perpetually in a state of delusion

[ceylonmoon]

happy birthday @snapgar !!! i can’t believe you’re taking your first steps now 🥺

[ceylonmoon]

i spent three days doing this instead of writing my paper

[ceylonmoon]

umm its pride month somewhere in the world right

[ceylonmoon]

[birdsofpasssage]

[ceylonmoon]

[ceylonmoon]

ceylonmoon capiscara comeback we (all 4 capiscara fans) all cheered ⁉️⁉️⁉️

summer is falling (it is a distant dream)

G | 2.8k | Capitano/Scaramouche

Tags: Grief/Mourning, Haunting (but in a loving way), Angst, Bittersweet, a Smidge of comfort

Summary: In which the wanderer and Capitano navigate the peculiarities of grief.

ao3 link:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The wanderer is no stranger to loss.

He was created as a vessel, after all; not for the Gnosis, nor for any sort of divinity, as he had once believed and dreamed. But simply because where else would his mother’s grief go, if not him?

What a fickle thing mourning is. One moment he’s on the verge of becoming a god, and the next, Makoto’s ghost has somehow been superimposed upon his lifeless face, the tear slipping down his cheek has shifted into hers, and then Beelzebub abandons him. In shame, the kabukimono had once thought, perhaps a touch of disappointment. Or even cowardice, Scaramouche had sneered, too scared to see what her creation could become.

The wanderer now understands. There’s no use in over-complicating things or trying to make sense out of the nonsensical. The Raiden Shogun had seen a spectre within a shadow’s shadow, and she left him out of grief. Nothing more, nothing less.

It follows, like a shade, and haunts just as well as one: from the spindrift shores of Tatarasuna, to a rickety wooden cabin, to the frostlands of Snezhnaya, and now here to the viridescent depths of Sumeru City. He thinks it very well may be intrinsic to his existence. What is Teyvat without its elements? What is the wanderer without loss?

(A husk, the Traveler tells him, blunt as ever, before looking a little ashamed.

The wanderer cackles and agrees.)

———————————————————————

So when Nahida approaches him one particular day, her verdant eyes wilted and lips pinched, the wanderer is already expecting the worst.

“You may want to sit down for this,” she warns him. Though it’s phrased like a statement, the way her words pitch up at the end whittle away any commanding presence they could have contained.

“There’s no need to coddle me,” the wanderer says, frowning despite how his mouth suddenly feels bone-dry. “Whatever bad news you’re about to tell me won’t change depending upon whether or not I’m sitting down.”

Nahida doesn’t even look vaguely disapproving at his sudden turn back into old habits; she just nods, taking his acerbic barb into stride as she looks back up at him.

”Il Capitano has sacrificed himself in Natlan,” Nahida says, simple.

The wanderer blinks. “Alright,” he says.

“Alright,” she repeats back, more uncertain.

And that’s that.

———————————————————————

Except it isn’t—because when have things ever been easy for the wanderer?

He hadn’t thought about Capitano for years up until that moment, or if he had, it wasn’t memorable enough to be notable. But all of a sudden, it’s like Capitano has crawled out of whichever grave he’s buried himself in, and selected the wanderer as the victim of his first haunting.

A cat with a distinctly noteworthy ruff of black fur stalking along a ledge? Hah, an exact copy of Capitano, the wanderer thinks before he can stop himself. The metallic clamour of a windchime or shopkeeper’s bell causes his head to snap up, expecting the otherwise uncannily silent form of Capitano to be hovering near him, save for the clink of his chains. The wanderer smells something honeyed in the breeze and idly wonders what saccharine pastry he decided to make today.

It’s irritating, for one. He doesn’t find any particular enjoyment in being bombarded by thoughts of the Fatui during random periods of his day. Secondly, it doesn’t make much, if not any, sense. He had hardly known Capitano, when it came down to it. Does three centuries of being coworkers mean he now has to grieve him despite this?

The wanderer watches the first whispers of the night emerge and tries very hard not to think about the nebulous void of Capitano’s mask.

(He fails. Obviously.)

———————————————————————

The wanderer dreams sometimes.

Not often. And of largely unimportant things when he does. Halcyon glimpses into the morning of the kabukimono, an uneventful expedition as Scaramouche, or the aimless travels of the last five hundred years. It’s a natural consequence of deleting one’s existence, he supposes. Where else would his memory be allowed to rebuild itself without the interference of Irminsul?

…Well, most of Irminsul anyhow.

However, he doesn’t recall ever being an actual participant in these dreams.

The room he wakes up in is unfamiliar—if it can even be called a room, with how the stone walls seem ready to collapse at a rogue breeze and the general moth-eaten state of all the furniture. He takes it in, eyeing the architecture with a critical gaze; it’s unorthodox construction at best, and the product of a madman at worst. The design lacks any distinctive detail linking it to any architect or to any nation. Weren’t dreams supposed to draw upon things you’ve seen?

“Apologies for the lack of hospitality,” a voice rumbles abruptly, thoroughly interrupting his train of thought. “If I knew I’d have a guest, I would have attempted to make this place more presentable.”

The wanderer turns around, and behind him is the undeniable silhouette of a ghost. He’d feel more ashamed of how he hadn’t noticed the presence of another if dreams weren’t such unreliable things.

Though the spectre is sitting in one of the decrepit armchairs and polishing a sword, the wanderer can tell at a glance that he would be uncannily tall if he were to stand. Would fill the room like a penumbra, bitumen tendrils scraping at the ceiling. Pin-straight, obsidian-black hair veils the slant of his shoulders, and his eyes are a peculiar, cyanic shade. A slash of midnight plucked from just beyond the window. They fixate on him, pinning him down like an insect on display, and lack a true pupil. Instead, there is an eight-pointed star assuming its place—he knows enough to draw his own conclusions.

“…It’s fine,” the wanderer says, after deliberation. There’s something strange in the way the spectre carries himself, an unsettling familiarity despite how the wanderer can count the all of Khaen’riahns he knows on one hand without using all of his fingers. “Who are you?” he asks flatly, throwing caution to the wind.

The spectre pauses in his meticulous polishing and stares at him. His eyes reflect like a cat’s in the dark underneath a stray beam of starlight, indigo mourning, violet recognition, a glimpse of scarlet humour.

“Thrain,” the spectre offers at long last, tilting his head. “Sentinel Knight of Khaenri’ah. And you?” Thrain’s voice is quiet, resonant in the blue abyss—the wanderer’s gaze skitters about, deeply unnerved, as stone and mortar fall away into stardust. The soft edge of a bygone accent lingers in the spaces where a phantasmic chorus should have been, a knowing there that had no place in the mouth of a stranger. The wanderer’s spine stiffens, a curse bitten back at the last moment as he finally traces the amused tone. Though it hasn’t been directed at him for nearly five centuries.

“I suppose Sixth is no longer an option, is it?”

The wanderer jolts up from his slumber, gasping. When his imitation heartbeat eventually slows, he buries his face in his hands and resists the temptation to groan obnoxiously.

He also fails at this—obviously.

———————————————————————

Capitano joins the funeral procession following the wanderer.

He still doesn’t know the full extent of the circumstances surrounding Capitano’s death, and he doesn’t care to dig into it until it becomes necessary. But somehow, some way, the Captain has managed to escape his chains, if only by the barest amount. The wanderer had known for centuries, after all, that there was something inhuman about Capitano. He had bet his entire existence—but perhaps the humanity in Thrain was the most monstrous thing about him.

The wanderer, quite frankly, refuses to address him as Thrain anywhere but the sanctity of his mind. There, he does not resemble the entity that bore the name of the Captain for hundreds of years. There, the muscles of his face have not atrophied into something more rot than flesh, his exposed jawbone does not glint like a switchblade, nor does his mask conceal all the decay in an amorphous abyss.

There, he looks…normal. A completely ordinary man, save for a few more scars than can be considered truly normal, but it’s nothing extreme.

The wanderer despises it. He cares little for Capitano’s secrets now; Scaramouche, perhaps, had held a touch of intrigue about the elusive Captain, but what does the Balladeer matter in a Teyvat that does not remember him? The entire situation is much more trouble than he ever asked for.

He wonders, for the better part of his days, why Capitano’s even here. In Sumeru. With him. Is this the curse of being a vessel with loss carved into the nape of his neck like a collar? To attract ghosts like flies to a corpse? This version of Capitano doesn’t even know who he is, besides being the former sixth harbinger. There’s nothing left to tether their existences.

At least Capitano is a considerate enough ghost—but that’s the bare minimum, so the wanderer isn’t going to sing his praises for that one.

(“Do they truly refer to you as ‘Hat Guy’?” Capitano asks him, sounding a little mystified as an underclassman scampers away.

“Be quiet,” the wanderer scowls.)

———————————————————————

Capitano is an ancient, terribly immemorial being. A little older than the wanderer, anyhow, who has no firsthand experience in the Cataclysm, and certainly older than every other Harbinger. So it’s no surprise that he isn’t a stranger to loss as well, but perhaps it is his first time haunting someone; though like everything else, he’s a natural at it. Perfectly vague, appropriately terrifying, and miserable enough that the wanderer seriously considers exorcising him for his own sake.

But again—what does the wanderer care? There is no red string binding them together, no stars that crossed to bring them closer. He’s a rest stop at best, regardless of his nature. There’s little reason for Capitano to stay long. He just needs to be patient.

Not that that stops him from getting annoyed, though.

One evening, Capitano disappears. In the loosest meaning of the term, given that the wanderer finds him immediately on the parapet of the Sanctuary. He’s nearly translucent in the moonlight, an infernal blip in reality, and he looks more than a little ridiculous in his Snezhnayan get-up in the depths of monsoon season.

“Trying to escape?” the wanderer asks, landing next to him and perching on the balcony.

“A shame. You’ve caught me,” Capitano intones, making what would’ve almost been a joke into something that sounds more like a confession.

The wanderer pulls a face at him. “You haven’t changed at all,” he says, and immediately feels the urge to snatch the words, still buoyed by the solstice air, and shove them into his pockets. Familiarity would only prolong the inevitable.

The evening cicadas and mosquitoes clamour in the humidity, the stagnant breeze, a tuneless ballad winding around the pathways of the city. Yet, this far above the common folk, there’s hardly any noise but the thin whispers of the rustling leaves.

“Sixth,” Capitano says, quiet. He sounds like he’s not smiling behind that mask—he sounds like he’s profoundly, desperately mourning something.

“Wanderer,” he corrects, just as quietly. He steps off the ledge and stands, moonbeams pooling around them in a lake of mercury.

“Wanderer.” Capitano inhales deeply, rattling within his chest like an earthquake, looks at him very somberly. “Do you still miss the ocean?”

———————————————————————

Do you know what it is like to lose your heart, Thrain asks him, waves lapping at the mildewed pier, calciferous shells and bioluminescent skeletons solidifying around their feet. Limestone manacles snapping shut around their ankles and towing them under the currents. He looks tired. A bone-deep sort of exhaustion that remains even in death. The wanderer kicks at a conch and sends it careening into the ocean with hardly a splash.

Of course I do. The wanderer exhales a plume of smoke, a wispy cloud of ashes. He was born with a cavern where his heart should have been and then he lost it to grief.

Thrain is silent for a moment. When he speaks, hallowed blue eyes staring out over the sea, he murmurs, “I, as well.”

———————————————————————

And, well, here’s a bygone confession:

The wanderer is no stranger to loss, but he has never known what to do with it. What positive precedent was he to follow? His mother’s? The Tsaritsa’s?

Gods do not handle grief well; they forget that their divinity does not mean that they will live forever, that archons can destroy archons, and that there is a leash around all of their necks, trailing up into the nimbostratus clouds. The wanderer has witnessed, experienced denial, bargaining, fury, and—

What is he to do with it? Now that he’s aware of the time slipping from between his fingers? One cannot mourn something that had never lived, surely, so it’s absurd to consider this grief. A temporary melancholy, perhaps. A fracture in his composure, and the memories of his past staining the present like sun-bleached seaglass.

The wanderer does not know—so he does, as he always has, and turns away.

———————————————————————

“Wanderer,” Nahida says. She curls a white ringlet of hair around her index finger. Her lips are still pinched and unhappy. “Are you certain you’re doing alright—“

“Just fine,” he grits out.

———————————————————————

Does he miss it? Of course he does. The wanderer had known nothing but the sea for over a century, and then he had been dragged to a landlocked, hoar-frosted cell for another four. There are no plateaus of slate-grey rocks, wet and shimmering like quicksilver here in Sumeru. No thunder sakura roots protruding from the sand, crackling and crystal, an oppressive haze drifting from the electric ripples that plagued Tatarasuna.

The wanderer glances out the window. On the smoking horizon, he swears he sees tobiuo leaping and disappearing between the heatwaves like arcs of lightning, a deep and dense kelp forest stretching beneath him as the cumulus gannets plummet and burst into roiling fog. An indigo sky blazing overhead, the world drowned beneath a tidal wave of—of—

———————————————————————

The wanderer is a coffin and he thinks that Capitano might be the tombstone marking the grave. Or the wanderer is a columbarium and Thrain is one of many urns lining the corridors of his ribcage. Or maybe the wanderer is just losing his sanity, and the ghost is just some demented manifestation of his psyche.

In the corner of his eye, Capitano looms. Like the tangled and primaeval forests beneath the sea, a tragedy, a chasm. He is an ancient, terribly immemorial being. He was younger than he deserved and terribly human. The wanderer knows more than he ever wanted to know about the situation in Natlan and still, he cannot understand why Capitano lingers.

“What do you get out of this?” the wanderer whispers. The room is very dark and very still; if you had looked closely at the shadows creeping along the walls, you’d see something almost resembling vulnerability.

“…It’s rather quiet,” Thrain murmurs, form flickering in the moonlight, “without a heart.” His flesh is flayed and withering away. His exposed jawbone is a switchblade. His eyes are the only things that are perfectly intact. He is as handsome as ever.

“And I’d know, wouldn’t I?” the wanderer answers, sardonic.

Thrain smiles then; his teeth show where they shouldn’t along the sunken curve of his cheek, but it is gossamer and genuine and only a little grotesque underneath the light from the aperture. “Who else would?”

“You’re too sentimental for your own good, Captain,” the wanderer tells him, glancing up. Don’t you know that grief is drawn to him like a storm drain? Don’t you know that the wanderer is a coffin first, and a body second? If you stay long enough, you just might die a second death, Captain. Is that what you wanted?

Thrain’s oil-slick hair falls over his eyes like a whalefall, a starquake without his mask to push it back. He says nothing; he doesn’t need to. The wanderer’s trembling reflection in the windowpane illuminates his hypocrisy bright enough for Celestia to see.

———————————————————————

Thrain died in the height of summer.

He did not die alone, as you would expect. He dies with thousands of comrades and with an archon and a descender as witnesses, a noble, glorious star that burned so incandescently there was nothing else to consume but itself. He dies challenging a marble, sanguine pillar of Teyvat. He dies with his head held high, his own bleeding, mechanical heart ticking away in his hands, and no regrets.

He does, however, die very lonely. You see the difference, Wanderer?

———————————————————————

(What is a god without a red neutron leash around their neck? What is Teyvat without its limestone columns? What is a coffin without a body?

A husk, the pale-eyed executioner answers, interstellar smile gleaming like a blade as they burn, burn, burn.)

———————————————————————

“Alright. You win,” the wanderer says, affectless. A blink, a tear slipping down the curve of his cheekbone, and this time, it is his and his alone. “…Let’s go see the ocean, Captain.”

[dreemurrinthenight]

oh capitano please come back and feed my delusions of capiscara

[ceylonmoon]

artfight attacks on @snapgar !!!

[ceylonmoon]

flins and my lighthouse keeper oc :3

[ceylonmoon]

a super quick artfight drawing dump 😋

ocs belong to: Dixie_cat, BreadonFire, ezisfunny, h4rtlikev1bes, Kutiebugg, and SweetNlo

[ammifanart]

Truthless recluse and Berserk Dark Cacao vibing and being emo together

[church-of-white-lily-cookie]

*points at Fire Spirit* touch starved and pathetic your honour, I'll believe nothing else.

[purecacaoextract]

[ceylonmoon]

WHAT PENCILS DO YOU USE I NEED TO KNOW

ahh i fear the answer isnt all that interesting LOL i just use 0.5 mechanical pencils that i bought in like a 20-pack at walmart 😭 but im very loyal to them they’ve never failed me 🙏🙏🙏

[ceylonmoon]

you (on my arm)

Pure Vanilla/Dark Cacao | G | 2.7k Words

Tags: Slow Dancing, Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon, Developing Relationship

Summary: Where Pure Vanilla is horrible at feelings and Dark Cacao is horrible at dancing. It works out somehow.

ao3 Link if more convenient: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45067162

Fic Below 👇

The time was nearing eleven o’clock, Pure Vanilla notes idly, inching closer and closer to when it would be deemed socially acceptable for him to retire to his bedroom. Tick-tick-tick.

It isn’t that he’s not enjoying himself. Hollyberry’s parties were famed for being one of the few that actually were semi-entertaining and not filled with thinly veiled attempts at political alliances. The ballroom is full of joyous laughter and twirling skirts and a vibrant orchestra playing spirited songs that filled every inch of the room, and he’s enjoying it. Really, he is.

It’s funny though, in an ironic way— even amidst the commotion, Pure Vanilla is an apparition, a mere observer, glimpsing into the evening like a film. Detached and distant, close yet untouchable.

It’s not for a lack of effort on his part. He had attempted to get drawn into the sway of the party early into the night, giving the expected greetings and indulging conversations, but somewhere between the sloshing glasses of berry juice and inside jokes that he isn’t privy to, he fades away into the background, drifting into the corner where he has resided for the past three hours.

He admits it is a nice break in the rhythm of past galas, where he wakes up with a sore throat and legs, exhausted by the countless dances and chats. But at least then, Pure Vanilla thinks, a touch sardonic as he nurses his glass, he hadn’t felt like some vengeful spirit, futilely remaining in the ballroom for the slightest chance that someone would accompany him. For not the first time tonight, he wishes his friends were there.

Dark Cacao had not appeared early in the day when he, White Lily, and Golden Cheese had arrived, so Pure Vanilla does not have high hopes of him swooping in like some sort of noble knight to rescue him from his loneliness. Though the mental image makes him smile a bit, Dark Cacao was growing ever more reclusive these days, hardly straying outside of the citadel walls, save for their occasional gatherings with all five of them. It doesn’t stop him from holding onto that small glimmer of hope that he will show up regardless.

White Lily was never one for social niceties, so she had stayed for the first half-hour, greeting whoever was brave enough—or arrogant enough— to talk to her with a bland smile. She slipped away the second that her quota of interactions was met, and even their years of friendship and what may be construed as begging from Pure Vanilla did nothing to change her mind.

“You’ll have the others with you.”

He frowned. “It’s not the same without you though.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” her cheeks slightly flushed as she rolls her eyes. “I need to check on the progress of my samples, and you and I both know that I dislike these gatherings.”

He had heaved a great, pretend sigh, bemoaning his abandonment, and sent her off with his blessings. He should’ve joined her, honestly. It was always exciting to see what she was working on, though her mouth had stayed firmly sealed on her recent set of experiments.

Hollyberry, being the host, remained constantly moving throughout the sea of guests, ensuring the enjoyment of everyone and keeping spirits high. And wherever she went, Golden Cheese was sure to be close. The pair had made a few checkups on him as they made their rounds across the room.

“Pure Vanilla?!” Hollyberry shouted over the din of drunken cookies. “Why are you still here in this dusty corner?”

He smiles a bit helplessly. “I suppose I’m just not in the mood.” It was true to some degree; he hadn’t had the urge to go out and mingle, though it was admittedly lonesome and boring in his little corner.

Golden Cheese snorts. “You’re getting old, grandpa.”

He gasps, feigning offense, “You should have more respect for your elders, Golde-” She whisks away Hollyberry with a cackle and they get swallowed up once more into the crowd. And there he stayed until the current moment, counting down the seconds until he could leave and forget this party ever happened. Tick-tick-tick.

A gloved hand lands on his shoulder and Pure Vanilla stiffens out of instinct, his cape flaring out as he jerks around.

“Dark Cacao?” His face splits into its first genuine smile that evening, something breathlessly warm and soft settling in his chest. “It’s good to see you.”

Dark Cacao bows his head a bit, “Apologies, Pure Vanilla. I did not intend to frighten you.”

“No need, my friend!” He takes in Dark Cacao’s appearance as his heartbeat settles down from the scare, but it defiantly picks back up immediately after. Dark Cacao is out of his usual outfit, with twinkling, twilight robes swirling around his ankles, and a matching cape, dark like the moonless night save for the constellations embroidered on. He’s still wearing his typical armor on top however, with the Chocoblade strapped to his waist. Pure Vanilla should not find his stubbornness nearly this endearing. He wrenches his eyes from Dark Cacao’s clothing up to his face, which does nothing to calm his disobedient heart. There’s a new scar across his eyebrow, he notes, a bit frantic and desperate. His fists tighten on his staff.

“From Hollyberry I take it?” Pure Vanilla manages to say, “You look—” Terribly handsome like always. Like you did in my dreams. Perfect. Nothing can really encapsulate how much Dark Cacao makes him ache with yearning, something he had thought he had tamped down years ago. Perhaps absence really does make the heart grow fonder, he thinks wryly. “Good,” he finishes.

“You as well.” It’s a conventional, completely common response, but somehow Pure Vanilla’s cheeks grow warm anyways. What an embarrassing, miserable, selfish thing infatuation is, attempting to ruin one of his most beloved friendships for the fruitless pursuit of something completely out of reach.

“I wasn’t expecting you here tonight,” he says in an attempt to distract himself.

Dark Cacao rolls his shoulders, powerful and elegant. Pure Vanilla’s breath stutters a bit. “There was a snowstorm on the way. I thought it best to wait until the worst passed over. I am sorry if I troubled you or Hollyberry.”

“Honestly, no trouble at all for me! I can’t say for Hollyberry though,” he grins, light and teasing. Dark Cacao huffs a bit in response and stares out at the colorful sea of chiffon and silk before him. A familiar silence rests between them, to be expected between Dark Cacao, who preferred fewer words when possible, and Pure Vanilla, who always found it vastly more comforting when his conversation partner did not expect him to talk the entire time.

“I could say the same for you.”

“Hm?”

Pure Vanilla glances back at Dark Cacao, his gaze still fixed on the crowd.

“I am surprised you are not out there.”

“I wanted to try something different tonight?” he attempts. Dark Cacao blinks at him, slow and with a tinge of disbelief.

It’s Pure Vanilla’s turn now to look over at the crowd, Dark Cacao’s heavy stare boring into the side of his head.

“I’m surprised too,” he finally admits. “I’m not sure myself why I wasn’t there. Especially when,” he swallows, the confession seeming a bit too open now, but he can’t take it back. “Especially if I was so…I don’t know. Alone.” He can hear Dark Cacao step a bit closer, but he doesn’t dare to look at him.

“You cannot go join them now?”

Pure Vanilla hums, thoughtful and soft. “Oh, I suppose I could. But it’s alright, I’m not lonely anymore,” he smiles, “the company here is quite nice.”

A sharp, barely noticeable inhale of air and Dark Cacao steps even closer, the atmosphere charged with something electrifying.

“You would prefer to spend your time here instead of with the actual party?” he asks, quiet. The with me? goes unspoken, but Pure Vanilla picks it up anyhow.

“I’d prefer your company over most things on Earthbread,” he confesses, a little breathless, horribly obvious affection weaving through despite himself.

“Pure Vanilla.” There’s a soft edge to it, as close to begging as Dark Cacao would ever get.

When Pure Vanilla turns around, a gloved hand is held out to him. His gaze flickers up to Dark Cacao’s face and oh , for once, it’s open with the barest glimpse of starry, glimmering vulnerability seeping out of his cracked facade.

“Dance with me?” Dark Cacao murmurs.

Pure Vanilla’s traitorous heart jumps to his throat and he can’t reign it in before he’s responding, “I would never refuse you.”

Dark Cacao’s eyes crinkle just-so at the corners, the last dredges of a shooting star marking their final resting place there. It’s sickening and awful how it makes Pure Vanilla’s stomach twist as the chandelier lights sway above them.

He places his hand in Dark Cacao’s with a shaky breath and allows his other to rest on his shoulder. Dark Cacao’s left hand settles on his back, frigid, yet searing through the layers of fabric. The orchestra queues up another song, still bright, but with a slightly melancholy undertone. Unconventional for a waltz, but Pure Vanilla finds that he doesn’t particularly care. And slowly, Dark Cacao begins to move, Pure Vanilla following his steps.

This close, he can make out the few streaks of grey beginning to show in his midnight-dark hair, a few strands peppered near his temples, scarcely different from the milky-cream, but this close , the difference is all too obvious. Pure Vanilla had never really imagined they would be able to age, what with the Souljam, but it makes Dark Cacao look so, so handsome. It’s enough, just being in his life, however long it may be. So many wish for forever, but Pure Vanilla thinks he could be equally happy with a temporary, fleeting sort of existence, so long as he had the chance to exist with Dark Cacao.

Pure Vanilla is sorry all the same for burdening him with the unspoken, unsightly weight of his love.

They stay in the corner, hidden behind the ivy-covered pillar, and continue their little back and forth, pushing and pulling.

He gasps a bit when Dark Cacao tugs him forward without warning, almost stumbling over his own feet and knocking his head into Dark Cacao’s chestplate, which would have very likely resulted in a concussion and his subsequent crumbling out of humiliation. Pure Vanilla may be a tad idiotic and lovesick right now, but he can’t deny he has absolutely no clue what Dark Cacao is doing. His footwork is frankly, atrocious and he has no sense of rhythm. Pure Vanilla narrowly misses his foot being stepped on for the fourth time in five minutes. Honestly, he’s starting to suspect—

“Cacao, do you…do you know how to dance?”

He can feel Dark Cacao stiffen under his fingers and his right hand tightening its grip on Pure Vanilla’s hand. Whatever comes next out of Dark Cacao’s mouth will definitely be unpleasant and mortifying for the both of them.

Pure Vanilla decides to save him the trouble and embarrassment. He leans down a bit, lips almost brushing against Dark Cacao’s ear. Pure Vanilla hopes he can’t feel his thrumming pulse where their hands connect, threatening to pound out with the proximity.

“Let me lead?” he whispers.

He pulls back to a safer distance and watches a flash of something shutter over Dark Cacao’s face before he eventually responds with a stiff nod. Pure Vanilla can feel a small smile creeping across his face as they adjust their positions, his hand shifting to Dark Cacao’s back after a moment of hesitation.

“Trust me, alright? Follow my steps.”

He takes a step back and Dark Cacao follows, the two of them eventually settling into a rhythm. Dark Cacao had always been a quick learner; it came with the territory of needing to keep a vigilant eye at all times. It’s something that Pure Vanilla likes about him— so silently observant that he would forget until Dark Cacao would ask him about something he mentioned weeks ago.

The music swells into a trembling crescendo. A step back, right, a step forwards, left, and back again in a box, ebbing and flowing like the tides of the ocean and the moon’s gravitational pull. Dark Cacao would certainly make a fitting moon: celestially pretty, comfortingly constant even when out of sight, and distantly out of reach.

“...I do, by the way,” Dark Cacao says suddenly.

“Pardon?”

Dark Cacao hesitates then, the antithesis of the usual, unrelenting him in the fervor of battle. It makes him seem more real, easier to touch without the fear of cutting himself on his jagged edges. Affection swells inside Pure Vanilla, and he can’t help but feel a little sickened by the tenderness, the longing that fills him. I’m sorry for being so selfish.

“Trust you.” Dark Cacao’s mouth flattens and he glances away.

“Oh,” Pure Vanilla laughs, slipping out and incandescently, brilliantly happy. There’s a sort of weight behind his words, some sort of meaning that Pure Vanilla is sure that he’s missing, but he can’t quite piece it together, some part still eluding him. He finds that he can’t particularly find it in himself to figure it out anyhow, with how exhilarated he feels at Dark Cacao’s confession.

“‘Oh’?” Dark Cacao’s eyebrows furrow and his voice is tinged with derisiveness, but Pure Vanilla can see the amused uptick in the corners of his lips anyways. He’s so awfully, overwhelmingly pretty.

“I– Well– Thank you,” he says, stumbling over his words in a babbling, still idiotically happy rush. “I…trust you, too.”

“Are you nervous, Pure Vanilla?”

“No.” It’s true somehow. His heartbeat had long slowed, even this close to Dark Cacao. He always made it easy being around him. Perhaps that’s what drew Pure Vanilla to him in the first place— the lack of judgment or scrutiny, in spite of how terribly awkward he was— is, even when he wasn’t pathetically in love.

“Good. That— I am glad,” Dark Cacao murmurs.

The song draws to a close. Pure Vanilla sighs, mournfully etching the memory of how Dark Cacao’s hand fit into his, and begins drawing away.

“Wait.” He pauses and blinks at Dark Cacao.

“…Will you do me the honor of accompanying me for another dance?” At this, Dark Cacao actually does smile, albeit small and fleeting. Faintly, Pure Vanilla wonders if the world is ending, as it certainly feels like it is with the crystalline chandeliers casting a divine light behind them, illuminating Dark Cacao in a delicate, gentle halo. It emphasizes his devastatingly unguarded expression, blooming like a jonquil during the winter solstice. Directed towards Pure Vanilla.

Oh.

Oh.

Pure Vanilla thinks he may understand now.

“Always, Dark Cacao.”

The next song queues up. Dark Cacao takes his hand again and he brushes an ephemeral, reverent kiss to his knuckles before setting it on his shoulder.

“Allow me to lead the next song?”

Pure Vanilla smiles, soft and open— he allows his fondness, his love to wind through his words for once, dripping honey-sweet affection. “Promise not to step on me this time?”

Dark Cacao huffs, a hint of laughter and self-consciousness bleeding through.

“I would not dare. I…care for you too much for that.” Dark Cacao’s words come out in a staggering, tentative cascade. And Pure Vanilla can’t help his endearment, the seemingly indifferent statement from anyone else in that tone of voice is nothing but unadulterated trust and warmth from Dark Cacao.

Perhaps in the coming morning, Pure Vanilla will regret it all, and perhaps Dark Cacao will take his words back, and perhaps everything will be ruined— but tonight in their hidden corner from the rest of the world, with something nascent and fragile and sweet blooming between them, Pure Vanilla allows himself to indulge in Dark Cacao’s firm, steady grasp and the easy, celestial orbit of their intertwined bodies, slow and unwavering in their own isolated galaxy.

The clock chimes midnight.

[ceylonmoon]

i love you (i'm almost afraid of the intensity of this happiness)

Pure Vanilla/Dark Cacao | G | 2.5k

Tags: Fluff, Pre-Canon, Simultaneously a Developing and Established Relationship, Pining Despite Aforementioned Relationship, Sequel to you (on my arm)

Summary: In which Pure Vanilla and Dark Cacao figure out their relationship in the after.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46531471

Fic Continued Below 👇

It begins the night of the ball, or more accurately, the morning afterward.

Dark Cacao had walked him back to his room after the last stragglers had left— a little ritual that had started long ago at Hollyberry’s coronation ceremony. Of course, now with their not-confession of sorts, it carried a bit more meaning. He had glanced at Dark Cacao perhaps a little too often, but he’s feeling self-indulgent and it wasn’t everyday that he had his hair done up, outside of serious situations. Pure Vanilla blames it on the selfish remnants of his previously unrequited love, greedily eating their fill to make up for the years of yearning.

However— they pause outside of his usual door and he turns to look at Dark Cacao— he doesn’t have to hide the furtive looks anymore. Not with how he finally recognizes the unknown flicker of emotion in Dark Cacao, a reflection of the look in his own eyes. Not when he has permission to now.

Dark Cacao’s words and eyes are softened with exhaustion, fondness when he says good night, still slightly too loud for the pitch-black morning outside. Pure Vanilla had had to suppress the urge to smile as Dark Cacao grimaces and his eyes skitter away.

“Good night, Cacao,” he responded, laced with the laughter he had not managed to completely hide. He received an unimpressed look in response and Dark Cacao had begun to turn away until Pure Vanilla blurted out unthinkingly, “Ah, wait—”

Dark Cacao turned back and tilted his head in question. His mind ran on overload, he was such a fool, but he was already this far. Pure Vanilla took a shaky breath, and reached out, allowing Dark Cacao time to move away if he wanted to. His heart trembled as Dark Cacao simply allowed him to cradle his cheek, with nothing but a slight furrow of his brow in confusion— likely no one except for him had been this intimate.

He faltered before this likely incredibly selfish choice of his. Wasn’t this being a bit too indulgent?

“Vanilla.” Dark Cacao’s hand came up to his, eyes glimmering in amusement and exasperation. “It’s alright.”

It’s completely unfair, that’s what it is, how pretty Dark Cacao looks even when he’s tired and making fun of him. Pure Vanilla’s resolve solidified then, and he leaned in, heart beating like a rabbit’s, lips brushing against Dark Cacao’s forehead. A pause, and he pulled away. Pure Vanilla really was going to combust if he stayed to see his reaction, so he hastily slipped out of Dark Cacao’s hold and into his room with a rushed “see you tomorrow” thrown over his shoulder.

It was a tactical retreat.

Certainly not an escape.

Pure Vanilla closed the door and slumped against it, fingers pressed to his mouth. Though his face burned with embarrassment, he couldn’t help the giddy smile tugging at his lips, the phantom warmth of Dark Cacao against them lingering. He had kissed Dark Cacao.

It hit him at that moment, that he hadn’t heard Dark Cacao leave until several minutes after his door had closed.

Their friends had definitely noticed a shift in their relationship that night, but to his surprise and relief they didn't say anything. It probably helped that both Golden Cheese and Hollyberry were both horrendously drunk and sleepy and White Lily had retreated back to her bedroom hours ago.

Unfortunately, in the morning, neither of them were quite so lucky to escape a second time.

“So. You and Dark Cacao, huh?” Pure Vanilla can hear the suggestive eyebrow wiggle in Hollyberry’s voice though his staff was off for the moment. His flustered silence was enough of an answer for her, and she whacks him on the back with roaring laughter before slinging an arm over his shoulder. “I suppose, congratulations are in order! Tell me, when’s the wedding?”

He pushes her away, laughing, “No, no, we aren’t… You and the others would have mine and Dark Cacao’s heads for not inviting you if we were—” Pure Vanilla’s face flushes again, and he laments the state of his heart these past few days. “Well, getting married.”

“In any case, I really am glad you two old fuddy-duddies got over yourselves and figured it out.” Her voice gentles a bit then, though it still remains mischievous and teasing.

Pure Vanilla smiles, “I know.” He pauses. “...Were we really that obvious?”

She scoffs and upon looking at his reaction, promptly bursts into laughter again. “There’s only so many ‘completely platonic’ longing glances you can give someone before it becomes unbearable to watch.” The arm around his shoulder tightens to a nearly painful degree. “And you two fools have certainly passed that point centuries ago.” He taps on her arm with a wheeze and she loosens her grip. “While we’re on the subject though…” Pure Vanilla feels an immense sense of foreboding crawling up his spine. “Who confessed first? I have a bet with Goldie and Lily to win.”

Suddenly, he feels a rush of sympathy for Dark Cacao and relief that he had gotten off lucky with just Hollyberry.

“Don’t look so excited, Pure Vanilla. Those two are on their way here after they’re done with Dark Cacao.”

That wedding was never going to happen at this rate if neither of the grooms were alive after an excruciatingly emotionally open conversation.

Pure Vanilla hesitates before the doors of Dark Cacao’s bedroom a few weeks later.

It really was a nice door, he mused, solid, ebony chocowood and intricately carved with weaving designs of mountains and dragons. Oh, who was he kidding? His hand dropped from where he had raised it several times before to knock.

There was no way it should be this difficult to greet Dark Cacao, they had gone through this song and dance countless times. But the previous times, they hadn’t had something tangible between them, something growing and sweet, something that he could now ruin.

Neither of them had quite put a name to this tentative thing between them yet, hesitatingly testing the bounds of their own misgivings and yearslong patterns. A brush of hands, a silent “Is this okay?”, a lingering glance and hidden smile, but nothing as bold as Pure Vanilla that first night. In fact, nothing much had changed at all between them, ignoring the guilt that had been lifted off his shoulders.

He isn’t sure if this is a testament to how unromantic and inexperienced the two of them are or to how their friendship was before they had become— well. Judging from Hollyberry, Golden Cheese, and White Lily’s reactions after though, he’s inclined to believe the latter.

Perhaps it’s terribly juvenile of them, two centuries old men to be acting like this, but Pure Vanilla wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pure Vanilla is jolted out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder and the low rumble of Dark Cacao’s voice. “Vanilla?”

He whirls around and coughs, “Cacao! Hello.” Even with his embarrassment at being caught standing out here, his joy at seeing Dark Cacao is unadulterated and genuine. Dark Cacao’s eyebrows raise and the corners of his mouth briefly flicker with amusement.

“I had been looking for you since my attendant told me you had arrived, only to find you standing outside of my bedroom for an age.” At this, his lips curve into a small smile, and though it’s at Pure Vanilla’s expense, he can’t find it in himself to be truly angry. He never could.

“I didn’t want to bother you if you were in the middle of something,” he defends half-heartedly.

Dark Cacao’s eyes go soft and he reaches for Pure Vanilla’s hand with a tinge of hesitation. He offers it up and Dark Cacao tugs him in a bit closer before pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand. Pure Vanilla’s heart flutters at the gentleness, the earnestness of it all, something like yearning thrumming through his veins, but he can have it now.

“You are never a bother, Vanilla,” Dark Cacao says in his characteristic seriousness, in that particular way he always does that makes even the most absurd statements sound like fact. Pure Vanilla doesn’t have a response to that, instead laughing under his breath and brushing a kiss to Dark Cacao’s cheek. Hopefully it’s sufficient. Hopefully one day he’ll believe it.

“We should be off. You mentioned you had something to show me in your latest letter, no?” He winces. That was a horrendous subject change, he would have been eaten alive by the other politicians.

Dark Cacao blinks at him, surely noticing the not-agreement, but he thankfully silently acquiesces to let it go, for now at least. “Right.” He begins to lead them down the hall, and just as Pure Vanilla begins to relax, he says mildly, “By the way— the surprise is a statue of you.”

“No, it is not!” He nearly chokes on his spit in shock and laughter.

Though his smile has long vanished, Dark Cacao’s eyes glimmer with concealed humor, tugging their still-joined hands. “I suppose you will have to see it for yourself then.”

Of course, the surprise did not end up being a statue of Pure Vanilla, instead being the first jonquil blooms of the season. Fondness had welled up inside him, leaving him pleasantly warm and feeling even more pitifully in love with Dark Cacao. He would remember Pure Vanilla’s idle mention of his wish to see them several letters ago.

“What do you think?” Dark Cacao had asked, thumb running against his.

“They’re beautiful. Perfect, as a matter of fact,” he responded, only half about the flowers.

They had then spent the rest of the day meandering around the kingdom, avoiding most of the larger crowds, though at this point, Pure Vanilla was a relatively familiar face to the majority of the citizens. That had led back to the current moment, back in front of the double-doors of Dark Cacao’s bedroom, where the day had begun and was about to end.

“I should be going now,” he murmurs, fingers grazing Dark Cacao’s, brushing off the invisible dust on his shoulders. Any excuse to linger a little longer, to bask in Dark Cacao’s presence. “It’s getting late.”

“…You can stay,” Dark Cacao says. He steps forward and grasps Pure Vanilla’s wrist loosely, mouth set in a slightly awkward line, “if you would like.”

He smiles and returns, slightly teasing, “What do you want, Cacao?” Another little nudge at the long blurred line between them. Dark Cacao was the type to offer things that he wasn’t particularly fond of doing, all for the better of the other in the conversation. How anyone could deem Pure Vanilla as the pinnacle of goodness when Dark Cacao was right there was beyond him.

“You.” His face is entirely too solemn and serious than the situation called for, but Pure Vanilla can’t help the little embarrassed laugh that escapes as he leans down to bury his surely flushed face and giddy smile into the crook of Dark Cacao’s neck.

What a silly, terribly serious, horribly endearing man. His terribly serious, horribly endearing man. Dark Cacao’s arms wrap around his back almost immediately and he presses their cheeks together. Witches, if he doesn’t die horrifically young at the end of some all-powerful evil, Dark Cacao will certainly be the one to kill him with how sweet he’s being.

“…Alright,” Pure Vanilla mumbles. “I’ll stay.”

Pure Vanilla wakes up that morning slowly. A rarer and rarer luxury these days.

In any case, the more important fact is this: he wakes up pleasantly entangled with Dark Cacao, his head tucked under Pure Vanilla’s chin and arms wrapped around his midsection. It’s a bit of a surprise that he had woken up before Dark Cacao, both of them being early risers, but he certainly doesn’t mind being able to stay a bit longer.

Pure Vanilla marvels at this; the way he is now allowed to indulge in his idle fantasies, how he can press his fingers against the raised edges of Dark Cacao’s scars, soothing the pain that he had not been there soon enough to fix, hands brushing the hair away from his face and idly running through the silky strands, fingers feeling the steady beat of his heart, tracing out a silent confession on his back.

It is like this he spends his time before Dark Cacao wakes, eyes blinking blearily into consciousness.

“...Vanilla…morning,” words muffled from where his face is pressed into Pure Vanilla’s collarbone and deeper, slightly slurred from sleep.

He smiles into Dark Cacao’s hair, hands pausing their travels over his body. “Good morning, Cacao.”

“Hardly any morning is good,” he mutters bitterly.

“What about this one then?”

A pause, and Dark Cacao begrudges, “It is one of the better ones, I suppose.” He pulls away slightly from Pure Vanilla to look at him properly in the eyes. Pure Vanilla pushes the reluctant strands out of his face once again, Dark Cacao leaning into the touch, and exuding satisfaction and contentment. He’s never seen him in the light of early morning, the sky not quite blue yet and streaked with pink and orange, softening the harsher edges of Dark Cacao. Here, he isn’t the fierce ruler of the Dark Cacao kingdom, and Pure Vanilla isn’t the near messianic ruler of the Vanilla Kingdom. Here, they are just Vanilla and Cacao.

Dark Cacao seems to catch wind of the direction his thoughts are thinking, and the corners of his eyes crinkle; even with the gentling effect of the morn, his eyes remain like they always have, and he realizes quite belatedly why Dark Cacao had sometimes looked at him in that particular way he couldn’t place before.

“Sleep,” Dark Cacao admonishes gently. “We have time. And you’ve not been sleeping enough lately.”

Another day, Pure Vanilla will look back and wonder why he had chosen that moment in particular to confess when he had been waiting for so long, but in the present, he easily says, without a second thought, “I love you,” and curls back into Dark Cacao’s embrace.

A moment of stunned and quietly pleased silence, and Dark Cacao replies, “I love you too,” and cradles Pure Vanilla’s cheek with a reverent edge to his touch. Pure Vanilla’s eyes curve up into crescents as Dark Cacao asks, “May I?”

It made for, objectively, not a particularly good first kiss, as Pure Vanilla is lying down and Dark Cacao is propped up on his elbow and neither of them have not gotten ready for the day yet, but Pure Vanilla can’t find it in himself to care. It’s not so much a kiss as it is their smiles pressing together and it is not perfect, but perfect nonetheless, because he is kissing Cacao, and Cacao is kissing him.

Dark Cacao finally pulls away, smiling in that luminous, incandescent way he hasn’t since the Academy, and Pure Vanilla can feel a matching one straining at his cheeks.

“Another?” Pure Vanilla asks, hands reaching up to cup Dark Cacao’s face.

He’s already leaning down before Pure Vanilla hears his response, “Of course.”

Of course, of course, of course.