#lovebrush chronicles fic

[sundaynie]

𝐚𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 | 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐡

pairing | st. shelter!lars x mc

genre | fluff

summary | mc mulls over her first day at harp island

author’s note | it’s been a week since i started playing lovebrush chronicles and i am obsessed y’all. here’s a short, fluffy drabble dedicated lars rorschach bc that man owns me now !! (work cross-posted from my ao3 account)

His eyes remind you of the Mediterranean Sea.

A delicate blend of pale blue and subtle green hues. It's a little warmer in tone, fittingly enough. His oddly benevolent gaze resembles pools of aqua, with streaks of turquoise in his irises emulating the soft ebbs and flows of water.

I could drown in them, you think.

Waves of azure blue intermingling with seafoam green to create the most stunning shade of aquamarine.

I would like to, you muse.

A yawn escapes your lips as you prepare for bed. It’s well into nighttime now, just approaching 11pm. You’ve changed into your pyjamas after finishing your usual evening routine— a scorching hot, full-body shower and your ever-so-elaborate skincare routine.

Eyes shifting to your suitcase by the door, you’re glad you didn’t need to unpack your belongings. Your stay at this dorm is a provisional one since you’ll be moving out in the morning and into the off-campus housing that your guardian, Cael, had arranged for you.

Tucked snugly into bed, the journey from your hometown to the small island occupies your thoughts. It had been an exhaustingly arduous overnight trip and with your seasickness rendering you bedridden for most of the time you were aboard the cruise ship, you were thankful for your mentor to have accompanied you.

You hadn’t anticipated your arrival at Harp Island to be an overwhelming one. Your first day for orientation, sure. But stepping foot on the official campus grounds of St. Shelter Academia and meeting so many people all at once was beyond what you had prepared for.

Their faces and names are all a Gaussian blur in your head. The fatigue of travelling and having to assimilate to your surroundings so soon finally catches up to you as you sink into the bed of your temporary accommodation.

It had been a long journey but you were glad to be here, at last.

You turn over, gently resting your cheek against your palm, vivid blue-green eyes flashing in your mind.

Lars Rorschach.

You ponder the possibility of encountering him again. Given his status as one of the academy's key investors, crossing paths with him seemed highly probable. You mull over the extent of his connections within St. Shelter and wonder how far-rooted his relations are with the academy. His familiarity with Cael suggests they were well acquainted, evident in the way they spoke to each other.

It would make sense if he was a former student.

You speculate on the academic path he might have pursued at the academy, envisioning a business-related course, given his role as the CEO of Feinz Group, a thriving multi-billion dollar enterprise. You picture him as someone who was a well-known figure on campus, he is charismatic enough, after all.

Not to mention devastatingly handsome.

With his towering stature and golden hair, sharp nose and chiselled jawline.

Amidst all his striking features, it was his eyes that captivated you the most.

You find yourself wondering if they change colour, refracting and reflecting under different lighting.

Were they blue most days? Or did they lean towards green?

The memory of his eyes sparkling as he openly praised In Passing, blissfully unaware of your identity as the author of the manga, replays in your mind.

"I really like this artist. I hope to get her autograph one day."

His remark was sincere, with all the enthusiasm of an easily excitable golden retriever.

A small smile unknowingly graces your lips as you slowly drift off to sleep, dreaming of aquamarine eyes.

—

end note | i already have like 917279645883624 lars fics + drabbles lined up so watch this space lol

[xyoonx]

[idyllcy]

oops... i got married || TO MY COLLEGE PROF???

word count: 2.6k || Fic 1 of oops... i got married

summary: There is no way you just woke up married to your college prof. God. At least he's hot?

You get married as a joke.

Yes, there are limits to how much you can drink. Yes, there are limits to how insane you can get while drunk— but apparently getting married is not within that limit. You get married to some random guy— NOT SOME RANDOM GUY. YOU GET MARRIED TO YOUR COLLEGE PROFESSOR. You wake up to a legally signed marriage document and your college professor in your kitchen, and you blink at the red booklet in your hands and then at your professor at the door.

"You're going to be late for class."

"Oh. My. God." You hold your head as a headache splits you open. "that hurts."

Cael steps next to you, bowl of soup in his hand, and you blink at him.

"Oh my god."

"You've say that once already." He mumbles, holding the spoon to your lips after he blows on it. "Drink up."

You open your mouth to drink, still blinking in mild confusion when you finish the soup, brain only processing then whether or not you have clothes on. You touch yourself, sighing in relief when you notice that it's just a change of pajamas. It would be the end of the world... or, well, it wouldn't. You suppose there are worse situations than getting married to your hot professor... wait. Should there be an age gap tag on this?!

You take Cael's hand as he helps you up, and he blinks at you, tilting his head.

"Come on. You have class."

"Isn't it Saturday?"

"It's Monday."

"Don't we get Monday off?"

"That was last Monday." 

You scream, blinking at the clock, taking your clothes from Cael's hand (you have no idea when he got the clothes) and change, rushing out of the house as Cael locks the door behind you, following behind you as you rush through the college gates. Cael nods at the security guard— something that the two of you live in a pattern of regardless of whether or not you're married. You find it strange. Yes, you would not have asked Cael to marry you while sober, but it's also questionable. You wonder in what universe you fall for a man several times your age and ask him to marry you while plastered.

"So? Did you do anything after last night?" William brushes up next to you, peeking over your shoulder at you. "I saw someone bring you home. Lowkey, he was kind of hot. His hair was up and everything."

"Yeah." You pause. For the plot? For the plot. "I got married to him."

"WHAT." William screams, and the professor raises a brow in annoyance at him, making him sink back into his seat. "You got married to some random man!?"

"Yeah..." You avert your gaze. "I'll tell you in a bit. Let me take notes—"

"You never take notes!" William gasps. "No fucking way."

"Someone's going to beat my ass if I go home without any notes again." You avoid Cael's gaze from the front of the lecture hall, and go back to clicking on your laptop. "you know?"

"Oh my god." William blinks. "Please tell me I did not just put two and two together. Is this your only lecture of the day? Are you going home with your husband later?!"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You avoid the topic, choosing to ignore William for the rest of the lecture, and bolting for the door as soon as class is dismissed. William yells at you for being a coward and to face him, and you rest by the car as you wait for Cael to return. You sit in the car, resting your head on the wheel with a groan as you click through your phone. At some point, you grow tired, eyes growing heavy as you decide to doze off. You wonder where Cael is... you have a feeling that he's going to get here the second you knock out. You blink slowly, and then stare at Cael's face leaning over the door of your car.

You roll the window down after jumping in your skin.

"Why didn't you knock?!" You panic, eyes wide as you let Cael into the car. "What if you got caught?!"

"Caught by who? My fanclub?" He holds up a bag with drinks in it, humming. "Come on. I'll heat up the milk tea for you when we get home. Don't even think about touching it while it's cold."

"It's not cold!" You gape in faux offense. "I can drink it! Who did you even get it from?"

"My fanclub." He hums, pulling a drink out and stabbing a straw through it. "Drink up."

You take it from his hand as he secures his seatbelt, starting the car as you pause. "So... are we going to talk about being legally married?"

"We can talk about that at home." Cael hums. "Want me to drive?"

"No. It's my car." You grumble, driving out the parking lot as you wait to merge onto the street. "What exactly happened?"

"You got plastered and somehow managed to convince me to sign the marriage certificate you were holding up." Cael pauses. "I was also partially drunk."

"You drank? Who drove us home?"

"We rode the subway."

"Damn." You mumble. "That's crazy. I can't believe you said yes. I would've expected you to say no."

"Well..."

"..." You pause, slowing down at the red light. "drunk man words are sober man thoughts."

"Don't say that to me."

"Oh my god." You mumble. "You're in love with me."

Cael chooses to stay quiet, and you reach over to grab his thigh, laughing as you step on the gas.

"My husband is in love with me!!!" You laugh, squeezing him affectionately as you continue to drive. "Does that mean you won't get divorced with me?"

There's a considerable silence before he speaks up. "Did you think I was going to divorce you?" 

"Maybe." You mumble. "Just a little."

"I wouldn't have agreed had I not liked you to some extent." He mumbles, resting his hand on top of yours. 

"Oh." You pause, another considerable silence passing over the two of you. You blink slowly even when the two of you reach your apartment, and suddenly, it's almost as if his words have just clicked. He likes you. Your college professor likes you. Wait.

"There's got to be some sort of questionable age gap between the two of us." You deadpan.

Cael raises a brow, and you pout. "You're in your last year."

You pause. "True... but you better have not liked me for four years. Isn't it weird to fall for a student anyway? Or did you fall for me because we're neighbors?"

"A mixture of everything." He hums, resting his forehead on yours. "If you keep talking, I may just not cook dinner."

"I can live with instant noodles."

"I can't." He pinches your skin gently. "Shall we have dinner?"

You find that being married to Cael is fun. You get to watch him grade everyone's tests and snoop through his stacks of papers and laptop to see whether or not you can find the next test's answers, and your answer is almost always the same file with a password you can never crack in time before Cael inevitably finds you trying to cheat again. You wonder why he doesn't just report you to the dean, but you don't find it in yourself to care, lips pulled into a pout as he tells you to just study. Easy for him to say.

Maybe he's so old that he just forgot that senioritis happens in college too. 

Yet, he cares in his own way, warm drink next to you as you work through the copious amount of work that you're given in your upper-division courses, head spinning and annoyed over everything. He points out mistakes in your paper, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, lashes batting slowly as he corrects your essays with a click of his tongue. You pout at him when he does, but he does not make any change in habit. As long as you get a good grade, you suppose. 

Then, your grade comes back, and you are set to graduate. 

You rush home to show Cael the grade on your phone, arms thrown around him as you beam. He runs his hand down your back affectionately, lips pressed to the temple of your head sweetly as he congratulates you. You hum, head resting on his shoulder as you hum. "I should pay you back."

"How about wearing a ring?"

"We have these." You pout at the cheap one on your finger.

"We both know I can afford to buy you a better one." He hums, playing with the ring on your finger. "Shall we go ring shopping in celebration?"

"How is that me paying you back?"

"You're paying me back by spending more time with me." He hums. "That is my request. Let us go buy a ring together."

"Is that all?" You hum.

"We can spend the rest of the day shopping too."

"Alright..." You mumble. "We should go shopping for your clothes. Your wardrobe needs a little updating."

"Yeah?"

"And don't fight me for the bill on your clothes."

"Is that how you're going to pay me back?"

"Yep." You pop the p for emphasis, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you hop off his lap. "We'll take my car so we don't need to haul shopping bags back on the subway."

"Very well."

Cael sits back and lets you pick his outfits, your thoughts put before his as you discuss with the store clerk how to make him the hottest man on campus. He wonders if you just simply don't have a single jealous bone in your body. He doesn't like it when people get too close to you. His brows furrow ever so slightly as your hand brushes the store clerk's when you take the outfit, and you furrow your brows slightly as you stare at the clothes and then at Cael.

"I don't want this color of tweed."

"What are you looking for?"

"Something like... classic. Beige. Picture beige baby but there is no baby and it's my husband." You pause. "Make him the hot guy in a trenchcoat at the campus coffee shop."

"I see the vision." The clerk gives you a thumbs up. "Just wait and see, young'in. We've got this."

You wave bye to Cael with a smile on your face, sitting in the waiting area as you scroll through your phone. You take photos and give a thumbs up and down depending on how good he looks in the clothes, and Cael finds that despite his stamina, he understands why you had looked so drained after shopping with him all those times. It's not that his body is tired— it's just that he can only wear so many outfits in such limited time.

On the last one, he opens the curtain of the dressing room, and your whole face perks up.

Ah. This one. You like this one the best.

"Shall we buy this one?" Cael raises a brow.

"I don't care if my scholarship money is going down the drain for this." You rip the tag from behind him as he crouches down slightly to help you rip it easier, and you scan and ring up the bill. He watches as you swipe your card without second thought, the vast majority of what he tried on going into bags as you carry them. Cael presses his lips to your forehead gently as a thank you, and you grin.

"Shall we get something to eat? My treat." He hums. 

"Not the rings?"

"I called my associate at another store." Cael hums. "I can take some of the bags—"

"No." You pout. "Let me."

"Well, I suppose it is a skill for you to be able to hold so many at once." He laughs. "Would you like a treat?"

"I'd like my ring." You bat your lashes at him with a grin. "I'll drive."

"Alright." He follows behind you, coat still on, hot on your trail as the two of you wait in the elevator to get down to the right level. He helps you open the trunk, and you hum happily. 

"Did you order a ring?"

"They're going to get you fitted." He hums. "And then you're going to pick a design out of all the ones I sketched out."

"Oooh..." You shut the trunk. "Romantic."

"Perhaps it would have been more romantic to actually propose with it."

"Well, we get a good story out of it." You smile at him as the two of you get in the car.  "What color is the ring going to be?"

"I've sketched it in every color you can think of."

"There is no way you did that."

He did.

You stare at the samples and then at the sketches Cael provided, and you blink slowly at your husband. 

"You pick."

The clerk gapes as Cael picks up the rings and tries them on you one at a time. He would get you all of them, but you would complain that it's a waste of his money. Though, he wouldn't really be spending much. He wonders when the next cheque for displaying his works is going to come in. That should be more than enough to cover the costs of the rings.

"Why not all?"

"I'm not comfortable with spending all of that money yet." You deadpan.

"Better get used to it." He hums. "These three."

You stare at the designs he picked, and he hums. "Turn these two into earrings instead."

"A pair or one of each?"

Cael glances at you, lips quirking up at the sight of your dropped jaw.

"One of each?" You blink at him in confusion. "One of each. Mix and match sounds fun."

Cael nods as the store clerk punches in the order. "Anything else you would like, sir?"

Cael shakes his head. 

"Wait, how about your wedding ring?"

"Oh, they have their counterparts." Cael flips the paper over, and your jaw drops. 

"Double the price?"

"Don't worry about it." He hums, tapping his card on the machine and covering your eyes.

"Oh, hey." You hum. "You finally figured out how to use a credit card?"

"Debit." He hums. "I had an account because they were paying me, but I just never applied for a card."

"Oh." You pause. "YOU'RE USING A DEBIT CARD?! HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU EVEN HAVE?!"

"How old am I?"

You shut up after that.

Not arguing with a man who's older than the existence of the planet you're on. (a joke, really. He's only a decade or two older than you. Though, he definitely doesn't look it.) So, you stare at the ring on your ears in the mirror two weeks later, Cael's matching one on his pierced ear, leaning behind you, chest pressed to your back as he stares at the earring on your ear.

"Looks nice."

"Yeah?" Your neck creeps with warmth, and he presses his lips to your ear gently, standing straight again as the clerk hands him the bag with the earrings.

"Shall we get going, beloved?"

Your hand shakes as you take his, and you try and calm your racing heart.

Oh, god. This might've been the best decision you've ever made while drunk. ever.

[romance-rambles]

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.

[kaedekolya]

as the frost thaws [ch.1]

‧₊˚☾ lovebrush chronicles ‧₊˚☾ clarence-centric, lars/clarence ‧₊˚☾ 7.1k words; chapter 1 ‧₊˚☾ rebuilding godheim, slow burn, hurt/comfort & recovery

The Daphnephoria ritual will save the dying kingdom of Godheim, for a small price. A single archmage, for the happiness of many. Clarence’s future is worth little, especially when weighed against the kingdom’s; it is but an insignificant sacrifice that he has long since resolved to make. The magic sweeps through him, shredding his insides, scorching his spirit—

And yet, somehow, Clarence wakes again.

Death has eluded him, and now he must learn to live.

➵ read on ao3

[xcerizex]

"The vacancy of your eyes is a curse."

3.3k words, angst, contains spoilers for the main story, cael anselm, horrible attempt at minor fluff, how do you do tags and stuff???

Day #36:

The morning sunlight is bright on his skin as Cael does the laundry in the garden. Flinging the bedsheets up, he then drapes them across the wire, after all the sheets need to be dried before tonight so that she can get a good night sleep. Unfortunately, she won't be able to use the spares, not when it's been torn to the point where it's unusable.

He senses her gaze on him and shifts his position so that he can watch her discreetly and see her looking at him through the glass walls of her gallery pretending to paint. Having failed subtlety, she repeats the same strokes over and over again, creating an unusual blob of blue and white. Judging from the look on her face, it seems as if she wishes to talk to him again.

The wind picks up, and the white sheets whack him in the face, covering his sight. He doesn't need his eyes to see that the girl is giggling at his predicament and he wonders how on earth she finds his suffering a source of amusement.

'If it makes her happy.'

He quickly finishes the rest of the laundry and heads inside, ready for the girl to pounce on him the moment he steps back into the house and sure enough, she approaches him as he places his shoes down on the floor.

"Are you planning on doing the groceries soon, Cael?"

She pretends as if she were simply asking him out of curiosity, but he knows better. Noticing the way her feet fidget, he smiles at her and nods his head.

"Yes, I am. I'll be here for an hour or two before I leave, so I'm not in any rush."

"Then..."

She holds up a box of new paint he had gotten for her and asks him eagerly;

"Can we paint together?"

He smiles serenely. He notices that she has started to paint less in her time here despite not having much else to do. So he agrees, it's best if she picks up the brush again, and he wants to spend some time with her anyway.

"Alright then, let's head to your gallery."

After moving a new set of blank canvas for Cael into the gallery, the both of them start to paint side-by-side, and a tranquil silence falls across them. They have never needed idle talk to feel comfortable with one another once they start painting, and in a way, Cael is glad he doesn't have to force himself to act as her guardian during these moments, where time passes like the wind.

Right now, it's just him, Cael, and the girl whose existence has made him spiral to a deep end he can't get out of.

He hears her choking on her paint water again, startling him out of his thoughts. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he hands her a clean handkerchief and a proper glass of water to clear her throat. While wiping her mouth, she wheezes a hoarse "Thank you" before finally calming down and resuming her painting. Next time, he hopes that she'll learn to separate the glass that holds her paint water, and the one that holds her drinking water at opposite ends the next time.

However, years of spending time with her has made him acutely aware of what her next course of action may be. So it doesn't surprise him when she takes the shift in mood as an opportunity to nonchalantly ask him;

"Can I...join you later? To do the groceries?"

Her voice is still slightly hoarse as she says this, and as if afraid it won't be enough to convince him, she adds;

"It's just, wouldn't it be easier if the both of us carried the load, instead of just you? I can help you and I won't stray away-"

He places his brush aside on the easel and despite placing it down as gently as he could, the sound of it rings loudly like a bell, as she immediately falls silent. Her response is like a whip to the heart, lashing and cracking an irreparable crevice and he doesn't know why. But she does not back down and stares into his eyes after his gaze finds her.

"I understand that you wish to go out. But it is dangerous." He says, making sure he speaks gently to appear as affable as possible.

"The trip to the main island is full of danger. Those who wish to capture and hurt you may take the chance to do so."

Standing up, he moves forward towards her until their faces are only a few inches apart. He feels the tremble of her breath on his mouth while he, softly, lightly, rests his fingertips on the area under her eyes.

He doesn't remember ever coming this close to her before...this, and the proximity makes him feel slightly giddy.

He feels sick.

"It is better for me to protect you here, than endanger you by letting you go outside."

He hopes to convince her by emphasizing about the possible dangers. But in their proximity, their eyes find each other and it is not he who wears the heavy stare. It is her. She gazes at him and for the first time since he's brought her here, he sees something else that is not the hue of hopelessness in her eyes that haunts both him and her even when she's smiling. It is an emotion he cannot recognize.

Acquiescing to his desires, she nods her head.

"Yes...Cael. I'm sorry to have bothered you again with this."

She excuses herself, abandoning her painting as she exits the gallery claiming she needed some alone time and he lets her go. At the moment, he has no heart to chase after her and offer comfort. The unease he feels in his chest roots him on the spot and he wonders about the way she looked at him.

There is a sinking feeling in his gut, telling him it was not his words that had convinced her.

What did she see?

He fears the answer.

You coward.

Day #122:

She has begun to hide her emotions from him now.

Placing a plate of strawberry toast on the table, Cael turns his head towards the kitchen door to find her entering the room. Her steps are slow and heavy, but retain their daintiness and mimic the footsteps of a doll.

She draws a chair back and sits down. It's early in the morning and as usual, Cael makes breakfast for her. He greets her with a practiced smile.

"Good morning, I'll be preparing some black tea shortly. The strawberry toast won't turn cold just yet, so it's fine if you want to wait until then."

She nods her head quietly and whispers "Thank you, Cael", before she starts staring out at the window.

He frowns inwardly to himself as he turns towards the teapot. Strawberry toast had always been her favourite. Knowing her, she would have long scarfed down her food regardless if the tea was ready or not.

Does he really not understand why however? He does. And yet, he stays in denial. Knowing that the moment he wakes up from this dream, it will tear him apart with no mercy. It will break him.

"!"

He hears a clatter on the floor and turns around to see that she has dropped her butter knife and now sports a cut of scarlet red. Alarmed, he rushes over to her, forgoing the most practical solution of immediately finding a bandage in favor of taking her hand in his and pressing his handkerchief to the wound. For some reason, his time here with her has eroded him of his logic and has now turned him into someone who breaks out in cold sweat over a mere injury.

"...What happened?"

But if it's her who was hurt, then it's not just a mere injury to him. That was enough to send him into a frenzy. He looks up at her face hoping she'd answer him already but freezes.

When humans feel pain, it is common for them to react in kind. Be it a shift in facial expression or an outburst of sound.

But looking into her face, he finds nothing. Sees nothing. Blank eyes stare back at him expressing nothing and everything.

Regardless of her time here, she should still be susceptible to the average human response towards an injury. Simply put;

She does not want to share her pain with him.

She is fearful of you.

Cold silence fills the room and Cael thinks about the time they've spent painting in the gallery together, silently sharing their feelings amidst the soundless interactions. He bites his bottom lip before standing up and walking towards the cupboard containing bandages.

"...I dropped my knife on accident. It won't happen again, Cael."

"..."

"Cael?"

There is a tinge of worry in her voice.

He finds a box of plasters hidden in the corner of the cupboard and grabs it with unnecessary force before returning to her.

Will saying her name right now scare her more than reassure her?

Bending down, he starts applying a small bandage to her cut.

"Please..." he murmurs.

He has no right to feel afraid of her reaction. He was the one that turned her into this after all.

But he still keeps his head down. Refuses to look at her vacant face once more even as he continues speaking.

"...please be more careful."

Maybe he could still have her like this.

"I will, Cael. So..."

She cups his face with her hands, with a touch softer than he could ever hope to mimic with ones as bloodstained as his own, and holds his face up to look at him properly.

She smiles the best she can. It's hollow like all the rest before, but it is kind. The way she always is towards him even now.

"...don't worry."

"..."

"If seeing me hurt makes you this upset, it won't happen again."

Like the ghost of a whisper, he hears the silent continuation of her words;

I just don't have to show it.

While most birds avoid human abodes, a little one enters through an open window in search of food. Sensing no predators around, it jumps inside.

Day #???:

She has decided to completely lock herself in her room. Only occasionally coming out for meals when she feels like it, or to go to the gallery and stare at the open sky.

And Cael...

Cael doesn't know what to do anymore.

He tries his best to coax her, of course. Offers her new paints, albums featuring her favourite singers, and cooks the different types of food she would always ask him to make back when he took care of her when her mother died.

But she is not the young child who once poured dish soap into the washing machine anymore. She has grown and matured. Saw his wrongs, and the monster he is. None of his efforts will work on her anymore. She is a grown women, not a teenager.

Initially, he thought that he would be able to keep her here despite the fact she had the capability to leave and thought so long as he sheltered her from the outside world and took her away to Neverland, she could still find happiness and comfort in this small bubble he's built for her.

But he never thought that...this would become something he couldn't fix. He thought he could fix anything.

"...It's time for lunch."

Knocking on her door, he hopes that the allure of the pasta he holds in his hands will be enough to bring her out of her room. But minutes pass and once again he has no choice but to resign himself to the fact that she won't be coming out of her room today either. Still, it's not good for her to continuously skip meals. She may die of malnutrition if she doesn't eat properly.

The very thought makes him shudder with fear and he has to hold himself back from pleading with her again like the last time. The plate in his hand trembles with his slight movements however, and he has to straighten himself properly lest her food falls down on to the floor.

He recalls the time he offered her a handmade pastry, something that he thought she would have jumped at eagerly even with her current state, in an attempt to pry her out of her room. But it had been days since she'd last eaten and desperation had gotten the better of him.

He still remembers everything with clarity.

With his head hanging down and his hair unfurling limply from his shoulders, the pastry he held on a plate fell to the floor with a loud clatter, with his hands having lost their strength for some unknown reason. When did he lose control of his own body? But what he does know is that his whole being feels hollow. And for the first time in days, she finally opens her door. Aggressively so. A loud bang resounds across the house as she slams it open and such a violent outburst makes him raise his head in surprise and he finds her staring down at him with her vacant eyes and the features of her face having twisted with worry again.

He feels a knife twisting in his chest. He thinks it might kill him.

But he ignores the pain, ignores the impulse to plunge his hand into his chest and physically rip out that lump of pain, and uses his hands instead to embrace her.

It is sudden and quick, startling her. But she slowly relaxes in his trembling hold and moves her hands to pat his back awkwardly.

"Cael?"

"..."

Again, he finds himself unable to respond to her. She continues talking.

"I'll come down to eat, alright? I'm sorry I made you worry."

Pulling back, she faces him and gives him what should have been a smile of assurance to put him at ease. But he knows that stretching the corners of the mouth does not make a real smile. He does not love that smile.

The worse part is? He still finds her so, so lovely.

"It won't happen again."

She tries to voice it confidently, to be sincere about it, because she knows that will be the only way to convince him. And just for a split second, he sees the ghost of her, smiling back up at him in exuberant joy, and watches it all melt away to bones like a burning candle in the same second.

How many times has he heard her say that?

How many times will her make her say that?

He's grown nauseous of it.

She stayed true to her word, for the next few weeks only anyway, having retreated back into her habit once more to Cael's misery.

Placing the plate in front of her door, he can only hope that she would come out of her own accord today. While he knows that he could simply convince her to come out of her room the way he did last time...

The thought of doing so makes him shudder with disgust. Knowing that he can affect her like that to such a disturbing degree, gives him an itch he can't scratch off no matter how hard he tries. He hides it from himself well, but his palms still carry the faint scars of a history of digging his nails too deep into his hands whenever that suffocating feeling comes back to haunt him.

He flexes his hands, to make sure he's not unconsciously doing it again.

He did.

Still, at least he's not bleeding this time. Marks as red as it could be, but not bleeding.

She bled.

Sighing, he accepts the fact she won't be leaving her room anytime soon and makes his way downstairs. He hears each and every step he takes a little too clearly, something that he has become accustomed to ever since she has stopped talking regularly. Or rather, ever since she came here. There was a time where being in the same space as her would bring a variety of noises, ranging from her loud caterwauling after having stubbed her toe, the sound of her footsteps banging against the floor as she runs across the house, or just....the sound of her being there.

And she was always there. She used to always be there.

He reaches the living room and a quick glance to the right brings the door of her gallery into view. Cael hesitates for a second, and another two, before making his way towards it. He doesn't know why, he could never understand his own impulses, but he's given up on trying to control them.

The door creaks open, an evidence of a long time gone by since it was installed, and Cael walks into the space of her gallery. Despite her no longer using it frequently, he made sure to keep the entire room clean. Dust is an annoying irritant, and something that would have disturbed her by constantly triggering her allergies, disrupting her focus as she painted.

He sees a canvas lying upright on the easel close by the windows, and the blue, white blob she had painted a while ago has now transformed into something else. He inches his way towards it after deciding to take a closer look, and feels a foreboding sense of trepidation for some unknown reason. Having always left her alone when she painted, he has never once seen the results of this one creative endeavour and wonders what sort of painting could she have possibly produced in this life of stagnation, where true inspiration has become a corpse.

Closing in, his eyes land on the painting...

And he sees himself.

He is standing on the coastline of Harp Island's beach as the waves rock back and forth against the rocks. By perfectly capturing the melancholy of the ocean, and coupled with the expression she drew on his portrait, the somber and gentle colours give off a hue of loneliness as he stares out towards the sky as if he were waiting for someone. And he...

He thinks he may die from the pain in his chest.

He grasps the area over his heart while gasping, as his ears ring from the words that bore down on him like cursed chants;

It's because of you.

She stays here because of you.

Wendy choose to stay with Peter Pan.

So that was what she saw.

You are lonely without her.

"I see."

You must let her go.

"I know that now."

Again and again, the whispers torment him with the truth, but he answers all of them with a mind clearer than ever before. There is no hesitation in his answers, only impatience.

Simply answering won't do after all, he must act on it.

Still, the entire ordeal leaves his mind in a frenzy and by the time he comes to his senses, Cael isn't sure just how much time has passed. He looks up at the painting again to see that the moon has risen, with it's benevolent light illuminating the gallery and the portrait.

He thought that her painting would have been a reflection of vacancy, but instead what he finds is the secret he has been denying for so long.

His heart still hurts, but looking at the lonely portrait before him, he finds that the hazy edges of his vision has cleared, and sees the consequences of his actions as clear as day. Similar to how one would clean the fog from their glasses.

Cael laughs bitterly to himself and clenches his fists as he stands up.

"This cannot go on."

If he lets her go now and admits his forbidden feelings, he may break.

But perhaps, he would rather be broken if it meant she could be fixed.

He makes up his mind.

"To Godheim it is."

First however, he must make sure she eats her dinner before she leaves him for good.

[xbalayage]

——The GARDEN of EDEN

Yandere!Alkaid/Reader

The aura of innocence you gave off, the pureness in those eyes and your petite form as you waltz into my garden of secrets.

I tended to the flowers that were held captive under my trained, delicate hands as I let you leave, my gaze followed your absence because I knew from the look in your eyes and from your lack of knowledge, you'd return to me; back into my cage of flourishing life.

I knew then, I must make you mine.

And, as it typically goes, even though you were warned by the man you came with, my hospitality and kind demeanor brings your curiosity right back into my lair disguised as a luxurious mansion in the middle of the night for sanctuary.

Oh, you pretty flower you, don't worry.

Now passing the threshold of my home, my sweet words were the bait and now your wings were clipped to stay in the greenhouse. I'll water and take great care of you if only you submit fully to me and me only. The flowers in that room release a sleeping spell, numbing the mind of all fears and worries — you'll be mine completely, a full fledged flower in full bloom. You'll stay with me way past the countdowns end, right? Of course you will.

There's a reason I've been alone all this time and everyone vacates my abode. After all, it's because nobody leaves the garden of Eden.

[floxtingdrm]

𝙊𝙣𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙖𝙭𝙞𝙖

(𝙽): 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Fluff

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Alkaid McGrath, Lars Rorschach, Clarence Clayden, Ayn Alwyn, Cael Anselm.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞: On

𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: Headcannon.

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬: They/them.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You called them by a weird nickname.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: ooc characters, please note I made this for shits and giggles and is not meant to be taken seriously, thank you.

𝘼𝙡𝙠𝙖𝙞𝙙

♡ “Hm? Is there something you need, darling?”

♡ Was a bit confused at first but recovers fast.

♡ He might have already guessed it was going to happen at some point in your relationship, however didn't think it would be so soon.

♡ Would tease you back for the weird nickname and potentially use a weird nickname as well.

♡ If you used the weird nickname in public he won’t really mind, however as your punishment for doing so you’re sentenced to cuddles and headpats.

♡ “You’re so cute, my little gremlin with a pencil~” you called him garlic bread.

♡ Nicknames that were used: star stalker, garlic bread, rocky mountain oysters, garden hoe-

𝙇𝙖𝙧𝙨

♡ “Really? Goldie locks??”

♡ He doesn’t hate it, he likes it but he usually pouts when you call him by a very random nickname out of nowhere.

♡ He doesn’t mind the more “tame” versions of your nicknames if you used them in publics, the others? He’s gonna sulk.

♡ Will get revenge by calling you with weird nicknames as well, however is not very creative with them.

♡ Your punishment for these nicknames will usually be no cuddles nor kisses until you comfort him out of his sulking phase.

♡ “That still isn’t enough for me to get out of my sulking phase, snail eggs.”

♡ Nicknames that were used: Waffle fries, baby with a wallet, Goldie locks, w a l n u t

𝘾𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚

♡ “B-Buffalo wings?? What makes you say that?”

♡ Flabbergasted, shocketh, his reaction would probably be the funniest.

♡ Will never get used to you calling him nicknames out of nowhere especially when you call him “buttery croissant”

♡ Do NOT try to call him any of the weird nicknames when he’s at an important event because if you do, I hope your brain has the mental capacity for the extra tutoring from him.

♡ He will try to call you with a weird nickname but will end up snickering to himself when he sees your face and in the end laughs to himself quietly.

♡ “Your answer is wrong, hairless cat.”

♡ Nicknames that were used: Rubiks cube, eight grade math teacher, cat dad, paralysis demon, buttery croissant, buffalo wings.

𝘼𝙮𝙣

♡ "Call me Tsundere one more time, I dare you"

♡ The most unamused out of all of them, he doesn't entirely hate it... later on but it is a nightmare when you started calling him all sorts of things.

♡ He will ignore you in public if you try to call him with any of the names, if you provoke him hard enough consider dodging lessons with the number of times he's gonna shut you up with kisses, or not-

♡ You think he might not call you with weird nicknames but don't let your guard down too quick, he's going to make you regret calling him "short king" (he's not short compared to the average height but since he was the shortest out of everyone on the list I thought it would be funny)

♡ Once you're done and finish with your weird nickname shenanigans it's his turn to attack with the list of weird nicknames he's compiled in secret.

♡ "Where are you looking at, hagfish~?"

♡ Nicknames that were used: emo vampire, batfish, scaramouche kinnie (no offence-).

𝘾𝙖𝙚𝙡

♡ "Breakfast is Crepes with whipped cream and strawberries"

♡ Out of of all the people, he's the one who doesn't seem to have a reaction at all to your nickname shenanigans, he took care of you, of course he's prepared for your chaos.

♡ He doesn't even care what you call him in public, he's that unbothered by it it almost makes you feel bored, however...

♡ Cael seems to frown and has this annoyed look on him, even if it was brief every time you call him by a certain nickname.

♡ He won't treat you out of the ordinary even when you use the nicknames that make him frown a bit, though don't expect to know how he's planning to teach you a lesson in his own way.

♡ "You're drink is bitter? Perhaps I should just give you milk, fetus~" safe to say the war is far from over.

♡ Nicknames that were used: Marinated wine, dinosaur's cousin, princess, great great great great great grandfather.

Au notes: I was bored.

[stikybug]

POLYCULE BRAINROT 2 ELECTRIC BOOGALOO?

More likely than you think! The Mystery event gave my little gayhearted mind a delight AND spark of inspiration? More polycule hcs , love wins ! Again, under the cut because this did not just run away from me it yanked me and dragged me around like a giant dog breed.

First hc dump post over here

I'm sure after the successful murder mystery party Lars sets up little hobby activities around st shelter for him and his partners to have excuses to spend more time together.

reactions differ.

Clarence sighs and says he's a bad influence at this point, he joins anyway, work can wait a bit for them ( time itself could arguably stand still for them, he wouldn't mind that at all either )

Alkaid makes 'tiny' suggestions when on normal dates as offerings for more ideas, Lars catches on quickly, this becomes a sort of exchange habit they make. Lars jokes how his 'little spy' is good at setting things up.

He'll probably stop after doing that for the first time, a joke really isn't worth the expression Alkaid made for a split second ,,,

Ayn doesn't need to think twice before agreeing, an entire day spent with the people he loves sounds wonderful

Cael can't help but laugh to himself, his boyfriends are more trouble than he bargained for. Though it is 5 against one with little painter taking his other partner's side

Following Cael getting annoyed while also being unable to ignore the mess he got himself into, Ayn's concert has a sequel!

Which is, Lars outside his apartment with his partners in the background to 'serenade' him.

He has half the mind to ask them how they all got here without him knowing, but he's too busy trying to stop himself from laughing due to the sheer silliness of the stunt

Honest to god, he got closer to failing by the second. When he eventually asks Lars why he's doing this the most concrete answer he got was to come downstairs to see for himself

Seeing all his partners around, light glinting in the streetlight catching on their ring fingers he seemed to get it.

Matching promise rings for all of them.

He almost teared up with this also. He has never taken it off unless it's absolutely non-negotiable

Life seems to slow down when he has it on, every day proves itself to be sweeter than the last.

Aside from the very big changes they have all noticed small changes in their dynamics - It's been feeling more comfortable.

Many things have been admitted that nobody but lovers would be allowed to know, not for the sake of taboo, but as a matter of vulnerability.

The breakdown of these barriers probably started when Alkaid sent a message in a group chat

Recalling an odd movie that he's been losing sleep over - Of some sort of awful future that was in store for him.

Everyone knew what he was about, but none of them confirmed it until he finished talking.

He talked about an awful future where he became everything he feared he was; an elusive 'spy' who hides his thoughts and feelings even from the people he cherished dearly. A duplicitous 'wolf in sheep's clothing' of a person.

Maybe he wouldn't avoid becoming like that in the future, becoming an awful partner who wouldn't deserve any of them. Going behind their backs, deciding what's 'best' for them.

Before he has a chance to spiral fully Clarence says he knows what he's talking about.

He saw an odd movie too, where he gave everything for the sake of a future, and a person he wasn't sure he'd see again in a heartbeat, unaware of how much it would break her heart to see him give until his spark was extinguished.

He was also quick to point out that they, unlike movie characters simply yanked around by the plot for convenience, had a say in the matter of how they'd wish their fate to play out.

It's not like those flaws weren't there, his were hidden gracefully where most wouldn't take notice either.

But surely, if they could support each other without any judgment they'd spare all the heartbreak.

It turned into something of an admission session then. Ayn saying he saw the same type of thing, unable to get to the 'future' with how tightly he clung onto the past that was too far away.

Cael said something similar, the movie showing a past he was sure he'd want to remember - That eventually crumbled from it's own state of stagnation.

And Lars lamented how he'd be doomed to loneliness if those movies were real, and surely a lifetime of misery without his partners at his side, roaming endlessly without a companion.

It was a relief for all of them. Even with everything embarrassing laid out in the open, nobody ran, nobody decided that was enough to end it.

Despite their fears, it seemed that did the opposite of what they were expecting. With all the weight off their shoulders just serving to deepen what they already had.

There wasn't a doubt about it, they had each other and everything would be alright.

[shirolian]

Autumn's Clear

Days passed. Will it be today? Sitting by the table, hunched over her journal, she bits the end of her pen. Another day to cross. Another day without him. When will he return to her? Staring blankly into the distance, her pen moves on the paper. Where are you? How long will I have to wait? 

This situation was not anything new. And yet, it hurt each time it happened. She was sure that it will hurt each time it happens in the future too. Looking back down on the previously empty space of the page, she realized that she sketched his face. The pen dropped out of her hand and her fingers hovered over the image, gently, softly tracing the well known features. 

“How far are you this time…?” She mumbled, the loneliness grasping her heart tightly.

Weeks eventually turned to months. The pink sakura leaves withered under the scorching summer sun. The salty sea waves eventually lost their azure flair when the autumn came. Bright orange leaves started falling and as she walked towards the campus, one landed in her outstretched palm. It’s autumn again, she thought. Soon, it will be a year since they last met. The smile left her face a long time ago, a numb expression taking its place. Even if the leaf in her hand proudly displayed its bright color, in her eyes, the world faded to monochrome. 

“Where…” She looked to the sky, her eyes mirroring the gray clouds. “Where are you?”

The soft, lifeless steps abandoned the tossed leaf on the ground as the girl kept walking away without looking back. 

Was it cold? Probably yes, she thought. But she felt nothing. Deep inside the mountains, nestled in the cabin that he gifted to her, she gazed at the unfinished painting in front of her. She could no longer stand, her body protested against the starvation that she bestowed upon it. But, at least, his face was finished - and that was the most important part. She could paint the rest of his body just fine from her kneeling position. A weak smile graced her features as she gazed up into the eyes of her model. “Cael… “ She could swear that he smiled back. Was she hallucinating? And if she was, would it be a bad thing that she was finally granted the pleasure of seeing it? Her shaking fingers could no longer hold the brush. The dull thud of the brush falling down didn’t startle her. She was so very… tired. 

“Wait for me… I will finish you,” she mumbled, her palm pressing into the white canvas. The exhaustion took over and her body collapsed on the floor, plunging her into sweet nothingness.

When he returned back to St. Shelter, his first steps led him to her house. But, nobody was home and eventually he found Beanie in the animal daycare, meowing at him sadly. Promising the now considerably thinner cat that he will return, Cael left in search of her. Where could she go? A certain cabin in the middle of mountains appeared in his mind, urging him to go there. It was the middle of winter, the falling snow blended with his long hair as he scaled the cliff, finally approaching the place. When he opened the door, the chill surprised him. It was almost as cold as outside, barely a difference could be felt. His heart grew heavy, a feeling that he was unaccustomed to. As he passed through the kitchen, dried blue roses on the table caught his eye. Frowning, he took one petal between his fingers - she was there, that was for sure. But why is it so cold and lifeless inside? Still holding the petal, he pressed forward, the uneasiness turning to dread when he reached for the door, opening them and then- a life sized painting of him overtook his vision. By his painted self feet, her lifeless body laid and his eyes widened in pure fear. Running to her body, he knelt down, taking her in his arms and feeling her pulse first. The realization did not quite hit him yet. He kept caressing her pale face, hoping that she would wake up, that she was just sleeping. His finger brushed her colorless lips. Last winter, they were red. What are these feelings? So tight, so out of breath, that he almost choked. His hands, now slightly shaking, pressed her head tighter into his chest, the feeling of her hair cold and unwelcoming. 

Why…? Why aren’t you waking up?

The ever so graceful expression of his painted counterpart watched him, unfeeling and calm. So blissfully unaware, devoid of emotions that ravaged his awakened heart. 

“... Why?”

[twstjam]

Cael fucking raised us and you can't convince me otherwise 😭

It's literally canon

[celamoon]

(checks notes) I'm an alkaid stan now

[lovebrushed]

hi lovebrush chronicles community! this is a cry for help

would any of you guys mind helping me out with the content in the Fandom Wiki? i'm already in a discord server where people are working on the technical game aspects (event rewards, leveling up cards, etc.) but from what ik i'm pretty much the only person working on the actual descriptions for the wiki.

there's a lot of content i need to cover so pls! if any of you guys would be so kind to give me a hand it would be very much appreciated

feel free to send in an ask or dm me and we'll work from there

[idyllcy]

how do you like your eggs?

word count: 9.8k

summary: he'll play any role you want him to. including your boyfriend.

three and too young.

The first time you meet Clarence, the two of you are three, round cheeks and barely comprehensible language slipping past your tongue, your eyes big as you stare at Clarence. You do not know him. He does not know you. The two of you are children. That is all that matters. You do not need to question whether or not he would be a good friend. Your mommy knows best.

"I'm so sorry for leaving them here." Your mom sighs, handing Clarence's mom a box and letting her know that you knew what to do in most cases.

You stare at Jaclyn as she offers you her hand, and you wave goodbye to your mom as she's off to work.

"What's your name?"

You pause to think, cheeks puffed out as you tell her with a smile.

"That's cute." She smiles, pausing. "Do you have any siblings?"

You blink up at her instead, squeezing her hand. "Do you have any siblings?"

"I have a younger brother." She grins, taking you to her room. "I think he's the same age as you."

You blink up at her, nodding. "Daddy tells me boys are scary."

Jaclyn laughs, warmth spreading through her chest as. you blink at her. "Yeah? Is your daddy scary?"

"Daddy says only he's de... dependible."

Jaclyn nods. "Let's stay girls only then, hm?"

You nod in agreement, little brows pulled into a frown as you follow Jaclyn into her room.

In the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of a blue-haired boy, eyes big as he stares at you enter his sister's room.

You wonder who that was.

Your first meeting is less a meeting and more a glimpse, so when you visit Jaclyn a year later, language much more articulated as you greet their mom, you see Clarence stare at you from the staircase.

"Oh! Jaclyn is out for a shoot today, but Clarence is here. Did you get to meet him last time?"

You shake your head. Yet, fuelled by a four year old's energy and extrovert tendencies, you race up the stairs to chase after him, holding the door open as he tries to close it on you, fear rattling through his body at this unknown person who was trying to pry open his door. It's a little dramatic on his end, but he's always had some sort of a fear over his sister's friends. She's never at school enough to have normal friends, so the vast majority of them were famous in some way. If he's learned anything, he knows not to get involved with the actresses his sister's bringing home for playdates.

"I don't wanna be friends with an actor!" He cries.

"I'm not a movie star!" You yell back, face pulled into a look of annoyance as you finally pry the door open from his hands. You fall forward onto your face with a yell, whining as you roll to the side to stare up at your little opponent with a frown. He stares down at you with a pout, raising a brow as you realize how cold his room is.

"I'm Clarence." He huffs.

You tell him your name, shaking as you sniffle from the temperature. It's winter. Is this guy psycho?

You blink at him. "Why didn't you let me in? Isn't it common courtesy to take care of guests?"

"I thought you were a celebrity." He pouts.

You find Jaclyn's brother to be... insane.

Yet, you sit through the rest of the day with him, blinking at him as he shows you his books on history, rambling about the history of the planet to you. You're intrigued that so much knowledge can be held in hands the same size as yours. You tell your mommy about the history of the land you in habit on your way home, cheeks warm as she tells you how good of a job you did and how smart you were.

You wonder if Clarence knew anything else about the planet the two of you stayed on.

The next time you visit, Jaclyn is out again, and Clarence reluctantly lets you into his room. You sit on the ground as he stares at you, and before he can start, you info dump on him. You tell him about what you had found out during the time that the two of you were apart, detailing the parts of history he missed, diving into detail on the world that the two of you stood on. He blinks at you, cheeks growing red, eyes big as you give him a pose of victory and ask if your research was correct.

He laughs, cheeks pink and ears red as he tells you yes.

He spends the rest of the evening rambling to you about stuff you didn't get to listen about last time. You wonder how long he had to hold it in, but it doesn't matter that much. You blink at him, wide-eyed something brooding in the back of your head as you swear you're going to become smarter than him one day. You're going to become a genius that not even Jaclyn's brother can overtake. You will become an unstoppable force — which is really out of as much spite as a five year old can muster. If he's receiving an award, you are too. You'll make sure of it.

So, you ask your mom to enroll you at his school, going head to head against him in every competition he enrolls in, always coming out second as you huff, cheeks round as Jaclyn hushes you, assuring you you're number one in her heart. That's not enough. You need to prove to the world that Clarence is second to you. You have to be smarter than him. You're not losing to some boy. That's stupid, and you are not stupid.

So, you dive head first into your studies, brain spinning painfully occasionally, fingers itching for you to create, mind dragging you to the abyss, endless knowledge bleeding past your fingers, crawling up your arm into your mind, some sort of desperation to prove that you are smarter than Clarence there. You do not know why you do it. Perhaps it's a sense of self-destruction or a spite that hating someone enough could bring you to. So, when Clarence enters showbiz like his sister, you follow after, booking left and right as you stay top of your class despite your absences.

Clarence is known to stay away from any actor that is not his sister — with the exception of you. For some twisted reason, you are continually cast as Clarence's lover in his dramas, his fingers gentle on your skin as the two of you chase after each other in emptied classrooms, biting his hand in certain scenes as he holds you in others, rain cold on his back. The umbrella in his hand falls to the ground as you blink at him through tear-stained lashes, mustering your best doe eyes as you read him for something. Instead, he leans down, lips pressed to yours, stealing away your first kiss in front of all your viewers.

That is enough to launch the two of you into fame.

You're only slightly nerved by the couple edits, lashes full as you blink at the paparazzi, smile on your face and honeyed words on your lips. During the tour, you use Clarence as a shield, still unused to all the fame and fans, finding that one smile from you is enough to warrant a crowd of screams. Clarence, pulls you along behind him, chiding you whenever you do it for fun. You only pout at him. He looks to the side, pushing you along first to enter the car.

You wave bye to your fans one last time before you do, earning another crowd of screams.

Eventually, the two of you detach from each other in fame, Clarence taking a head dive first into playing less romance roles and more serious ones as you stay playing high school romances, adaptations coming true from the novels as you play the female lead's best friend almost always. You become known as a second choice, an indication that your acting would overtake the female lead and your popularity would soar. You wonder why you are never booked for the main lead, though. Yet, you don't worry about it. When you see the actors kissing like that after knowing them for only a few days, it's not on your wishlist.

Yet, when you're given the chance to book a role as Jaclyn's lead, you take it. You don't care if you're kissing your best friend. You're kissing her.

"So?"

"We've come full circle." You grin. "I bet Clarence won't talk to me now since I'm one of your actor friends."

"Is that what he yelled at you?" Jaclyn clicks her tongue, sighing. "Well, he probably won't talk to you because we're going to kiss."

You grin, cheeks warm. "I can't believe I get to kiss you on national television."

Jaclyn laughs, hitting your shoulder as she catches her breath. "I bet you were waiting for this."

"Oh, hell yes." You mumble, continuing through your script. "I don't show up that often, though."

"It's because we'd get flamed for doing too much." Jaclyn hums. "Come over sometime. I'm sure Clarence is dying to see you again."

You glance at her, shaking your head. "Come on."

Jaclyn runs into your arms, full of tears as the scene starts, and you crouch down to wipe her tears, asking her what was wrong. Your character was a second choice — strangely enough, a second choice that was the only character to ever kiss Jaclyn's. You suppose it's a buff of some sort, yet as she straddles you on your couch, crying for you to kiss her, you grimace at her, heart heavy as she asks you if it's alright quietly. You relent, leaning forward slightly to brush your lips against hers, throwing your head back as she kisses down to your neck, bare skin pressed to yours as the two of you stay there, unmoving.

The director yells cut as Jaclyn surges back down to kiss you again.

"Wow." You pause. "Do you think I'll lose my virginity on camera too?"

Jaclyn looks down at you in concern. "I sure hope not."

Your final scene with the cast is with the rest of the team, bittersweet smile on your face as Jaclyn picks the male lead over you. You find it sickening in your role, your character is bitter beyond repair, but you do not comment nor speak. Instead, you stand there in the background of the last shot, waiting for the director to call cut so you can release yourself from the role. You're sure Jaclyn's going to call you over to her place for a watch party when it finally airs. You're not excited for the comments the media is going to have once it airs.

Yet, you attend the press tour, laugh on your lips as the interviewers ask you questions. You play into your role too well, cheeks warm and flushed whenever Jaclyn speaks. You spend your nights doomscrolling through couple edits of the two of you. You suppose that no matter what you do, you'll always end up back in their family.

You're halfway through the press tour when you receive the news that your mother is sick.

You leave immediately.

The paparazzi crowds outside the hospital when you visit, your fingers laced through your mom's as she assures you that she's alright. You know she is not. She hasn't been very well since the death of your dad. You hold her cold hands to your cheek instead, assuring her that your role in the industry was second to her. It does not matter all that much. As long as you get to spend the rest of her life with her, you would stop at nothing.

Fans send you flowers, your manager bringing a new bouquet for the room each time she comes. You grow thinner, weight shedding off your body as you prioritize your mom, her fingers laced through yours as you watch her take her last breath — and for a moment in time, your own heart stops. You were prepared, you believed, but when you lose your mom the first and only time of your life, you do not know what to do.

Your life seems to stop when you do, blinking slowly as you finish her funeral, grieving visible on your face as Jaclyn holds you in her arms. You bury your face in her shoulder, breathing labored as you hold back the tears out of a fear for the paparazzi. They could be anywhere. You hold onto the necklace your mother left, and you stare at the man who will be your guardian for the next years of your life. You wonder if he will let you continue down the path you've decided to take. He works a plain office job, after all.

"Do you want to continue?" He hands you a mug of hot cocoa, sitting down across from you as you stare at the scripts you would audition for.

"In half a year." You mumble. "Or longer. I need to grieve."

The media forgets about you in half a year. You do not start from rock bottom, but your manager gives you a hard time for taking so much time off, your acting intensified further as she wonders if you should start playing the role of the antagonist instead of the second choice. You don't care. You stopped flying, and now you were back to where you started.

It makes you bitter — seeing Clarence get praised for both his brain and beauty.

So, you spend your time playing the role of the villain, pouring tea onto people's hair on camera while you apologize as soon as the cameras are cut, helping the staff wipe down the female lead always. You make new friends, your smile contagious behind the role of your character, finding that it is much easier to detach from the skin you assign yourself in your roles. You suppose playing the villain is better than playing the second lead. The hate is around the same, and arguably, you've received much more traction for how intense you are in the roles you play.

Your manager starts booking roles for variety shows with you as well.

You hold hands with other celebrities, chasing them with pool noodles as you promote your new dramas, cheeks pulled into a sweet smile as you tell everyone about your role as the main antagonist. It's fun. You find it fun. You find it fun.

So fun, that you forget that you're supposed to be out-doing Clarence. You suppose it's a little too silly for you now, but you find the rivalry funny. You're a different person because of what you wanted to accomplish because of him. You try not to think too much about the fact that you lost your first kiss to him on set because the two of you had debuted as a duo. Sometimes you go. back to watch the edit videos fans made of the two of you back when you first debuted. You've grown as a person and changed. You find that to be the funniest part of all of this.

So, when your manager asks if you'd like to book a role as his lover again, you wonder if you've really moved at all.

"It's..."

"A high school drama." You click your tongue. "Am I playing the antagonist again?"

"No. You're going to be the lead... for once." Your manager hands you the script, and you pause.

Someone wrote this role for you.

"Am I auditioning?"

"You're being cast."

You agree to it.

Clarence stares at the script himself, pondering over the role he's playing in the film. It's eerily similar to the role he would have played if you had continued at the same school as him. You left him. Well, left is a little dramatic. You transfered and never returned. That was terrifying for him, perhaps. The vice president had left without a word. He wonders what you felt when only Jaclyn was able to take time to attend your mother's funeral. Maybe this role was created for you. You will shine, he hopes.

He agrees without thinking too much.

Maybe the two of you will become close again.

When Clarence arrives on set, he's surprised to see that the two of you are filming in your old school, his current one. Perhaps this is a film about your life. It is your first big role in a while that wasn't the antagonist of an office drama. He missed seeing you on set at his dramas. Well, to be fair, both of you are on foreign ground. You haven't been a lead in a while, and he hasn't done romance in forever. Someone might call it fate.

Clarence finds you in the old student council room.

"Ah." You stare at Clarence. "It's been a while."

He nods. "How... have you been?"

"I've been alright." You nod.

The silence between the two of you is uncomfortable to an uncanny extent. He misses what the two of you had been for the little while that you had visited his house a child, but he also understands that there was no way for the two of you to return to what you once were. It would be hard, and he would not want it either. He wonders if he'll finally receive the closure he needs in order to move on through the drama. He'll figure it out as he goes.

A person from the directing team interrupts the silence by calling for you.

"There you are. Did you get to memorize the script?"

You nod slowly, waving bye to Clarence as you follow her out.

Clarence wonders if the old notebooks of his past are still locked in the safe in the room.

Maybe he'll return to them one day in the movie.

The first day of shooting, the school's classroom is blocked off. You get to know the other actors, nodding as you listen to the roles that they all have to play. You find Jaclyn too, playing your best friend in the drama. You cling onto her as she shows you her lines, telling you her interpretation as the two of you read over the light novel version of the film. Are you famous? Are you big? You don't know, but you do know that the original writer of the novel was a close friend of yours on the student council team. You wonder why she wrote the novel.

"Is the author joining in on production?"

"She's arriving later on." Jaclyn nods. "You don't get to kiss me in this drama, unfortunately."

You snort. "Aw... really wish this drama was a yuri bait too."

"Well, we can't all be queer characters."

Your role is technically cliché. You're a transfer student desperate to stick out, masking a smile on your face as you try to hide everything that had ever happened to you in the past. You blink owlishly in front of the class, smile on your face as you wave at everyone. The teacher introduces you, and you are seated next to Clarence's character. Your role wonders if it's fate, but it's more of a one sided rivalry. You pretend to be perfect in front of the class, grades only ever placing second to Clarence's character, popularity always falling short of first place to him.

As a result, your character develops a weird sense of inferiority and a need to prove themselves better than the top of the school.

"Silan." You hum, peering at Clarence as he stares at you.

"Yes?"

"What's your secret?"

"Beer." Clarence's character deadpans, rendering yours speechless as he walks off.

"Cut!" The director yells. "Thank you for the good work! That's a wrap for today. It'll rain tomorrow, so we'll get a move on to some of the initial rain scenes tomorrow."

You nod, leaning on the railing of the school, throwing your head back with a sigh. You stare at the script in hand, mumbling the words you need memorized by the next day as you scribble notes on the characterization, wondering if there was a certain way your character was expected to act. You don't know. The way she speaks is all a mask, yet her personality doesn't change much even after she lets the mask down. When you ask the director, all she tells you is to follow your heart. You wonder just who she is.

"Reading?" Clarence steps up to you, and you sigh.

"I don't get her."

He hums neither in agreement nor argument.

"Maybe she's devoid of anything." You sigh. "Something will add color into her life, but I suppose I still don't know just what that something is."

"The rain scene tomorrow might give you an idea."

You glance at the gloomy sky and then at your script. "Perhaps your character brought color into her life."

Clarence pauses to stare at his own script. "Or, perhaps she found color by bringing it into his life."

"Our characters are childhood friends, huh?"

"Yeah." He mumbles. "Childhood neighbors."

Clarence pauses. "Like us."

You don't respond.

The second day of shooting, the two of you are stuck on the school roof together, a bundle of emotions crashing through your character as you try to hide from the rain, desperate to hide what you could of your body. You are not traumatized by your appearance — something else. You hide away from Clarence when his character tries to offer you his jacket, shaking in your skin as you step away from him with wide eyes, backing to the railing of the rooftop as you close your eyes to hide from something. Instead, the cliché scene of romance happens, Clarence's school jacket thrown over your head as you stare up at him, doe-eyed, deer caught in headlights.

It throws Clarence into some sort of daze, staring down at you breathless, heart racing in his chest as the director yells cut to start over again.

"I FINALLY SHED TEARS!??!!" You yell in frustration. "Ugh..."

"Sorry." Clarence nods. "I don't know what happened."

You take the scene again, and Clarence throws his jacket over you, barely batting an eye as he hides you until the scene ends.

You blow your nose after the scene, wrapped in a bundle of towels, back in the warmth of the school. Clarence offers you a cup of warm tea from production, and you thank him with a quiet nod as you drink it. You think you understand something.

So, when you are dried up and shooting a scene in front of the school, missing an umbrella, you stare at the rain in an emotion only you can read from your character. You are sick and tired, mask slipping as everyone else has left from the school. You stand there as you wait for the rain, wondering if you did something wrong to deserve the fate that you have suffered. You try to channel the disgust that only you can experience. You do not want the pity your classmates offer you. You want the comfort of someone to hold you. You wonder if you have a reason to go on.

"Standing all by yourself, class flower?" Clarence's character steps next to you, and you blink wordlessly at him, forcing a smile.

"No. I just... forgot my umbrella."

"I'll take you home. Where do you live?"

You grimace at him.

"You can take mine." He offers you his umbrella, opening it as you stare at it.

"I couldn't possibly let you go in the rain, president Silan." You smile. "You can take it. The rain is supposed to stop in a little bit."

"Then," Clarence fishes out a second umbrella from his bag. "This should work, yes?"

You take the second umbrella with a thank you, opening it as you head on out first with a nod of your head.

"You don't need to keep acting, miss flower." Clarence mumbles quietly before the cameras cut.

"That's a wrap!"

You close the umbrella immediately, tossing it at Clarence as you spin under the rain. You wonder if you look cringe. Maybe you do. That might have just been the role you've been assigned as. You're sure that your character would have truly enjoyed to just bask in the rain and ditch her mask for once, but not now. It was not time yet. So, in place of her, you will. Under the rattling of the rain that might get you sick, you decide to play into the role that the author had created for the girl who learned to despise who she once was.

Clarence watches you, putting both umbrellas on the ground, chasing after you as you pause to stare at him.

"Would he do this?"

"He would." Clarence chases you in the rain, some semblance of childhood returning to both of you. The two of you go on for as long as you can before your managers yell for the two of you to stop goofing off. You find it sweet that both of you can reclaim something that was once lost. Do you love who you are? You don't know. Though, you are aware at the very least that only the two of you can understand your roles in the story. Maybe Clarence knows as well.

Both of you are given an earful once you return, but neither of you fall sick, thankfully.

The third day of shooting stays mostly inside. Your character doesn't do much, but you piece together parts of her personality from the few times that Clarence's character appears in your scenes. She likes savory foods over sweets, prefers cats over dogs, and despises the people of her past. You learn small things of her character that reflect what you once were. You wonder just how much of it your classmate had based off of you. Are you sick? Are you dead? Perhaps you are just deathly fragmented.

"I'll piece you together." Jaclyn whispers, grinning as you stare up at her from your desk.

"What?"

"I'll put you back together, and we'll find the spark of your life." Jaclyn points down at you with a grin. "Come on."

"I don't need to be—"

"You're applying to college soon, right? Come on. Let's find you something you're passionate about."

You hold back your tongue from the words you know your character is thinking. Her passion is being perfect and an ideal. Her passion is to become so perfect that no one can ever touch her ever again — so that one day no one would ever touch her without consequence. Your character wants to become an ideal.

You laugh, waiving Jaclyn off with a wave of your hand. "You free for shopping this week?"

"Yes." Jaclyn hums. "Let's go."

And the scene ends.

You wonder if the shallowness of your character around her friends was meant to reflect something about you.

"I love you." You practice the next scene. It's supposed to be a fake confession to Silan. Yet, the words feel foreign on your tongue. You do not love Silan. Your character has not developed that point yet.

Clarence's character is supposed to turn you down.

"It is something you're doing because of a bet." Clarence hands you a cup of water. "You will be fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

The scene starts, the two of you in the student council room, filing papers as you look over everything that needs to be prepared for the school festival. You tell Clarence, wondering when you should confess to him as a joke. The girls in your class had always been too much of a coward to ask him themselves, so you've been forced into the role of the clown.

"Silan, what do you think about Huajie?"

"Not much."

"How about Yueyue?"

"Not much either."

Clarence doesn't spare you a single glance.

"Then... what about me?" You tilt your head cutely, mask on as you blink at him cutely.

Clarence stares at you, tilting his head. "What do you think about me?"

"Not fair! I asked you first!" You huff, finishing your stack.

Clarence stares at you, humming. "I don't like shallow girls."

Your jaw drops in offense, hurt at the statement. You know your character would despise being called shallow, but hearing it from Clarence's mouth hurt twice as much. You huff, growing quiet as you offer to help him with the rest of his stack.

Both of you fail to notice the way Clarence's ears grow red when he lies.

You trail into idle chatter with him for the rest of the scene, head plagued with thoughts of coming off as shallow to him. Maybe he hates you. You wonder if his character hates you, or the fact that you are empty. Maybe there is some sense of hatred to see the friend that one shone brighter than the rest of the world become void of light because of others. Maybe that is what Clarence's character is feeling.

"Silan, do you hate me?"

Clarence stops his work, staring up at you. "No."

"You don't need to lie, you know?"

"I do not hate you. That is too strong of an emotion to feel." He hums. "I would just prefer... never mind."

You both know what he meant to say. Clarence's character would like yours more if you were less shallow.

"Cut!" The director calls. "Good job! Tomorrow will be busy, and then we'll start the scenes at your apartments."

You huff. You're almost done.

"Tomorrow is my confession scene." Clarence hums. "What kind of Silan would you like to see tomorrow?"

You stare at Clarence, unbothered. "An honest one."

An honest one you get.

Clarence does his hair slightly differently than usual, character crawling past your head as he confesses to you, flowers in his hand as you blink blankly at him.

"Will you go out with me?"

"...no." You mumble back immediately, character bleeding through. It's a harsh rejection, but you know she would say it a little more convincingly than you would on your own. She knows her emotions better than anyone despite the self destructive tendencies. She knows herself inside and out, all so that no one could ever hurt her ever again. You wonder if Clarence figured that out too. He probably did. He's always been brighter than you have. Maybe he had been waiting for you to figure out this character since the beginning. That was the role both of you were stuck playing as in the drama.

"Why not?"

You blink blankly at him.

"Alright." You sigh. "Why would I date someone I do not have feelings for?"

"Why not?"

"That is rude."

"Is it really?"

"You're awfully talkative today, class president." You blink at him lifelessly.

"Am I? I'm simply mimicking how you are."

You know he is. Perhaps that's why you are so irritated. You are on the other side of the stick for once. You get why Silan hates your character so much. You do not know what you want, and you pretend it is because you have everything. You are a person void of anything that is of worth.

"I suppose you are." You mumble. "Is that why you are choosing to confess today? Since it is before summer?"

Silan smiles at you. "I will see you at summer classes."

You grimace. "Then why now? Why not next year?"

"I wanted to see if you would be honest with me." He smiles.

Your character would not. There would be no honesty and personality to her until the end of summer, but Clarence must have known that to some extent. Clarence always knows. You wonder if you will ever truly outdo him in the industry and in your roles. You are not someone who is special.

Perhaps you can only shine with Clarence around.

It is a scary thought, but it is not one you have never entertained.

"Cut!" The director yells, and you stay still, staring at Clarence as he stares back, smile on his face as you know what is going to happen next.

"Can we reshoot? This one is for fun."

You groan.

Clarence always knew when a second take would be better than the first.

Your name is called for your opinion, and you grimace, but you do not disagree.

"Be meaner." Clarence nods. "Your character is starting to let the mask crack."

"I can't be mean. She won't let the mask crack." You grimace.

"By the end, when I am pushing for an answer, be mean."

"Ready?" The director waits for Clarence's cue, and you sigh.

Clarence gives a nod before the countdown starts.

Meaner.

"Class flower," Clarence smiles at you.

"Yes?" You tilt your head.

"Will you go out with me?"

You stare at Clarence, blinking to hold back a grimace. "No."

"Why not?"

"I do not like you, class president."

"You confessed to me a while ago."

Improv. Clarence was trying to break you out of what was written in the novel.

"You said you did not like shallow people, president." You force a smile.

"Well, I never said you were shallow."

"But I am." You force the corners of your mouth wider.

"Well, I still want you."

"I am not the one for you, class president." You shake your head.

"How do you know?"

You turn your back to him, stepping forward towards the door of the classroom.

"You know too, Silan." You reach for the door, freezing as Clarence holds his hand over your head, chest pressed to your back as you grimace out of reflex.

"Do I?"

You turn around, hand pressing to his lower abdomen for space, pushing him back as you grimace. You opt to ignore his question and ask another. "Why today? Would it not be funnier to ask me out in front of the whole class?"

"I wanted you to ponder over it." He smiles.

"What pondering is there to do? We both have summer classes."

"Why now, then? Why not at the end of summer?"

Clarence only looks to the side, barely cracking a smile. "I wanted to see if you would be honest with me."

You take the chance to escape from the classroom, leaving Clarence alone in the room as he finally smiles.

"I too, will piece you together."

The director yells cut as you pull open the door again, jumping in your skin at the cheering everyone had for Clarence. He is truly a star. You smile gently at the way he takes everything humbly, only saying that he wished for a second take because he felt as though you were holding back. You were. You did not want your own mask to bleed into hers. Perhaps you feared that you would become her if you became too vulnerable.

You wonder if you will ever shake free from your character.

Clarence takes the chance to slip away from the crew and run off with your wrist in his hand.

"Where— where are we going?"

Clarence only offers a smile. "I stole the keys. Where do you want to go?"

You wonder just where you want to go.

Then, you pause. "God, I want beef noodle soup so bad."

"Let's go." Clarence pulls you into his arms as he throws you over his shoulder, earning a yell from you. It's strange. Clarence would never act this way. Clarence knew the paparazzi better than they knew themselves, so he would never let himself go out with someone like this. You wonder what has changed. Perhaps he is just needs someone to listen. You suppose you're good at that, at the very least.

"Any place in particular?"

You shake your head.

"Alright." He mumbles. "I'm taking you to a sketchy place, then."

You jump in your skin.

"The paparazzi won't catch us there." He assures you, setting you down as you buckle up.

"Yeah? I thought you didn't want to be friends with an actor." You tease, brow raised as he mumbles to himself.

"You are a friend before an actor." He drives off, turning his phone off to prevent tracking from your managers. "You look troubled."

"I'm supposed to have a mental breakdown in a couple of days." You snort. "I can't look happy, now can I?"

"You are stuck in your character." He taps the drums his fingers against the wheel. "Will you be alright?"

"I will." You hum. "I promise."

"Well, press tour is in half a year, so I would not be surprised if you aren't."

"I'll be fine." You chuckle. "So? Noodles?"

"Our parents used to stop there a lot. My mom showed it to Jaclyn when she turned ten. Then, when I turned ten, I went with her. Now, I'll show it to you."

"Who's the owner?"

"You'll know when you get there."

"Imagine it's my adoptive dad." You snort.

It is not. Thankfully.

You blink at the owner as he sighs with a shake of his head, asking if Clarence wanted his usual. Clarence nods, asking for the same for you only with an extra egg, bringing the two of you to the back of the store — hidden from the view of people outside the window. You suppose this is how no one had discovered that this was his family's favorite. You wonder how many years you could have gone without knowing Clarence's grandparents ran a noodle shop like this.

"His strawberry toast is really good too." Clarence hums, lowering his voice. "Ask him for it sometime."

"Yeah?" You raise a brow.

Maybe you weren't grieving. Maybe you were just withdrawing from everyone. You barely know anything about Clarence's family, now that you think about it.

"Two bowls of your usual." The man nods, sliding one in front of Clarence and another in front of you.

"Is it spicy?"

"No." Clarence breaks your chopsticks for you, and you thank him. "Try it without anything first."

It's good. The broth is warm, and the noodles are just the right consistency. It makes you happy. It tastes like home, and the more you eat, the more you're crying, tears dribbling down your eyes onto your cheeks, ditching all formality as you shovel the noodles down your throat into your mouth to feel something again. You do not know. You aren't who you used to be, and you aren't the role you play in the drama, but it still sickens you. You will need to cry on camera again. You will need to dig up every single emotion you first felt when you returned home to an empty house, and you don't know if you're ready for that kind of a heartbreak again.

But you will get there — slowly.

You're supposed to record the heaviest scene the next day, rain pouring outside your room as you blink at the sky.

You wonder if you'll be able to pull it off.

You wait for the director, hair drenched in the rain as Clarence runs over, opening an umbrella over the two of you as he stands there.

"Class flower."

"Class flower my ass." You curse, head spinning as you don't bother looking up at him.

"Come on, talk to me."

You ignore him, hanging your head as you pull your knees closer to your chest.

The rain grows stronger in the background.

"I've ruined your life." You grumble. "Why are you still talking to me? I got your offer taken away."

"That's fine." Clarence mumbles. "You outdid me on the entrance exam leg for leg. I'm fine with going to my second choice."

"I ruined your life."

"You got what you wanted."

"I didn't want that anymore." You whimper.

Clarence stares down at you, crouching as the two of stay on the brick pavement.

"What do you want?" He whispers.

"I don't know." You cry, holding your hands over your ears as you grimace. "I don't know what I want."

"Nothing?"

"No." You shake, leaving Clarence standing over you pitifully with the umbrella.

"Then, I'll find it with you." Clarence mumbles. "I'll find it with you."

You scoff. "Yeah? You'll find what shallow old me wants? A girl with nothing under my feet and no safety net? That's quite an investment you're making, president."

"No. It is not an investment." Clarence finally squats down to your eye level. "Look at me."

You barely move.

"I'm not investing in you. You're not an investment."

"Then what am I?"

Clarence doesn't tell you, opting for the quiet drumming of the rain against the pavement instead.

"Cut!" The director calls, and you're escorted under the umbrella almost instantly, wet hair wiped down by your assistants as you meet eyes with Clarence, the male mouthing words.

'You alright?'

You nod.

The next day, you record in the apartments set up for the scene. You're glad to have the room, no more rain scenes left in the script. You're surprised you didn't catch a cold again. You blink owlishly at the room you have for the role, and you sigh, opening the door as your whole body freezes at the sight of Clarence.

"Hi, class flower."

You bat your lashes at him prettily, fighting the urge to be sarcastic. "...what a pleasure to see you!"

"You can stop acting around me, you know?" He holds the door open as you try to close it on him. It gives you deja vu, almost.

"Why? Jiangyan was the one invited over, not you." You try to shut the door, finding that your strength isn't enough compared to Clarence. He keeps the door open, smile on his face.

"Did you finish your summer homework?"

You nearly choke at the question, eye twitching as you continue to pretend around him.

"I'll give you the answers if you let me in."

"I'll let you in if you let me copy all your answers." You point at him.

"... What happened to little miss academically honest?"

"Aren't you the one who told me I don't need to pretend anymore?"

"..." Clarence scoffs. "You'll cook in exchange."

"Huh? I'm not your housewife." You pause. "Why are you here again? You live two rooms up."

"..."

"You lost your keys." You deadpan. "Call Jiangyan."

"She's on vacation."

You pause. "Mom and dad?"

"Business trip."

You squint at him, letting him in. "I'm calling Jiangyan."

"Be my guest."

You find out that Clarence is in fact locked out. You grimace at him when he shows you his empty pockets, and you grumble.

"Don't you have a password lock?"

"We swapped it out a couple of weeks ago because of a malfunction."

Wow. The universe hates your character.

"Cut!" The director yells. "Good job, you two. Are you ready for the rest of the scenes?"

You think you're going to lose a part of your sanity.

Yet, the scenes roll relatively smoothly. Clarence's character cooks around the house, and you spend the majority of your days going out or doing homework, dreading the fact that you had been too shallow to make any close friends in particular. Clarence goes out occasionally in his role, and you find that your characters get no development. You wonder if they're just filming a montage. So, you play along.

The crew wraps up early for the night.

"Can I sleep here? It looks so... comfy." You mumble.

"The entire building is rented, so yes." The director hums. "However."

You make a face.

"You will be sharing the apartment with Clarence just so the other scenes are more convincing."

"As long as no one's filming me naked." You sigh.

Clarence nods when his manager checks with him for his consent.

"I call the master bedroom!" You cheer, taking your luggage from your manager.

You keep your door locked when you're not filming, walking around the house in an extra long shirt, making use of the food in the house. Clarence seldom leaves his room at night, even while filming, and you find that it's almost like you're living alone. Almost. Jaclyn finished her scenes early so she returned to her actual home for rest, leaving only you and Clarence and a few other background actors.

You wake up to a knock on the door.

"Do you want breakfast?"

You squint at the door, pulling it open, half asleep.

"Sure?"

"Porridge?"

"I want century egg and pork." You yawn.

He nods. "Anything else?"

"And a fried egg?"

"Sure. How do you want it?

"Sunny side up." You mumble.

"Alright. We start recording soon. Brush up."

You nod.

You wonder if you're too comfortable living with Clarence. He knows almost everything about you, and it's not the first time you're the lead in a drama he's playing. You wonder if there's a bet going around that the two of you will get together at the end of the filming. Maybe you will. You wouldn't be surprised if you did. You wonder if falling in love affects Clarence as much. You're just more excited for the second male lead to show up.

He does, and your eyes light up at the actor. Holy fuck it's your celebrity crush... in the flesh...

You get to know the actor, eyes bright as you ask him about his script, talking over boundaries about where you were comfortable with being touched and where you would be uncomfortable. It's significantly easier that way, and you find that he's respectful of it, only ever throwing an arm over your shoulder or around your waist when messing with Clarence's character.

"Action!"

You try and pry yourself from the second male lead's grasp, sweating bullets as Clarence's character glares daggers into your skin.

"Fengyan..." You try.

"Hm?"

"Could you let me go?"

"I thought you loved me?"

"Yeah... but..." He tightens his grasp around your waist instead, tilting his head cheekily at Clarence.

"So?"

"How is it that you're able to let your guard down around him but not me?"

"Well, he's kind of a childhood friend—"

"I'm kind of her boyfriend." He smiles. "Who are you?"

"Her class president."

You blink at the two of you, cringing at the dialogue in your head. There's NOTHING more cringe than the words that just came out of Clarence's mouth.

"And..." He yanks you into his arms, holding you close as he raises a brow at the second male lead. "her future boyfriend."

You fight the urge to scream W rizz out loud, settling for listening to the way both of your hearts race in your chests instead.

"Cut!"

You slump into Clarence's arms, dropping to your knees as you take a breather.

"Are you alright?" Clarence crouches down to you.

"They need to tone your rizz down." You sigh. "I'm fine. Give me a moment."

Clarence holds a laugh back as O'Connor holds his hand out for you.

"Still having trouble?"

"Just a little." You sigh. "I'm surprised you signed up for this role."

"Ah..." He averts his eyes as he chuckles under his breath. "Someone told me I'd get the show of a lifetime if I played the second male lead."

You think you know who it is.

Though, you don't complain, relishing in the way your celebrity crush has an arm around you at all times just to spite Clarence. You wonder what that means for you when Clarence finally gets you for himself in the script. Maybe Silan is going to ruin your life. (You're coping with the fact that you're going to need to kiss Clarence again soon.)

You blink owlishly at Clarence as he corners you in your room, your character shaking on the ground as he looms over you comically.

"So, when were you going to tell me that he wasn't your boyfriend and that the fake moaning you were doing at night was just to keep me up?"

You muster the best smile you can give him, holding two thumbs up and hiding under him as he pulls you up by the collar of your shirt.

"You have anything to say to me?"

"Woah, student president, since when were you so rough?" You wiggle your brows back at him, expecting to render him speechless.

"Yeah? You want rough? I'll show you rough."

You aren't expecting Clarence to actually kiss you this hard. His hand stays on your shirt as he forces his lips to yours, forcing your mouth open with his free hand as he uses tongue. You wonder where he learned to kiss like that if he hasn't done a romance drama in the same amount of time that you haven't been a main lead. He kisses you like he has more to tell you than what he can through the role of his character, tongue pressed to yours as his hold eventually looses and he holds the back of your head. You get dizzy at one point, whimpering into the kiss, panting for breath when he finally lets go of you.

The two of you did NOT hear the director yell cut.

You thank the heavens when you're told you don't need to retake the scene, though.

You don't know how many more Clarence kisses with tongue you have left in you.

Thankfully, the two of you finish the cohabitation arc of the drama relatively quickly, and all the two of you have left is the final leg of campus. You don't know why they decided to split the campus arc into two, but it goes much quicker. You grab onto Jaclyn's character as the two of you grow closer.

She helps you piece yourself together. In a way, both Clarence and Jaclyn's character help you piece yourself together, but you find that ultimately your character is happier with Jaclyn. Maybe you should make this a yuri bait.

You tell your manager that your favorite episode was the classic shopping one. You had the time of your life doing something that you hadn't gotten to do in a long time. Maybe it was the semblance of normalcy you craved after you became an actor. You wonder when you'll be able to do that again.

You do a little spin for Jaclyn and Clarence's characters in front of the camera.

"You're so cute!"

"And!!" You show Jaclyn enthusiastically, "It has pockets."

"Perfect for hiding knives."

You hide behind Jaclyn at Clarence's comment.

"I think your brother's a psychopath."

Jaclyn's character can't argue with that.

You like to think you've grown closer to Clarence.

Even when the two of you are getting your makeup finished for the final scene, you wonder if he has anything else to say. Maybe he's going to improv. Maybe he's going to randomly confess to you (he won't), maybe he'll— you're just delusional. Clarence would wait for a proper time before asking you out. He wouldn't make such uncalculated moves like that.

"Ready?" The director blinks at the two of you, and you nod.

"Action!"

"Will you go out with me?" Clarence holds a different bouquet of flowers this time, smile much gentler and eyes much fonder. "Hm? Class flower?"

"I don't know, president." You tap your chin and pretend to think. "Do you really like me? Little old me? Little miss shallow me?"

Clarence rolls his eyes, yanking you to his chest with a huff.

"I am certain."

You rest your ear on Clarence's chest as you listen to his heartbeat rattle his ribcage, humming quietly as the two of you wait for the director to yell cut. It does not happen. Instead, the two of you are stuck in that position for a hot minute, your lips curling further and further upwards as you hold back a laugh to the best of your ability. You've never been so glad the camera isn't showing your face at the moment.

"Are you sure you like me?"

"Yes." Clarence mumbles. "Must I show it to you?"

"Don't you dare." You grumble.

"Cut!" The director yells. You wonder if that was for a blooper on purpose, but you don't pry. You're finished. So, when everyone is celebrating at hotpot at the completion of shooting, you stay in the apartment instead, yawning as you doomscroll on your phone. You need to know what the people are posting about the script online. It's not good for your mental health, but you get a good laugh out of everyone who claims they're going to pull their SD cards out of hiding and bring back the couple edits of you and Clarence.

You wonder if the two of you will just go back to the roles you once held in the industry. It would be funny for you to go back to being a villainess that tortures the female lead in every universe. Speaking of every universe, you wonder if you're friends with Clarence in every universe out there. Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't.

"You asleep?"

You look up from your bed, too lazy to unlock the door.

"Not yet. What's up?"

"Let me in. Let's drink."

You snort.

"You are NOT the type of person to do this." You hum.

"You're the one who set the liquor outside my door. Come on." Clarence calls.

You pull yourself out of bed reluctantly, dragging your feet to unlock the door and sit with him at the dining table, popping open a bottle as he mixes a drink.

"We're done." He hums. "How'd you get the alcohol?"

"Jaclyn." You hum. "Did you drink after your shoots?"

"I tried not to."

You nod slowly, taking a sip of the drink.

"You?"

"Often." You hum. "They don't hold back once you turn legal."

"Why didn't you ask Jaclyn to buy it for you, then?"

"I didn't leave the room after we finished." You hum. "I was packing up."

"Are you booked again?"

"Nah. I need to drop by my parents' burials." You hum. "Then, I'll meet the rest of my team at the airport."

"Are you going home?"

"I'm going to see how my guardian is doing." You hum. "Then, I'll see what else lines up."

"You're always so busy." Clarence hums, cheeks red from the alcohol.

"Will you play the role of a villain for me sometime?"

Clarence sighs, taking his glasses off with a hum. "I'll play anything you want me to."

"Even my boyfriend?"

You choose to ignore the answer Clarence gives you.

The two of you say goodbye the next day with a quick hug, quickly returning to the life the two of you had before, waiting for the press tour instead. You wonder just what kind of PR your manager would have the two of you do. You remember when Clarence had to stick by you in one of your earlier tours, and you wonder if he'll be instructed to do the same this time.

You have fun promoting the drama.

Clarence recites his lines to you as you make a face and shudder, earning a laugh from the people you're with, and you wait to see if you would win an award. Maybe you will. It's not something you're really expecting, but it would have been nice to win an award with him, you think. None of his acting has broken onto the big screens, and none of your roles have earned you an award. You think it's funny. The two of you are leg to leg. Well, that would be wrong. You don't know how many awards Clarence has won. You're sure his fans would throw a fit if they ever found out that their fav had a childhood friend.

At least he's not in love with you.

"Clarence, you've acted with quite a handful of female actors—"

You know what kind of a question the host is going to ask.

"Who was your favorite?"

"I'm biased, so obviously..." His eyes trail to yours as Jaclyn gasps in offense from the side.

"Not your beloved sister?"

"No."

You snort, hiding your face behind your hands as Jaclyn clicks her tongue and shakes her head at Clarence's reaction.

"Ah, we heard that the second male lead this time around was your celebrity crush!" The host turns to you. "So?"

"Oh..." You pretend to get shy, fanning your face. "He's such a sweetheart..."

You catch Jaclyn laugh behind the camera at Clarence's reaction.

"Yeah. Honestly, I would have picked O'Connor just for his face card." You shrug. "Have you seen him?"

"Understandable. Did you grow up watching him on TV?"

You nod. "He was one of the other reasons I started acting in the first place."

"Oh? What was your main reason?"

You tap your cheek with a wink. "That's a secret!"

It's not a secret. You're sure if someone dug hard enough they'd find the interview where you had mentioned you wanted to outdo Clarence in everything he was good at, so you followed him into the acting industry. You're sure your company had wiped that from the internet, but you still have a copy of it at home. Clarence's mom insisted that the two of you keep that video for memories. You're kind of glad she did.

"Where are you headed after this?"

You turn your head to stare at Clarence.

"Hm?"

"I was going back to the hotel."

"Do you want food?"

"And get caught?"

"Even better."

You blink at Clarence, stupefied. "What."

He smiles. "I hope I beat the headlines."

You blink at Clarence as he holds his hand out for you, pulling you as your manager yells for you in the background. White noise blurring out as you climb into the car after Clarence, cameras clicking at the sight of Clarence holding your hand. You wonder what kind of an excuse your management will come up with if Clarence doesn't actually do what he wants to.

"You're not acting like yourself."

"No one does while in love." Clarence hums. "So?"

"Where's my confession?" You raise a brow.

"This isn't as dramatic, but..." Clarence hums. "Go out with me?"

"That's so unromantic!" You hit him, turning your head to the side as he stops at the light.

"Soleil de ma vie." Clarence turns to stare at you, holding your gaze as you're overwhelmed by his eyes. "Fleur de ma coeur." "Sun of my life." "Flower of my heart."

You glance at the red light.

"I love you." He hums. "Please go out with me."

You glance at the light as you pretend to think.

Green.

"I will. Please take care of me, star of my world."

Clarence doesn't go, hand finding yours as he lets go of the brake instead, silver of a smile on his face.

"Always."

[romance-rambles]

modern alkaid | 319 roses and a date

Alkaid gets asked on a date by the girl he desperately wanted to ask out, at least before he found out who the flowers were for. You'd like to maintain that nothing you said was a lie.

2.8k, post-alkaid's florist ending [everything else happens the same way, except alkaid's first meeting with mc happens after godheim], misunderstandings + some angst, mc is reader, series: none

ALKAID STARES DOWN BLANKLY AT the bouquet of white roses in his hands. At some point during his stunned silence, he had unwittingly taken them off yours, just as you had hoped for.

All 319 of them, to be precise—which is a number that, put in a different context, can also refer to 3/19, the day of his birth. Even with the limited capacity he has at the moment to sort out the events that led up to this moment, he can't help the way his heart flutters at the knowledge that you remembered, even though so much time has passed.

"Alkaid?" A gentle tap against his shoulder robs the flowers of their spotlight. "Do you...not like the flowers?"

He looks up and sees you, still here—still dressed so beautifully he's once more in danger of succumbing to asphyxiation, with a fretful expression that makes him wonder if he's already there. When he does not respond, you close the remaining distance between them, obscuring all else from his vision.

It is a problem only because he has nowhere left to run.

"No," he croaks out finally, leaning back over the counter to accommodate you.

Obliviously, you move closer, leaving him with no choice but to avert his gaze once more. Alkaid can only hope you aren't offended—that you don't think he finds you unattractive, with how often he does so. It's only that your beaming smile reminds him of what it feels like to stare down the sun.

"They're lovely."

Satisfied with his answer, you pull back. Your hands are clasped behind your back, and your ponytail sways slightly, once more retreating behind your shoulder. There's an adorable star-shaped pin fastened onto the strap of your cross-body bag.

He sighs discretely, relieved, and pulls the bouquet up to his face as casually as he can. The petals, he hopes, will be enough to cover up the deep scarlet staining his cheeks.

"I'm glad!" You clap your hands together. "I was worried they wouldn't be to your liking. Maybe I should've asked you what your favorite flower was before I tried asking you out."

A self-deprecating laugh slips out as you scratch your cheek. An intricate design spans the length of your nail now—shades of red and green shaped into what he can clearly recognize as halves of a rose hugging the edges—against a black background.

Alkaid bites his lip, converting the interrupted gasp into a quiet exhale.

"You guessed right. I like white roses," he says, hoping desperately that his words are nothing less than reassuring. "Though they share that spot with lilies as well."

"Lilies," you repeat, a determined gleam in your lovely eyes. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

He bites his lip harder.

THE MORNING HE'S DUE TO hand off your flowers, Alkaid finds himself contemplating the benefits of coffee behind the register.

Though his favorite concealer and his usual color corrector have done much to brighten up his undereyes, they can do little for the grogginess that comes with staying awake the whole night (Why such a specific number? Who are they for? Do you remember him at all?). And, by the time the clock strikes nine, he's already downed three cups of strongly-brewed tea.

What pushes him to finally break away from his usual preferences is a simple headache.

The store is empty, and there remains more than half an hour before you're set to arrive. A sharp twinge of pain in the side of his head as he stands up to check on your flowers draws out a careful hiss. Alkaid, with some amount of lingering hesitance, flips the sign on his door to closed, with a note explaining the rough length of absence. Then he walks out the door, his destination the artsy cafe across the street—the one that makes him think of you whenever he walks in.

Allen, the normally deadpan barista on duty, seems to shut down when Alkaid corrects him on his order. Soon, the news spreads to the rest of the employees, who take turns staring at him as he leaves with a warm thermos of coffee in his hands.

But, in the end, it proves to be an unnecessary trip.

You're already in front of his flower shop when he returns, half-crouched and studying the sign the way someone might study a work of abstract art. Today, too, you have a large, dark blue backpack slung over both your shoulders, its surface decorated with various pins and stickers—mostly of a cat, your cat, but also of a popular manga that you seem to like.

In Passing, that is.

It's about a love triangle featuring a tyrant emperor and a well-liked leader of the rebellion. Even without the reviews praising it for subverting expectations, Alkaid would've picked it up anyway.

He's on the third volume right now, and—

Hmm? His eyebrows furrow. Where did I leave it? In my bag?

All of a sudden, the sleep that had been so insistent on dragging his eyelids down vanishes. Alkaid wracks his brain desperately for the answers, stomach churning at the thought of you finding out about his latest reading material.

Unfortunately, you choose that moment to turn around.

"Oh, Alkaid!"

Your confused expression soon melts away, leaving behind only a cheerful smile. Tightening his grip on his thermos, he exhales silently, before flashing you a gentle smile.

"You're here." Time stops as you begin to approach him, your keychains singing a short jingle to accompany you. Your expression softens, as does your voice. "You didn't forget about me, right?"

Alkaid can only sputter out a half-coherent apology.

The words get drowned out by the insistent, purposeful beating of his heart. It's as if it wants to claw itself out of his chest and entrust itself to your hands, as it is, with shattered bones sticking out of it.

You laugh prettily, as always. "It's okay. I'm just joking."

Then, like a moth to a flame, his gaze falls upon your lips. A soft red, with a glossy sheen, one that matches the color of your skirt. On a plain canvas, it's all the more striking. It leaves him wondering about things he, currently a stranger, shouldn't be fretting over.

He's not sure how long he stares for, with slightly parted lips and a series of half-realized thoughts chiding at him to stop—only that it's not long enough for you to grow uncomfortable.

Alkaid clears his throat, holding up his thermos (I should've bought her something too, he thinks) as an explanation. "I apologize for the wait. I went over to the cafe across the street."

"Coffee lover?" you guess, making room for him to open the door.

"I'm usually more of a tea person." As he slips inside the store, he can't help but chuckle self-consciously, remembering all the different ways he imagined this scene playing out. Naturally, his next words are nothing more than the most blatant lie he's ever told. "I thought I'd try something else for a change."

"Is it a nice place?" Upon seeing the puzzled look he sends over his shoulder, you clarify, "The cafe. I've seen the reviews, but I think only experience can beat the testimony of someone you know."

He considers your question for a moment. "The staff is very friendly. I often stop by during lunch for their sandwiches."

"I see..." you murmur.

"I think you'd like it," Alkaid blurts out as he slips in behind the register, happy to note that his copy of Volume 3 is, in fact, in his bag. "The owner enjoys collecting art—there's a lot of different paintings all over the cafe. Um, since you're an art major."

"Well, now I have to try it out." You don't seem particularly startled that he knows about your major; instead, you take to drawing patterns across the wooden countertop. He thinks he sees the familiar curve of an A. "The cookies you recommended last time were really great too."

When he keeps his silence, the complete opposite of what the state of his mind currently is (she remembers?), you look up.

"Hmm?" You tilt your head, confusion clouding your once smiling expression. "Do I have the wrong person? You're Alkaid, right? From that time in the snow mountains?"

He forces himself to nod, but that too is enough.

A shy smile blossoms on your lips, paired with both a brief flash of relief flitting through your gaze and the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes. Placing your hands above your heart, you sigh exaggeratedly.

"You had me worried for a moment," you say. Your eyelashes cast a dark shadow on your undereyes. "I thought we'd never meet again."

For a moment, he wonders if there's more to your sorrow than you let on. Does it have anything to do with the way you disappeared? Somewhere so far away that no one could reach you at all?

Alkaid shakes off his thoughts.

"But we did," he responds carefully. I never thought we'd meet again either, he does not say instead. "Whether it was destiny, whether it was just a coincidence, we did. All we can do is make the most of it."

A tinge of sadness mars your lovely smile. "I think that sounds lovely."

SOON AFTER THEIR REUNION, DONE properly this time, down to exchanging numbers, Alkaid excuses himself to go fetch your flowers. When he returns, lovesick heart brimming with curiosity over the recipient's identity once more, he finds you've returned to doodling on the counter.

"Here they are, 319 white roses," he announces.

There's a blank expression on your face when you look up. Slowly, as recognition dawns upon you, it melts away to something bitter and rough. Its jagged edges dig into his his heart, leaving a paralyzing mix of sadness and longing to wash over him.

And then—

"Thank you," you say, and take the flowers off his hand.

His hand twitches, yearning for the camera he still keeps in his backpack, for the days where he feels like memorializing something instead. Lovely is the only word he has to describe you as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ears and pull the bouquet close with a faint smile.

Then, you close your eyes, and you inhale deeply. Once more, you are somewhere else—somewhere far, somewhere he can't reach.

"Ah, sorry." You crack one eye open. Now, the bouquet is clutched against your chest, but your sadness remains. "I guess I'm a bit nervous. I don't know if he'll like the flowers."

He? From some far corner of his mind, he recalls the image of your guardian. A tall man, with long silver hair and a pleasant, but guarded expression. Cael, he thinks is the name.

"For your guardian?" Alkaid inquires.

Your smile drops entirely at the mention of your guardian. A complicated series of emotions flash in your gaze, soon averted to one of the potted plants at the display. Scratching your cheek, you offer him a polite laugh.

Today, only some of your nails are a plain black. The rest remain bare.

"No, it's not for Cael." You answer carefully. "Actually—"

Looking down at the flowers, you take a deep breath. When next you speak, your voice has reclaimed the softness it'd shown him earlier—your searching gaze as well. You leave him with the truth, imparting it onto him like a mischievous secret.

"There's someone I'd like to ask out."

His stomach drops, and you leave him with the memory of lovelorn smile, forever imprinted behind his eyelids.

"I hope he says yes."

[3:00 PM] you: Alkaid, do you have any plans tonight?

[3:17 PM] alkaid: No, I'm free

[3:21 PM] alkaid: Did something happen?

[3:22 PM] you:

[3:22 PM] you: I haven't asked him out yet. Gonna do it soon

[3:23 PM] you: All of my other friends are busy rn.

[3:24 PM] you: Is it okay if I stop by after you close up shop?

[3:24 PM] you: I'd want to talk to someone about it

[4:31 PM] alkaid: Of course

SOMEHOW, ALKAID MANAGES TO GET through the rest of the day.

His heart is held together haphazardly with duct tape and carefully-placed staples, though their efforts are thwarted constantly by a popular refrain (You hardly know him. Of course there's someone else.), and he's one stubbed toe away from being reduced to tears, but he manages. Somehow.

He swallows down his what-ifs and maybes and waits, watching the hands on his wristwatch inch ever closer to six in the evening. And eventually, the vaguely promised time arrives.

As he's stepping out from behind the register, a familiar chime echoes cuts through the silence. Alkaid looks up and sees you, dressed still in red and black, your turtleneck and skirt swapped out for a knee-length dress.

"Hi."

The bouquet of white roses—held in both hands, a stark contrast to the black leather jacket you're wearing—covers up its neckline. You smile sheepishly at him, pulling at the mesh of your bright red skirt to mimic a curtsy.

You're beautiful. Even the flowers surrounding them pale in comparison. Even the aurora they'd seen together pales in comparison. You rob him of his breath and leave gasping for a reprieve, but so long as he keeps his memory in even the smallest capacity, that's simply impossible.

The familiar knife called jealousy stabs into his heart, leaving him keenly aware of his longing. He averts his gaze, but the damage has already been done. You are beautiful, and he has waited years to see you.

"Hi." Alkaid swallows uncomfortably, as the sound of your footsteps draws closer. In a panic, his hands brace themselves against the edge of the counter. "Was something wrong with the flowers? I thought—"

A mysterious expression sits upon your features when you pull his gaze onto you, seemingly oblivious to your magnetic power.

With a deep breath, you thrust the flowers at him, knuckles brushing against his chest. You pull back for a moment, taking your flowers with you, and the soft coral of your blush makes it difficult to discern whether you find yourself a victim the of same scarlet blooming across his cheeks.

"That's—" You cough politely. There's a heart-shaped pendant dangling from your golden necklace. The dress is either strapless or your jacket has covered up the straps. "—what I'm here to find out."

Alkaid tilts his head. His confused gaze darts across his surroundings and stops at the glass window of the store's display, thinking perhaps that your mystery boy might be outside. But while the streets are not barren, there is no one outside his store.

You say his name in the same way you told him your secret. Like it's something precious. Like it's something you love. And the truth begins to settle into his bones with a finality that deafens the half-coherent puzzle pieces he's been trying to fit together—he is the only one you could possibly ask out in this empty store.

He has no choice but to look back. At you, and the bouquet you're offering him.

"Would you like to go to the movies with me?"

AND THAT IS HOW HE finds himself with the beginnings of a bruise forming on his lip. He doesn't mind, not when the sting he feels as he wets his lip reminds him that this is not, in fact, a dream (It feels like it though, he thinks), nor a fantasy.

"You...you don't have a girlfriend, do you? It's been a while since then..."

You rub your arm lightly, muttering about something he can't understand, and what else is Alkaid meant to do but take your hand? He squeezes it gently, tickled to find that he can return the favor for all the times you've stolen his breath away.

Your lips part slightly, but whatever you hoped to say does not leave the confines of your mysterious mind. Instead, you draw some of your hair from both sides over your flushed cheeks.

"Nothing like that," he reassures, smiling gently at you. "I'm just surprised. I didn't realize you were talking about me."

"That's a reli—what." In a single moment, your voice goes from girlishly breathless to an irritated flat. Releasing your hair, you blink uncomprehendingly at him. "How?"

Watching you descend into another muttered ramble, Alkaid shrugs. "If you'd still like that date..."

You whip your head in his direction. "Then it's a date!"

The first time he met you, it was when you had fished out of the snow and offered him a warm drink to fight off the cold. They had talked about miscellaneous things, from your half-hearted desire to request a camera for your birthday to who could make the better model between them both.

And back then, he had thought to himself that there was no sound more beautiful than your laugh.

Almost four years after the fact, as he watches you giggle, Alkaid can confidently say his past self had the right idea. Such a specific title leaves him with room to declare your follow-up smile to be just as breathtaking.

[xyoonx]

I wonder how things would've gone if Prefect Luminary didn't exist.

+ Eden Alkaid was twisted for another reason/by nature. And he had his own reasons to destroy other worlds.

Like, the sweet, lovely boy whom we all loved turns bad and does heinous things + says yandere dialogues without being influenced by a bigger possessive yandere would've been cool. Just saying my silly thoughts, Netease. (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)