look-over-yonder

[look-over-yonder]

Thinking about where the Amphoreus cast would take you on a date in a modern universe.

Phainon takes you out to the movies. Don't worry about buying expensive cinema food—he's taking you out to the food court to get snacks first. What? You're worried about getting caught? Don't worry. He's already invented several different odd ways to sneak food in, but they work. Now your next problem is how much he might talk during movies.

Mydei takes you out to a diner. Nutrition is important after all, and he wants to take you somewhere where he knows you're eating well. Not to mention; this particular diner has an all-you-can-eat buffet. That’s absolutely not the reason why he chose this place, of course. Dates with Mydei are more on the casual side, even if he is a romantic at heart—but maybe he'll let you feed him if you ask.

Anaxa takes you out to a café. Surprising? It might be. But he's not just taking you to just any cafe. It's his favourite café—one of his favourite places to be other than alone. The café is quaint and cosy, noticeably quiet with faint music playing in the backdrop, and they serve delicious coffee. You see why he likes it so much, and you hope this place continues to stay a hidden gem between the two of you.

Aglaea takes you out to dinner. Yes, I say dinner, because this woman will take you out to the most luxurious fine-dining establishment money can buy. Aglaea always goes all out on dates because she's a busy woman. If she's pursuing you, you best believe she sees you as worth investing in. If she goes on more dates with you, things might get more casual, and she'll instead have dinner with you at her mansion. No biggie.

Hyacine takes you out on a picnic. She brings an assortment of foods, sometimes even confectioneries baked by herself or brought because she knew you liked them. You two sit together on your little picnic blanket over some grassland, and after digesting, end up lying side-by-side to watch the sky above. I hope you're imaginative, because she'll compare the clouds to some wild things.

Castorice takes you out to the library. While it may not seem as exciting as the rest, quiet intimacy can go a long way. You two sit side-by-side at a desk, reading the same book, shoulders bumping against each other on occasion. It's comfortable. Vulnerable, and her whisper of a voice breaks the silence sometimes to share some insight on the book you're reading together. But at some point? You get too distracted by her side profile.

Cipher takes you to all her favourite spots. She knows the city like the back of her hand and happens to know where the best places are to get away from society. From rooftops to abandoned buildings, she even shows you her secret little base she flees to whenever she has to lay low for a while. As your legs dangle together precariously off the edge of a building, she wraps her tail around your arm, leaning her head against your shoulder.

[look-over-yonder]

𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦, 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ; (𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬)

SYNOPSIS: What awaits you in the Dreamscape is your quiet place of rest: a patisserie dyed moon-blue in the Moment of Midnight. A promised solitude just as illusory as the pastries on display, because you can’t seem to escape a certain fair-faced Halovian.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

CONTENTS: sunday/reader, f!reader (referred to as young lady, miss— no she/her pronouns used), patisserie au (cousin of café aus), set in canon and fragmented across the timeline (the first four parts take place before 2.7, the fifth and final during it), fluff and banter, soft yan implications if you squint (coughs)(SUNDAY IS JUST WEIRD.), sunday-typical themes of dreams vs reality, reader is overworked and probably nearing a spiral, robin haunts the narrative in form of a keycharm, the yearning is there but buried under the boundaries of reader pov. reader is oblivious, sunday goes by ”wonweek” (since reader does not realize who he is. lol.) but he’s very much still sunday he’s just being annoying.

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE . this is a long overdue comm for my most beloved and cherished sunday fucker ( @stellamancer ) 🙂‍↕️ it was supposed to be 3k but it ran away from me completely … still, i’m satisfied with what it turned into!! i tried my best to do chicken wing boy justice, so i hope any sunday enjoyers who read this are pleased with the end result!! :’3🫶 ALSO big big thank u to my guardian fawn ( @coyotecrumb ) for proofreading and helping me with the editing process … i love u always …… anyway please picture me slamming into sunday at the speed of the astral express because wowww is he stressful to write LMAO. stupid gap moe loser

At the end of the boundary-line between dreams and reality stands a small, quaint patisserie— its doors always unlocked, opening wide when you tug at the handle.

"Welcome back!" sings the interior. "What can I get for you today?"

It rings out from behind the counter when the bell chime fades, when the door behind you closes. The same girl as always, her hands folded neatly on top of the marble; sleeves cuffed up to her elbows, a blue apron tied around her waist and embroidered with what look to be little doves, pure white and fluttering across the fabric. She's smiling, like she's happy to see you. You see it through the dim lighting, the entire lounge painted blue by the moon through the windows.

The air smells sweet. Buttery. Something like burnt caramel and rose jam, threading through the room.

You inhale, then exhale. 

In the glamour of the Dreamscape, people hunger for all sorts of things. Luxury, adventure, shimmering bottles of soulglad and evenly cut steaks— anything that gives the impression of living life to the fullest. The fresh wave of tourists are all off on such ventures, you'd assume. Fine dining, day drinking, sightseeing… gambling, of course. You check most of them into the Reverie yourself, help them with their bags, answer any questions they have. Most of them are easy. Most of them are in the manual.

Some of them— like, are there any spots we should know about? Any hidden gems?—

Well.

Questions like that, you tend to leave unanswered. 

Because there's only one true hidden gem worth mentioning, tucked away in The Moment of Midnight: where tourists are least likely to linger, where trouble stirs itself to sleep. Only one spot not yet trampled by rowdy dreamers, or sponsored by too-expensive brands. Bérylune, reads the sign, though you won't see it until you've ventured through a narrow alleyway and stopped in front of a bright-blue door, flickering street lamps on either side. There it stands, solitary. Like a secret just for you.

No way are you letting anyone in on it. 

"Um, let me think." You shift your weight, absently, reaching up to fiddle with the straps of your handbag. The girl behind the counter hums. 

"Of course! Please, take your time."

Your eyes glide left, to the faint shimmer of the glass display— what you've been dreaming of all evening. What you dream of at the end of every tireless workday. Where you inevitably end up once you've exhausted yourself on your late-night strolls around the Dreamscape, wandering aimlessly, no different from your usual rounds at the hotel. No room ever goes unbooked, so there's no point to sitting down and feigning relaxation.

The least you deserve is to treat yourself. 

(It's not like you hate your job. You'd say you're lucky, all things considered: a hefty paycheck, golden lights wherever your gaze takes you, the superficial glimmer of casinos and streetlights lying at the center of what Penacony is. The extraordinary is routine. That, in itself, has become a kind of comfort. It's better than your old life. Less monotone. The city is always alight, so there's no need for counting stars. 

And there's the Dreamscape, of course. Always close at hand, the hazy bliss in front of you.)

Pastries sparkle from beneath the glass, the sight of them enough to make your mouth water. Soft, pillowy slices of spongecake, slathered in honey, squished between fruit tarts weighty with strawberries. Ruby-red, summer-ripe. Your hungry eyes flit from side to side. The bell chime rings out behind you, but you scarcely hear it over the piano playing from behind the counter, soft compositions from an old-school radio— you don't know who the composer is, but you recognize the song. It never builds up to any crescendo, blissfully empty of weight, of intensity. 

The room has begun to smell more and more like roasted coffee. An espresso machine purring to life. You think of mystery, of something illusionary. When you look down at your hands they're painted moon-blue. 

(For you, this is heaven. The crème de la crème of what the Dreamscape has to offer. Not the Golden Hour, not any casino— but this. 

And it's all yours.)

"I'll have the macaron set, please."

(… Mostly yours.)

Your gaze drifts to where the Halovian is standing, smoothing a steady hand down the fabric of his suit. His locks are next, rivers of silver running in between his thumb and forefinger, barely-ruffled by the breeze outside.

The lady behind the counter gives him a smile. To the untrained eye it's the same as ever, but you've worked in customer service all your life; you're well aware of what's real and fake, what expression says Please be normal, it's been a long day as it is, or I'm so happy to see you again. Seriously. It gleams brighter, much brighter, than the one she'd graced you with. A bashful flicker that has you wanting to sigh. 

… Not that you blame her. He is handsome.

"Of course, sir. Will that be for here, or to-go?"

"To-go, for tonight. Have you been well?"

"Yes!" She shoots up, in the process of bending down to bring the pastries out from the display. "Ah, um. Yes, I have! And you?"

A quiet hum. He isn't looking at her, you notice. Rather, the golden cuts of his eyes are stuck on the glass, on what's gleaming behind it. Not the macarons he ordered, but a golden pudding tart. "I've been well," he says. "Thank you."

Then he's quiet. His voice is nice to listen to, like a late-night talk show host in the prime of his career, pleasant white noise to tune out the world with. Suited for lullabies and ghost stories. Your eyes follow him, vacantly, the way his fingers tug down his sleeve to check his watch, the brittle flutter of his wings when he exhales, pairs of silky-looking feathers twitching against his neck. One of them is pierced, though you can't see it from this angle. 

This isn't your first encounter with the stranger. He's usually here around the same time you are, when the moon in reality would have showed its pearly-blue teeth; either gazing at the display when you enter, or sitting by a table in the corner with his lips against the rim of a porcelain cup. It's unusual for you to beat him to it; maybe work kept him late? 

… Yeah, probably not. He's too pretty to be anything but a flashy tourist. A secret idol, maybe?

You humour yourself with the thought.

His pupils flicker, suddenly, golden ripples across the surface of his eyes. You're zoned out, watching them, only now noticing that he's angled his face away from the counter— the sharp lines of his jaw pointing in your direction.

When you realize he's catching your stare, his lips have already parted.

"Ah, pardon me," he says, silky-smooth, eyes curling into slits. Smiling cordially. "Were you about to order?" 

Stupidly, you blink at him. After a moment, your gaze snaps back to the sheet of glass in front of you. "No, don't worry," your smile is barely-there, though you make an attempt— you never know who's important when it comes to Penacony. Never know when you might be speaking to an idol on vacation, or a CEO with the influence to get you fired. Best to be on the safe side. "I was still deciding, so…"

He waits for you to finish. When you don't, keen eyes of gold leave your face.

"I see."

Silence settles in the space between you. You don't dare look at him again, busying yourself with your choice of pastry, eyes flitting restlessly between them. Should you go for something syrupy sweet, or minty and refreshing..? He's facing forward, but the weight of his gaze is still searing your skin, the butt of a cigarette against your brittle cheek. 

It's heavy. It leaves an impression. 

(Because you've seen him, yes— but you've never caught his eye. Not for more than a moment, a quick glance or absent nod.

This is the first time you've spoken.)

When his voice calls out again, you've settled on a sizable fruit tart. Speckled with blackberries, the crust a nice golden brown, eyes focused on it when that bedtime story cadence echoes on your left. "I'd like them packaged, if that's alright." He tugs gently at the bottom of his glove, adjusting it with nimble fingers. "They're a gift."

Gift. 

The word makes your mind halt, for a moment. Something in the way he wraps his tongue around it. Soft, albeit briefly.

The poor girl behind the counter must have heard it too. Because she's wilted by the time you've raised your gaze, hanging her head a little lower than before, hiding barely concealed disappointment behind a tight-curved smile. 

"… Of course," she chirps, weakly. "One moment."

She places the macarons inside a small, rectangular box, lining them up one by one inside it; green, pink, ochre, repeated twice, a row of sparkling gemstones, only sliced into halves. Then she's closing it, wrapping her fingers around a silky blue ribbon to thread it around the front and back. 

"Thank you for waiting," she slides it across the counter.

The Halovian hums, accepting it with careful hands. He pays, swiftly, brandishing a black card. Yep, definitely not a working class comrade. His halo gleams in the dim light, thrumming faintly when it catches onto its golden edge. Like church bells tolling on a far-away planet. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "Have a good night."

When he turns to leave, his gaze overlaps with yours. No longer than a second, a glimmer of sun-soaked copper— he reaches for the handle of the door, and the moment turns to vapour. Midnight air courses in as he slips through the gap, chills the base of your ankles, the tips of your fingers. A soft jingle, and he's gone. 

His back disappears into the night, his shadow painted cornflower blue. You see it through the window.

(You wonder where he's going.)

"Excuse me, miss." A stale smile, and a downcast voice. "Would you like to order?"

You snap your head back into place. "Y-yes, please."

The fruit tart tastes as good as you expected it to. You eat it there, at a table in the corner— it's not like you could bring it back to reality, even if you wanted to eat it in the comfort of your quarters— sinking your teeth into the crust, feeling it crumble into pieces around them. The blackberries burst with juice, melting together with the cream, thick notes of vanilla and chestnut. You lick your lips with a happy hum. 

Too good to be true, though you guess that's the point.

When you return to reality, the taste won't linger on your lips. Your body won't feel satiated. You know this, but you still keep coming back— to a badly-placed patisserie, in the least popular Moment of the Dreamscape— gorging on pastries made from dreams and stardust. As if just the illusion is enough to keep you full. As if you could keep going, and going, plucking every star from the illusionary sky. 

It's a foolish thought.

(You suppose that's why you're here, anyway. The reason you can't pull yourself away from the Reverie, or the Dreamscape. In a way, you're perfect for each other.

Glamour, and delicacies, and questionable men.

… Truly, the essence of what Penacony has to offer.)

The next time you step inside, the patisserie is empty. No Halovian gentleman by the counter, nor by the tables, no silky-soft voice threading through the air. 

Again, you beat him to it. 

"Welcome back!" Smiles the clerk, her lips glossy and pink. The shade makes you think of cherry balm. With sluggish steps, you walk up to the counter, expression practically trampled in comparison to hers. You muster a weary upward tilt of your lips, a half-hearted nod— you don't have it in you to do anything more. The guests were just awful, today. Lips drawing into a thin line, flimsy excuse of a smile slipping off them, your gaze glides over to the glass-layered display.

A better you would be in bed by now. Watching a soap opera, waiting for your order of real food to arrive. But you're not better— you're just you— and if you don't get your hands on a treat within the next five minutes you think your brain will just burst. The lady behind the counter is humming to herself, the song unfamiliar. 

"I'd like… a croissant," you order, tentative. "With chocolate filling, please."

She nods. "Any drinks, or will that be all?"

Your lips part, before slowly falling shut again. Something warm doesn't sound so bad right now, actually… "I'll take a cup of hot chocolate, too."

"Great! One second…"

You exhale faintly, blinking twice. Watching with unfocused eyes as she presses the tips of her fingers against the small screen in front of her. Beep. Beep— the noise just barely cutting through your muddled senses, your hazy peripheral. 

"Aaand there you are!" She gestures towards the card reader, lacing her fingers together. "I'll get started on your order— will you be eating here?"

"… No." You shake your head, reaching for your pocket. "I'll take it to-go, plea—"

…

Your fingers spread out. One, after the other, like spindly limbs extending. Searching. 

But no, there's nothing. 

For a moment, all you can do is stand frozen in place. Eyes wide with disbelief— the beginnings of denial. Your fingers, still twitching idly in the pocket of your pants, stop smoothing over old receipts and loose change and lip balm— they turn as still as you. Seconds pass, no more than five, before a heaving sigh breaks past your lips.

Your wallet isn't there. 

Clinging onto what remains of your sanity, your hand slips out your pocket, right into the next. But, again, nothing. You're sure it's not in your purse, because you didn't bring it with you, and you remember holding your wallet no more than half an hour ago— unless you're mistaken? It's no good, your brain is already too subdued for second guessing. When you raise your gaze the clerk is looking at you, blinking like she's confused. The scent of cocoa seeps through the air, her hands busy with the milk pitcher, and for once you wish the service wasn't so fast. 

"… I'm sorry," you say, as clearly as you can manage— which is barely above a whisper, really. Your head hurts. You kind of want to cry. Being the responsible adult you are, you attempt to hold it in. "I… think I dropped my wallet."

"Oh no!" Her lips fall into a frown, but she seems hesitant on what to say next. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You repeat it to yourself. It's just a croissant. Except, of course, it really isn't— it was supposed to be your well-deserved after-work treat, and you needed it today more than ever. The illusionary comfort only the Dreamscape can provide.

"Sorry," you repeat, breath pitifully stuck in the back of your throat. Ready to turn on your heel, and walk back into reality, your nails leaving crescents on your inner palms. It's subconscious— you barely feel the ache. "I'll… come back tomorrow."

"No need."

… A voice, feather-soft, calls out from behind you. 

When you turn your head towards its source, two golden eyes stare back at you. A certain Halovian, parting his lips.

"I'll pay for it. Just add it to my order." He pays no mind to your bewildered expression, speaking candidly. How did you not hear him coming in? "A croissant for me as well, please. Savoury."

The familiar stranger walks up to the counter, not even sparing you a glance. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was referring to another customer with no wallet to their name. You're the only ones here, though. He says something to the clerk, something you don't catch, because you're too busy staring at his face like he just dropped down from the sky— crashed through the roof like a bird with burning feathers. 

(Or an angel, maybe. An angel with just the right amount of wings, and a halo made of thorny gold. An angel with eyes like charred sunflower fields.

… Your mind is left entranced.)

"Oh, um. Alright! Will that be to-go, or…?"

"No, that's alright." He takes out his card. "We're eating here."

Only when it moves towards the card reader, does your brain finally catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Without thinking, you grasp onto his arm.

"W-wait, you don't have to!" Your fingers curl around the linen of his sleeve, the protest stumbling out your lips. Your mind is too jumbled up to realize what you're doing— you can't feel the heat of his skin, or the thumping of his pulse, but his eyes coil into slits where they meet yours. "Seriously, I'd hate to bother—"

"Oh, it's no bother." 

He smiles, suddenly; stale, his earrings swaying when he tilts his head to face you. Hand gentle when it comes to lay over yours. His gloved fingers feel silky against your own, untangling them casually, before he smooths the flat of his palm down the fabric you creased. 

"I'd be happy to," he says. 

"… But,"

Without further pause, he slides his card against the card reader. A decisive beep. Paying for your order, seamlessly, the smile on his lips never slipping off his face; from this narrow distance you think you'd be able to see the weariness in his eyes, but it isn't there. Neatly tucked away, maybe. Or is he just a night owl?

You purse your lips, unsure what else to do. The clinking of plates fills the air.

"… Thank you," you settle on. A quiet breath.

"You're welcome." His reply is instant. "Though I suggest you pay more attention in the future. A lost wallet is no laughing matter."

… He's right, but something about the way he says it doesn't sit right with you. You decide to stay silent, until the plates have been served, until you're seated at a table in the corner right across from him. Two croissants in front of you, yours streaked and stuffed with chocolate, coated in a layer of powdered sugar, like snow on a mountaintop— a halved strawberry sitting neatly on top of it— his filled with lettuce, ham, and thinly sliced cheese. He watches you take a tentative bite, the crumbs sticking to your fingers, before reaching for his knife and fork. 

"The Dreamscape is a safe place, relatively speaking." He continues, taking nimble bites between the words. "But that doesn't mean there are no souls who would take advantage over a young lady's naivety. It doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"… You mean, you think somebody stole it?"

An absent hum. "Not exactly." He's smiling, again, though it's hard to tell when the lights overhead intermingle with the shadows from the window to your right. His face is candle-lit, flickering faintly. "What I mean is— you should keep important things close to your person. For an adult, that's only natural, wouldn't you agree?"

(… He's making fun of you.)

"… It isn't like me," you explain, cringing at how defensive it sounds. As if sulking, you sink your teeth into the sugary croissant. "I'm not that scatterbrained."

The Halovian tilts his head, ever so slightly. 

"… Good," he places his cutlery back on the table. Then: "Here you are."

You watch as he brings your wallet out of his pocket. Sets it down in front of you, the leather smudged with a light layer of dust— though the rubber charm you clipped onto it remains unsoiled, her smile devoid of flecks. 

Baffled, you stare at it.

Then up at him. 

"It was lying just outside," he tells you, voice like a news anchor mentioning the weather. Too casual, you think. He brings a pure white handkerchief to the curve of his lips. "—You have good taste. That collection was my favorite of last spring's."

In the moment, you decidedly ignore his knowledge on idol merchandise. The bewilderment still coursing through your veins takes priority, your voice dumb-struck when you ask— 

"You had it all along?" A mortified pause. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"All actions should have consequences." He answers, simply. "Even something as idle as embarrassment has a strong effect on the mind… I'm sure you'll be more wary in the future."

You blink. Once, then twice.

The Halovian's expression remains carefully concealed. You see no notes of humour, nor of ill intent. Condescension, maybe, in the smooth line of his lips. The way he's looking at you. It's vague enough that you wouldn't notice if he wasn't saying something so…

… Socially obscene?

"I'm an adult," you finally bite, too exhausted to play at sounding cordial. Your brow twitches, restless with irritation. "… I don't need a stranger to gentle parent me, thank you."

…

Are you being rude? Sure. But you're tired, you've had an awful day, and— frankly, you don't have it in you to entertain whatever mind games he just admitted to using on you, even if he turned out to be the CEO of the Reverie himself. He's weird. Weirdo. Waste of a pretty face. The thoughts enter your mind, but don't turn into words.

… After all, you're still taking bites of the croissant that he bought you. The damage is done. 

(You settle on silent, petty scrutiny— he's for sure the type to put a tracker on his girlfriend's phone. The motel stalker type.)

Finally, he speaks. "Pardon me," he smiles, a narrow line. "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

Through a mouthful of powdered sugar and chocolate, you offer him a dubious look. He seems to notice it. "That was only half the reason," he explains, clicking his pointer finger on the edge of the table. Rhythmic thumps, in tune with the composition playing from the counter. "To be honest, I'm not too fond of sweets. But seeing you enjoy them so openly is… refreshing." A beat. "In a sense."

… Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Moreover— how long has he been watching you? The thought lingers on your mind, for no more than a moment. You let it go when he speaks.

"What I mean is— I've been hoping to converse with you." The tapping stops, abruptly. He goes silent— a look in his eyes like he isn't really there, a faceless stare boring into you. "… This was a golden opportunity."

His voice is all honey and silver, but you aren't sure what to make of it. When his eyes flit away from yours, briefly, his halo remains unmoving. Overseeing. His pupils flickering like a pair of injured sparrows. There's a gap in the way that he's acting, you think.

Everything about the way he carries himself suggests social awareness, so—

… what's with this awkward tension? 

(It's like he's a sheltered princess. Like someone locked him up in a tower, and told him how to speak to others— let him practice in front of mirrors, dance with marionette dolls. That kind of feeling. Like he's looking through you, rather than at you— like his mouth is being guided by a silent, invisible hand, lips tugged apart to make space for their words. But then, who is the dragon? The evil stepmother?

… Maybe he really is an idol. That would be the more grounded option. An out of touch celebrity vacationing on Penacony, unused to the mysteries of social boundaries. It would explain his knowledge in Robin merchandise, at least…)

Your stare must unnerve him. Or maybe he gets tired of waiting for a response. Either way, he lets out something like a chuckle; it shatters your thoughts. "Ah, forgive me… It’s unlike me to speak so brazenly. I've overstepped."

With graceful poise, he digs his fork into the nearly-finished croissant. Lifts the final piece towards his mouth, without so much as angling his jaw down. Silent, measured chewing, the seconds between his words filled with nothing but the white noise of the ticking clock behind him. It sits on the wall, hands counting down until sunrise, though it means nothing in the Moment of Midnight. Still hours away.

Like a snake slithering back into its nest, he stands up as soon as he's swallowed— swiping the tip of his tongue across the seam of his lips. The chair is pushed back into place, before he graces you with another easy-curved smile. 

"Please, don't let me ruin your meal."

"Um— wait." Just as he's about to leave, you stop him. "What's your name?"

When he turns his head, his eyes catch the moon-stream from the window. Gold turns to silver in the white streak of light. The Halovian parts his lips, but no noise makes it past them— he seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say. 

A quiet hum, at the juncture of his throat.

"… Wonweek."

"Ah… thank you, Wonweek." You probably shouldn't be thanking him, but it slips out before you can stop yourself. You're more preoccupied with other thoughts— such as, you don't know any idols with that stage name, so either he's lying or the work-stress is having a positive effect on your imagination— "For the food. And… for picking up my wallet."

He surveys you, for a moment. Doesn't say a word. Pupils coiling into thoughtful slits.

Silver locks sway, when he turns around. 

"It was my pleasure." 

… And then he's leaving. 

(The barely-there afternotes of his cologne linger on the seat across from you, stitched into the polyester: deep, mellow amber.)

This time, Wonweek is already there when you open the door.

With the Charmony Festival just around the corner, it's a miracle you can still move your legs. All day— all week— nothing but guests, checking in from every corner of the galaxy. It's so hectic you've been demoted to carrier, lunging around suitcases twice your size while the senior staff tends to the visitors. There's a numbing ache in your limbs, all the way to the base of your joints. Splintered out across your nerves.

Yet you make your usual rounds. The dried blue tones of the midnight sky sweep across your cheeks, as you rouse the bell chime into life— and he's there.

A brief flicker of gold, and a subtle smile, his eyes catching yours when they glide across the lounge. The air is thick with black tea, steam drifting from the silver-lined rim of his porcelain cup, the pure white speckled with bluebirds. His lashes flutter shut when he takes a sip. As always, the radio plays soft piano.

"Welcome back! What can I get for you, today?"

The lady behind the counter offers you the same smile as ever. She painted her nails, you notice— blue, but a touch lighter than the shade of her apron. Like the evening sky of a particularly hot summer. You wrap your tongue around a quiet hum, eyes moving to the glass display. Squinting at the pastries under it.

… Honestly, you aren't sure.

"Having trouble deciding?" Wonweek chimes in, when you've been standing in place for a moment too long. There's a cordial smile on his lips, a cheery note to his voice; like he's in a good mood. He abandons his spot to come stand beside you.

"… A little," you admit. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for?"

A soft, affirming noise. 

"Would you like me to decide for you?" 

When you raise your head, his eyes are gleaming. Shimmering gold, flickering playfully, though his smile is nothing but composed, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he awaits your response. You're silent, for a breath. 

"… Sure," you then exhale, spur of the moment. "Why not?"

That seems to please him. At least, if his satisfied hum is anything to go by. Wonweek faces forward, the bridge of his nose falling into your peripheral.

"Let's see…" A thoughtful pause. "What would you say to a parfait?"

Your eyes follow the trail left by his steady gaze, stopping where it ends: on a tall glass filled with layers of custard and meringue, crushed berries and cookie crumbs, topped with dollops of cream and thick slices of fruit. The sight makes your mouth water. You're sure that he notices. That he can somehow tell. 

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, you simply reach for your wallet, making sure your voice reaches his ears when you ask: "Do you want anything?"

He blinks. 

"… To pay you back," you explain, glancing at him cautiously. Hoping you'll sound even mildly assertive, through the fog around your after-work brain. "For last time."

"Ah." Another flutter of his lashes. "There's no need."

Your brows furrow in frustration. A moment's pause, until you're trying again, taking out your card while eyeing the display. Surely, there has to be something he'd want…? "It's only fair… I mean, you paid for mine, right?"

"Really, there's no need."

You turn towards him fully, lips catching on a sigh. "I want to."

"You aren't going to." 

…

His smile is close-knit. Eyes curled into threatening crescents.

"You're too kind," he says, voice deceptively cheery. His eyes are sharp when he opens them, daggers gleaming in the dark of night. "But, really, I insist."

Any further protests die out on your tongue.

Wonweek ends up buying a lightly toasted sandwich, to go with his darjeeling tea. You recognize the scent when you've seated yourself across from him, led along by his not-so-subtle social cues, like a puppet on a string. Needless to say, he paid for it himself. You get the feeling he'd have done the same with your parfait, had you given him an opening— if only just to get back at you for suggesting otherwise.

Are all Halovians control freaks, you wonder? Or is it just him?

”Are you enjoying the Dreamscape?” He asks, sinking his teeth into the sourdough. Chew, and swallow. He licks his parting lips. ”Is it to your liking?

You lean back in your seat, mellow warmth seeping through your fingers when they curl around the handle of your cup. Rich espresso, a roasted fragrance. ”I am," you tell him, honestly. "I wasn’t sure about the pastries… but they taste just as good as in reality.”

”Of course.” He smiles, something unusual in his expression. ”They need to.”

…

You watch him silently, through lidded eyes. He's looking down at your plate, making an expression you can't put your finger on— then back up at you, seamlessly, his face falling back into something vaguely insincere. 

Controlled.

"Are you enjoying it?"

(His smile curves up. It makes you think of a plant uprooted, tugged from its tender soil— on the cusp of being ripe enough to pluck.

It makes you think, for whatever reason, that you really shouldn't have asked.)

"I am." He answers, easily. "A dream that never ends… don't you think that's wonderful?"

"I guess so."

"Oh? Do you disagree?"

"Well, I…" You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think it's a little scary, sometimes."

He casts you a questioning look. 

"Like… I want to stay here forever." You stir your spoon in circles, watching the espresso swirl, a night-black vortex. "There are people who start to feel that way." 

"Is that so awful?"

Quiet. Stale, like the wrong edge of a scalpel. 

The silence that settles when his words have left his tongue is strained, a bowl about to break in the heat of a bubbling furnace. In your mind, you play out the noise it'd make— clatter, and crack, shattering on the floor and breaking into porcelain pieces— your lips trying in vain to wrap themselves around an apology.

For what, though? 

(You can tell from his tense brow you've upset him— but how?)

The seconds tick on, with the counting of the clock on the wall, a slow, steady mantra. As if to escape the unsettling atmosphere, you direct your gaze towards the tall glass in front of you. Wonweek chooses that moment to speak. 

"… Reality breaks them." His voice bears more than sterness: it bleeds. Tears the silence into overripe halves. When you bite into your parfait you taste peach, streams of sticky nectar in between your teeth, too syrupy. "If the Dreamscape can offer those lost souls some relief, it can be nothing but a good thing."

Chew, and swallow. He isn't meeting your eyes anymore.

"I… see your point."

Seawaves of blue filter in through the window, dripping down the contours of his face. From his cheeks, to his jaw, the shadow between his nose and lips— the glow of a silverfish's squirming body. It disappears when the moon slips beneath a cluster of clouds, his expression obscured. "I've seen you at the Reverie," Wonweek exhales a breath, his voice strung tight; lips falling into a straight-laced line. It softens when they part, near imperceptible. "… You always look so tired."

He meets your gaze when it snaps up. Captures it, and holds it, his own eyes not once wavering. Before anything else— before your mind can catch up to the strangeness of those words— you think to yourself that he looks a little sad.

"It's only when you're here… that you seem to be content." His fingers curl around the handle of the cup, and bring it to his moving lips, steam clouding his cupid's bow. An earthy scent, something like rain on an autumn morning. "In that sense, I thought you and I might be similar. Or, rather— I thought you'd sympathize with the Dreamscape as a whole. The respite it brings."

The three-eyed halo crowning him bears down on you, unblinking; his wings swaying in tune with his voice, a booming kind of quiet, like it's urging you to listen. You wish you could, but your mind is too occupied to truly understand what he's getting at. You can only think, blearily, through the white noise of your weary mind—

That you have never seen him before. 

You're sure you haven't, because as strange as he's proved himself to be— he's annoyingly handsome. You'd remember his eyes, if nothing else. The twitches of his lithe fingertips, the subtle sense of self-perceivement in his voice.

(You've never seen Wonweek at the Reverie.)

"… You're struggling, too?" you ask, tentative. Wonweek simply smiles.

"I used to." His voice is non-concealing. "Things are better, now."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink. You watch him, silently, even as you realize he doesn't plan on elaborating. His smile is familiar. It's like the one you see in mirrors, when you tell yourself the future is larger than this.

In mirrors, in marble countertops, on nights that never seem to end. 

"If reality brings you nothing but suffering, then there's no need to open your eyes anymore. I've been wanting to tell you that."

You hear the leaving in his voice before he stands up, palms flat on the table when he rises. He pushes his chair back, plate empty save for a neatly sorted pile of breadcrumbs, and raises a hand to thread through his feathers. 

”I hope I'm not overstepping.” he adds, carefully. "Please, do take it to heart."

"… Okay."

One last smile, before he walks out the door. As always, you follow— with your eyes, as much as you are able, before the bell chime fades and takes him with it. You're left with a lacking, troubled feeling, but there aren't enough untangled threads in your mind to make space for it. You eat the remainder of your parfait in silence. 

Behind you, faintly, resounds the ticking of a clock. 

The next time you enter the patisserie, Wonweek is nowhere to be seen.

You sit by the window until the sun breaks through the clouds— until it would have, if it wasn't locked behind a never-ending midnight. A sugar-coated orange lining tearing the sky in half. Weeping dawn across its blue cheeks. There is no sight of him, even then; not of silver locks of hair, not of halos or of wings. 

He doesn't come in the day after. Or the day after that. Days bleed into weeks. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringue, coffee with too much or too little creamer. You sit by the table in the corner, and wait for a man that never walks through the door.

(At some point, you stop expecting him to.)

Sunday stops by the window. Inhales a breath.

You're there. As always. 

(What should make him feel relief leaves him with trepidation.)

Silently, he gazes into the interior of the patisserie: the lounge is dim-lit, but he sees you, curled in on yourself by a table in the corner like a baby bird in a too-big nest. He clutches onto the image, for a moment. Considers leaving once or twice. Mr. Yang is waiting— he's on borrowed time, well past owing favours. It would be easier to simply cut this loss.

His steps towards the door are silent. 

The midnight moon gleams just as blue as always, spilling cobalt all over the paved streets, the alleyway that led him here. His own shadow half-transparent. It's more beautiful than he remembers, though perhaps that should be attributed to his own disinterest— The Hour of Midnight never struck him as especially precious. No morning dawn, no golden light, no sound except that of distant partygoers. The glow of the moon seemed somber, if anything. 

(He never quite understood why this was where you'd found your peace.)

For a moment his fingers simply linger by the handle, the chill of the wood dulled by the black fabric of his gloves. His hand curls around it with tentative thought. 

When the door slides open, his eyes instinctually close.

Darkness. It lays itself over his vision, a thick blanket wrung around the sockets of his eyes— Sunday waits for the chime of the bell overhead.

It answers, dutifully. The sound of glass clinking against itself, shattering quietly. When he steps inside, soft piano: Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. 

The door falls shut behind him. Sunday spares no glance towards the woman by the counter, much too preoccupied with the pair of eyes across the room. You've raised your gaze, the silver spoon between your fingers shining with the blue from the window behind you. The air smells of fruit, honeyed and ripe. 

Sunday moves.

You're blinking up at him, dumb-struck, when he stops by your table. Watches your lashes flutter, feels his wings twitch with an emotion he doesn't want to name— something that ties a knot inside his abdomen, inside his chest. 

It makes it difficult to speak. 

(He likes that about you. That blissfully empty gaze. The way it conceals nothing.)

Seamlessly, he takes the seat across from you. Doesn't smile, but his voice is light when he says: "Good evening." A quiet inhale. "How have you been?"

Silence lingers in the wake of his words. It does not unnerve him; he is nothing if not patient. Nothing but a content overseer. Content to watch your fingertips twitch, when you let the spoon you're grasping fall onto the plate, a quiet clink of metal on ceramic. It looks as if you've barely grazed the fruit tart.

You look well, he thinks. There are shadows under your eyes, but they're not quite as dark as he remembers them being. Not the absent, worrying smudges he saw in the CCTV— your eyes themselves look somehow clearer.

He wonders what caused it.

(He knows it's not him. Wishes it did not grate at him, in that shameful, ugly corner of his mind, still not cleansed of petulant pettiness—)

When your lips part, he follows the drag of your cupid's bow. Your voice an arrow piercing through the air. 

"Hi," you say, uncertainly. "It's… been a while."

"It has."

…

Sunday's eyes do not stray, even when your own begin to waver. "How have you been?" He repeats, after a moment's pause.

"Uh, good. Just fine." You tilt your head, softly. "And you?"

An exhale leaves him, amused. Part of him wishes he could give you an honest answer, but— well, how is he to summarize it? I fell from the sky. I had an epiphany, of sorts— no, that's misleading. I think I died, for a moment. Just enough to gasp for air.

How should he relay it to you?

"… I've been well, all things considered," he feeds you a vague half-truth, a small smile tugging at his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd see you again." 

That makes you look at him strangely. Your lips twitching open, and then falling shut, enough to have his hands wandering, fingers tugging restlessly at the smooth silk of his glove, the thin material stretching to accommodate his absent graze. Sunday hums, lightly.

"I'm leaving Penacony." He straightens his back, speaking clearly, the words filling his lungs with air that smells of honeydew. Of possibilities. "I know it doesn't concern you. We're just strangers, after all… but I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

He's just tying up loose ends. That's all. 

(He doesn't have it in him to hope for anything else.)

"… Why?" Your voice is pure, innocently curious. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's a long story. I'm certain I'd bore you."

You hum, tentative— reaching for your spoon. It scoops up the sliced kiwi, the foamy cream, brings a piece up to your parting lips.

"… Well, the Dreamscape has been crazy lately," you say after swallowing, your tongue dipping out to catch the fruit juice dribbling down your bottom lip. He follows it, absently. "I heard Sunday was exiled from the Oak Family, or something?"

— An upward twitch of his lips.

With the heel of his palm, Sunday hurries to obscure it— masks it with an idle cough, though he's certain that it doesn't come off as very convincing. You go silent, like you're confused. The look in your eye is what tips him over.

A melodious chuckle breaks past his lips. Light and clear, a home-bound ocean breeze; when he speaks it's all but muffled, caught between his fingertips.

"You are… so out of the loop."

"… Huh?"

He shakes his head, lightly— silver strands swaying, ghosting the skin of his forehead. Extends a hand across the table, his inner palm facing up. "Sunday," he says, eyes gleaming with mirth. "My name is Sunday."

He can practically see the gears of your mind turn, click sluggishly into place, a series of mismatched blinks. Hopelesslyendearing.

"… Not that Sunday, right?"

His smile only curls further. "I wonder."

"Are you? There's no way." You're starting to look panicked, eyes wide with disbelief. It shouldn't make him so amused, the visible embarrassment upon your features, he shouldn't be enjoying it as much as he is. 

(Inwardly, he berates himself. Right now, he really is no better than Wonweek, is he?)

"I hope you can forgive me," he half-croons, dove-like, a weak attempt at stifling the joy in his expression. "I suppose I enjoyed teasing you. I was sure you'd catch on quicker, but I underestimated you."

You look mortified. It's almost, almost enough to pull another chuckle from his breast.

(No better than Wonweek, he repeats, quelling the urge.)

"… Actually," you say, after the silence has properly settled, your expression far less like you want to burrow your head into sand— sweeping a hand across the silence gathering dust between you, "I'm leaving Penacony, too."

That makes him still. "Oh?"

”I quit my job this morning," nervously, your fingers trace the edge of the ceramic plate. "And without my job, I don't have a place to stay… so I'm going somewhere else. Not sure where, but, you know."

He hums, affirmative.

"I just had to get one last pastry." There's a smile on your face, albeit flimsy; he could probably tug it off with just a swipe of his thumb across the seam of your lips. His fingers twitch with the desire, but he kills it just as quickly. "I haven't been here in a while, actually. Not since the Charmony Festival fiasco… I got really busy, and you weren't here— well, it's not like that was why, you know, but still. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

The trail of your wandering digits changes course. You break off a piece of the pastry at its center, crumbling dough between your index finger and thumb. A weary sigh escapes your lungs. 

Saddened, he thinks.

"Tarts taste sweeter in reality... I think I forgot."

Sunday watches you in silence.

"… Yes," he exhales, after a moment's pause. "you're probably right."

The composition from the counter changes, Satie's replaced by the tender strokes of a violin, sweet and light, filling the empty space of silence; Ashokan Farewell. His eyelids flutter closed, curtains of half-translucent moonlight drawing shut across his face.

"You know," he hears himself speak, "I think I'll follow your example."

When he stands up you follow, first with your eyes and then with your body— knees audibly knocking against the leg of your chair when you attempt to rise the first time. He smiles at the gesture, his expression serene. 

The glass display shimmers from afar, beckoning. 

… Ever since he had those pudding tarts, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

Sunday waltzes up to the counter, brandishing a gentle smile. "I'll have one crème brûlée, please." You come to a stand-still beside him. "And one for my companion, as well." 

A tingling heat, where your gaze sears into his neck. He meets it from the corner of his eye, a playful cadence to his voice when he asks, "Unless you're already full? Or, would you like something else?"

A moment passes. 

"… Crème brûlée is fine," you hum.

Sunday exhales. "In that case, we'll—"

"But I'm paying."

You side-step him with grace, tugging your wallet open. When you angle your face to meet his expression, there's something pleased about the way your lips are curved; he thinks of Robin, a gentle cat's grin, the look she'd give him whenever she'd foot the bill in secret. 

It makes him chuckle, despite himself.

"Are you usually this stubborn?" he asks, eyes gleaming gold. 

"Not really," you shrug. "I just don't like owing people favours."

He can sympathize with that. 

Still, he pauses. Restrains the urge to be equally as stubborn; a struggle, it turns out, but he stays his hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head, familiar nagging, Don't let anyone do what you could do just as well yourself— a hand on the back of his neck. Even worse, the faded lull of his mother's voice, smaller, whispered. Somehow, it bears more weight.

(Oh my, are those for me? My little angel is such a gentleman.)

He swallows, imperceptively.

"… Are you sure?" he inquires. Your reply is instant.

"Yep."

Deadpan. You're weary of waiting, it seems.

Sunday sighs, his smile indulgent. Head lowered in a show of defeat. "… Alright," he concedes. "In that case, thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Next time," he continues, sharply, "will be on me, however." 

The words linger in the air. 

For a moment, he regrets them; almost certain that you've been put off. He's already pushing his luck, he's well aware of that— tongue twitching with a change of topic, willing it to be seamless, but it weighs down on the muscle like lead, iron searing hotly, a path from roof to throat.

You don't say a word. 

Only still, briefly. Stiffen in place. You spare him a glance before your head flips forward, fishing the credit card out of your wallet, the Robin keycharm still dangling from its corner like a wind chime. Her smile strikes him as mischievous. 

"Mm," it's a shallow hum, more breath than word. "That's fine, then."

Sunday blinks. Has to swallow the affection crawling up his throat in pollinated flurries, an itch that reaches all the way back to the root of his ribcage. Leaves his feathers to twitch, no more than a wingspan's worth of fluttering, pinpricks of excitement spreading through his neck— an electric sensation he cannot put a finger on. 

All he knows is that it makes his lips bloom. His hand comes up to cover it.

(Yes, that's right, he thinks. In the vast expanse of the cosmos— in some corner of the universe, wherever that may be— your paths will surely cross again. You'll find another patisserie. One with better lighting, where he can look at you properly from the other side of the table: where he will not be able to hide the smile behind his fingers.)

The lady behind the counter looks bashful, watching the two of you in sheepish silence, as if she isn't sure whether it's alright to chime in or not. Sunday should feel apologetic, but he scarcely notices her presence until she clears her throat. 

"… Will that be for here, or to-go?" 

The words break you out of your reverie. You sputter out a confirmation, visibly embarrassed, the card nearly slipping through the gaps between your fingers in your rush to slide it against the card reader— and Sunday truly cannot help himself. His smile curls upwards, like a bird taking flight, a sunflower twisting its stalk towards the clear-blue sky. It breaks through the clouds, carelessly.

Outside the window, the crescent moon mirrors his expression. 

[look-over-yonder]

Thinking about Mydei's hair.

It's softer than you might think. Mydei's hair is surprisingly well-kempt, although it still gets a couple knots every now and then; that’s inevitable. Due to how thick his hair is, Mydei’s hair tends to get matted easily while fighting, and it can be a pain for him to untangle. And so, in true warrior fashion, Mydei has slowly taken it upon himself to adopt and familiarise himself with the art of self care.

Mydei didn't grow up learning how to take care of himself properly; survival came first. It was only natural that his interests would align in things like cooking and exercise, however, it wasn’t until much later did he start to take up a formal interest in his appearance.

Even before he first came to Okhema, Mydei had always tried to stay clean. If he didn't, he'd be walking around day-to-day permeated by the stench of blood and sweat— so he was a frequent bather. But he didn’t do much else other than that, and he definitely used to look even more rugged than he does now.

Despite his efforts, it was Aglaea who first told him that he should try putting more care into his appearance. Tribbie chimes in agreement. However, Mydei didn't seem too affected by their griping. Then, a bit later into the day, Hyacine invites Mydei out to an all-girl's spa day at the bathhouse. Begrudgingly, Mydei accepts with a sigh. However, he soon begins to reflect again on his decision as the girls conspiratorially turn towards one another and begin to whisper a little too eagerly among themselves.

Mydei realises regret is a fickle thing. When he later asks what they were talking about, Castorice would only give Mydei an awkward smile. And so, he pushed the event out of his mind and distracted himself with his commitments and training, waiting it out to the point he forgot all about his dread— up until the moment they started to drag him in there. However, it was also there that Mydei learned just how popular this practice was for the denizens of Okhema. One that enlightened him on a previously unknown holistic approach towards self-improvement.  

And ever since then, Mydei hasn't turned back.

While the smell of sweat never really leaves Mydei, there’s also another scent that clings to him like fire. It’s tangy, spicy— like nutmeg and saffron mixed together, but not quite. Underneath those fragrance notes is a tarty scent that reminds you of the lingering aftertaste of pomegranate juice coated with citrus. It's something you don't really get to smell very often unless you're around him. Because it’s his.

Mydei has a distinct smell, yes, but you are the only person he will let close enough to play with his hair whenever you want.

Mydei’s scalp is sensitive. Don’t tug or pull on his hair too much, even if you’re only trying to comb out a knot in his hair. Mydei becomes slightly more reactive when it comes to do with anything involving his hair, and he sees you pulling at it as a means to try and rile him up. But if that’s your intention— trust me. It works.

He likes it when people play with his hair, and yet, only a few people have ever really touched it. If you so desire, he’ll even let you play with his hair in public... With exception. He still has an image to upkeep as the crown prince of Kremnos, after all. But if Mydei is in a down or bad mood, let Mydei collapse into your arms. Then, run your fingernails through his hair, and let them lightly graze his scalp. He will melt.

Please tie up his hair. Please braid it. Please touch it!

Sniff his hair, and he might just die. While he won’t say anything about it, he will shoot you a look if you try it again. But there’s a noticeable pink hue now dusting his cheeks, one that would only continue to bloom and saturate in colour should your attempts persist. So please, be kind to him.

[look-over-yonder]

OH, TO BE IN LOVE! ♪ Kate Bush is currently playing...

What are their love languages?

Featuring... Phainon, Anaxa, and Mydei!

AUTHOR'S NOTE Hi guys :D This is my first official writing debut on Tumblr wow?! This took me a while to write, but I'm glad to finally get it done! I hope to make this a mini-series or something lol so feel free to req charas in my asks or with other prompts hehe, I'd really appreciate it! <3

Phainon

Quality Time. Are you kidding me?

No— he's not the type of guy to believe in things such as love at first sight. That's what he's always told himself, until he first met you.

Phainon was always undeterred no matter what the Flame-Chase Journey sent his way. Endless trials and ordeals simply came with the role of being the Deliverer, that much he had learned. But a job like his also came with more worldly, mundane responsibilities that laid a notch below fighting the everlasting onslaught of the Black Tide.

Phainon was good with his words. He's always had a natural wit and charm about him that he carried as effortlessly as breathing air. But it's not like he wasn't aware of his effect on others. It's exactly because he's so aware, that it amplified his ability to meditate conflict and settle disputes and between the residents of Okhema tenfold.

Phainon's princely, boyish nature was the main reason as to why he was so popular among the people. But being popular also came with the problem of having people interested.

Phainon had no time for love. He was a hero. One that had to deal with the burden of his world's weight on his shoulders at every waking moment. Phainon never could truly let his guard down, and at the same time, he was tackling a lot of issues that only he would ever know about. That was how he had always lived, after all.

Fighting. Losing. Failing.

So how is it, that Phainon had fallen in love?

He had felt bad about shooting down people's advances before. Even those that he felt he could reciprocate their feelings a little, he had managed to turn down. And yet, the feeling in his chest everytime he saw you? It had been that way since the day you first met, but he was quick to brush it off. But then, you two met again. And again. And again.

To no one's surprise, Phainon falls quickly.

Dealing with the strife of war and the pain of loneliness on top of a destiny as harrowing as his— left him with a chasm in his heart that led him yearning for connection. For understanding. For his desires to be fulfilled and intimacy. To be wanted.

Phainon is painfully self-aware. But, at the same time, he's also someone who takes action. He's quick to befriend you, and if you let him, you two will slowly start to spend time together— not on the grounds for anything else but spending time together, of course. Phainon has no ulterior motives, not yet.

It'll start off as menial chats, ones that could easily be passed off for small talk. Then, it'll slowly turn into banter. The kind you make when you don't know someone very well yet, but you can tell there's a spark there. And as you slowly grow more comfortable with each other, your conversations turn from minutes to hours. From up to chance to daily. From guarded and shallow, to philosophical and raw.

No matter how long it's been since you've seen him, Phainon always came back with something new to tell. Anecdotes about his day, musings he wants to share with you, maybe even the occasional insight into his past. And yet, it always seems like a small part of his mind is always somewhere else. You think it could be his hometown he sometimes speaks about, Aedes Elysiae, that he wishes he could bring you to.

There are layers to Phainon. A depth to him that remains unseen from the surface. He puts up a meticulous front, one that makes him seem like an indestructible man with grit, capable of taking on any adversary that comes his way and come out unscathed. He could be the hero and saviour that everyone needed if it meant he could save Okhema and avenge every life stolen.

But he was only a human.

Even if he struggled to accept his own flaws, the company you provided him grew to become enough to ease him into a quiet acceptance. One that helped him drown out those negative thoughts every time they came back. One that gave him another reason to never lose sight of what he had always believed in.

One that reminded him, it was okay to be vulnerable. That it was okay to slow down and be uncertain. And that maybe, he deserves to be loved too.

Time spent with you isn't just a pastime to him. Even in utmost silence, even in loud, boisterous moments, Phainon will always choose you. In times of ups and downs, he's loyal to a fault, and the one way he will always prefer to show it is by being able to stay at your side as much as he can.

If you choose to want him in your life, please excuse him if he gets way too excited being in your presence all the sudden. Or if he tries to keep you to himself for hours, only to end up falling asleep in your lap after chatting for so long. You should also expect a lot of puppy dog eying from him every time you try to go anywhere without him while you're hanging out or if things don't go his way.

Will you take him later to that new antique stall at the markets he said he wanted to go to?

Anaxa

Words of Affirmation.

Anaxagoras is an impassive man. It should come as no surprise that his every deduction is backed up by logic and his comprehensive expanse of knowledge.

No, it's not that Anaxa is incapable of feeling emotion. But Anaxa's life journey has always been dedicated to studying alchemy; understanding the soul and its properties, and how to reverse engineer the very composition of life itself. Quite literally, his mind is always focused on the matter of pursuing the truth of life.

So, unless you're also someone who shares a major interest in the topics of study by the Nousporists, please take no offense when I say Anaxa is probably not going to take much notice of you initially.

Anaxa has always been a hot topic. His insistence on being referred to as Anaxagoras, his unusual manner of speech and cadence and arrogant demeanour. Anaxa is renowned for his oddity, and yet the respect and reverence that is tethered to his name is not something that can be overlooked. Because despite his eccentric nature, Anaxa has a tenacious desire to understand the world around him. One so insatiable; that he has always succeeded in.

Well… At the cost of his social skills.

No— it's not that Anaxa doesn't feel emotions. It's just that anytime he talks to someone who isn't either his students, mentors, or other like-minded people, his sharp tongue gets even worse. Anaxa does not like people who hold minimal regard for the structure of the world and won't question anything at the expense of maintaining their own belief system. And trust me, he really has no qualms when it comes to disproving someone’s beliefs should it be for their own enlightenment.

So; what's so different about you?

Well, if there's one thing he's noticed, he feels different around you. Not in a good way.

Every time he steps into your vicinity, he feels a sudden tightness in his chest. And when he manages to catch your attention, his guts suddenly feel like they’re twisting into all sorts of formations. He even notes increased perspiration forming on his skin, causing his palms to go clammy and his notable steely focus to waver.

Whatever this strange affliction was, he had only started happening around you. And after the first time, he was already head-deep in scrolls at the Grove as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Well, he had an inkling on what was happening anyways. But as a scholar, he wouldn't jump to any conclusions until he had every plausible piece of information at his disposal.

So, when all the pieces set into place, what was his reaction?

...Love?

No. Anaxa could feel emotion, and he knew that very well. But he's uncertain if this is the most definite answer. He knows he is capable of love, considering how much he cares for his sister. But romantic love? He's a scholar, an educator, and demi-god. Apart from having all those responsibilities, he really isn't interested in pursuing a relationship. Besides, romantic interests directly conflict with his lifelong purpose.

Here's a tip: refer to him by Anaxagoras, and he'll warm up to you a lot faster.

Now, the biggest hurdle to overcome when it comes to Anaxa is trying to wiggle your way into his life. After that, it’s trying to get him to accept you into it.There's a myriad of ways this could happen, but the most likely main denominator is by slow burn. Anaxa does not fall fast. You will have to be patient for him and wait for him to recognise the signs and watch his every move— because his responses are subtle.

And when you do, you’ll be rewarded by discovering a side of Anaxa that he seldom shows.

Yes. Anaxa is kind. He is an unusual man, with unconventional methods of doing things. And while he doesn't like to overtly display his fondness for you, he makes do with the little things.

We all know well that Anaxa is one to speak his mind freely, and around you, that fact is no different. However, due to Anaxa's growing affection for you, should you ever mention things to him that were to warrant guidance from him, Anaxa will always spare words of wisdom or insight. Bided time or not, as a teacher, it is in Anaxa’s duty to extend knowledge to everyone he can reach. Yes, that includes you too.

The man is a diagnosed yapper. If you don’t let him talk your ear off, he’ll slip away in a blink of an eye. So; listen to him or learn how to admire him while looking like you’re listening.

Another tip: provide him with stimulating conversation. Are you a yapper too? Well. Just maybe, it’s fate! Try getting a little smart with him too if you want. Just keep that for private moments, because trust me, he will always level your attitude. And don’t act too idiotic. If you’re a listener, that’s okay too. Just don’t interrupt him until he’s done talking, otherwise he will get snappy.

As you slowly start to grow even more close to him, Anaxa will continue to offer you much needed advice and enlightening philosophical debates and discussion. And when he starts to feel more comfortable around you, his partiality towards you grows even more pronounced. If a certain snowy-haired student were to ask Anaxa if he’s taken a liking to anyone recently, he would first reprimand the asker for prying into his personal life, before answering the question afterwards calmly with your name.

Anaxa speaks highly of you whether you’re present or not. You can bet that if someone talks ill about you while he's around, he will be quick to shoot a side-eye towards that person and will speak to them only through thinly veiled hostile remarks until they leave. No, Anaxa is not being too irrational, he’d say if you caught wind of this. They were talking poorly about you. His passive-aggression is unremarkable, in comparison to how he can be when he doesn’t hold back.

Anaxa is a very well-spoken and confident man, and he's also good at magnifying your strengths to people who may not understand you like he does. If someone brings up your flaws, he's already prepared to immediately shut down their entire argument. When you and Anaxa are later in private, you might be surprised for Anaxa to suddenly drop a compliment. And if you ask him to repeat what he just said, he'll quickly change topics or shift his attention elsewhere.

Is Anaxa capable of getting flustered? That’s up to you to decide.

Subtlety is key in Anaxa's love. He needs quiet moments more than other people, albeit his desire for reclusiveness can be a bit excessive at times. Simply pull him out of his shell every once and in a while and remind him to breathe. Your presence is grounding enough for him whether he’ll ever admit it, and he finds that it’s easiest to appreciate you through his own little covert acts of gratitude.

Anaxagoras is a man of truth. He only opposes the unconstitutional belief in the Titans as he wishes for humanity to take back their agency and defy the prophecy. He's not heartless, no matter how chiding he can be. And it is difficult to win a spot in a life of a man as lofty and standoffish as Anaxa.

So— if you do win that position, be glad. And please love and appreciate him, blasphemy and all.

Mydei

Now this one? This guy is such a green flag, that he's a little bit of everything. He likes to give compliments, he likes to get handsy sometimes, and he likes spending time with his loved ones.

But I'm going to say Acts of Service.

Mydei, at his heart, is surprisingly quite the romantic. The crown prince of Castum Kremnos— it might be a little hard to believe, but it’s true. Mydei may have a hardened disposition and proclivity for speaking in a clipped tone, but underneath all those abrasive layers lies pure, untouched gold. Literally.

Mydei’s plight and turmoil is so unfathomable and grand in scale that it cannot be comprehended by the average mortal. And yet, what choice this undying, ineffable man continues to make is even more puzzling than his past shrouded in mystery.

Gentleness.

Mydei is gentle. He cares, and he will always be frank and upfront about what he thinks. No matter how brief or pointed his words may be, Mydei always carries himself with a rigid air of dignity and power. Considering his Kremnos’ heritage, Mydei’s assertive nature is derived highly by that and his own brutal upbringing.

And yet; it is exactly because of his troubled upbringing that Mydei likes food. Nutrition is important to keep your body healthy and in tip-top shape, after all. As a child, being raised in the Sea of Souls left him severely malnourished and his body brittle as bones. But nowadays, for a warrior like Mydei, his biggest priority was keeping up his physique in the best condition possible, which also required a sufficient intake of food daily to maintain. Therefore, when he’s not attending to duties, you will probably see Mydei busying himself with a biteful of something in his mouth.

How highly Mydei sees food extends into his own ability to cook. Since nourishment is such an integral skill to him, those expectations extand out to others around him as well. So, while you might not see him around the stove thatoften, rest assured that Mydei’s cooking is good. It could honestly even be considered a delicacy if you asked, since he’d be willing to cook you a Kremonan meal if you asked.

Ah. You.

Mydei was raised into a cycle of violence. One that he himself has never been able to truly break free from the shackles of. However, in saying that, that does not mean Mydei treats others with the same attitudes thrown at him during his life. And while he could be seen as a stoic, menacing man, Mydei chooses integrity above all. And he certainly appreciates people who share that same sentiment.  

That’s how he falls for you.

Mydei is surprisingly quite the romantic. But not in the natural sense. He’s not charming and domestic like Phainon, or a sardonic erudite like Anaxa. Mydei is open, curt, and operates in a way that he expects others to reciprocate. But when people don’t, Mydei doesn’t let disappointment or burden tie him down. Mydei was a warrior, and so long as he was kicking, he would always get back up. He had nothing to worry about with his resilience and utmost confidence in his abilities.

A man so mature and capable, and yet; the moment you enter his life, he can’t help but begin to dote on you.

Maybe it’s because nobody cared for him before. With all the tragedies he’s been through, Mydei finds his peace in mundanity. Trivial things, that won’t matter in the long run against his constant battle against strife. Something that made his chest stir, in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and led to him cooking for others. And then, he starts to cook for you.

Small meals, big meals, snacks. Anything you want. He just wants to make sure you eat well. While Mydei might not share any intentionally ‘flirty’ words of affirmation or physical affection towards you, Mydei’s actions speak louder than any words.

He can tell when you’re sick before you even realise you’re sick. And then, you’re getting thrown over his shoulder like a potato sack should you try and dismiss his concerns and immediately being taken somewhere private. Mydei would not tolerate his favourite person being sick of all things and working, of all things considered. When you had a luxury of such a ordinary life, why would you work when he could just take care of you?

…

Favourite person? Don’t tell him he said that out loud. He’ll tell you there’s no such thing in the Kremnoan language.

He’ll fix your bed before tucking you in and stick down a spoon full of chicken noodle soup down your throat should it mean you know that he cares. Even if he has duties on that day, he’ll pop in and out of your room and check up on you when he can, even outmanoeuvring Aglaea’s orders so that he ends up by your bedside and nurses you back into good health until you get better.

If you need anything, you might be surprised at just how eager the prince seems to fulfill your any whim. Should you let him, he wouldn’t be against doing your laundry or cleaning your residence of choice as well. Do note, that he will take back any clothing you’ve stolen from him during this time though.

Mydei is a survivalist. And he is also intense. In an ideal world, Mydei is most likely to fall for someone who is just as enamoured with him as he is with them. Someone who isn’t turned away even by the ugly, solemn parts of his life. Someone who can look past his reservations and recognise Mydei for the indomitable fighter he is and remind him that he can be loved too.

And in turn, he will provide you with his undying devotion. Mydei worships you despite the blazing inferno he’s trapped in. Regardless of the cruel destiny imposed on him, the respite you bring to his days remind him every day to uphold his unwavering strength and continue to fight for the valour of Kremnos, and the people of Okhema.

[look-over-yonder]

જ⁀➴ Do I know you? Hi, welcome to my writing blog. Please refer to me as Yonder. I'm a university student. 😊 I am a hobbyist writer and total novice. I like to write headcanons and share ramblings more than I like to write fanfiction, but I may dabble in a bit of both. Do not expect frequent posts from me, as I will go inactive for long periods at a time. Treat this blog as a means to read my musings.

જ⁀➴ Huh. So, do you write? This blog may touch upon or interact with dark and suggestive/NSFW content. Use your own discretion before interacting. Submission rules below.

I do take writing requests, it's just a matter of time with me. I also take asks about things I have published, including: scenarios, imagines; thoughts, prompts; etc. Feel free to send in those things. I will not respond to any asks that I do not wish to or that make me uncomfortable. Feel free to ask for clarification if you wish. I currently write for Honkai: Star Rail. I mainly write for popular characters and characters I fancy, but you can request any character; I just might not answer if I struggle to characterise them. I write for gender neutral readers unless prompted otherwise. Any suggestive works may mention anatomical parts though, though I will clarify what is used beforehand. I like a range of genres and enjoy yanderes and all that jazz, but I have limits. I will not write for anything that I am not comfortable with (i.e. incest, pedophilia, SA, etc.) or anything unsanitary.

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