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romance-rambles · 3 months

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modern alkaid | the duality of pining

Alkaid's first night at in The Intermission goes badly. The next day, however, turns out for the better—as it so happens, the girl he loves might love him back.

6.3k, set during TE3, alkaid-typical anxiety + pining + happy ending, reader is mc, series: none

IF ALKAID LEAVES HIS ROOM and walks in a straight line, remembering to take a right turn before he crashes into the wall, he will come across an ordinary door.

It is blue in color, with a pop of silver provided by the cool-toned hardware. Many like it can be found installed in every door frame housed by Mrs. Santos' hotel; within Alkaid's suite alone, there are three examples to choose from—the front door, his door, and...

The door that belongs to you.

An ordinary door, made extraordinary by the girl staying in the room behind it—by you, the girl of his dreams. The one who'd fished him out of the snow and watched the aurora alongside him. The reason he'd chosen to go to St. Shelter Academia in the first place.

It's like something out of a dream, really.

To think you're sharing a suite with him—that he's separated from you by only a short trek to your door. There's a common area in between, and it would be so easy to waste the night away, chattering about something—or nothing—whilst sitting on the sofa.

How wonderful it would be to walk outside his room and be able to check up on you. To ensure that when you need someone by your side the most, you're not alone, even if you keep your secrets close to your chest.

He has some too, after all.

It only matters that you're okay.

And even taking into account their relationship status, the situation has all the markings of something that could be so terribly domestic that he can't help but want.

In the morning, you'll both walk into the lounge after, hopefully, a good night's sleep on your part. You might forget to brush your hair, and when he playfully points out your bedhead, you'll grouse about how perfectly awake he seems to be.

Alkaid will only laugh, painfully aware of how much he adores you. As you fix your hair in the bathroom mirror, oblivious to his longing glances, you'll strike up a random conversation with him—probably related to food. After freshening up, the two of you will head down together, and he will do his best to ignore Mrs. Santos' knowing looks.

And tonight, once you've relaxed a little, you'll probably go take a—

He pauses his thoughts there, before they can spiral to places he knows would make you uncomfortable, if you ever learned of them. After all, his keen gaze had not missed the flash of uncertainty that crept into your otherwise relieved expression that morning. Nor had he missed the way you'd locked yourself in your room the moment you entered the suite.

The daydreams he holds dear are likely the last thing crossing your mind right now. No matter how comfortable you may be with his presence, there are some concerns that aren't easy to shake off.

It is a fact Alkaid knows painfully well.

With a sigh, he sits up on his bed, legs still hanging over the edge. Considering the speed with which you agreed to spend the night with him—in the suite—he suspects you didn't want to trouble him with the task of finding a place for you to stay.

You must be regretting your choice right about now.

At that thought, his lips pull into a frown. Will you...will you be able to sleep well tonight?

You made it no secret that you enjoyed exploring this quaint little town. So much so that before they had returned to the homestead, the two of you briefly discussed your plans for tomorrow, vague and unfinished as they were.

A rough night is the last thing you need.

He could never forgive himself if you walked out your door, bleary-eyed and exhausted—with only enough energy to eat breakfast before you went back to your room to nap.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, as a plan forms in his head, Alkaid stares at his door.

It does not have the privilege of being made extraordinary simply because of the person residing in the room behind it—it is an ordinary door, as it had been this morning, and every other time he'd stayed in this particular suite. But it is through this door that he can make amends.

In that regard, he supposes it deserves some kind of credit.

THOUGH THE HOTEL DOES OFFER room service, he's always preferred to go down to the kitchen and grab the simpler orders by himself.

These days, Mrs. Santos only tends to sigh as she waves him back to his room. Sometimes, she'll let him make his order himself if she's busy. But when he'd first started this habit, after she'd offhandedly mentioned how exhausted she'd become after a day's work, he'd been met with some amount of resistance.

It had taken almost a year to wear her down.

"Here you go: a warm glass of milk," she says, handing him the glass. There's a knowing glint in her eyes, but it does not sufficiently prepare him for her teasing. "Are you having trouble sleeping? She's such a nice girl—I can see why you like her."

Alkaid flushes, instinctively spluttering out an unintelligible defense of his crush on you. Mrs. Santos only laughs wistfully and pats his shoulder. Her husband had died a few years ago—she's likely remembering him.

The thought helps him regain some of his lost composure. Unfortunately, by the time he clears his throat, she's already ushering him back to his room. He has no time to explain that the glass of milk is actually for you, or that he'd appreciate it if she'd tone down the teasing.

After all, he suspects her good-natured teasing likely contributed to your extreme discomfort at being alone with him.

He can still feel the lingering warmth of your hand from when you subconsciously held his hand, in order to escape Mrs. Santos' words. It is overshadowed by the heartache that comes with the memory of the distance you'd maintained early on in their day out, before you seemed to grow tired of your hypervigilance.

Alkaid makes a mental note to discuss it with her tomorrow as he climbs up the stairs, back to the second floor. It wouldn't do for you to be uncomfortable in your own suite.

But for now, all he can offer you is this glass of warm milk he's put on the table.

"Are you awake?" he asks softly, though the light seeping out from your room gives him a good idea of the answer.

When you first respond, your voice is startled and a bit shaky.

You repeat your words again. It still doesn't sound like the voice of someone comfortable with his presence outside her door. Instead, there's a hint of urgency in your words, one that screams at him to leave you alone.

The sound breaks his heart into such tiny pieces that it would take centuries to piece them together. Somehow, Alkaid manages to pull himself together quickly, carefully collecting the shattered fragments for his future self to deal with.

"I've ordered you a glass of warm milk. It's on the table," he tells you, keeping his tone upbeat and cheerful—just slightly above a whisper. "Drink up and rest well."

His hand is splayed out against the door's surface. Alkaid can't help but wonder: are you on the other side, holding out your hand like he is?

It seems almost disrespectful to ponder the thought.

After all, he knows it isn't true. That would imply that the respective situations they've both found themselves have any sort of equivalence, beyond the discomfort they both feel. And even that is different, in its source—you do not want to be here, and he wants what will make you the happiest.

Reluctantly, remembering he can't stay here forever, he pulls his hand away. You'll need to come out in order for his plan to be successful, after all. And the fact that you didn't open the door right away means you won't feel comfortable if you know he's there.

"See you tomorrow," he says, before returning to his room to grab a change of clothes.

All things considered, Alkaid's uncertain whether you'll take a shower. But just in case, he'd like to finish up quickly. The sun has long set, and though you aren't a stranger to staying up late, he doesn't want to impose on you more than he already has.

Quietly, he slips inside the bathroom—stares at the worried young man watching him from the mirror. He can't help but remember when he'd spotted you from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Not for the first time, he'd thought his senses had betrayed him.

Alkaid was in the middle of wondering if you'd like his quaint little escape back then. Then, you were there, observing the courtyard and telling him about how your accommodation woes. The spare room in his suite, he'd thought, was only going to rot.

After all, what good would the privileges at his disposal be if he could not aid the girl he loves in her time of need?

"What should I do?" he wonders out loud as he runs his fingers through his hair. How can I make things better?

The man in the mirror does not offer him a response.

THE LIGHT IN YOUR ROOM is still on when Alkaid walks out of the bathroom and into the living room.

His hands pause their gentle drying of his damp hair. The towel they'd been using—a light blue one, in keeping with the theme of the suite—droops, the bulk of its weight coming to rest atop his shoulders. Alkaid pulls at the fabric and, from the back, wraps it snuggly around his neck.

As he is, he must look like quite the sight. Lips parted in surprise, and bright green eyes transfixed on the siren song that is the warm light seeping out from under your door—

And oh, what a beautiful song it is, drawing him to its domain so skillfully that the memory of his short trek escapes him.

All Alkaid knows when he comes to is that he is standing at your door once again, loosely curled hand poised to knock. Uncertainty leaves it lingering in the air, a few painful centimeters away, right before it resumes twisting his heart into another painful arrangement.

That the warm glass of milk he'd brought up for you seems to have vanished from its place on the table provides little relief. How can it, when his mind seems insistent on playing round after round of its latest obsession?

(Are you awake?

Are you asleep?

Are you in the midst of a beautiful dream?)

And the only one who can free him for the never-ending cycle does not wish to see him.

THE NUMBER OF SPARKLES FROLICKING in the grass turns out to be nine. Twelve, five, nineteen, forty-nine—after a few rounds of the game, he turns to his side. A stray thought about his cat's friendship with Beanie distracts him from his counting, and he is forced to discard the results of the sixth game.

He soon turns to his other side.

Sleep does not come to him that night. When he moves on from counting ragdolls, Alkaid distracts himself by softly singing a lullaby. It does not work. He switches, instead, to wishing on some distant star, hidden by the half-darkened ceiling.

That does not work either.

Eventually, he gives up and opens his eyes.

The town outside is quiet. Only his breathing disturbs the silence. Somewhere beyond the foot of his bed, a blue nightlight glows softly. His phone, once he retrieves it from the nightstand, reads 2:00 AM on the lockscreen, above a photo of Sparkles.

A pair of arms—clothed in a familiar, baggy beige sweater—hold his beloved ragdoll in place, atop your lap. The peace sign your hand had been making is just barely visible, most of it having been cut off when he'd cropped the photo. Your braid happens to fall in front of Sparkles, who eyes it with ill-intent.

Alkaid's never asked whether you'd be okay with him putting you as his lockscreen, because you'd been the one to offer this one up. He remembers you smiling oddly once he showed you the finished product. You would go on to show him that same smile again—when, after mulling over your expression, he concluded it was some sort of test, where the correct answer was no, and made amends accordingly.

It goes without saying that he's never tried changing it after that. He can't, not when you have your own version of it with Beanie on your phone.

Glee had sharpened your smile into something teasing when he took notice of his inclusion. Just his arms, the same as in his own lockscreen. You made no effort to hide how much of it was motivated by some kind of spite, but the same went for how much you adored it.

Because whenever you'd look at it, your gaze would grow soft. It was as if you were watching something so incredibly precious—a treasure you would not trade for the world.

And like clockwork, a traitorous part of him would wonder if some of that affection was aimed at him.

"I'm sure—" Exhaling deeply, he traces the curved path your arms take with his thumb. Once, you'd mentioned the shape's resemblance to a heart; he hasn't been able to unsee it since then. "—whoever that ends up being instead will be the luckiest man in the world."

And perhaps Alkaid will get to reintroduce himself to him, if their friendship survives the night.

It has to.

After all, he hasn't gotten the chance to show you the pictures he took today, some of which, as usual, feature you among the sceneries of Mrs. Santos' hometown. His favorite is the one he took of you watching the sunset.

The warm colors of the sun had imparted a golden hue on your hair. Your back was to him; your hands were tied behind your back. A gentle breeze disturbed the serene moment at the same time you turned around.

With a press of a button, your welcoming smile became forever memorialized—and it will remain so, for as long as you want to keep it.

And he will remain by your side, for as long as you want to keep him.

MRS. SANTOS IS ALREADY TENDING to her garden when he comes down to the courtyard.

The moon is faintly visible in the sky, even as the lightened skies beckon the sun to climb out from under the horizon. As usual, Alkaid passed by only a few stragglers in the common area downstairs. You were not one of them.

Because before he left the room, your snoring could be heard from the living room.

Even on an ordinary day, when you don't have classes, there'd still be some time before you wake up. Today, he expects you'll need at least an hour more and—

Alkaid blinks as a yawn cuts through his thoughts. Unwilling to grant him the possibility of dodging the same accusations, his concealed eyebags remind him of their presence. They sit heavy on his undereyes; it is enough to have him contemplating a nap.

"Good morning, Alkaid."

That doesn't mean he'll go through with one.

When he pulls his hand away from his mouth, a polite smile awaits Mrs. Santos. He nods, returning her greeting as he would on any other day. Yesterday's vow remains fresh in his mind, quietly but insistently urging him to speak up.

"There's something I wanted to discuss with you," he says, his tone both firm and polite.

The older woman looks concerned. With some difficulty, she stands up, a hand on her knee offering her some support. Mrs. Santos puts away her gardening tools and observes him carefully.

"That's not something I hear everyday," she says, her tone humorous. He feels his shoulders relax slightly. "Why don't I brew some tea first?"

Without skipping a beat, he agrees. "Alright, I'll come with—"

She disappears inside before he can finish. Alkaid follows her. When they both return, sometime later, he is dutifully carrying a tray with three cups and a tea kettle, and Mrs. Santos is quietly grumbling about it.

They go through the familiar motions in silence—arranging the cups and pouring the tea. The third cup is left empty, though neither of them discuss why. It is their understanding, implicit, that if you come down stairs, you certainly won't say no to some tea.

When all is said and done, he begins to speak. It's a rather long-winded speech, something he's come to expect when it comes to you. You did not go out of your way to ask this of him—it would not be fair if you were judged for it.

"So, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tease us about our—" His mouth seems to have some difficulty sounding the word relationship out. Alkaid swallows with great difficulty. "She isn't interested in me, in that way."

Surprise registers on her face, eyebrows knitting together. She purses her lips, then opens her mouth. It closes before she can say anything at all. Her lips purse into a thin line.

"I see," she murmurs. A realization dawns upon her. "Has she—"

Cutting herself off, without prompting, Mrs. Santos shakes her head. Even so, he knows what the question on her lips was. Because Alkaid has wondered the same thing before.

Has she said that?

He brings the teacup to his lips. In doing so, he manages to cover up the downturned edges that speak of his thoughts on the matter—the hopes he once clung to, the ones he still can't shake off.

Have you said that?

You haven't.

You've never commented on how often he happens to be passing by your house, a box of cake in hand. Or how your friend Stella seems to be of the (correct) opinion that he's in love with you, a fact she makes sure to bring up every time she sees him. Or how you end up so often on his camera reel that it's much easier to count how often you don't.

What you have said is that you like spending time with him. That when you end up in a slump, he's the person you think of. And when you finish a painting, he's the first person you think of. And when you're doing nothing at all—

But they say actions speak louder than words.

Your actions last night can't speak any louder. The only way for him to reconcile your distant behavior with your general eagerness to spend time with him is simple.

You do love him, just not in the way he loves you.

"Alright, I suppose I got ahead of myself," she agrees. "It's such a shame. She's the first—you would've made such a good couple."

Alkaid puts down his cup, narrowly avoiding a catastrophe as he swallows down the rest of his tea, just in time. Zaph had told him something similar when he'd returned from his trip. That everything about him screamed he was in love.

He supposes time has only made it more noticeable.

"Thank you." Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, he smiles weakly at her. The moment he retracts his fingers, it slips back out. "I hope she'll be able to enjoy her trip fully."

Mrs. Santos only smiles sadly at him.

YOU COME DOWNSTAIRS EARLIER THAN expected.

The tea is still warm, and Mrs. Santos has yet to finish her usual rounds of the courtyard. When he asks about how you slept, whether your early rise is related to him in any way, you stumble over the only word that slips out.

"N—no," you say, discomfort flitting across your startled expression.

Alkaid doesn't get the opportunity to clarify your wording. Before long, you're sitting beside him on one of the white chairs, hands wrapping around your cup. He pours you some tea, carefully eyeing the steady stream of steaming liquid to ensure you don't get splashed.

You do not have the face of someone who would rather be anywhere but here. After taking a sip, you sigh happily. Eyes narrowing fondly, he smiles and pours you another cup when you finish.

It is with that same gaze that he watches you accept Mrs. Santos' flowers. You cradle them in your arms gently, their light purple color a lovely contrast to your cream cardigan. Then, you turn around and Alkaid forgets how to breathe.

Whatever it is the older woman says register in his mind as a jumbled mess of sounds, like a series of words he ought to be familiar with. The longer you watch him, the easier it becomes for his true thoughts to slip out.

You are, and always will be, the most lovely person in the room. You're—

"Beautiful," he says earnestly, his gaze lingering on your nervous smile.

By the time his mind catches up to his mouth, it is, in some ways, too late to worry about how you'll react.

A flush creeps up your neck, to your cheeks and the tips of your ears. On one side, the latter is made more prominent when you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.

You almost seem pleased with the compliment.

He does not think about it. Not now, not when Mrs. Santos ushers you back to the table and you set your flowers to the side, in a vase at the edge of the table. Dark purple meets green as you sit down, your lips curving into a gentle smile.

Last night's worries keep him from enjoying the sight properly.

In the background, Mrs. Santos is asking about something. Alkaid hears his name and yours—and the word together. The look the older woman sends his way leads him to believe she doesn't see the problem with her question.

It says, See? I didn't tease either of you.

Seemingly unaffected by the question, you take a big bite of a chocolate-filled croissant. Your blissful expression is perhaps the biggest compliment you could pay the older woman—second to only the way you reach out for seconds.

As you lick off the leftover chocolate on your lips, your hand hovers over the assortment of breakfast items before gleefully plucking another two croissants from its plate. Meanwhile, his plate remains untouched.

Alkaid chews on his lip, worried that perhaps you're doing too good of a job at being polite.

"Well, Alkaid here—" You reach over and nudge his elbow. "—promised he'd show me around town again. I hope that's still in effect?"

You say that as if he'd ever say no to you. He chews thoughtfully on a pastry and wonders if that might be a good thing. In that case, perhaps you'd feel less pressured to do things with him—

But your expectant gaze returns his thoughts to their normal direction.

"Of course," he answers, condensing all his longing into only two words.

The third one borders on a near-confession—an implicit acknowledgement of his affection—so he leaves the Anytime out of it. It does not stop Mrs. Santos from giving him a knowing look.

"Is that right?" She smiles pleasantly. "You two enjoy yourselves, then. I'll make sure to whip up something nice for your last night here."

Your face lights up in delight.

"That's—ahem." Coughing into your fist, you pretend to be unaffected by the allure of the older woman's words. You haven't known her long enough to find out she's already prepped the ingredients the night before. "You don't have to do that, Mrs. Santos. Last night's dinner alone was more than enough."

"Don't be silly," she says, waving your concern off. "I'd do the same for Alkaid—oh! That's right. Do you have any requests, Alkaid?"

He does not—but you do.

So, Alkaid smiles and pretends his motivations for putting the spotlight on you aren't selfish in nature. That he does not to do this to be able to see that same blissful expression on your face again, this time with the knowledge that he played a part in your happiness.

"I enjoy anything you cook, Mrs. Santos," he says smoothly, before nodding his head at you. "Since it's her first time here, I think it's only fair that she gets to pick."

The older woman laughs, not unkindly. You shove another croissant into your mouth. A silent understanding seems to form between the two women at the table, one that, Alkaid feels, has everything to do with him.

But they do not enlighten him on what that understanding is.

Instead, the conversation continues where it left off, so seamlessly that he can trick himself into thinking the interruption never happened.

You talk about food, then flowers, then your time at St. Shelter Academia. Mrs. Santos tells you stories about him, of when he was younger and would come with his family—most of them being decidedly embarrassing, particularly since you're the one listening to them. And you drink them up with the same eagerness that seems to consume Alkaid when it concerns you.

The matching lockscreens come up once, as well.

He finds himself being stared at—almost disapprovingly—by the older woman. It reminds him of your odd expression, on that day. But before he can ponder what it is she knows that he doesn't, you rescue him with an apologetic smile—one that'd have him forgiving you immediately, if there was anything to forgive.

(There isn't.)

And even when he backs away from the conversation with warm cheeks and the word beautiful rattling around in his brain—even though it is entirely your fault, there is nothing to forgive.

Even though he wonders, again, when you glance at him after your devastating blow—that is his own fault.

Because last night, he'd sworn he wouldn't do this again. Last night, you seemed like you didn't even want to see his face. Last night, it seemed so easy to think he wouldn't fall back into old habits again.

Is it about him? Is it about Beanie instead?

Alkaid swipes an assortment of fruits from the center of the table. Pretends those questions won't be eating into the time he could be using to sleep. He is nothing less than his normal, polite self, even as the hurricane called you tears up his sanity.

When you look at him and smile contentedly, he adds another cause to the list.

THE PAYMENT ALKAID REQUESTS OF you, when paid in full, takes the form of a flower tucked behind his ear.

It is your idea, something spur-of-the-moment that pops into your head when you rest your hand on the bike's rear seat. You close the distance between them, and only when he replays the memory at night can he pinpoint the exact moment his fate is sealed.

There, as he's laying in bed—kept up by a situation that is in every way the opposite of last night—the sight of your eyes, glimmering with mischief, engraved into his memory forever.

In the present, however, as your hand reaches out for him, Alkaid closes his eyes.

On the front seat rests one of his hands; the other fiddles with the back of his shirt. They curl loosely into a fist as your cold fingers carefully brush his hair out of the way. His heart, as it beats only for you, tries to jump out of his chest. The trail you leave behind on his skin feels unbearably warm.

You laugh softly, to a joke only you know of.

It loops around in his mind like his new old favorite song, silencing any thoughts about how close you are. Yesterday's worries seem to flee his mind, your easy-going behavior a balm for his soul.

"Alright," you say, the sound of your voice returning to an appropriate distance. He opens his eyes to find you admiring his appearance. "I've paid your price."

The smile on your face would've stolen his breath away—if only he hadn't already forgotten how to breathe.

IN THE HOURS THAT FOLLOW, Alkaid falls in love with you, over and over again.

And the truth is, nothing in this world is easier—that if soulmates exist, then his heart knows, whether he is yours or not, that you are his. Even the heartache that visits him every time he leaves the present to court the future cannot deter him.

The most logical part of him points out that few women would act as you did this morning. The rest of him chides it for being so presumptuous, wielding last night like a dagger—so resolute in their conviction to keep him in his place.

Their job is made harder by the fact that you've once more taken to acting as you normally do.

Right now, the two of you are at a souvenir shop in hopes finding a present for Mrs. Santos. The idea came to you when they were at a convenience store earlier. You wanted to find a way to thank her for the lovely experience—and the love and care she put into every interaction with you.

"Do you think she'd like something like this?" you ask, holding up a mug with a stylized design of a grumpy cat.

Though she is a lover of cats, Mrs. Santos is, rather unfortunately, allergic to cats. For that reason, ever since he was old enough to go by himself, he's always been a solo traveler. Sparkles is there with him only in spirit—and in the many photos he has of his beloved ragdoll on his phone.

Alkaid thinks the mug is a lovely idea. Both practical and aesthetic. It is only the words written above the cat that give him a pause, in fun, bubbly letters that hardly suit the design's star.

Rather than the always cheerful Mrs. Santos, he thinks it would suit you much better.

Seemingly reading his mind, you sigh despondently. "I'll keep looking. Come on."

This is only the second shop they've visited. This is only fifth thing you've discarded from your list. Alkaid stares at the long fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist and obeys.

The urge to grasp onto them doesn't entirely die when next you release his hand.

At that time, his watch reads 11:15. Thirty minutes later, you remain unsatisfied with the selections offered by this particular store. You drag him along to the next store, brows knitted in concentration as you mull over your possible choices. He mulls them over too, in hopes of speeding the process along.

Because there are still a few more places he thinks you'd like. But the sun steadily creeps up higher in the sky, constantly reminding him constantly of their limited time together.

Tomorrow, you'll return to Harp Island—and there's no word on when you'll come back here.

"I'll go take a look too," Alkaid says, after you make a beeline for the first thing that catches your eye.

"Would you?" As you put away a hairpin you can't seem to agree with, a relieved smile crosses your lips. "Thanks, Alkaid."

He returns your smile with one of his own—something he hopes will assure you that the end is in sight. Then, he leaves first, disappearing among the shelves with only a fleeting glance at your now distant figure.

ALKAID IS NOT A STRANGER when it comes to having eyes on him. Whether it's strangers on the street or the ghosts of his childhood, he's grown adept at hiding both his discomfort and his knowledge of them.

Still, when the topic of their discussion partially revolves around you, he feels compelled to step in and clear the misunderstanding.

"She's just a friend, I'm afraid," he says, smiling apologetically. "It's payment for a tour I'm giving her."

The culprits seems to be a pair of siblings, close in age. Over the course of their fervent but light-hearted discussion on whether men look good with flowers in their hair or not, he learned their names are May and Max—that May is the older one, and that Max is not infrequently teased for every possible reason under the sun.

They both startle easily at his interjection and glance at each other. A flush creeps up the girl's cheeks, half of which she manages to hide by giving herself a sidepart. Max only coughs politely.

The satisfied gleam in his eyes, despite his embarrassment, speaks volumes.

"Oh," she utters, clearing his throat. Max tugs at her sleeve, and May lets him drag her away—though not before she decides to offer him one last bit of advice. "I'd ask for more than one flower, then."

Alkaid merely smiles politely.

To charge anything beyond that would imply that spending time with you is not its own reward. To charge anything at all would, ordinarily—but he's found, more often that not, people tend to feel more comfortable when there's some form of reciprocity, when it comes to jokes.

If he insisted on going without pay, there was a distinct possibility of the mood souring faster than he can recite your birthday.

"What was that about?" a familiar voice rings in his ear, your warm breath fanning against his ear. He tamps down the urge to flinch, though he can do nothing for his warm cheeks. "I heard something about flowers?"

Carefully, so as to ensure you don't think he's running away from you, he takes a step back—puts his hands in his pocket. And when he looks back at you, you're doing a terrible job at hiding your smile.

The upturned corners peek out from behind your two fingers—but even if they didn't, he thinks your eyes would betray you.

"She seemed to think I should've asked for a higher price," he confesses truthfully.

There are three ways this can go. You can ignore his words entirely to show him the latest item you've pinned your hopes on. You can argue against it, with whatever argument you have on hand, and Alkaid will easily return the flower. And the third one, both the one most likely and the one he wishes for, is—

"She's not wrong." You nod, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. A plushie's leg peeks out from behind you as you walk up to him. "A flower isn't enough."

"What would you give me then?" he inquires calmly, as if his rapid heartbeat doesn't drown out all but the sound of your voice.

At first, it seems as though you have the answer already. Confidence drips from your tone for the first half of your sentence, but a distressed expression soon breaks out on your face. You purse your lips and cup your chin thoughtfully.

"Well, for something obtainable..." You mutter, sounding exasperated. He expects some of your next words to be a quip about how difficult it is to put a number on him. "Maybe a 100...maybe 200...300...? Your birthday is...so that many...?"

Alkaid hums, taking note of your wording. "And if it isn't obtainable?"

"It'd be hard to wrap," you caution him, having forgotten whatever plans you had for the plushie. As it swings behind you, he realizes it's a teddy bear. "But if I could, I think I'd give you the world."

The last of your words comes out softly, like a confession meant only for him. Your gaze softens, and though you seem like you're somewhere else, he can't help but think you're still thinking about him. And for the first time in a while, the contrarian in him remains quiet.

When Alkaid smiles softly, his heart feels lighter than it has in ages.

The girl he loves wants to give him the world—and though you keep your secrets close to your chest, you are not a liar. He will not make you out to be a liar, by wondering if you really mean it at all.

And it is easy enough. All it requires is framing last night's interactions with you a bit differently—that you were not afraid of him but of what he'd figure out. It's a thought he'd entertained on and off, but never with as much conviction.

In a way, the two of you are nothing less than birds of a feather.

"Just spending time with you is enough," Alkaid assures.

With a dramatic sigh, you hold the teddy bear against your chest and huff. His smile takes on a helpless tinge as he watches you shake your head. When you take note of it, your eyes narrow into what would be a ferocious glare if not for the faint pout on your lips.

"And we return to the crux of the problem again," you complain, shoving the teddy bear at him. "We'll come back to this. What do you think of this bear for Mrs. Santos? Doesn't it look like her?"

He takes a step closer. "Hmm, I think she'll appreciate it. Do you like it?"

Your nose scrunches up at his words. A sigh escapes your lips as you look longingly at the teddy bear, then at him. This time, you don't shake your head quite as vigorously as before.

"Alright, let's keep looking," you say, your hand wrapping around his wrist again. "You come with me this time, alright?"

The answer to that comes easily, even before you confide in him how boring it was without him. Alkaid chuckles warmly and quietly takes your hand, the way he'd wanted to earlier, with an explanation on the tip of his tongue—

"It's more comfortable this way."

Once the flash of surprise fades from your eyes, you grin at him. "You read my mind."

It takes some time before either of you are willing to let go.

#fics by aya #lovebrush chronicles #lovebrush chronicles x reader #for all time #for all time x reader #alkaid mcgrath #alkaid mcgrath x reader #lbc alkaid #lbc alkaid x reader #lovebrush alkaid #lovebrush alkaid x reader #rambles from here on ->#IT'S DONNNNEEEE i can finally go back to pokemon (no)#if you found alkaid annoying for at least half of this fic then good ive done my job #there isnt a man i hate more than mr. alkaid “would sacrifice himself for mc” mcgrath *hides the incriminating evidence*#i think if i'd waited a bit more i could probably start quoting lines from the actual TE but alas...i must move on #anyways happy almost spirit world release #specifically happy almost alkaid route release #the other two can get my well-wishes when i write something for them

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batsplat · 6 months

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hello i saw in your tags that you don't think people on here get casey stoner and as someone relatively new into the sport i would love to hear your thoughts <3

(context here) okay first of all, this post will be framed as ‘things I wish people talked about more with regards to casey stoner’, rather than arguing against what I think people think

I've tried to come up with a concise response to this ask but kept heading into thesis-length territory. so I decided to write a bullet point list and it’s still… yeah… but well it could be worse. if you, dear anon, wish to read thousands of words of casey stoner lore then please let me know. otherwise, here are just a few things I find interesting about this bloke:

casey has a very complex relationship with the concept of confidence, both in other riders and himself, in the sense that he KNOWS how important it is but also believes/wishes that he specifically is kinda above all that

this feeds into how he wishes that racing were Just Racing and not all this other stuff… not his brain not his body not other racers being assholes on/off track not talking to journalists or doing photoshoots not having to deal with politics etc etc - central underlying tension of his career

he has openly spoken about not ever really enjoying race day, saying the only thing he's missed after retiring is qualifying. very perfectionist, the anxiety, the over-thinking, craving control… all key casey traits

(which also ties in with the valentino rivalry, because valentino obviously adores racing (in particular wheel-to-wheel battle) but he’s also great at all that other off-track stuff)

some very rigid ideas of How The Sport Should Look, which you can see in everything from how he talks about racing standards to the introduction of CRT riders (he had it OUT for them, head hot every time aleix espargaro shows up in parc fermé) to valentino’s influence on ducati and the importance of the colour red

let him have his mean streak! the grim satisfaction in discussing jorge’s 2008 injuries after his early-season arrogance towards casey, the dismissiveness towards dani, some of the wilder valentino remarks (this isn’t a criticism to be clear, alien-on-alien violence is part of the natural order of things)

casey is a classic case of ‘just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you’. definitely a suspicious guy and perpetual underdog 'me against the world' mindset. not to get too psychoanalytic-y, but I reckon this was partly born out of how he had to leave australia as a teenager (with his family completely dependent on him succeeding) because of how the racing establishment down under fucked him over

they definitely were out to get him a lot of the time, cf yamaha and then ducati drama plus the slander from some of the greats of the sport, fellow riders, the media etc etc (particularly egregious in 2009 when he was dealing with his mystery illness and a lot of people said some pretty unpleasant stuff in his absence - here is just one example)

his struggles were constantly downplayed. the chronic fatigue misdiagnosed as lactose intolerance led to people calling him weak-minded, broken, running away from the sport (part of why he was so allergic to the idea his results might in any way be connected to what was going on in his head). add in the undiagnosed anxiety and you have all this invisible strife people wouldn't even take seriously

that being said, he definitely did have a propensity for jumping to the worst possible conclusions

two specific examples: firstly from his autobiography, where he makes the claim that valentino may have been sabotaged in the 2006 title decider and was deliberately given a rubbish tyre to make him lose the championship - to which casey’s response was: “welcome to my world, mate”. he does have a tendency to believe he’s being sabotaged, and is constantly on the look out for conspiracies even when they are… unlikely

the other example is mat oxley talking about his issues with casey in his stint working for ducati, partly based on a misunderstanding:

something allegedly written about him in 2001!

let’s just say he can definitely hold a grudge

the moaner stoner stuff was definitely nasty, calling him mopey and whiny and all of that, but he also has never shied away from some good old-fashioned complaining (some of this was a bit of a spiral - complaining for good reason worsening public perception of him leading to more reasons to complain)

see also the lingering marc grudge, who probably did play a significant part in getting casey kicked out of honda (as casey has accused him of). whether marquez prevented stoner from racing in 2015 is more of an open question. casey still speaks about how honda made a mistake by only listening to marc (which, again, does have some truth to it)

casey was always very quick to shut down the idea that momentum, motivation, confidence etc could affect his results (unlike that of his competitors) because he argues he was always very rational & clear-sighted about when things were his fault & when things could be blamed on the bike + extraneous factors. he really goes into detail about this when discussing 2008 laguna seca in his autobiography, which he argues had no effect on him psychologically (but was followed by him crashing out of the lead of the next two races)

has definitely spoken more about his rivalry with valentino than valentino has, which probably has also helped shape perception of it over time

on ‘ambition outweighed talent’ - I feel like people almost understate just what a (hilariously) out of pocket remark it was in context. it was rossi’s second ever race at ducati (and the start of his season was impacted by his shoulder issues) - and the rain meant he had a ~win it or bin it~ approach because he knew it was as good a chance as he might get for some time (despite starting from 12th). the move on stoner for second place was at best optimistic, most definitely impatient and at worst foolish - but sort of understandable in that situation, rossi was definitely rapid, and this stuff can happen in the wet. in that sense, it was obviously more a reaction to the manner of the apology (and his frustration with the stewards) than to what casey himself described as a racing incident

stoner made a remark in his autobiography about how rossi had stolen 25 points in a title battle he was never going to be a part of (oof). whether you're obligated to race title contenders differently is already a bit sketch but certainly should not be a consideration for anybody in round TWO

he was forced to publicly retract the remarks, though he doubled down on them to a deeply funny extent in his autobiography by suggesting they were true of valentino’s entire career and that he’d just benefited from a weak era. rossi mostly took it on the chin especially when interviewed about it for documentaries, probably because with something like that you do just need to take the L

it's understandable how it’s become such a defining image of their rivalry (along with laguna seca), not least because of how evocative the whole thing is - rossi showing up still wearing his helmet, trying to make a PR apology stick while he’s been eating nauseating amounts of humble pie at ducati; stoner casual as you like, pissed off about the points loss while still indulging in schadenfreude about how the Great Big Ducati Adventure is working out for rossi

but again, I think it’s funnier because of just HOW over the top an insult it was in that situation (and more broadly how it does have a different vibe to their interactions when they were meaningfully competing, aka 2007-2008)

in conclusion: casey has his doubts and his insecurities and his obsessions and his foibles… a complicated guy in his own right

and a big thing I’d like to stress here is that the rivalry with valentino does benefit from treating them both as somewhat unreliable narrators

I just think he's neat

#ty for giving me an excuse to be annoying at length about one of my number one guys!!#casey stoner #valentino rossi #motogp #//#cs27 #vr46 #lotsss of other stuff you can go into here. he gets a bit sanitised sometimes I feel which is kinda a shame #u can be justifiably resentful and still be very resentful. spite is still spiteful when it's deserved. same with the misanthropic streak #being called weak-minded really got to him imo - and the thing is he's clearly not (& good lord did some big names say some nasty things)#the autobiography feels almost an overcorrection and then you've got him recently talking more openly about his mental health #(even if not specifically about how it affected him competitively - which is obviously a related but not identical conversation)#it's an uplifting development in a way and it's nice seeing how much more comfortable in his skin he seems these days #but he is also a little bitch :)#batsplat responds #heretic tag

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