#timescursedmark

For Naga’s sake. Of course, he had to come to gloat. Inigo sniffs dismissively, trying to brush off his stuffy nose. So he’d gotten a little emotional performing mother’s dance in front of the school. Crying totally defeats the purpose of bringing joy to people through dancing; he fully accepts the ranking.

Still stings a little bit though.

(Distantly, he knows he’s being unfair to Owain. Inigo should a hundred percent listen to Cynthia more. Well, depending on the subject, but )

Inigo remains silent through his best friends' melodramatics. Plenty of snide remarks come to mind. True talent indeed. But instead of dignifying anything with a response, Inigo simply reaches out a hand and rests it on Owain’s shoulder. Pressure increases slowly until it’s enough to knock him off balance.

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As if suffering at the hands of Lucina wasn’t enough, now Inigo has to endure comments from him. How did he even hear about the…incident? Inigo rests against the pillow, eyes closed, wishing he was back in his dorm instead of the infirmary. At least there he could ignore Owain, who stood next to the bed, arms crossed.

“Leave me to wallow in my misery, would you?” Inigo cracks open an eye, voice slightly distorted from the bandages covering his nose. He could barely handle Lucina and Cynthia’s disapproval; he didn’t need Owain in the mix as well.

Inigo winces as a fresh wave of pain lanced through his head, closing his eyes again. This was so, so much worse than every other rejection combined. A long time ago, back when they were still fighting a war and trying to survive, he’d promised himself to never try one of his lines on Lucina. She didn’t need to deal with his recycled words while she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. And, he’d always thought she’d react poorly.

But earlier, as blood roared through his ears and victory at actually beating her in the match soared in his chest, the words just tumbled out. Not even a recycled line, either! Something wholly unique and new.

Inigo dropped his forkful of food. It clattered noisily against his plate, splattering sauce across the dining table. Okay, yes, he’d asked for an assessment, but not from Owain. Why did he always have to jump into a conversation? Blinking, Inigo closed his mouth. 

“Seriously? I just haven’t met the perfect woman yet! And when I do, she’ll be the only one I have eyes for!” Inigo grinned cheekily. “What, would you recommend I spend my days naming weapons and shouting them at innocent passerby? I’m afraid I don’t take advice from little boys.” 

Morgan wouldn’t lie. He knew his cousin was around, but he hadn’t seen much of him in... well, weeks. Months? And yet, after all that time, Morgan hadn’t really... thought much about Owain. Admitting that fact made his heart hurt. Sorry, buddy—he doesn’t mean it! He’s just busy with schoolwork!

And there it was. Owain’s signature ( garish ) yellow.

After taking a moment to appreciate the surprisingly-high quality fabric of the sash, nimble fingers finally find the note accompanying it. “Oh, come on, ‘Wain,” he murmurs with a bittersweet smile. “You could never let me down.”

A soft approach breaks the remnants of Inigo’s concentration. The words on the page weren’t really making sense anyway; explanations of magical theory and how to channel the energy sliding right past his tired eyes. 

Hinges creak softly. Owain starts talking. Inigo looks up from his seat on the floor, back resting against his bed. He lowers one leg, letting the book slide to the carpet. He listens to his friend’s concerns. No sarcastic comeback rises in the back of his injured throat. 

Self-destructive. True; he really hadn’t been himself lately, had he? Blowing up at Cynthia, trying stupid one-liners on Lucina, and fistfighting Laurent in front of half the school. (That last one was a long time coming though. Tensions were always high between them). 

Returning to her room after yet another night of festivities (Lucina would never admit this aloud–but she was rather glad the chaos was coming to an end. It was all a bit…much), she nearly stepped on the neatly wrapped package placed gently in front of her door. 

Frowning, she crouched to inspect it closer, noticing repeated brand of Ylisse that decorated the gift. “Owain…” she smiled slightly, wishing her cousin had come to deliver it himself but…all in good time, she supposed. He was likely out celebrating with his friends; and now, they had plenty of time to be together–no pressures of war.