#kicho's bithday 2022

[arsnovacadenza]

Kicho's BD 2022 fic

If you were to pick an animal that suits you best, what would it be?

"A falcon," you proudly say. "The peregrine falcon, to be exact. I want to have a bird-eye's view of everything, and strike with precision. A wrong move means death, and that means I need to be certain in my calculations."

You smirk, gun hanging on the left side of your hip. You believe yourself to be deadly, a man putting his worth into every strike you make.

Ah, a bird of prey. A man with ambitions, I see. You are destined for great things.

"You're too kind," your lips draw into a tight line. But the spark is still there, in your eyes.

And a perfectionist. You aim to be no less than perfect. To you, a wrong move could kill . Every miscalculated fall spelling your end. And you walk on a tightrope every single minute, balancing the world on your shoulders as if it won't crush you—

"Enough," you snap. "That doesn't mean anything."

Cautious, as I predicted. Your expression hardens.

.

Where are you? Where would you likely find yourself?

"A hangar," you close your eyes. There are sounds, laughter. Companions pouring over a blueprint and putting together a marvel They believe it will go far, and so do you. 

Even if it fails, it won't disappoint you. You're not alone after all.

With comrades like them, you can do great together. No longer are you a lone wolf, thought to be cold by others who never know you, never bother to ask, to try. 

What is a wild bird doing in a hangar? You frown again. A hangar is reserved for planes and helicopters. For man-made machinery crafted and controlled by men. Planes are meant to be steered by pilots -other people. But not birds.

Your destiny is not your own making, then.

At this point, you can feel the fury threatening boil, a paralyzing realization. Even after leaving the den of vipers, where "you'" were a product of manufacture, a shadow of something else by design. You are not your own person; you are—

You thought it amusing: mimicking somebody else's voice and using it to your advantage. The skill gives you an edge. It grants you some power, some leverage. But now—

Your heart is screaming to escape your chest, bones struggling to tear away from skin. A porcelain face meant to be the double of something better—

—of a prototype that's just as disposable.

"Ridiculous," you growl. "I did it for me. For my survival. And this is where I stand, alone. For my own sake,"

To be a villain in someone else's story. You shake your head, trying not to envision him and the inevitable divide that followed.

What comrades? What shared dream? A chasm appears and grows wider with every step you take. You convince yourself that this is the path you tread —that the hatred you let loose and fuel is a favor for the world that made you bitter.

Shall we proceed? 

.

If your world is described with a single season, what would it be? What sort of weather would you face when you step outside, in that world of your making?

“Sunny,” you answer. You are getting tired, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sunny with some light wind. Or maybe a chance of clouds. I don’t know,”

It’s best to be prepared for anything life throws your way. Rain or shine, your wings will continue to beat. 

Always considering the worst. The voice laughs, not exactly mocking but stirring you all the same. Can you see the wind? Could you tell the wind was even there? Is it not your mind that wishes it to be so?

And if it’s real, wouldn’t you just stay inside your cozy hangar?

“Lies!” you shout. “It’s exactly because I don’t know that I need to prepare! At worst, I can tackle even a storm head-on. I know I can!” You narrow your eyes, your beating heart thundering against its aching cage.

One more thing. It said, Why conceal the doubts you have by saying it’s sunny? Underneath that placid face, those cold, firm hands….

You are afraid.

You fear for every grain of sand that passes through your fingers. Every second grows heavier than the coat of lead you wear around your shoulders. You seize and devour your prey, never quite settling the hunger. A stomach hardened in knots, a body bending to the point of near-breakdown trying to resist fate, and reaching for an ending even you don’t think can survive.

Self-sabotaging desires that poison the heart. Your mind is your body’s parasite.

"No!” You scream. “This is what I’ve learned, all my life! That the world is wretched, that nothing goes my way! In the end, warmth is an illusion. The world has been cruel and always will be!”

Nothing I do matters is what you’d cry out as you sob. But tears are a sign of weakness. That, you’ve learned well.

“To live this life with nothing but kindness and thinking that the world will return your compassion is kind. That’s preposterous! I’ll never be caught in that foolishness!” You insist.

Love. The voice echoes. The one 'weakness' you possess in abundance.

Brimming with love, thirsting to be loved in return. Indeed, the world is cruel. You could’ve been frigid and unfeeling as the steel of your blade, and yet. 

You’d gladly pour your entire heart into one person and one person, alone. 

“And what if that’s what I desire?” You challenge the voice. “I am only human. The one desire I have,"

That's where you contradict yourself, again. The voice chuckled without malice. How can you be human if you crave perfection?

Your eyes widen, like the young boy that you had been in that cold, vast estate.

To fill that someone to the brim with love until it makes your heart burst, it continued. It doesn't matter to you whether or not they will reciprocate.

For happiness has never been something you can grasp in hand.

"I have loved," you say, tears threatening to well up in the corner of your eyes."I have loved, and it wasn't enough. To save—" you choke.

The abyss lifts.

.

"...I guess more than one person has wished for a loved one to be safe and sound," she says. "Perhaps these were all people who were reborn as golden butterflies because of their love for someone."

Reborn, "I guess…." You trail off, butterflies bathed in gold dancing above the reeds.

"See! It's not all bad!" She beams, her radiance more blinding than the distant sun. "When the rain stops, the folktale does come to life. It's such a lovely story,"

You nod, closing your eyes.