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How does one construe a soul, especially when molded into odysseys?
In such adventures, crucial checkpoints are lost to the greed of more and the fear of overwhelming. Harmony quietly shatters into dissonance, but —
You look tired, unhappy, and most importantly, scared?
— for him, it is different.
Xavier Shen knows exactly when his own odyssey took a turn for the flagitious, when his righteousness waved a white flag — a night surrounded by crawling trees and gleaming water, a forest and a lake, a phantom of the true reality he won't ever forget.
Decades mean nothing to him from that point; centuries don't carry the essence he wants them to. Tens of millennia have greeted him, and he only knows how to greet them back as politely as he can — carefully, constrained by a sense of caution after time's countless attempts to strip him of his humanity.
“Who...?”
Of course, it's you who asks this question. After all, none of the other ‘Xaviers’ will ever feel the need to. His lips feel laden with something he can't name. The green willow they all seem to wear wails and wails of a fate only Xavier sings by heart, only him.
“[name]...”
The Xavier in front of you whimpers. Your name sits foreign on his tongue. His voice is the same as it was a couple of days ago, and it almost makes you think that everything is all right, that he's finally back from a mission you were kept in the dark about until the last second, but...
Your head lifts again. Peeking from behind his slumping shoulders, past the silver hair, now dyed ashen from the dim light, you are met with the undeniable fact that it's not all right.
Alongside your hunter partner, three more ‘Xaviers’ crowd Jeremiah's tiny greenhouse on this unbelievably lonely night.
Yellow sweater, pale hands tightly holding a wooden sword — this ‘Xavier’ is looking at you like you're some kind of ghost. His fingers switch between holding the hilt and the two star charms dangling from its top.
Your eyes avert quietly when his do, his fright rubbing off on you second by second.
Next to him stands another — well, ‘Xavier.’ A long white coat hides his figure. Lines of iridescent purple run along the sides; little stars, concealed beneath its sheer material, twinkle with each blink. With eyes downcast, one hand curled on the high neck, this one doesn't meet your gaze, almost ashamed.
You feel a bit disheartened that he didn't.
Finally, long, grey hair. A much older ‘Xavier,’ you reckon. He is calm, or you think he is, standing in a light of prestige accentuated by the high black crown on his head. Quiet, lips tight, he doesn't seem like he would be saying anything anytime soon, familiar blue refusing to part from your figure.
Should you even look at him? Your mind believes it's not appropriate, the more it analyzes the greatsword balancing on his side.
And of course, the Xavier you think you know.
First meetings in no-hunt zones and sleepy murmurs, the furthest you can find him in your muzzy memories. If he isn't that hunter, then who exactly was the person who led you out of the unnerving forest safely a year ago?
“[name].”
Deep voice, a familiarity you liked to think only belonged to you, still holds that timbre as it did when he bade you goodbye. A hug under a flickering bulb and a deep kiss shared in the open doorway. In your periphery, he turns around slowly, just as he did when he couldn't stop the urge to give you one last peck.
Wandering eyes detach from the quiet king. They return to the one shivering in front of you instead. It is ‘Xavier,’ they inform your crumbling apprehension. It should be; the desperation leaks the same.
“What's g-going on?”
Tongue resting like lead, you don't squeeze his hand back when it grips yours. Strange, the unexpected hesitation tugs on your limb more strongly than your lover's.
“I know—” the collar around his neck pulses deep red with each shuddering breath, “l-let's sit down first.”
Brown dirt crunches under your hurried footsteps, feet patting the leftover soil from the freshly potted flowers. The bench is cold, almost wet, as if Jeremiah forgot to wipe it dry after cleaning. He left a few moments ago, just as shaken up as you were when you received his call prior to this situation.
“Something's wrong with Xavier.” One single sentence reeled you out of your apartment at four in the morning.
And now, you sit beside the very man you sped through the desolate highways for. The collar remains pulsing red, bright, almost blinding the dark night. This little device knows what you don't, and it makes you envious of the trust Xavier has put in the frenzied collar.
“Leave it,” specks of purple iridescence line your vision once more, prompting you to look to the left.
“It will pass eventually.”
The young ‘Xavier’ looks at your partner, still unwilling to cast a glance at you. His gloved hand stops just an inch from the clutching ones; the black of its leather complements the golden features. His soft voice holds the words like a command. A certain mannerism you recall reading bits and pieces about in a fantasy, royal setting breathes life into his body.
“I know—I'm aware...”
Yet, the hunter's fingers never stop tugging on the alarming neckpiece — such agitation. Your lips wobble, seeing the usual placid demeanour being tossed aside for something more abrasive, heart lurching at his refusal of the young one's help.
“Xavier...”
At the soft call of his name, every other ‘Xavier’ except the one you called whips their heads toward you. Though, as you gently push the trembling hands down and take them in yours, you can't help the heat surging through you upon their intense stare, almost as if they all knew who you were.
But you can't say the same for you...
“[name]—I don't—how could this—” His hand squeezes yours, once and then twice. This time, you graciously give one back, though lacking the gentle smile that would usually accompany this affection.
Possibility: Influence from a protofield or rather a rare protocore. Consequences noted so far: Memory fragmentation. More are expected.
And the various terminologies pertaining to the deep-space research field tumble out of his mouth — the only words that shoulder the burden of trying to make his reasoning seem... acceptable? Believable? All the while, the three standing lads pretend to understand what he's muttering about, but you certainly don't.
Can't.
(Blissfully nescient, as you've always been, as Xavier has always kept you.
It is only now becoming clear that you still know absolutely nothing about your supposed lover. And it hurts. A pain unlike anything that seems to be taking root deep inside your pumping heart.)
“Xavier,” blue eyes are wide with an emotion you never want to see him feel, “let's just go home.”
“And...”
You turn to face the other ‘Xaviers,’ not exactly meeting them in the eye; the dirt feels more comforting than three sets of that same blue. They wait patiently, all of them taking notice of the slight tremor in your limbs, slowly catching on to what is to come.
“All of you as well.”
Your car proves to be small.
No, all the ‘Xaviers’ are perfectly seated in their respective seats, all five of you perfectly seated. Except, it's them, and their presence — something that tweaks your mind the more you think about it — that makes this humble car of yours even humbler...
It's an older edition, after all...
“My star—”
On the passenger seat, your lover tries to push your hand away from the steering wheel. He can barely speak properly without hissing a little, and — you scoff inwardly — this man still expects you to believe he's in a perfect condition to drive.
“I shall carry him.”
Tone scuffed around the edges, vowels threatening in a sense; one would immediately bend to the ground. Yes, it was the same voice that you knew belonged to your lover, except it sounded anything but him.
It's the supposed king.
The older ‘Xavier’ quietly replaced your embrace, gloved hands brushing against yours for a second. The other two watched in silence as your arms, looped around your lover, fell flat down his back immediately; you found no reason not to accept his proposal when you looked at Xavier again.
Short silver hair clung to his forehead, hiding the dilated pupils that wholly swallowed the serene blue. Your lover's legs trembled the more he was lifted off the bench, the pulsing red around his neck still refusing to falter — all of these agonizing details constituted a scene that your Xavier didn't belong in.
“I will be alright—” A gasp cuts him off; unsurprisingly, he's not in the slightest.
Your hand reached up to his sweat-slicked face, pushing some of the silver strands aside. “Sweetie, please, let him.”
It only took a single plea from your lips for his resolve to dissolve. His weight leaned onto the king, unfocused blues retreating behind his eyelids, hands gripping the black, pristine silks of the king's blazer.
“Show us the way.”
That heavy stare found itself on you again. With a slow lick of your chapped lips, a motion that his indifferent gaze followed obediently, you led the ‘Xaviers’ out of the greenhouse.
Thankfully, none of them asked about your car. The engine roars to life once more — you don't think you can explain what an automobile is this early in the morning. With one final glance at your now fast-asleep hunter, you sped down the same way you did an hour ago.
Dusk is nigh.
At this early hour, you can count the number of vehicles passing alongside you on two hands. Pale white spills from the overhead streetlights. They pass quickly, one by one, lighting your darkened car again and again, before the red from a traffic light ultimately envelops the faded colour.
Another glance beside you — Xavier sleeps soundly, basking in the red glow that refracts through the windshield. The red from his collar itself now fluctuates, flashing brightly whenever he inhales a bit too fast and eventually tapering off upon a much stretched exhale — a sign that you interpret as conditions returning to normal, desirable...
“He needs rest.”
From the rearview mirror, your vision brightens with that yellow sweater again. This ‘Xavier’ meets your gaze steadily now; no longer does fright hold him tight.
“Rest?” Voice muted, the sight of your sleeping hunter pulls on the chords as slowly as you'll let it.
Your eyes remain locked in a certain gaze, “That's what I did after—”
“After I...”
Hollowed breaths, the red of the lights paints his youthful face in disharmony that pinches your heart. The sentence finishes the same, or rather, it never meets its end, and he pulls away first.
Saturated green pulls you back to the merging roads, demanding your focus. “It's alright—”
“He needs sleep.”
Eyes gleaming with something you can't unfold that beckons your own to search through them in the rearview, the princely ‘Xavier’ finally addresses you.
“Xavier sleeps a lot.” The gear is switched in tandem with your statement, your eyes fall onto the elongated highway. “Is that why?”
“I am not entirely sure,” the last thing he says before quietness settles over him, and you are not allowed to meet his sombre gaze anymore.
“You two?” A turn, and you exit the highway, entering your residential area. “You guys know anything? The sleeping, I mean.”
The king only huffs, head leaning against the clear window, his own blues held tightly by the towering tops of the cityscape, while the young boy simply shakes his head, not willing to open his mouth this time — responses that seem oddly familiar.
“Why are y'all just like him...”
Your words rush through the logy ambience. A familiar frustration bubbles deep, the same way it would when your Xavier would dodge around the questions. A smirk or a quick kiss, as if those sweet actions could ever soothe your equally bubbling curiosity.
The curiosity to know more about your lover, that is. They don't offer a comforting kiss like he always would, but as your car finally pulls into the familiar complex of your apartment, and as your eyes move to the rearview for the last time, a sliver of that comfort teases through the slight curves on their lips.
Low, barely-there smiles, but they are enough — enough for your own to tug up a little.
“We are here.”
After all, they are all Xavier, and he is them, right?
“Please be careful.” The king only nods his head before his arms hold onto your lover again, still deep in sleep.
Your apartment building is as quiet as it can be on a late weekend night. The reception desk is empty, the security guard nowhere to be seen. Upon your pulling, the front doors that should've been locked yield easily, and you almost feel concerned for a split second.
A bulb flickers overhead in the lift as the door opens. Warmth permeating through the heaters only highlights its warm tone. You quietly guide the ‘Xaviers’ into the small, metallic compartment. The three of them watch you press the number six before the whirring takes their gaze away.
No one interrupts your little trip in the elevator — not an elderly uncle who happens to be Xavier's neighbor for some reason, or a certain baker who always seems to set off his nerves in the wrong way. It's only you, your Xavier, and them, as they stand in the slow, ascending lift.
“Your residence, I presume.” The king leans against the wall, still balancing the sleeping man on one side. Those silvery lengths fall over his shoulders, covering most of your lover's relaxed face.
“You would be right — it's his residence, his home...” Your eyes remain fixated on the closed ones. Ding! All three pairs of eyes shift to the front, upon the sound. Six, your eyes read.
“Let's go.”
Xavier's apartment lies in an unsettling, dense air. All this time, you didn't have the heart to enter and wait for him at his home. And, as you usher the three men inside, you try your best to ignore the state of his home.
“This is utterly unbecoming.”
The princely ‘Xavier’ mutters lowly, though his disdain is heard clearly. The door had been locked moments ago, but you remain facing its wood. Your arms wrap around you, suddenly feeling cold.
Would it be vindictive of you to agree with him?
Xavier has always been a neat man. Not just metaphorically; you've seen it in the way he upholds that quality in his daily life. Etiquette others might struggle following flows through him easily, always so considerate of absolutely everything.
Then — you finally turn around — why can't you find that semblance anywhere right now?
“Are you certain this is the place?” Yes, but the confirmation remains trapped in your throat. Your ankles hurt the second your shoes come off.
“Y-you can lay him here,” your voice sounds unnatural as you grab the heap of clothes on the white couch and put them somewhere else.
Still unconscious, your lover responds with a guttural sound to the thick blanket you drape over him. Your hand moves over to his face, occasionally dabbing the sweat that forms quick on his pale, flushed skin.
That same neatness dictates his perfect speech, always — low syllables, a calm voice, always comforting, always him. But now you find his voice wrapped in everything that it was not: only pain, an ache that you couldn't understand, couldn't relate to.
“S-sorry guys, I'll clean this up real quick.” Your back straightens immediately and your hand retreats, suddenly aware of the three pairs of eyes on you.
“I can help,” yellow sweater and that wooden sword, “if you'd like.” His blue no longer regard you as a ghost now.
“I am certain I will be of use.” Eyes downcast with that same withdrawal, those purple flecks of his coat shimmer in the twilight, awaiting your approval alongside him.
The king, not wanting to appear impolite, chimes in, as exalted as ever, “I shall keep you company.”
You smile, blinking fast, hoping they won't notice the moisture in your eyes, like your lover always would.
“Thank you.”
And they follow you just as they always have.
Apart from the recklessly strewn clothes, you find things a lot more puzzling. The number of empty ramen packets overflowing his dustbin is concerning — this is what he's been eating all this time?
On your regular dates, Xavier would sometimes bring you to renowned hotpot locations, feeding you their delicious menu with eyes crinkled like half-moons. On other nights, he would crash at your apartment. With a plastic bag in one hand, full of delicacies you could smell even before opening the door, and a cool drink swishing in the other, you'd find it hard to turn him away.
Not when his flustered self has come seeking you out this late at night, given that you are the only one on this earth around whom his mind revolves at such an hour.
“How shall I dispose of them?” With the sharp crinkle of the plastic, your eyes jump to your right; the king stands patiently with those same packets huddled in his hands.
“That's plastic — it should go into the recycling.” You move toward him, grabbing some of the them from his embrace. And, with the next shift of the moonlight, your heart leaps into your throat.
“Apologies, my lady, I am unable to discern what you are referring to.”
...smiling. He's smiling at you, same crinkled eyes, cheeks rosy, and a tilt of his head.
“U-uh,” where the heck is that, “blue bin.” Your trembling finger points to the bin with a recycling symbol on it.
“Understood.” That smile lingers, just as his eyes do on you before he moves around to your left and proceeds to the bin.
It should feel uncanny, considering it's a totally new ‘Avatar’ of Xavier. With language almost ancient, distinctive movements, and a much more defined regality than that other ‘Xavier’ however... your eyes meet his shabby blue again; the packings have been disposed of just as you asked.
— it doesn't, and you don't think it ever will.
“I shall look after him now.”
“Thank you”
Another twitch of his lips, and he leaves you. With the kitchen back in its orderly state after a session of persistence, you move into the bigger mess — that is his living room.
“I have confirmed the remaining bedrooms and the washrooms are suitable for use.” Still wallowing in that shame, you see the princely ‘Xavier’ come out of the hallway, not looking at you again.
Makes sense. Apart from you, no one ever used the guest facilities in his apartment. And since you never really came for a visit — well, more like Xavier himself didn't let you stay here — for almost two months now, they've been the same as you left them.
Two months. Your breath hitches. For two months, he's been unravelling right before your very eyes...
“[name]...?”
“Huh—uh,” a cough, “Yes?”
“I am wondering what to do with these.” That black leather hand motions toward the heap of clothes, probably unwashed.
“I can handle this.” The wooden sword is set aside for the first time tonight. The now calm ‘Xavier’ quietly comes to your side to collect the heap.
“Do you even know how washing machines work?” You laugh lowly, grabbing some of the clothes from the top, missing the way their heads turn at your happy sounds.
“We have them on Philos, you know?”
“Philos, you mean, Philo?” Your hands drop the clothes back onto the heap. “I didn't know Jeremiah installed washing machines...”
“...”
Silence advises you to step back. The king and the prince keep their eyes locked onto the young ‘Xavier,’ gaze, sharp and condescending all of a sudden. You don't miss the way how one's jaw clicks or the heavy sighs floating down in the air. Tension binds everyone together once more despite your efforts to unfurl it.
“Sorry...” Actually, you are not sure why you are even apologizing.
“Where's the laundry?” His voice is full, though the hands holding the clothes tremble more the more the other two stare at him, the more you study the shakes.
“Come, I will show you.” You beckon, and he follows without a word, sensing his eagerness to breathe fresh air away from the stifling atmosphere.
The light is flipped on. Albeit small, Xavier's laundry is as cozy as he is.
“The washer,” you point to the branded machine at one corner, “and the dryer.” You come to stand next to its counterpart.
“Thank you, [name].” His lips purse; your name rolls off slowly, like he's savouring the way it tastes on his palate.
“Of course!”
This ‘Xavier’ doesn't smile as freely as the king does, almost as if his facial muscles have forgotten how to communicate with the firing neurons. But when he bends down to open the washer door, you spot a familiar red bleeding into his ears in between the silver strands — an adorable detail that makes your lips curl.
(Just like your Xavier does.)
“So...” Your desire probes before you can, fueled by the reddened ears. “Philos is your home planet, am I correct?”
Wrong decision. A black tee falls to the floor, causing you both to stiffen immediately.
“Y-you knew already?”
“Xavier was kind enough to tell me he's not from Earth...” The detergent bottle feels stubborn all of a sudden. “The rest was easy to figure out.”
“Yes, it is...” The washer is closed gently with a beep, and he faces you, not questioning about your own home planet.
“Thanks! Now I can tease him about it.” The start button is pressed for him.
“You... ” A hum parts your lips.
“You never change, huh...” He chuckles lowly.
For a moment, as the washer dispenser unloads the scented detergent, you feel a similar wave wash over you. Oh, how the familiarity of those hearty sounds cuts through you. The detergent bottle almost slips from your hand; you almost fall, but his arm comes around you, quick.
“Careful.”
Yellow sweater, blue eyes. Those same damned blue eyes belonging to your lover that will haunt you forever.
“Sorry.”
The trembling in his hands seems to have crept into your lips this very moment; your eyes divert down upon the intensity swirling in his.
“It's alright, [name].”
He lets go of you just as the washer starts filling with water. Twenty minutes until this cycle completes.
“I'll take care of the drying.”
“Thank you, Xavier.”
And the laugh gets imprinted on his face.
With a small smile of your own, you silently leave the laundry. On your way, you see the living room has been cleaned, spotless, so much so that you can't even remember if it was the opposite in the first place.
The princely ‘Xavier’ sitting beside your lover looks up just as you cross into the living room and down again when you don't make an effort to acknowledge him. You can't, actually.
“This device has been flashing a signal for some time—”
...your hunter's watch goes off again. You hope it hasn't been ringing for too long. From your pants pocket, you pull out your mobile. As expected, everyone is wondering about the sudden disappearance of their beloved hunter duo.
You open the mail first. Only one notification, but you already know that it's from Captain Jenna.
“[name], Xavier, you both didn't attend today's morning meeting. I will excuse it this time, but I hope you will take care of your mission ASAP...”
Timed 9:16 am.
(It's been that long?)
The app is closed quickly for another; you don't need to read any further.
Tara, 7:39 am: Where are you?!?! We were supposed to eat breakfast together :(
Nero, 8:04 am: your desk is empty, so is Xavier's ( -_・)?
“Shut up—”
Simone, 9:30 am: r u alright?
“...”
“Are you all right?”
“Huh?”
Those blues wander down your body, taking their sweet, sweet time before they settle on your sock-clad feet. “You told me to stop talking...”
“—! Uh—it was not for you!” You jump in front of him, shoving the phone in his face, indifferent to the way his cheeks bloom pink.
“It's these bozos, you see...” A deep exhale as you slump onto the floor in front of the princely and your sleeping one.
“...can't they think for a minute? It's not like Xavier and I have ever missed anything before, so...”
With back slumped against the couch, you go on a ramble that this ‘Xavier’ definitely doesn't deserve to hear — mere gabble to his prestigious ears — but you do anyway because, surprisingly, he's a good listener...?
“Is it supposed to be an association? What kind?”
“Long story short, we work as hunters, and we hunt—”
“Wanderers?” He snatches the term from your mouth.
“Am I right?” A small curve on his lips answers instead, just as you stand once again.
Your eyes drift back to the sleeping man. “You know how to, uh, fight... them?”
“We get training in our own academy, so...” His words pull you to look toward him; he's already staring at you.
“Yes, I do.” And a bulb lights up! Might as well take advantage of this...
“Can I ask something of you?”
(Sleep Xavier, I will be back soon.)
“What is it?” His head tilts to the right.
Not a single ounce of hesitation; it makes you and your heart smile.
It was surprisingly easy to convince him.
This princely ‘Xavier’ bears the most resemblance to yours — no, you don't have any personal issues with the older, regal one nor the young, sweet one — and, as testified by his words that you hope hold true, it was only appropriate to bring him to the association.
Midway, you pull him into a buzzing café, which he again doesn't rebut. With Christmas around the corner, the tiny space is garnished with festive hope and joy. Greens, reds, and goldens are the only colours that greet you good morning as you come before the counter.
“Anything you desire, sire?” You wink at the one beside you, pleased by the way red rushes into his cheeks.
“Enough.” A hand pinches your cheek into the same colour.
You end up ordering two lattes.
(Even though he had been reluctant at first, you don't tease him about the empty cup, even if you both expect the teasing.)
The hunter's association also basks in the glow of the festive spirit. Pushing the massive glass doors, you bring him inside. The princely ‘Xavier’ is as adept as you discerned. The script you have prepared for him plays out just like you wanted.
He doesn't forget the right way to tap his — well, not really his — identification card. He makes sure to apologize to Jenna as you two pass by her office. The paper stack on his table is collected, paired with yours. And, ignoring the teasing of a certain ‘guy’ regarding his stylistic choice for today, you both depart from the association just as quickly as you came.
“You have friends.” This time he pulls the door open for you. “A lot of them.”
You nod as thank you. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”
The ride to your destination is waiting just as Jenna informed you.
“Very lively.” He sits beside you, already looking out the window.
“Especially that man. What did you call him?” He turns to you.
“Nero?” The car begins the ride. You pinch your nose bridge, eyes closing with a plea for the coffee to start working earlier.
“Xavier, why are you asking?”
That same leather grips your jaw, gentle, as always. You gasp while he only pulls you closer not caring if the poor driver judges.
“Who is he to you?” Just an inch away, practically swallowing any space that dared to linger between you.
You think he must be sifting through your memories in real time and picking the ones that affect you the most because there's no way he isn't, judging by the way those blues narrow and his lips jut out. And it's really the small things that stack one upon another, again and again, demanding that you see how big they can get.
(That's how Xavier has been. Everything about him has always screamed loudly in the mellowest way possible.)
“A friend.” You can't stop the smile that pulls at your lips.
“If you say so.” His only tugs down, a barely-there motion that teases yours.
“Why are you jealous?”
“I never said I was.” The leather detaches from your skin and he pulls away, rendered flustered.
You can't help but laugh loudly, startling the other two in the car with you.
“You can go first — I need to check the reports.”
Finally home — yes, it's Xavier's apartment, but...
“Alright, I will be waiting.”
But... your soul seems to have lost its way.
The mission was a breeze. Just a low-grade wanderer who happened to stumble into an abandoned shopping center. You had barely crossed the center's boundary before the wanderer crashed, dead just a few meters in front of you. The lines of golden-white still cutting through its already dissipating body shut down any confusion that was beginning to surface.
“I felt the protocurves early on.”
Why are you not surprised?
It was that same gloved hand that handed you the blue protocore. The prince had said nothing as his lightblade vanished into thin air before he turned to you again.
“Let's go home.”
Small smile, a rare one, finally devoid of regret and guilt, and an open hand you didn't know whether you should place yours in. Not that he cared; after all, he refused to let go of yours the whole ride back.
From: Jenna
[name], xavier, good job on the mission. I expect to see you both tomorrow in the meeting.
Timed: 7:49 pm
If Xavier even wakes up, that's the question. You don't know if the other one would agree to another detour in his place if he doesn't.
If he doesn't... You shiver.
The respective reports are attached below the personal message from the captain herself. However, you never get to open them.
A familiar hand clasps onto yours just as you step into the doorway, and you are whisked away to the kitchen before you can counter.
“Pray tell your heart's desire for this fine evening.”
The king brings you in front of the already-on stove. Red rings form under the glass plating, hinting at the hot temperature permeating through its surface — you have no idea when he learned the basics of the appliance.
“What...” Your hand gently drops to your side.
The king sighs, blues focused on the red, not meeting your questioning gaze, “Anything you would prefer to eat, in your language.”
“I—”
“A mushroom stew shall do.” Your answer never mattered. He starts fluttering around the kitchen just as your mouth parts, that big black cape of his resembling a butterfly's wings.
One hand takes hold of a lone spatula. “It shall taste pleasant this time.”
You try to follow his fast movements. “Listen—”
“Where might one find such?” The wooden utensil is set onto the countertop; a pot gets trapped in his hold.
“Xavier,” now, it's your hand that grabs his, “I just want to sleep.” Your admission halts him immediately.
“Sleep?” You don't notice the way his grip gets tighter and tighter; the clock on the wall pointing to 8 p.m. keeps your gaze still.
“You wish for repose?”
The moonlight has yet to leave those long strands of his. It flows in through the half-drawn curtains, gently mingling with the silver. Your Xavier is so tenacious with haircuts that the thought of him in an entirely different manner rarely crosses your mind. But now... You had an inkling that long hair, or any style, really, would suit your lover, and you were right.
“Yes,” you hope when all of this is settled, when... he wakes up, you can persuade him to keep it longer.
“Who am I to refuse?”
Upon your quiet, weary smile, the kitchen lights are clicked off with a finality. You let the king lead you out into the living room, back to the prince and your unconscious lover again.
Xavier remains the same as he was this morning — still disconnected from reality. Eyes unmoving beneath the thin skin, and the deep, invisible breaths speak of a rather delayed awakening, just as you have started to fear.
The prince takes his place at one end of the couch, occasionally fixing the still perfectly laid blanket, watchful of his sleeping equal.
“It has calmed.” He looks at you.
His blues are drained — from today's events or the reality? You don't really know — allowing the withdrawal from the night before to melt into something tender, something more... avid. No matter how many times yours blink, no matter how many times his blink, they remain boring into yours, tender, avid for something you now know only belongs to you.
You will yours to separate when the realization threatens to chain you again, watching as the king takes the other end. His own blues dutifully roam around the collar, now free of red.
“As was to be foreseen.”
Both of them sigh in tandem, yet you can't bring yourself to let this relief surround you. Something feels amiss.
“Why is he still...” Your words hesitate, a faint sentence that the two barely pick up above the hum of the approaching daybreak.
“Yes?” It's the prince who asks first.
“H-he...” You try again, begging your conscience not to let you down this time. But it's too much, too much.
“[name]?” Then, the king, with a concern that only cages you more and more.
“X-xavier...”
You want him awake right now. You want to see his own blue peer from behind his eyelids. You want to hear him say that he's all right now. You want him to hold you again.
Right now.
“...”
Wet. Your face feels wet. Something translucent coats your fingers the moment you swipe them against your cheeks. It is your tears, your trembling conscience confesses ruefully.
“W-what's wrong?”
It's the prince who catches you when your knees retract their support. With a calm hand, smoothing your hair, he holds you against him as gently as he can.
Your blurred, untamed vision doesn't register the way the king drops to his knees as well, hands resting on your back, lingering just a few inches from your fallen selves.
“What ails you, my deare?”
How do you even tell them that it's them — their entire existence, that it's the way your lover refuses to wake from a slumber so deep you fear it might keep him there forever, that it's the harrowing reality that perhaps you have already lost him?
“Welcome back—” A door bangs shut in sync with your sob.
“[name]?”
Your own name being called in a voice you so desperately want to hear right now only makes you weep louder.
“I—”
The words are choked by the pressure in your throat; your body betrays you, not caring if unconsciousness gradually dawns on you.
“It's all right, [name].”
“Breathe,” one hand pulls on the back of your head, bringing it to rest on a shoulder. Your tears drench the white coat; the purple shimmer rushes to soak them.
That black cape, tinged with his scent, is drawn over your body. Golden, embroidered patterns battle with the dark spots overtaking your vision.
“—Xavier?”
“We shall be here with you.”
Another gentle touch joins this decrescendo. Yellow sleeves lift your head slowly, not stopped by anything or anyone, blessing you with that same blue again you yearn for so deeply.
“I promise he will wake up when you do.”
— and with that promise of a kiss on your forehead, you finally surrender to the darkness in an embrace that holds the same warmth as Xavier's.
...!
..ng!
RING!
It's morning.
“WHA—”
Xavier's room.
“Another missed meeting! Alert! Another missed meeting! Alert—”
This darned watch.
You slap a heavy hand on the blaring watch and fall back onto the bed, letting the flashing continue without the sound this time. The sheets smell of something familiar — soft, musky, floral detergent — something that prevents your mind from slipping into slumber again.
Xavier?
No one's behind you or in front of you. Alone, only you lie in this too-big bed. Where are the others? The thought helps you stand on the floor. As you get ready for the day, the unusual absence of the sounds that should be there moves your limbs too fast for your mind to catch up.
The laundry room is empty — Xavier's cleaned clothes are precisely folded and stored in the makeshift cupboards. No one is present in the kitchen, only a bowl of purple liquid that makes you gag the more you look at it. And of course, the living room.
Your breath gets stuck in your lungs.
They are gone. All three of them gone.
— except your Xavier, who still remains motionless on that white couch.
“Call incoming from Captain Jenna—”
“X-xavier...” You stumble toward his unconscious self, feet dragging on the floor with each step.
“P-please, w-wake up, baby...” His face is cold, agonizingly cold, which only makes you throw the thick blanket aside.
Frayed nerves tugging on sensitive limbs, you climb onto his still body, letting your weight settle on his torso, hoping it will ground him back to reality. Your body, your warmth, will do. You can surely wake him up.
Yes, j-just a little more and he will c-come back to you.
“Call incoming from Captain Jenna—”
(ENOUGH!)
“P-please wake up!”
Your face falls onto his, body trembling more than it ever has. Brine melts on your tongue, dripping down onto his pale skin, wet trails imprinting your agony with each drop.
(Is this it?)
“Xavier... please—”
“...”
“mhm—!”
The plea gets muffled in a way that only you know, only you will know. Despite the coldness crawling on the lips, all you can feel is that terrible, terrible warmth you so desperately yearned, begged, and prayed for.
Blue eyes, not hesitant, not ashamed, not ragged, that remind you of a yellow sweater, a white coat, and that high black crown, and... well... you know already... all in one, finally meet yours after centuries.
“Morning to you too.”
And a smirk that warns of the teasing that will be unleashed on you in the coming days.
“[name].”