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m1ckeyb3rry · 4 hours ago

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MIRA WAIT HEAR ME OUT ON ROADKILL FOR LUOCHA (are you surprised?) literally just combed through that event post, also that sperm banner is sending me to the orbit TT hehe roadkill sounds like a banger i’m so excited to read the others too!! ❤︎

── WHERE PLUM FLOWERS BLOOM

Synopsis: You don't know it, but you love Luocha — or perhaps you've always known it, somehow, but it's only through the passage of time and his eventual departure that you realize just what he means to you.

HSR Masterlist

Divider: @/saradika-graphics

Pairing: Luocha x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Content Warnings: i forget if there's anything that makes this f!reader but possibly that, another nonsensical m1ckeyb3rry drop with 0 elaboration just vibes, idk anything about luocha i was just making it up #allinmyhead, mentions of blood and like. ritualistic abuse/injury (😭?) NOT TOO EXPLICIT THOUGH it's just mentioned, partially epistolary, luocha is down mf bad, in terms of characterization/worldbuilding/relationship development we have no characterization/worldbuilding/relationship development, uhm. i think that is sufficient lmk if i missed anything though

A/N: HELLO KOU and congrats on being the first request to escape development hell KSDHF thank you for sending an ask for my event!! hehe roadkill was going to be very screwy with concnurrent timelines and whatnot so instead of going for a 1:1 au thing i took that inspiration instead and made it a bit vague and whatnot 😪 i can only hope that i did not butcher your beloved...i have done my best KLSDHF

Dear Luocha,

It is strange, calling you that. To me you will always be someone else, someone with a dearer name, but if this is who you are now, then I must accept it — though I beg of you not to change anymore, lest you be unrecognizable entirely upon your return! Although, as you once said, there is a certain charm in that, in getting to know you entirely over again. Anyways, I am sure that at your heart of hearts you will always remain the same, so perhaps I should not fuss quite so much.

It is my sincerest hope that we may be reunited once more. There was much left unsaid upon our last meeting…but it is not something to be written in letters. Some discussions can only be had in person; I think this may be one such case, where the words cannot be found nor believed unless they are spoken. Though I know you always say you are ten times more eloquent on paper than aloud, so perhaps you would disagree; well, if that is what you will! But I shall keep my silence until you are before me once more.

Ever yours,

Y/N

You first met him ducked behind the marble walls of the church, standing on his tip-toes and extending his arm towards the laden boughs of a plum tree, resembling a bird on the brink of taking flight. For a moment you were still, watching as he plucked one of the riper fruits off the end of the branch, rolling it in between his fingers with an appreciative grunt, and then you took a single step towards him, crushing pink-white petals underfoot when you did.

His green eyes met yours at the instant his teeth broke the delicate skin of the plum, and panic sparked when he bit down, juice wetting his lips as he hastily chewed, swallowing that single morsel before tossing the entire fruit away and hiding his hands behind his back, bowing at you.

“My apologies,” he said. “I have been remiss. Did the teachers send you to collect me for our lessons? It isn’t a good excuse, I know, but it truly was a moment of distraction, nothing more.”

Even back then, he spoke with the cool, detached grace of a priest, though he was as lowly born as you. Unlike you, however, he had been bestowed with a divinity upon his birth, or so it seemed, and therefore at such a young age he had ascended to a status you would never reach.

You knew his name already, had heard it whispered throughout the shining capital a million times over, that pretty, delicate word which meant prince of lilies, and before you could stop yourself it was falling from your tongue. How sweet it tasted, how melancholy, and you said it again and once more for good measure, your eyes dropping to the purple stains upon his fingertips so that you could avoid his scrutiny.

“You come here to hide, right?” you said, surprising yourself with your boldness. His hands curled into fists disguised by the flowing fabric of his white robes, but you saw them, saw the way his tendons flexed momentarily, and for some reason felt entirely relieved by the fleeting display of humanity. “I won’t tell them.”

“You won’t?” he said dubiously. You shook your head. He regarded you carefully, and then he nodded, beckoning you closer. You did so at once, caught up in the lily-scented headiness of his presence, and when he dropped a plum in your hand, your fingers curled over it instinctively. “Good.”

“Good?” you said. He smiled, and you could tell based on the slowness of its dawning that it was not something he did readily nor frequently, so you were quick to return it with one of your own.

“Yes, it’s good,” he said. “Thank you…Y/N.”

It didn’t occur to you for many days that you had never told him what your name was, and by then the time for asking had long since passed, so you were left to forget the topic, except on those days when he was very close, his breath fluttering over your collarbones as you thought to yourself that there must’ve been a meaning to it all, one that you might be able to discern upon further consideration but did not yet dare to.

Dear Luocha,

Sometimes, I wonder what the weather must be like where you are. Is it sunny, or is it raining? I hope that you are in the kind of place that is in an eternal springtime, for I know you have never been fond of the cold, no matter how brave of a face you put forth. I am sure you are laughing in that way of yours — and if you are not, humor me as if you are, alright? — at such a childish notion. What sort of a place is forever caught in the time when flowers first bloom? It is unrealistic and bizarre, but I think it would make you happy, so you mustn’t blame me for imagining.

I am so frightened. In the worst of my dreams, those flowers are bullets and you are surrounded by hellfire and I do not know when I will see you again and I worry, I do worry…The baker was selling plum tarts the other day. I thought of you but did not buy one.

Ever yours,

Y/N

He was more mischievous than he let on, more mischievous than one of such a controlled voice and refined stature ought to be. You first learned of this proclivity when skipping your afternoon lessons and sitting where the shadows of the plum tree and the church intersected went from a coincidence to a habit; he was incorrigible, really, always encouraging you to stay at his side for a minute longer, to braid ribbons and weeds into the locks of gold which were beginning to spill over his shoulders, in accordance with the holy customs of the land.

“They mean to make me one of their priests some day,” he said, lying with his head in your lap and his eyes closed. A butterfly rested on the tip of his nose, flapping its wings lazily with every breath he took. The first time such a thing had happened, you had been awed, but now you did not bat an eye, for such occurrences were common with him.

“Haven’t they always?” you said, twirling the ends of his hair around your index finger. “You were born for such a role.”

“Maybe,” he said, turmoil flashing over his face, darkening it in the way thunderclouds darkened even the loveliest of sunsets.

“You don’t want it?” you guessed. He chuckled.

“Am I so obvious?” he said.

“Only to me,” you said. “But that comes as no surprise.”

“No,” he said. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Dear Luocha,

You might tease me, but I am realizing more and more that you were the only person that mattered to me I could consider a friend. Oh, I can picture how you would snort at that now, but it really is the case. I miss you more and more with each day that passes…but I should not bore you with the trivial details of my longing!

How have you been? I haven’t received any letters from you in some time. I ask the postmaster nearly every day — I think he has your address memorized at this point! My parents are asking after you as well, though of course they call you by your other name, your true one, and they still believe you are on some great pilgrimage instead of fighting in this senseless war. Maintaining such a lie is difficult, especially to my mother, who has always been so discerning, but I have not failed you yet, and I do not plan on doing so in the future.

Ever yours,

Y/N

Watching them break his spirit was difficult, perhaps the most difficult thing you had borne unwilling witness to. You yourself had been assigned to an archival position in the church upon graduating with mediocre grades — there had never been any hopes that you would grow to be someone of note, and you had lived up to the expectations placed before you entirely and without complaint. You had no interest in being important or highly regarded, not when you saw what it did to him, not when there was still sun and summer to live for.

A priest’s life amounted to a gilt of austerity painted over a heartwood that was rotting away from hedonism. Yet he was not like that, he was a verdant herb or a pale flower, and so he was too malleable to break, too incorruptible, ignoring their cajoling and bribery with the resolute dignity of a martyred saint.

But of course there were other ways to convince a man, and so he would come to you in that place secluded from the world, marks littering the twin apples of his cheeks, turning them faded and blue and mottled, the sigils branded into his forehead reddening into scars that would only vanish when he complied.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he told you one day, your collar clenched in his fist, the skin over his knuckles split in shapes referring to the king of the gods. His eyes burned green and violent as they bored into yours, and droplets of blood welled in their corners, threatening to fall if he so much as blinked. “Isn’t that funny? They are remaking me in their image, and it doesn’t even hurt.”

You wanted to tell him that it hurt you, that you ached for him, every lacerating rune on his arm burning into your throat as he explained to you what each meant with the flat detachment of a professor, as if the two of you were reading from a textbook instead of the very veins that ran along the angle of his elbow. But that hardly made sense, because your skin remained unmarred and your blood unspilled, so you didn’t say anything to the effect.

“I don’t want you to be remade,” you said instead, quietly and softly. “I want you to stay the same. I want you to stay as you are.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he said, and abruptly every righteous emotion blazing within him was extinguished and he slumped forward. “No matter what I do, I will become someone different. Whether I accept my fate or run from it, I cannot remain the person you met for much longer.”

“You can,” you said weakly, and when he tucked his face against the crook of your neck, your fingers tangled in his hair of their own volition. “Please. Don’t become someone I don’t know.”

You felt more than heard him snickering, his amusement dry and sardonic. You frowned, and though he had no way of knowing, he shifted and exhaled in what you knew amounted to an apology.

“If I ever become someone you don’t know, I’ll reintroduce myself to you, and you can meet me again,” he murmured. “I might be twisted and bent and wrong in some places, but whatever is left of me, you can learn at your leisure. Is that some consolation?”

“As long as you promise you will come back to me,” you said.

“No one can change me enough not to,” he said. “Not the church and not the world.”

Dear Luocha,

Dozen eggs

Bag of flour

Fruit (which is in season?)

Yarn (sweater needs mending, check color)

My apologies, I have used this letter as a bit of a shopping list. I hope you do not mind it; I don’t have anything more interesting to say, so it’s for the best, anyways. If you are reading this, please write back with any suggestions you might have for my next trip to the market.

Ever yours,

Y/N

He kissed you only once, the day after they scrawled incantations over his heart and told him it was theirs now. Your back was to the plum tree, his hand cradling the nape of your neck so that it received the brunt of the bark’s ire in lieu of the slivers of skin exposed by your uniform. He loomed over you, surprisingly intimidating, wearing a halo of afternoon sun and a cloak of autumn wind, nigh-seraphic in both stature and countenance.

His free hand guided yours to cover the place where the verses came to a full stop before he moved his lips against your own, and it was strange, for you had always imagined him to taste sweet like the fruit he preferred, but it was salt and bruise and gunmetal that invaded your mouth like a foreign entity, tracing along your tongue and heaving, panting, desperate and unsure.

Only when he drew back did you pull your hand from his chest, catching your breath while he did the same. Your palm came away bloody, the red shimmering with a preternatural, blessed power, and before you could stop it, your eyes widened in horror.

You wiped it off on the grass in a hurry, and neither of you spoke of the day again.

Dear Luocha,

They say the war will be over soon. Is that true? Does that mean you will be home soon? I have heard many details of your exploits, which is the only reason I am not more worried than I already am. They speak of a swan-warrior with a silver sword and eyes like cold gemstones, who fights with the grace of a bird and the delicacy of a blossom. It is you, I am sure of it, though no one else would ever consider such a thing. The next High Priest, vanished to study the ways of the blade…after everything they did to carve you in their image, it would be akin to spitting in their faces. They still think you are absorbed in meditation at the sunken temples; how foolish they are, how naive, how certain of themselves and their powers.

All of them walk around with such swagger and pride, so assured that they managed to turn even you into one of their meek little sheep. It is all I can do to fight back a smile, for I alone know that you have flown far from this place, and whatever becomes of you now, it will be your own choice, not theirs.

Ever yours,

Y/N

There was no moon in the sky on the day he left the city. His irises reflected the torchlight as he told you in hushed tones that he meant to change his name and join the army, to fight against the invading armies that infested your borders like swarming insects.

“Why?” you said. “Since when have you been a patriot?”

“I have no particular love for our nation,” he said. “But the idea of freedom, of suffering, even of death…I am so fascinated by it. These things that our professors and priests hid from us all our lives, I want to experience them, I want to imbue their essences into my being so thoroughly that I cannot unknow them no matter how hard I try.”

“I see. But what will the elders think? They won’t let you go without a fight, you must know that,” you said. When he was like this, there was no point in arguing. So rarely was he stubborn that on those few occasions he was, it was a proper and impossible obstacle to overcome; you had long ago learnt that there was no sense in even attempting. The only recourse was logical and careful consideration of his argument — for this was another thing, too, there was always a reasoning to it all, and usually said reasoning was flawless in the way of a knifepoint, inevitably swaying you to his side.

“I’ve already left them a letter saying that I was called to the sunken temples to meditate on the future of this war. They will be delighted that I have finally allowed the whispers of the divine to take shape in my mind, so they won’t question it in the slightest,” he said promptly, and when, as usual, you could not find fault in it, you sighed, squeezing your eyes closed so you didn’t have to look at him.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll write to you as often as I can.”

“Every day?” you said.

“If the postmaster permits,” he said. “Though I’ll have to change my name; mine is too distinctive at present. I’ll make sure it’s something you recognize, though.”

“Okay,” you said, a sorry, pathetic lump forming in your throat. “Okay, as long as — as long as I know it’s you.”

“Would you forget me that easily?” he said. You shook your head, immediately and furiously, and this prompted a gentle hum from him. “Don’t mourn me while I still walk this earth; save your sorrow for when I am departed.”

“Okay,” you said again, because if you said anything further, you were afraid you would not be able to maintain your cool facade, and if that happened then you would be lost entirely, a fumbling, feeble child in the dark of the night.

There was a silence, and then the silk of his gloves brushed against your cheek. You bit your tongue and tried to think only of the patterns bursting behind your eyelids — spiderwebs, cracks in cobblestone, the thin arteries of leaves, anything but him and how tenderly he lingered even as the window for his chance at fleeing grew narrower and narrower.

“You won’t open your eyes?” he said. You shook your head wordlessly, slowly at first but then faster, faster, and it took every bit of strength you had not to chase after his wrist and cling to it when he moved back. “If that is what you want. Farewell, Y/N.”

“Farewell,” you stammered out. There was something else begging to be said, both of you knew it, but neither of you had that bravery, that wherewithal, and so it could only hang in between you both, nearly tangible in its weight yet refusing to properly coalesce for good. “Don’t leave me for too long.”

Don’t leave me at all.

Only when his footsteps grew faint did you open your eyes, and only when you were sure he would not turn around did you allow your lower lip to tremble unchecked. As the white tails of his coat vanished from your view, you began to weep, and you hated yourself for it, but you could not stop yourself from wrapping your arms around your torso and rocking yourself, wondering who he would be if you ever had the chance to see him again, wondering if you had squandered your last glimpse at the man you — at the man you —

Dear Luocha,

The longer you are gone, the harder it is for me to remember the person I met in the shade of that plum tree. The exact shade of your eyes…the way you smiled…the scent of your clothes after you washed them…day by day, you become more ‘Luocha’ and less the man I grew up with. When I think of you now, it is in abstract images, in the click of the typewriter and the sting of a papercut. I miss you and I do not even know what, exactly, it is that I miss.

Supposedly the war is over and those who fought will come home soon. It has been some time since I last heard from you, and even longer since you wished me farewell on the street that night; the rest of the world has kept moving, but I alone remain frozen in place. My parents think I should wed soon, for I am nearing the age for such things, and maybe they would be right in calling me unreasonable for refusing — however, they do not know the truth which I have steadfastly kept from you thus far but cannot fathom hiding any longer: I love you. Isn’t that such a stereotypical thing? Go on, then. Laugh all you want, but I do. I love you, and I regret that I never told you, that I only realized when it was too late to do anything about it but bawl to myself in a most sniveling, unbecoming way.

Come back. Allow me to cry and tell you these things and humiliate myself entirely; let me learn you again at my leisure, as you once promised I could; tell me who you are now, if you are Luocha or someone else entirely; hate me or love me in return, whichever you please. But come back.

Ever yours,

Y/N

Dear Y/N,

Eloquence is my Well, I have always You don’t I am trying, but the words How have you stolen this from me? I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.will be home soon.

Ever yours,

Luocha A person who will always come back to you

#okay wait i just remembered this existed LFJDKDND LOOKING BACK I LIKE IT MORE THAN I REMEMBERED #some good lines in this one 🙂‍↕️#icymi <3

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