the time you decide you should leave. “I think it’s time to sleep.” You can only just see the faint outline of his face in the flickering candlelight, but his hair almost glows in the dark while his silvery eyes still bore into yours. “I’ll go now.”

Fear and another indecipherable emotion flash across the luminous eyes as you stand and you stop. “Do you need anything?”

The star swallows hard. “I…” He takes a deep breath. “It’ll sound stupid.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard stupider things. After all, I grew up with my brother.”

A small smile twitches at the star’s lips, but the uncertainty remains on his face. Patiently, you wait, and finally, he speaks.

“I don’t like being alone here,” he admits almost shamefully. “Could I stay somewhere where there are more people?”

That throws you for a loop. Where could he stay? In someone’s room? Maybe with Jeongin or some of the other messengers? But their quarters are all the way across the shrine grounds…

“You could stay with me?” you offer. “Do you want to go to my room or stay in here?”

A look of relief passes over the star’s face. “… Your room? If that’s alright.”

Hopefully the priestesses won’t scold you for this.

“Of course. Come on.” You take him to wash up first, then lead him to your room. He follows behind you so soundlessly that you look back sometimes, half-expecting him to have vanished. He’s always there, though.

“Take the bed,” you order, spreading out a blanket on the ground for yourself. Felix immediately begins to protest, but you hold up a hand. “You are the guest, and you are injured. Take the bed. Don’t argue.”

He takes the bed.

Satisfied, you lie down on the floor, pulling the blanket around you. Then another one drops on top of it.

“It’s too warm,” the star’s voice rumbles. His silvery eyes, peeking over the side of the bed, dare you to argue.

You sigh but smile. “If you say so.”

And so you fall asleep.

. . . . .

Several weeks pass, and Felix becomes more comfortable with the shrine. Trust is something hard to give and easy to take back, and he vacillates between the two as he explores the world little by little. You seem understanding, though, never showing impatience or annoyance with his periodic silences. That comforts him.

Life goes on. He settles into a routine, and as the days go by, Felix starts taking your presence as a comfort, rather than something to be viewed with suspicion. A month later, he feels comfortable enough to tell you his name.

“Felix,” you mumble. His name catches on your tongue, but he likes the way it sounds from your lips.

A flash of doubt courses through his body. “Please don’t give it out so easily.” Felix’s eyes beseech you. “I must return to the Sky.”

“I won’t.” You squeeze his hand gently. “I promise.”

The witch comes by with Felix’s potion after the first week and he can finally go outside. The other maidens and priestesses make him nervous at first, so you only take him deep into the woods to sit in silence.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. At first, the silences are awkward, but they later turn warm. Comfortable. You bring a pad of paper and sketch things when it becomes quiet. Felix likes to watch you draw, fingers moving smoothly along the pages and etching flowers and grasses and trees onto the paper. The silences are almost as pleasant as talking.

But when you talk, Felix is reminded by how nice your voice is. Soothing, sweet, kind. It washes over him in gentle waves and calms him like the starshine used to. Now, he’s too far away from the Sky to feel the starshine as much as he used to, but it’s okay. Your voice and your stories are good substitutes. They help him feel at peace.

One day, you bring a different book with you on the walk into the forest. It’s not your rough sketchbook. This book has tattered pages and a heavier cover embossed with faded golden characters. You stop him at the edge of a sparkling pond, right under a large willow tree that drapes over the water.

“What’s that?” Felix asks, pointing at your book. He can’t read the words on it.

“It’s a book of stories,” you reply, opening it up. “Since I’m running out of stories to tell you about the shrine, I thought I could read you some instead.”

You read to him for hours, stopping only to pass over some bread you packed for lunch, and Felix loses himself in your voice and the stories you tell. Witches, dragons, pirates, brave princes and princesses – he revels in every tale.

Being the star of everlasting childhood, he always knew humans had the ability to come up with these fantastic stories. But too many lose that ability as they grow older and their innocence slips away. It’s been a long time since Felix has had a reminder that people are still born under his star, born with the gift to remain a child despite their age.

The Sky has darkened by the time you close the book. Felix pouts a little when you say it’s time to go, but the firm expression on your face convinces him to stand.

“The forest isn’t safe at night,” you explain on the way back. “Daylight may keep the dangers away, but once the cloak of night falls, the sprites like to come out to play. Han isn’t here and I think Chan had to visit another forest, so we have no guarantee of safety right now. If you’re lucky, the sprites will leave you alone, but you’re a star. That’s strange enough. Better safe than sorry.”

“Who are Han and Chan?” The names are unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Chan is the guardian of this forest, and Han is the fae I told you about.” You grab Felix’s hand to pull him around a large tree root. Your skin is rough, but it feels so right against his. “Han is not the fae’s real name. Chan is, though. He’s protected by the magic that binds him here, so I can tell you his name. Han isn’t as safe.”

Felix likes your touch. Your hand may not be soft and white like a star’s, but it’s comforting and gentle in its smooth roughness and he trusts it.

Your voice pulls him back to reality. “But anyway, if you’re so put out by story time getting cut off,” you laugh, “I can teach you to read, and we can try to read together tomorrow. All right?”

Blushing slightly, Felix nods. “All right.”

. . . . .

Changbin finally arrives several weeks later, eyes hollow and reddened. They regain a little of their normal sparkle when you wrap him in a large hug, burying your head in his neck. His expression turns to one of wonder, then respect as he meets your star for the first time.

Felix is too starstruck at the sight of a moon child to say much, only wordlessly handing over a strand of hair for the witch and taking the moonflower necklace Changbin hands him. You tease him about his pink cheeks after the moon child closes the door.

“I’ve just never met a moon child before,” Felix grumbles. “He’s the son of the goddess I serve!”

Rolling your eyes, you push him out of the room to get ready for bed. The two of you settle down in comfortable silence after you blow out the last remaining candle, and you’re on the cusp of sleep when Felix mumbles something.

“Hmm?” you mumble.

“He didn’t look lost,” Felix whispers to the dark. “Changbin, I mean.”

Confusion shakes you awake. “Lost?”

“Priestess Jeon said this shrine was a home for the lost.” Felix rolls over in the bed. “I… just thought he didn’t look very lost. He looked quite sure of who he was. Where he was.”

Sympathy and sadness fill your heart, and your mouth twists into a small frown. “Changbin found this shrine after he lost someone very precious to him.” Your throat closes up, just remembering his story. “She was his world, for a while. When he lost her, he lost a part of himself. That’s when he found his way here.”

Contemplative silence fills the room.

“When were you lost?”

Under the bright rays of the sun, you don’t think you would be able to tell Felix your story. Allowing him to see the terror and joy and desolation of the memories on your face would make you feel far too vulnerable in the daylight. However, the darkness of night cloaks your expression and comforts you.

So you tell Felix of your manipulative and abusive father, leaving out the worst details but keeping enough that he realizes the gravity of your situation. You talk about your mother, the woman who tried to shield you and your brother from the worst of it but ultimately succumbed to sadness, illness, and injury.

“We left on a particularly bad day,” you murmur. The night hides your face, but it feels like Felix can still see the tear making its way down your face. “It was night, and our father had just gone to sleep. Jeongin and I just ran for it. We couldn’t stay any longer.”

Half-starved, you eventually found the shrine. The priestesses took you in, fed you, and allowed you to stay.

“Jeongin likes being a messenger. I like being a maiden.” You blink the tears away in favor of a smile. “We’re happy. I think I’d be happy here for the rest of my life.”

“What about Jeongin?” Felix asks.

Your smile turns wry. “He likes being a messenger. He gets to travel a lot. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s found a special someone already.”

“What?” Felix sits bolt upright, his silhouette dark against the window full of stars. “Who?”

You snicker. “I’m not sure,” you reply truthfully. “But I think – I think! I’m not sure – she’s the nymph in our wishing well.”

Felix falls back onto the bed with a soft whumph. “I’m so going to tease him tomorrow.”

“You’re terrible.” You sit up in the darkness, fixing him with a mock glare that he can’t see. It’s teasing, though – if there’s anything you’ve learned about your star from the past few months, it’s that he has a sense of humor. “What happened to being so solemn and sober in the beginning, huh?”

He rolls over. “Tch. I’m the star of everlasting childhood. I can be however I want.”

“… Everlasting childhood?”

A sad smile settles on Felix’s face. “Yes.”

“Isn’t that just immortality?”

“Not quite.” His silver eyes shimmer into yours. “You can age, but still be a child forever.”

You lie back down. All you say is, “I see.”

An idea begins brewing in the back of your mind. All this time, you’ve been choosing random stories to read Felix from the shelves of the shrine’s small library, but now you think you know one that he’ll enjoy for sure.

It’s one of your favorites, after all.

. . . . .

The next day, you’re buzzing with excitement, to the point that you drag Felix away from his breakfast to the tiny library in the shrine. When he starts complaining that you took him away from food for a dusty book, you just laugh. “I think you’ll like this one,” you grin.

That afternoon, after chores, you read to him the tale of Peter Pan under a shady tree, warm sunlight dappling through its leaves. It’s a children’s story, full of mermaids and pirates and young boys fighting, and it’s a little overwrought, but even so, Felix falls in love with it. He falls in love with John and Michael and their exploits with the Lost Boys. He falls in love with Peter Pan and his rivalry with Captain Hook. But most of all, he falls in love with Wendy Darling, the girl who trusted in her innocence and ability to fly.

Wendy reminds him of you, Felix thinks. Mother-like girls, caring for the lost souls around them without a thought for themselves. With a pang, he thinks of all that you’ve done for him during his time on Mother Earth.

He can see why you thought he would like the story, as the star of everlasting childhood, the star of those who stay young at heart for their lives. Peter stayed young forever, literally. But Wendy’s spirit was passed down through the generations of girls after her.

There’s one line he loves, one line that doesn’t have too much real meaning (they’re just directions, after all), but that resounds deeply within him, for some reason. It’s when Peter tells Wendy where Neverland is.

“Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.”

It’s childish, really. A bit stupid. Where is the first star to the right? How can one figure out the second star Peter speaks of? And depending on when you start out, how can the distance ‘straight on till morning’ be the same for all those who journey there?

But it’s the simplicity of thought that rings with Felix. The pure, innocent certainty of Peter Pan that he will find Neverland again and again, based on such minimal direction.

It makes dreams seem so direct, so simple, so real.

It gives him the hope that he’ll be able to return to his home in the Sky.

. . . . .

It’s a peaceful day when things begin to fall apart.

Felix is reading, his deep voice stumbling and uncertain and beautiful as he works his way through Peter Pan on his own. You’re taking advantage of the time to sketch, lulled by the errant rhythm of the star’s halting words. You haven’t picked up your sketchbook in some time, what with helping Felix adjust and all, but now that he’s picked up a penchant for reading, it’s nice to go back to one of your older hobbies.

Mina is the one who finds the two of you in the clearing, sun shining warmly through the trees. You look up, ready to greet her, but a frown slides over your face when you see her panicked expression. “Mina?” You stand. Felix stops reading. “Is something wrong?”

“Our witch,” she says quickly. “She wants to speak with you.”

It’s with a racing heart that you enter the shrine and see the witch waiting for you there. “Y/N,” she greets, kindly but hurriedly. There’s something terrified in her eyes – however, they’re steel. Whatever she’s decided she’s going to do, she’s set herself on it. “I’m leaving for the war.”

“War?” Felix echoes, eyebrows furrowed.

“There is a battle in the west,” the witch explains. “I’m not going to fight. I’m going as a medic. I’m letting you know now because I know the star depends on my potion, so before I leave, I’ll need several more hairs to lay in a supply. Changbin has the instructions to make more, if I don’t come back in time.”

Everything’s happening too fast. Just moments ago, you were sitting in a grassy clearing without a care in the world. Now you’re being told that one of your favorite people is leaving for a fight you can’t even see.

There’s no convincing her otherwise, though. You’ve seen the set in the witch’s eyes before. It was there when she arrived at the shrine, pregnant and on the brink of exhaustion. It was there when she gave birth.

You don’t know why this war means so much to her, but that’s not for you to know unless she explains. So you only nod. “I wish you luck.”

Felix echoes the sentiment, but as the two of you dress for bed, his expression remains pale and uncertain. You ask him if something’s wrong.

“I’m… I’m just wondering if I’ll ever go home,” Felix whispers.

With that short sentence, something in your heart breaks. You sit on the bed next to him. “I’m going to give you a hug,” you state.

Felix nods.

You squeeze him between your arms, patting his head until it falls limply onto your shoulder. His shoulders shake a little. “We’re going to get you back,” you whisper, stroking his hair. “If you don’t believe anything else, just believe this. You will go home.”

Felix sniffles, though the tears aren’t coming yet. “I know it’s selfish, but… why is she leaving?” he mumbles. “I just want her to stay and just work on a cure. I know she can’t, but…”

A sigh leaves your lips. “Our witch works in strange ways,” you say heavily. “She has a lot of secrets. She doesn’t say a lot about herself. But she does have a large heart. One thing I can say is that she wouldn’t have left you if the war wasn’t so important to her. She cares about you. She cares about everyone she helps. It would have been a very difficult choice for her to leave.”

The tears start falling, soaking into your shoulder. You huff a small breath, holding your star tighter. “Trust in her and trust in me. Or, if you can’t, trust in Changbin. He’s a moon child. He knows things that we don’t, and he isn’t completely through searching his mother’s library. We can find a way.” You lift Felix’s head out of your shoulder, making him look you in the eyes. “We always do.”

(You fall asleep in the bed that night, arms wrapped tightly around Felix’s small body. When you wake up, he’s turned around, one arm draped over your shoulders, breaths puffing softly onto your face. Tear tracks stain his cheeks.

You hold him until he wakes.)

. . . . .

The witch leaves quickly, dropping off her child at the shrine the next day with Felix’s supply of potion. As he watches her disappear into the forest, Felix can’t help feeling like the last thread of hope he had is about to snap.

He asks if you can stay at the shrine that day. Reading by the pond is relaxing, but he needs something to keep his mind from drifting. He needs chores, messages, something to do that’ll occupy himself.

“Of course.” You smile, squeezing his hand in the gentle way that reassures Felix’s trust in you. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to actually cook. None of the disasters from before,” you tease.

Felix feels his face grow hot with embarrassment. He smiles, though, in the wake of your sparkling eyes.

He’s still terrible in the kitchen. Bowls clatter to the ground, knives draw cuts on his pale fingers, and more than once you have to rescue a pot from charring itself on the stove. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. The other maidens only laugh and smile, kindly helping him wrap up his fingers, finish cutting the carrots, and pick up the bowls scattered on the floor. They eat his bland food without complaint, telling him he’ll do better next time.

And for all those hours in the kitchen, you don’t leave his side. Not once.

So the days in the forest turn to days in the shrine, with Felix finding every little thing he can do in order to keep his mind away from the Sky. When he feels himself wavering, feels himself becoming jaded or hopeless or depressed, you nudge his side or hold his hand or call his name, and he comes back. He feels hope.

(You told him, once, to trust in you and the witch to get him home. And if he couldn’t, he could trust in Changbin.

You don’t know that he would trust you over the other two combined.)

The stories don’t stop, of course. He trades happy memories with you while sweeping the floors, tending the gardens, and washing the clothes. Every night, you read to him from another book, or you sketch by candlelight as he works his way through another few pages of Peter Pan on his own.

Your presence comforts him, wraps him in warmth that reminds him of starshine streaming down his skin. Felix knows that when (if) he leaves, you will be the one he misses the most.

Still, he has to go. He has to return to his home, the Sky. Mother Earth may be kind, but she isn’t his home. He isn’t meant to be here. It’s unnatural, his new sleeping pattern, the way his skin has slowly darkened over time. And though he revels in the sunlight, loves its caressing warmth against his bare arms, it isn’t meant for him.

The sun is meant for Mother Earth. The moon is meant for his Sky. The sun and its warmth weren’t made for his pale skin and silver eyes.

Which is why when Changbin returns, pressing a heavy, ripped book into his hands, Felix feels his heart soar and drop at the same time. He stares at the tome, unable to comprehend its weight between his fingers.

“There’s a spell inside that will help a fallen star,” he says, “one who has fallen due to a mistake of the universe, not one who fell of their own misdoings.” Changbin looks Felix steadily in the eye, dark eyes boring into silver. “This was not you?”

Felix racks his mind for anything that could have caused him to fall. He comes up with nothing. “No,” he answers.

The moon child nods. “There isn’t much to it. We need your blood. There are herbs in the witch’s home that she has given me access to, and we can get the rest from the garden here at the shrine.” Changbin’s gaze slides to you. “We also need the blood of one who cares for him. One who will be willing to sacrifice a day of their life for his return.”

It’s clear who he thinks that person should be.

A lump grows in Felix’s throat. It all rests on you. He wants badly to say something, to ask you if you will, but he can’t. You’ve done so much for him already.

He doesn’t have a right to convince you to do more.

Silence seems to stretch for an eternity as your gaze shifts between the moon child and the star. Felix doesn’t know what you’re thinking – your face, for once, is unreadable.

Then you nod. “I can do it.” You swallow hard, like something hurts, and say it again. “I’ll do it.”

Felix doesn’t miss the glance Changbin sends you, full of something he doesn’t understand. A prickle of uncertainty grows in his heart, but then the moon child is nodding, moving on to something else. “The spell can only be cast on the sixth full moon of the year,” he says.

Next to him, you make a small noise of surprise. Felix feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

The second full moon has just passed. There are only four left to go.

On one hand, he’s soaring above the clouds in excitement, elated that he can return home so soon. On the other, his heart is dropping like a stone, upset that he has to leave so quickly.

“Okay,” you finally say, breaking the silence. “That’s good.” You turn to him, a smile on your face. “You’ll be home soon.”

Your smile is genuine. It says so much, and Felix knows you truly are happy for him. But after all these months of standing by your side, he can see the underlying emotions conflicting beneath the surface of that smile.

“Yeah,” Felix breathes, unsure what else to say. “Home.”

His home, the Sky.

. . . . .

It’s easy to avoid Felix for the next day. You disappear into the forest with Changbin, citing the excuse of practicing the spell that you have to cast to bring him home. It’ll be boring, you say. He should just stay back at the shrine and maybe talk with Jeongin. You’ll figure it out.

As you walk to Changbin’s small home, he gives you a sidelong glance. You stubbornly don’t return it because if you do, he’ll see the truth lurking in your eyes.

And the truth is, you don’t want Felix to go.

You are happy for him, you truly are. When Changbin brought in the book, seeing that light flicker on in Felix’s eyes gave you so much joy in that moment that you almost felt like crying in happiness.

Then you realized that if he was going home, he was going to leave the shrine.

You still wanted to cry, but for a very different reason.

It’s stupid, you know that. Obviously, if Felix was to return to the sky, he would have to leave you behind. Just as stars don’t belong on earth, humans don’t belong in the sky. You don’t even think you’d want to live in the heavens, at least not forever.

But for the past months, you’ve managed to push that thought to the back of your mind. Felix is here, you told yourself. He’s here now, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

Clearly, it isn’t.

Everything happened so fast. It was like whiplash. One day, the witch was leaving and Felix was crying in your arms over the thought of never returning to the sky. The next, Changbin had found the book and there was a way to send your star home.

It happened too fast.

You’re being selfish, you know. Even though the sun is kind and the Earth welcomes him, this isn’t his home. He belongs in the sky, with the moon and the sun and the darkness of night. He doesn’t belong to the tainted impurity of the Earth.

And yet your heart doesn’t want him to leave.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Changbin pokes you with the book when you zone out for umpteenth time. With a jolt, you come back to the present, staring blankly at the sheet of paper in front of you. Written on it in Changbin’s neat scrawl is the phonetic translation of the symbols in the book.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “Sorry. I’m… tired.”

It’s a lie if you’ve ever heard one, and the moon child knows it too. He puts the tome down and looks at you expectantly.

“What?” you snap, feeling cornered.

There are times when it’s hard to remember how old Changbin is, times when he seems more like a friend your age than an ages-old son of the moon. Right now, he’s a mix of the two, posture mimicking a slouching teenage boy, but eyes piercing with wisdom.

“Something’s on your mind,” he states simply. “And I think it has something to do with the star.”

Felix. The star. Your star.

Yes, it has very much to do with him.

The words slip out. “I don’t want him to go.”

A lump grows in your throat after you speak those simple words, staring at Changbin as though he holds the answers to your dilemma. But you already know the answer, the only correct answer – you must let your star go.

The problem is, you don’t want to.

The moon child brings you close after that, books and translations forgotten in favor of soothing hugs and quiet tears. He doesn’t tell you to do anything, doesn’t tell you to talk to Felix or the priestesses or even to avoid them. He just embraces you in silence with hands that hold the wisdom of an eternity.

You cite a headache as your excuse to go to bed early that night, curling up in your blankets on the floor and burying your head in the pillow. It takes some time, but you’re starting to drift off just as the door slowly creaks open and Felix pokes his head in the room. Immediately, you pretend to be asleep.

Mistake.

The star pads in with quiet feet, then picks you up with gentle arms and settles you on the bed. You can’t even protest or he’ll know you’re awake, so you lie in smoldering silence as he arranges the blankets over you.

He falls asleep on the floor while memories of his gentleness squeeze tears from your eyes.

. . . . .

Felix knows you’re avoiding him. There’s no doubt about it – no matter how much you claim you need to practice the ritual with Changbin, there are only so many times that excuse can hold merit. And anyway, there’s no reason he can’t be there too.

He thinks he knows why. It might have something to do with the fact that when he returns to the Sky, he will leave the Earth behind. Felix isn’t so oblivious as to believe his departure will leave no impression on you.

He isn’t so oblivious as to believe it’ll leave no impression on him, either.

The Sky is his home. There will never be any doubt of that. But he’s come to love the Mother Earth too, much more than he used to. He’s come to love her greenery, her creatures, the gentleness and care she showers her inhabitants with. He’s come to love the shrine, the priestesses, the maidens, the messengers.

And he’s come to love you.

If he stayed longer, Felix thinks, he would want to explore this tentative love, this blossom of affection in his chest. If he stayed longer, he might be disappointed, but he wouldn’t be sad. At least, not all the time.

The stars lure him in, though. Sometimes, he pretends to sleep, but he’s just staring out the small window in your room at the darkened sky studded with lights. His friends, his family. His home.

But he won’t go home without making peace with you first.

It’s hard to corner you when you don’t want to be caught, Felix finds. You disappear easily, quietly slipping between trees or into unknown rooms of the shrine. Even when you’re in plain sight, you’re busy – sweeping, cooking, gardening.

Then it rains.

Felix doesn’t normally care for the rain. It’s cold and wet, heavy and about as far from the gentle lightness of starshine as it can get. But the clouds heeded his prayers, perhaps, because the rain gives him the chance he needs to finally get you to talk.

You’re glancing out the window when he walks over, as though hoping a miracle will stop the pouring rain. When you notice him, your eyes turn slightly panicked, and you move as though to leave through the door.

The words escape him before he can hold them back. “Please stop avoiding me.”

You freeze.

For several moments, his broken, soft voice hangs in the silence, expanding to fill the room and thickening until he thinks he’s suffocating under the muffling words.

Then you drop your head. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice thick. “Let’s go to my room.”

. . .

Silence falls again when the two of you are seated on the small bed. You look smaller than ever, hunched over slightly, hands entangling themselves in the sheets. Felix wants to gather you up in a hug, the way you always did with him, but restrains himself. It isn’t the best time.

“Why were you avoiding me?” he asks quietly, just to dissolve some of the tension. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but he needs to hear it from you anyway.

Your fingers curl tighter into the blanket. “You’re leaving,” you mumble. “I just…”

The silence hangs heavily once more.

“I want you to go home,” you finally say, looking up. The sky outside the window is still dark gray, pouring rain, but you look at it like there’s something beyond the clouds that only you can see. “But I don’t want you to leave. Does that… does that make sense?”

Felix nods, once, twice. “Yes,” he manages. “Yes, it does.”

“I needed time to get my thoughts in order,” you continue, turning your gaze back to him. “I thought avoiding you might be the best way for a bit. But I’m a coward, I guess. I just kept trying to hide, even after I knew what I thought.”

“Do you still need more time?” Felix prods softly. “It’s fine. We have…”

He stops himself. He was about to say you two had all the time in the world.

You don’t. You only have around two months.

“No, it’s okay.” You shake your head. “I know… I know myself now.” Sad eyes stare into silver. “What about you?”

Felix knows his answer. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and if he could just get rid of the lump in his throat, he’d say it. Rain pounds on the window, mimicking the dull throb of the thoughts in his mind. He opens his mouth with difficulty.

“I don’t want to leave Earth,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Your fingers loosen slightly on the sheets, then clench them even more tightly.

“But I have to return home.” Felix breaks his gaze, his head lowering. “I don’t… I don’t belong here, Y/N. I have to go home. I want to go home.”

Belatedly, he realizes how childlike he sounds. He sounds like a newborn star, newly formed of the moon and the sky, scared and terrified of the expanse of space in front of him. Shame crawls up his pale cheeks.

Then he feels a tender warmth around his shoulders. The thin mattress dips as you shift, wrapping your arms around his body – since when was he trembling? – and bury your head into his neck.

“You will go home,” you mumble into his skin. “You will go home. I promise.”

“I wish you could come with me,” he chokes out. “But you wouldn’t, even if you could, would you?”

The sigh you heave is all the answer he needs. “No,” you murmur, pulling back gently. “I wouldn’t.”

There are no apologies. No “sorry” for your decision, no “sorry” for his. There’s no blame here. Just facts, ways of life, and decisions.

A stray strand of hair falls into your face. Felix pushes it back gently. “You have too much here to give up for me.” He smiles sadly, his hand falling to cup your cheek. “As I have too much in the Sky to give up for Earth.”

You nod slightly, fingers rising to touch the hand on your cheek. Felix basks in the gentle warmth of your roughened skin.

He doesn’t know who leans in first, exactly. The memory is slightly hazy. But when his mind clears, he’s pressing his lips to yours gently, warmly, sadly. Your fingers intertwine, falling to your laps, and Felix tries to memorize the feeling. To memorize the way your hand fits into his, the way your lips feel so connected to his.

Two months. He has two months left before he must go.

Two months left before he leaves this warmth behind.

. . . . .

You pass the days with as much levity as possible. You don’t speak of leaving. Neither does Felix. Every day, the two of you work together on your chores, traipse into the forest, sit together in the sunshine. At night, when darkness falls, you crawl into bed together and hold each other until the sun rises.

Morning turns to night far too slowly, but far too quickly. In the back of your mind, there’s always a little voice reminding you just how long you have left. One day passed turns into two, then three. A week turns into two. Two weeks turn into four, and then there is only one full moon left to pass.

The night of the year’s fifth full moon, the last you will share before Felix leaves forever, you sit on the steps just outside of the shrine. Your star’s hair glows in the bright moonshine, bathing him in pale light.

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it away. “Wait here,” you say.

You come back with your sketchbook and a few pencils. “Can I draw you?” you ask.

Silver eyes softly stare into yours. He nods.

This isn’t just a rough drawing. It isn’t one of the half-baked sketches you’ve done in the forest. No, this time, you want to capture the sparkle in your star’s pale eyes, the airiness of his blinding white hair, the exact location of each of the starry freckles dotting the sky of his cheeks.

It takes several nights to complete, sitting under the comforting rays of the waning moon, studiously ignoring the voice in your head that keeps chanting two weeks, two weeks. You sketch and resketch, rubbing bits of charcoal away, until on the third day, the sun is beginning to rise, and you have a portrait of the star you love.

You don’t cry. You promised yourself when you decided to draw the portrait and you promised yourself again when Felix sat, eyes expectant and soft and warm and gentle and kind. No tears will fall during the last few days you have together.

Your eyes still sting. Your throat still chokes. But even as Felix leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss upon your lips, you don’t let a single tear slip down your face. Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day.

And then it’s time.

. . .

The night is perfectly clear. Deep blue, so deep it’s almost black, ripples across the sky. Stars dot the landscape. The forest is silent, save for a slight rustling of trees.

Felix stands in a patch of moonshine, pale light glinting off of silver eyes. His eyes close as you begin to read from the book Changbin places in front of you, chanting strange words as the moonlight grows brighter.

Your eyes begin to sting. Your fingers begin to shake. Your throat begins to close, and your voice grows hoarse. But you keep speaking, words unwavering, until the chant is almost over.

Changbin pricks your finger. A drop of blood falls into the tiny bowl, already half-full of crushed herbs and two drops of Felix’s silver ichor. He gives the mixture to the star. Felix drinks it.

A wave of dizziness blows through your mind. You close your eyes, feeling a tear slide down your cheek, as the sky takes a day of your life away.

A day of your life for your star’s return to the sky.

It’s worth it.

As soon as the dizziness comes, it goes, leaving your mind clear once more. You finish the chant, voice trembling. It’s over.

Come dawn, your star will be gone.

Changbin leaves quietly, picking up the heavy book and disappearing back into the shrine. For a few moments, you sit with your star in silence, cool grass tickling your skin.

“Wait here,” you whisper eventually. “I have something for you.”

It’s a simple gift that you lay in his waiting hands, a worn, well-loved book with a torn leather cover and faded gold lettering. It’s familiar, and the corners of Felix’s lips lift in a ghost of a smile as he takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, clutching the book. One shiny tear drips onto the cover.

“I know it’s your favorite.” You try to smile, but it’s too hard. “Keep – keep learning to read, all right?”

He only squeezes your hand in reply. “Give me a moment,” he murmurs. “I have something for you too.”

He’s in and out of the shrine in seconds, carefully cradling something between his hands. A crown of wildflowers and leaves, interspersed with several delicate moonflowers. The ghostly petals glow in the moonlight as he places it in your windblown hair.

“It won’t decay,” he promises. “Changbin helped. I made it, but he gave it the magic.”

It’s too hard to not cry and you bury your face in your star’s shoulder, dreading every second that passes. Felix’s arms automatically loop around your waist, thin and warm and strong. “Hey, look up,” he whispers, his soft breath caressing your ear. “Look up for me, Y/N.”

Shakily, you comply.

“See that?” He points, finger glowing in the moonlight, at a patch of the sky. His constellation.

You nod.

“That’s where I used to be,” he murmurs. “Remember Peter Pan?”

“‘Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning,’” you recite, a shaky grin coming over your lips. “How could I forget?”

“Well, maybe I’m not the second star,” Felix says, pulling you close, “but I’ll always be there, all right? I’ll watch over you. You’ll know where I am, always.”

You take a breath. Nod. “Always,” you echo.

Little by little, as your quiet whispers and tiny laughs disappear on the wind, midnight begins to turn to dawn. Starlight fades, the sky turning from deep blue to pearly gray.

And as the moonlight disappears, Felix begins to turn translucent.

No, no, no, no…

Your heart races. Tears begin to pour down your cheeks. Felix looks as calm as ever, save for the slight panic in his eyes and the deep sadness etched in his face.

“Don’t forget me, Felix,” you beg, voice strained, words pleading. You try to breathe. “Please. Remember me.”

“How could I ever forget?” Your star smiles through the tears sliding down his cheeks. “You mean more to me than the earth itself.”

Minute by minute passes as you hold him, memorizing the weight of his body against yours, the warmth of his skin, the silver of his eyes, the gentle pressure of his lips on yours.

“I love you, Felix,” you whisper, even as his freckles begin to disappear. The tears roll down faster. “Truly.”

“I love you too.” Even his voice sounds thinner. You strain to catch the deep tones of his words, the slight rasp in his throat as it fades away.

For a second, his entire body disappears. You almost scream, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Felix!”

“Hey, hey.” He holds your hands tight, even as his fingers flicker in and out of existence. His silver eyes sparkle with unshed tears. “When you’re lonely, find me in the sky, yeah? I’ll always be there.” Your star smiles. “You’re never alone.”

You lean in desperately, lips crashing against his with terror and love and everything in between. His fading hands rise to cup your cheeks and you tangle your fingers with his, trying to feel everything about him before he leaves.

The sky takes him mid-kiss, and you’re left holding air.

. . .

They find you there after dawn breaks, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as the sun rises. Jeongin holds you close, saying nothing as he helps you back to your room.

You see the portrait of Felix you drew so many nights ago sitting neatly on the small nightstand. His smiling face stares up at you, starry freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, silver eyes glittering on the paper.

It hits you in the gut that he is truly gone, that your star has left forever.

(Jeongin catches you when you collapse to the ground.)

A week passes before you find the courage to speak to the sky. The moon is dark but the stars twinkle mischievously, throwing bits of light onto the grass.

Felix’s constellation glows, a silver map of his freckles sparkling in the sky. There’s a star, small but very bright, that wasn’t there before.

Your throat chokes, but no tears fall. The constellation that dotted Felix’s cheeks is now complete.

“Hello, my star,” you whisper. His flower crown sits on your hair, glowing in the dark. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

Speaking to him hurts a little at first, stings a bit in the heart. You keep wanting to look over into his eyes of silver, see his pale hair glow in the moonlight. But as you talk to the constellation, imagining the freckles dotting your star’s cheeks, the lump in your throat fades, and you begin to smile.

A few tears fall that night, dripping onto blades of grass and your clothes, but not too many. Just a few. You talk of anything and everything, from new shenanigans to old memories to plans for the future. You promise him things, to love and honor him as long as you live, to stay a child, to remember the story of Peter Pan, even though the book has gone with him to the sky. You talk until your words are strong and the silences comfortable, broken only by the rustling of trees in the wind.

Wind wisps around your shoulders as you eventually stand, staring at the new star in the sky. It seems to glow a little brighter.

“I love you, Felix.” You smile up at the blanket of night. “Thank you, my star.”

The star glows even brighter. You can almost feel his presence by your side.