Illustrations (sourced from Hoshi801_ and around the web)
Volume 2: Chigiri, Reo and Rin
Chigiri part 1
Chigiri part 2 (translated by Hoshi801_)
Reo (full) (translated by 705point8)
Rin part 1
Rin part 2 (translated by Hoshi801_)
Illustrations (sourced from Hoshi801_ and around the web)
Volume 3: Niko, Kunigami and Hiori
Niko (chapters 1 and 2) (in progress)(translated by carbunnyra)
Kunigami part 1
Kunigami part 2 (translated by Hoshi801_)
Hiori part 1
Hiori part 2 (translated by Hoshi801_)
Illustrations (sourced from Hoshi801_ and around the web)
Disclaimer: I do not own Blue Lock or any of its characters. Blue Lock was created by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and Nomura Yusuke. The light novels were written by Moegi Momo. All rights belong to the publisher, Kodansha. These are fan translations of the original Japanese and distributed for entertainment only.
Everytime I come back to tumblr like “oh I’ll use it properly instead of just for fic archival” I’m always reminded that mobile tumblr is a fucking nightmare
Warmth pulses beneath their lips as they brush against pale skin, magic humming beneath the surface. They feel the erratic beat of the artery, blood pumping and flowing endlessly within the veins and sending it to the heart where it rests in the body. Teeth scrape against the bared neck, savoring in the small shudder it elicits, before Oz bites down.
The gush of blood is hot on their tongue, sweeter than the spiced wine they drink on a freezing winter night — hundreds of years spent mulling its flavor through the bittersweet days of discipleship to the age of ashen smoke and conquest brought down by their hands. Magic melts in his mouth, much like a mana stone it falls down his throat to mix in with his own powers becoming one.
Yet, in a sense, it could not be any more different.
For stones, Oz takes by force. In the eyes that shake before them out of horror and desperation, they realize in their last moments how powerless they are before the hand that has already claimed the skies as his own, now encroaching on the world at large. They cower and plead and cry in his ears, a grating sound gone with the cracking of their body and the clink of stone falling to the ground.
For Figaro, it is proffered to them with a pull of a ribbon around her neck, lace collar rolling down to reveal snow white skin down to her shoulders, the brushing of ashen blue hair to the side giving way to them. Eyes that flutter provocatively, luring Oz in with as much as her smile and hand reaching to bury in their hair — delicately cared for fingers pressing lightly against their head to pull him closer.
There is nothing to compare how sweet Figaro’s voice rings, muffled at first with the bite of her cherry red lips — drawing blood that paints it even darker — before Oz’s hand cups her face and breaks through with the slip of their thumb into her mouth to let her moan. Figaro’s sharp teeth prick against their skin. While Oz’s thumb holds down her tongue, she sucks and laps at the small drops of blood beading from their cut.
It is only when Figaro is shaking in his arms does Oz stop and pull back from her neck. She is pale much like the silver lands of the North that loved them as their own, but always after these sessions, her complexion resembles that of the moonlight calling her away. Against white skin, the blushing of her face and chest are more pronounced; the scatter of blue waves against the sheets, the bright shine of grey eyes beholden to green, the red streak of blood that drips from the puncture down her heaving neck all stand out to paint Figaro in divinity that cannot be captured in the likes of portraits or stained glass.
Oz pulls out the finger still stuck between her teeth. With the call of magic, they cut their wrist on the same hand and press it up against her mouth. Figaro gently smiles, her blood still on her lips that is melding with his own, before she holds their hand close and begins to suck.
Oz watches intently the rise and fall of her neck drinking him up. More color slowly returns to her face, heat warming up her cold body and magic within her restored by his own. She finishes with a soft kiss pressed to Oz’s wrist, healing it closed.
They still lay atop each other, Figaro pinned underneath Oz, arms wrapped around their torso and head to keep them close. She tilts her head, flashing her white neck still streaked with blood, tempting him further. Oz bends down to lick what he missed, what has always been his, tracing up to the side of her throat, the corner of her jaw, stopping right before mouth.
Figaro’s hand, buried in his head, pulls at the ribbon tying their hair back. A curtain of midnight blue surrounds the two in a cage trapping each other. Oz can feel Figaro smiling against his lips as he bites her in a kiss, wanting to eat her more.
“Ughh… Masters Snow, White. My stomach hurts. Can’t we just reschedule the meeting for another time?”
“I am sorry Fifi, but this is something of the utmost importance for you. We cannot postpone this any longer in the case that you upset your sponsor.”
“Do you at least want me to get you medicine and heat pads dearie?”
“No need then. I’ll just try to push the feeling down and get it over with.”
Contrary to the professor’s words, she grips the marble countertop of the sink to steady herself until her knuckles are bone white. The sink water is running still, washing away the poor remnants of leftover lunch and gastric acid that had left her weak body.
Figaro looks up to see their complexion pallid in the mirror, even under the guise of powder and makeup decorating their face. The black silk suit they’re dressed in suffocates their neck much more than the lab scrubs they were wearing merely an hour ago. Like foreign skin, an uncomfortable feeling envelopes the professor inside and out, wanting to scratch and tear away at skin until it’s raw red with blood dripping into the white porcelain basin, eventually streaming with the running sink water.
Figaro’s reflection stares back at them with a grim expression, nothing like the Dr. Garcia the public thinks of them as. They try smiling in the dolled up way that they do for televised appearances, effortlessly easy and a relaxed snapshot at any angle. But it’s too stark, much too hollow to be presentable as the face of the kind picture perfect Professor.
She presses against sunken eyelids with the heel of her palms until hazy stars form in clusters in the dizzying black vision. Her hands are bone cold and clammy with sweat against the skin of her face.
Figaro doesn’t like this. Feeling any of this. The nerves under their skin buzzing. Their bleeding heart residing in the empty cavity of their chest. The sensation of their muscles running restlessly as all their muscles, tissues, and organs are overworked with each breath taken. Being human has never felt substantial in any way, the fallacy of life a mass of blood and meat and messy contradictions, all equating to a being as flawed as they are.
If the professor could have it her way, she’d be spending her night buried head deep in research until her brain burns numb with lines of codes and mechanics. To have the cool feel of metal at her fingertips, fidgeting at wires and robotics under the dim artificial light of the laboratory for hours on end.
But instead, her evening will be outside the confines of her one haven, complete with the formalities of business and socialites that she is utterly antiquated in.
“It’s inevitable, my dear child.” Snow tuts, as if he could read the professor’s mind, knowing her well enough that he likely has. “But there is merit at the end of arduous tasks.”
White, the perfect mirror to Snow, who knows the professor as much as he knows his twin and himself, follows through a beat second later. “You can make it through tonight’s dinner. And afterwards, we will spoil you rotten as much as you like.”
Figaro’s hands fall from her eyes. She looks down at her two assistroids. Together the pair stand tall beside her, reaching just under her waistline, with a smile etched on their faces too warm to be a simple programmed mechanical response.
Snow’s small hand takes Figaro’s own hanging one to rub circles in the palm of her hand as a soothing motion. White on her other side holds the one not occupied and strokes and squeezes her fingers, relieving the professor of how tight she often grips her hand.
Figaro crouches down to look her assistroids in the eyes, wide, round, and an unsettling shade of gold lending itself to how nonhuman they really are. Wrinkles are bound to form in the creases of her suit hunched over like this. However It's the last thing on their mind as Figaro draws their assistroids into a hug, childishly clinging onto their small backs.
It would be an odd image to the onset of outsiders, of an adult being spoiled by child figures like this. But Figaro has never needed more of the outside world than those that she has built out of metal scraps and love.
There’s nobody to intrude on them, and so the professor lets herself indulge in Snow’s peppy cheerings and White’s gentle affirmations.
After a while, Figaro’s breathing calms down to a point where she feels she isn’t choking. The sound of running water has stopped. Likely turned off by one of the twins while her head was buried in their hold.
“Are you sure you can’t come along? Or ask for Rustica to go in my place?”
Figaro looks at the two pleading. Snow retightens his hug, hand stroking the professor’s back soothing her little quivers. White wipes the brimming tears from her eyes, face in his hold gently squeezing her cheeks to get her to smile.
“We would love to dearie. But there’s no going against what your sponsor has requested. We can’t push it more than we already do.”
“On top of that, between you and Miss Ferucci, you’re the better fit seeing as how you’re the one whose upheld contact and reports. Maybe your charming personality and glib tongue will capture their heart after tonight.”
“…You have to be joking right, Master White?”
Figaro’s brows furrow right in time as White’s hands upturn the edges of her lips.
He finally stops playing with her face to fix up the smudged makeup while Figaro is still close to the ground. Behind the professor, Snow restyles her hair into the soft curls that framed her face, and pats out any wrinkles forming on her suit.
“Hmm, you never know. Humans always fall for the most unexpected of traits.”
“Maybe if you think of this as a dinner date Figgykins, it won’t be so bad.”
A shudder runs through Figaro’s entire body. Coworkers were one thing, but Figaro doesn’t think herself capable of loving another human intimately like that.
The thought of being looked at and touched by another… To confoundedly make mistakes stumbling through emotions of pain and confusion trying and failing to understand the other… All for something as intangibly volatile a concept that love is…
Figaro shakes her head, sick already of thinking about it. Maybe being human is never their strong suit in the first place, already failing to understand the complexities of what makes a person tick. That’s why they look the other way, to robots and AI and assistroids that can be broken down and understood with numbers and data, empirical values that make more sense to process than what they’re currently feeling.
“Please stop imagining such a disturbing scenario. I don’t need their affection, I just need to secure grant money for the next quarter at least.”
“So unromantic of you Figgykins.”
“That’s not a very cute thing for a little girl like Fifi to say.”
“The two of you are just watching too many dramas while I’m away. This is all just a formality I wish I could do without.”
With a final pat down, Snow and White take a step back to let Figaro rise to her full height once more. No matter how many times they do this routine, it never fails to surprise her how the twin’s handiwork transforms her into someone wholly new. Even if she does furiously scrub it off hours later to change back into the lab wear she practically lives in.
A glance at the clock on her phone tells Figaro that she still has time before her appointed meeting. It’s a not so small grief lingering deep inside her that the hour is approaching closer and closer.
Leaving the confines of her bathroom, she sweeps her apartment to make sure everything is in order. Snow and White will tidy everything up while she’s away, but it’s for her own sake of mind that her files and belongings are where she’s locked it.
The door to her apartment automatically locks behind Figaro as she shuts it close. Snow and White follow her steps to the outside of the complex and wait to see her off.
As the automated car pulls around to the front from a command on the twin’s system, Figaro tenses up feeling the anxiety from before arise again. Just as she’s about to fall back again, her two small assistants take her hands to squeeze one more time.
“You will be fine, Figaro dear.”
“Even if we’re not there physically, we will always be cheering beside you.”
Snow and White wave her off as the professor steps inside the vehicle, akin to parents watching their children leave for the first time.
Sitting in the car while it drives itself, or rather her assistroids’ driving it from a remote location, Figaro takes a moment to collect her thoughts.
The professor thinks of their sponsor, an odd entity they’ve been acquainted with only for a few weeks through a correspondence of courtesy emails and one-sided reports alike. Only the bare minimum information of their sponsor was disclosed to her on a need-to-know basis.
Neon lights of the city fly by in the window, dousing the darkened space in splotches of color coming and going. Figaro covers her eyes once more to hide from the blaring rays of light.
She slumps in the leather seats letting her body relax while her mind continues racing endlessly, fueled with nonstop anxiety and countless scenarios of how this meeting could go. All her rehearsed lines replay in the professor’s head like an old recording. She just needs to play her part like before, like all other times she puts on the face of Dr. Figaro Garcia.
Eventually the smooth rolling of the car comes to a subtle stop at its destination. Snapping her eyes open, Figaro straightens up promptly from where she’s seated. One last encouraging message from the twins flash by on the car’s monitor and Figaro feels herself ease a bit, if only just slightly.
The car door automatically swings open beside her. Figaro graciously steps out onto the pavement and makes her way to the grand glass doors of the high-rise industrial building. Her public persona melds onto their face. The professor walks along with a sociable kind of smile.
Only to the few who would personally know the professor would be able to see the strain of muscles in her hands as she desperately clenches them. Or how she maneuvers around the crowds of people to avoid brushing by them, steps light and smooth as if she were dancing a pas de deux for one.
The professor takes quick strides in the gilded lobby of the building, decorum a mixture of sleek modern style with renaissance showpieces on full display. At the epicenter of the upper class district, Figaro feels wholly out of place. Her appearance suited and dolled up fits right in with the high class atmosphere. But internally her insides twist and shrivel up from being casted under the dizzying lights of the chandeliers and gazes of the people.
Figaro manages to catch an elevator ride by herself. She lets out a small breath of relief in the quiet moment of reprieve she has to herself. The elevator swiftly lifts the professor to the 50th floor, as designated as their meeting spot. The numbers on the screen quickly tick by counting up the levels climbing by. Only the sound of the tip of her shoe tapping against the floor anxiously is a second faster.
Stepping off, Figaro finds that no other persons are loitering around the 50th floor. To the end of the hall there is an attending podium with an attendant present. The unnatural stillness of the figure indicates itself to likely being an assistroid. Not an uncommon sight when nowadays the upper class will employ assistroids more than actual working people in their services.
She approaches the server and internally sighs in relief that her observations were true.
“Good evening. I have a reservation for a table under the name God’s Lightning.” Figaro rolls up her sleeve and formally presents the biometric scan tattooed on her wrist as identification. The assistroid takes a moment to scan with its eyes, and after a green light flashes in the rings of its iris, the server smiles back in greeting.
“Dr. Garcia. Thank you for joining us this evening. Your companion has already taken the liberties of obtaining a seat. If you would please follow me this way.”
The server steps through the red oak entryway , directing on where to go. Figaro follows a close step behind, anxiety spiking at the thought of walking by dozens of other guests seated at the restaurant.
But to her surprise, the space is cleared of any and everybody. Even the typical wait staff that would be bustling about serving others is nowhere to be seen. Her sponsor must have rented out the entire restaurant for full uninterrupted privacy. A perk on one hand, not having to be surrounded in public by crowds of people. But it does nothing to suade the dread of having to sit one-to-one with the person who essentially your future rolls in their hands, fate and fortune carried and tossed by a mere whim.
Figaro is led to a secluded section of the restaurant, right by where the ceiling high glass window wraps around the corner. It lends itself to a breathtaking view of the night time city, the distant illuminations different from when she was driving by them. From such a height Figaro could see even the thousand year cherry blossom tree at the center of town, a timeless historical symbol in the face of Vollmond’s ever-advancing technoscape.
The assistroid bows back before withdrawing, leaving her alone with her dinner guest. Figaro’s eyes land on the lone figure clad in a dark suit and white coat standing by the far end table. Her breath catches, stomach sinking and the tension in her head rising.
The figure took on the appearance of man. Yet they were anything but. Their features were definitively sharp, sculpted from the likes of marble yet face marred by eye creases and furrow lines weathered with inevitable aging. Hair, silken smooth and impossibly long yet never seemed to grace the floor, was the color of the midnight never seen under the city haze and neon lights covering the sky. And from the profile that she could see, of eyes that hadn’t turned to look at Figaro’s poor quaking self, held a deep gleam of red that was incomparable to any jewels, flowers, and other objects of beauty cataloged in the hundreds of thousands databases the professor has skimmed the screen through.
They finally take notice of Figaro’s presence. Eyes, red eyes that seize her body with habitual fear, lazily draw to look at her. As a way to avoid shaking hands, Figaro instead quickly bows, hiding all her nerves under the guise of polite courtesy.
“God’s Lightning. Sir, it’s an honor to finally be able to meet you like this.” It was a miracle of how steady Figaro’s voice came out. That even after countless hours of practicing and reciting lines her insides were being shaken and eaten up by stress. She takes her small victories no matter how desperate they were.
“Dr. Figaro Garcia. Head researcher of Vollmond Institute Laboratory.” The voice of their sponsor matches the curt dry one used in the exchange of mails they wrote in. But physically hearing it for the first time in real life, it sounded much deeper than anything she expected. “You may sit.”
On command she steps forward to take her seat right across. Figaro’s eyes rake over the cloth spread of the table, complete with quality cutlery and wares as expected of fine dining restaurants. From the edges of her vision she can see the wrists of her sponsor, extending from his arms and attached to his body, reading his body language from the neck down though indiscernible as he sits still.
Figaro’s gaze doesn’t dare to travel up further, too afraid to meet the unsettling red that bores down on her. Maybe it wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but etiquette be damned if she was already this close to throwing up without even the first course being served.
The professor smiles politely hoping to carry on quickly, too quickly that her sponsor doesn’t dare call her out on any of her manners.
“Sir. I would like to personally thank you again for all your contributions made. Your work and donations have helped-“
“Dr. Garcia.” Their voice cuts her off lip service. “I was under the impression that you were afflicted with Assistroid Dependency.”
Figaro’s breathing stops momentarily. Her hand underneath the table claw squeezes at her wrist, tight and tense with nerves. She continues smiling.
“Well that is true. However, it is a relatively minor and harmless symptom, often common under my line of work. It will affect nothing regarding our meeting today.”
A steady rhythm echoes into empty space left after their words. Figaro’s eyes draw to the source, seeing that slim fingers tap against the table from across from her.
“And yet you have not once looked me in the eyes.”
“…My deepest apologies. However this is-“
“I am not one for small talk, nor do I care enough for it either. I will not force you to play in these meaningless pleasantries when you cannot even make eye contact. Do not fool yourself into thinking that this is anything more than business.”
Figaro is gutted silently. She chokes on her words, gnawing on her bottom lip until blood is drawn. Before her, God’s Lightning sits completely unfazed by his blunt choice of words, slicing through any and all rebuttals on her tongue.
In the back of their mind the professor rejoices at dropping all pretenses. But then is immediately greeted with the panic that this ruins any and all scenarios she had prepared for light socializing. The floor beneath her drops. Unsteady, weightless, and sick to her stomach.
An uncomfortable atmosphere settles between the two. Never before has Figaro been horrified over not having to speak to others. But God’s Lightning isn’t a simple “other” that she can avoid as necessary. He’s the bastard that dragged her, Figaro Garcia specifically, alone, out here tonight, unprecedented by all other forms of contact they’ve had. It’s hard not to oblige the ridiculous request when they’re single-handedly funding her life’s research.
Figaro doesn’t remember much of the meal after that. Dinner is served on her plate before she even realizes she ordered something. The light scraping of metal cutlery against cold porcelain grates on her ears, and food is barely registered in her palette, heavy on their tongue and feeling even more solid as it goes down to settle with the turmoil of their insides.
The only thing that feels even remotely easy to swallow is the wine poured into her glass. Figaro never planned on drinking much. But with a presence as heavy as the one across from her, she doesn’t think she can even make it through the night without her head light bordering the edge of inebriation.
With the gentle sound of silverware being set on the table, Figaro knows by the cue that she can stop robotically shoveling food into her mouth.
“I will be frank with you Dr. Garcia. I am considering withdrawing support from your project.”
“W-what?!”
Glasses shake with Figaro’s sudden movement to stand up in shock. Her already weak body is woozy from the rush of blood flow, but even more pressing is the ringing in her eardrums from her sponsor’s words. Bitten nails dig into the palm of her hands, breaking skin and the smallest amount of blood.
“Apologies for my manners, but I implore you to reconsider Sir. If it’s regarding progress, I have thoroughly sent you reports on a biweekly basis. From the start until now, significant strides have been made and development is still steadily progressing. What is there to be unsatisfied with?”
The silence settling in the space between the two is deafening. God’s Thunder ruminates on his words, each second leaving Figaro to fall further down mentally until they’re desperately grasping at lost thoughts.
“Garcia. You are aware of what industry I control.”
The answer was obviously yes. For as gracious as their donations have been, Figaro could not help but hold both ends doubt and curiosity towards the source, pushing her to dig up whatever she could surrounding them. Weapons dealing, trading and distribution. Confidential technology developments that teeters warmongering. Hands in pockets of politicians and public figures alike. It would be better to ask where the influence of God’s Lightning didn’t extend to.
If Figaro were a better person, the moral dilemma of where their funding came from would haunt her. But dirty money is still money in the end, so she never refused nor pushed for more. It’s not like they’re following ethics to the T either.
She swallows down her thick saliva, nodding quietly as prompted. Her sponsor continues on.
“Then you are aware that there is nothing meaningful for me to gain from this. Potential at first, and possible capital, but nothing I can truly benefit from my end of the deal. I was drawn into this due to your acquaintance with Tiletta Flores in the first place, but she has since retired and passed away. As such, I see no reason as to continue sponsoring y-“
The professor bangs against the table interrupting them before they could finish. The delicate glasses shake even more than the first time before tipping over and shattering against the pristine white table linen. Wine and shards of glass have somehow clung onto the edges of Figaro’s skin but it all feels numb to them.
Out of nervous desperation, Figaro glances at the other through her bangs from where her head was tucked down. She can’t get a read on them. She doesn’t understand what they want, what they’re thinking, or anything about God’s Lightning. Without even getting a word in from her side, this will be over akin to the wisps of a flame smothered out.
Figaro’s thoughts race to say something, anything of substance. What could he possibly hope to gain from this? What was the one thing they were even striving for?
“A child! I can- I can give you a child!”
The sentence flies out of the professor’s mouth in desperation faster than she can even fully process it. The lag catches up, and Figaro fully berates herself for her stupidity.
‘stupid stupid stupid why the hell did I even say that some second sexiest intellectual I am do you understand how that sounds aaaaarrrghh-‘
The corner of God’s Lightning mouth twitches in a minuscule movement, something easily missed to most others but caught by Figaro’s keen eye. Whether out of amusement, annoyance, or complete befuddlement though is completely out of her skill capacity, emotional intelligence something the professor utterly lacks in. (And apparently by the looks of it logical intelligence now too).
The wine glass in her sponsor’s hand, untouched and unbothered by Figaro’s light fuss, is set down softly against the mess of a dinner table. God’s Lightning folds their hands to rest their chin atop. Eyes the color of blood pierce through the professor. Figaro quickly diverts her gaze to the floor again, sweating under the intense pressure.
“…A child, you say?”
“Y-Yes. I don’t mean an actual human child. But rather, um, one of my own personal assistroids...”
Maybe because the stupid idea already teetered over and spilled from her mouth, but Figaro keeps talking, brain formulating plans and conjectures into semi-coherent speech in real time.
“Allow my presumptions, but you fail to see the limits of what this project can achieve. If you are going to continue investing in our- in my research, then I want you to fully understand what my goal is.”
A small moment is taken to pause and let herself breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Figaro straightens her back, eyes steady on the floor. She’s conscious of her words, her voice clear and tone even to be heard for what it is.
“I don’t want assistroids to simply be tools. Or our friends without a question for what they really want. I want them to have a heart. To have thought and free will. Can humanity truly know liberation from loneliness if our companions themselves cannot even dream of it? Just as I want to love my assistroids and be loved by them, in turn I want to teach them what love actually is. Only then can we move forward to a future as equals.”
Figaro’s breath heaves at the end of her words. She can’t remember the last time she’s talked to another human this long. Her heart beats rapidly inside her chest, an uncomfortable thumping that she grips the lapels of her suit as an attempt to calm down.
Across from her, God’s Thunder sits in silence. A second of eons composed of still quiet air, only disturbed by the now hushed huffs Figaro takes to catch breath, stretches between them. Still standing up leaning against the table, Figaro’s legs weakly shake in anticipation, uneasiness deep in her bones and gripping every tense nerve cell in her body.
“Your ambitions are something I cannot fathom.” Figaro clenches her fists, “…but I will give you one week.”
Grey eyes dart up in surprise. They accidentally make contact with sharp scarlet watching her from across, before flinching away on instinct. In that split second, Figaro felt like she could break through the impasse that was her sponsor’s expressions. But she knows herself to be too cowardly to look again.
“I thank you for your grace and cooperation then. My assistant will send an email to you regarding meeting arrangements and pickup.”
The professor’s voice is quietly trembling, overworked from the stress experienced in the past hour. No further response is given on her sponsor’s end besides a simple hum of acknowledgment, but Figaro is fine with that alone.
Figaro draws back from the table to see the mess she’s made and winces at the sight of it. Somehow through all the food scattered and drinks spilled, God’s Lightning remains untouched. She bows with the last of her energy she can dedicate to courtesy.
As she’s about to rush out as quickly as humanly possibly, a sudden thought stops the professor in her tracks. Figaro turns back halfway to call out to the other.
“Ah. Before I set up the assistroid’s systems, I’ll need a name to put under the owner’s ID. Of course I can leave it as your pseudonym, but I recommend using your own name as it helps establish a bond with the assistroid.”
“…”
Not for the first time tonight, God’s Thunder delays speaking. She’s beginning to understand what the man meant by adversion to small talk.
Yet in their short interactions together, Figaro picks up the second of hesitation before he speaks.
“Sir?”
“…Oz.”
“Oz? Oz…”
Figaro’s voice echoes the name, rolling it on her tongue, familiarizing the taste of the syllable said.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just reminded of an old fairytale featuring a wizard with the same name is all. …Well I’ll be taking my leave then.”
Figaro rushes out towards the entrance without a look back. Once in the still vacant hallway, she finds the nearest private bathroom before locking the doors and collapsing onto the floor.
A guttural sob escapes her breath immediately. In the quiet moments the professor has to herself, Figaro tries to recuperate her energy reserves to even walk out of the building. It’s only when she tries to hold her head that she realizes the micro shards of glass and wine sticking to her hand.
Figaro picks herself up and drags herself over to the sink to wash out what she can. A glance to the mirror finds that she is still somehow presentable, partially thanks to the dark suit they’re dressed in masking all the stains.
Once her hands are dried, still somewhat tingling but better than before, Figaro pulls out her phone and calls her one and only immediate contact.
“Figgykins? Are you done? How did it go?”
“Fifi? How are you holding up? Do you want us to pull up to the building now?”
“Before all that… Master Snow. Master White. Please praise me like you said you would.”
“Of course dearie. You did such a good job.”
“We’re so proud of you, Figaro. Our precious little girl.”
“Good work tonight. We love you.”
Figaro sighs softly at the voices of the twins, the tension leaving her body from the taught posture it took. She still feels the buildup of bile in the depths of her chest, but it washes away the longer she’s on call with her two little cheerleaders.
“Thank you Masters Snow, White. I’ve just finished up my meeting and am about to head down, but please stay on the line for a little bit longer until I’m outside.” She gently speaks into the other end of the phone.
“Understood.”
The twins talk about the time spent together while the professor was out. It’s easier to focus on their voices as Figaro follows the path she took treading inside. Her eyes are kept on the floor two steps ahead to avoid eye contact with anybody, yet fuzzy head still operating enough to be aware to avoid incoming bodies.
The night’s cool air nips at Figaro the moment she steps outside. Nary few are outside at this time of night in the upper class district, except for a few businessmen and a couple or two keeping to themselves. Figaro manages to spot and flag down her car and heads straight towards it.
The black car door swings open in her presence. She all but falls down into the awaiting seats. This time, the twins are in the car with her, seated side by side right next to where the professor usually sits.
“You did well, Fifi. Allow us to shower you with spoils and treats as a reward for your work.” White’s small hands brush through blue locks of hair, messing it up from its perfect style. Another pair of arms move to remove Figaro’s suit jacket, though they catch at her wounded hand.
“What happened here? Did they attempt to hurt you? With a word, we’ll go back and-“
“It’s nothing like that, Master Snow. I just got carried away on my end.” Figaro cuts off the threat forming in their words. After tonight with the already terrible impression Oz holds of Figaro, she doesn’t need it dropping any deeper than rock bottom.
“Anyways. I would love to go back home and sleep this awful night away, but I need you two to take me to the lab.”
“Did something happen? We cleared your schedule for the rest of the night and tomorrow morning.” Snow asks.
“All your work for the institute was done when you left for the day. Did you forget something back there?” White’s question follows.
“Something like that. I’ll explain when we get there, but all I can say is that plans have shifted, as annoying as it is. I think I’m going to have to stay up all night again, so for now I’ll use what little time I have to rest a bit.”
Figaro’s eyes snap shut before she can hear any of the twin’s advice. The quiet automated driving accompanied by her two assistroids stroking the top of her head lulls the professor to the edges of sleep, worn out from the stress of the evening.
By habit Figaro wakes up by herself when they’re close to Vollmond Laboratory. She rubs the remaining drowsiness out from her eyes and finds that her hand has been completely cleaned and bandaged, courtesy of her assistants.
It was only a matter of scanning her ID to get clearance into the institute. At the deepest ends of the building secluded from the rest is the Artificial Intelligence Research department, where Figaro is designated as head of.
The professor’s steps and her accompanying assistroids are the only ones echoing in the narrow, poorly lit hallway. All the other researchers have either gone home for the night, or are too buried in their own respective projects to even notice her entrance.
At the last door of the hall, Figaro unlocks the entryway to her personal lab space conjoined with her office. The lights automatically turn on in the presence of her movement.
The professor sees that a scattered mess of papers and research materials is left on one of the examination benches, courtesy of Rustica. In comparison, Figaro’s own research portfolio is neatly filed and locked away in her cabinet from when she left earlier in the day. She shakes her head, though a fond smile appears on her face at the never changing messy habits of her partner.
Figaro leaves Rustica’s mess be, knowing Chloe will surely come and clean it up for her later. Walking past it, she makes her way to one of the doors off to the side of the lab and enters the terminal room where all her children are.
In the last row, second to the end rests a child with synthetic white hair the color of stardust. Their eyes closed shut as they lay in rest mode, an imitation to the human habit of sleep yet so realistic it’s indistinguishable between the two.
Figaro’s hand, the one unbandaged, brushes against the assistroid’s round cheek with a gentle touch as if handling something precious.
The lights of the examination room dim automatically as the professor steps out of the examination room.
Figaro’s muscles shake and tremble struggling to carry the child-sized assistroid in her thin arms. Human children were already hefty to pick up, or so she recounted from the tales of fellow coworkers and show hosts alike. (And the vague recollection from a lost childhood ago being lifted up and swung around in play by warm gloved hands, hidden in the back of her mind like a misplaced memory card). A body made of metals, wires, and synthetic fibers wasn’t much easier, adding on more kilos well past what the professor was capable of carrying.
And yet still Figaro tucks the little one into her hold, letting them rest against her shoulder as they quietly dream of stars in their artificial sleep. Her hand sweeps through the strands of silk fiber acting as hair, a glistening white that glows with warmth more than of the inorganic decor in the laboratory.
With small steps, Figaro makes her way to the other entity standing in the room. She can feel her breath unbecoming of her and the ache in her muscles and back as she strains herself the longer she carries the assistroid.
Oz walks in a fast stride to meet Figaro halfway, possibly noticing the professor’s silent heaves. Or more likely that he just wants to have his assistant back as soon as possible. In the not so brief time they’ve been acquainted with each other, Oz’s perception for others well-being is just as much as Figaro’s regard for outsider’s concerns. Which is to say, not that much.
“You can hand over Arthur now.” Curt as always, their tone lacks any sort of social formalities most others would speak to the professor in.
Any form of conversation with the living strains her heart with muddled up anxiety. But if even for a little bit, it puts Figaro at ease knowing she doesn’t have to put up any false pleasantries when speaking with her sponsor knowing they won’t care.
“In a minute. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to hold this child in my arms.”
Her gaze lingers on the small assistroid as a smile involuntarily forms on her face. After another moment’s squeeze, Figaro passes over Arthur to Oz’s awaiting arms. She’s careful not to make any contact, yet their hand gently brushes against hers. Figaro’s heart immediately jumps and she tries not to visibly shake at the brief feeling of touch.
With her hands now empty, the professor squeezes her arm under her lab coat to keep them still. Her line of sight is kept downwards avoiding the means to make eye contact. Especially when the two are still standing so close to each other, not taking any steps to move away.
“A-ahem. Well, regarding the diagnostics report, Arthur is in top condition both internally and ex. I’ve bothered to update her system while I was downloading her cloud data, so she can run things a bit faster and more organized. In addition…”
Figaro continues droning on to Oz updating him on everything about his assistroid’s maintenance. In most cases, the professor would have let Snow handle this, but she had sent him on a separate errand in advance. It was at least easier for Figaro to talk about the technicalities of her work rather than any unrehearsed small talk.
The entire time, Oz made no signs of movement (albeit in her limited vision range of the tiled floor and their shoes) nor was any sound, noncommittal or not, heard. It was difficult to gauge his reaction, but his face has likely not changed from the stone cold expression it usually holds.
“…and that’s all I have to report. My schedule has become a bit busier in the next few weeks with the upcoming AI world conference, so I’ll have to postpone Arthur’s next maintenance by at least a week. Talk with Master Snow about when it would be best for you.”
“…Alright then.”
Figaro had expected Oz to leave just like that then. Neither were the type of person to exchange farewells, so she was waiting for Oz to leave to finally let out a breath.
But, before her brain could even comprehend what was happening, Oz leaned over slightly to cover her ear, speaking with his voice low and deep like the pitchless black night.
“You have my regards. Until next time.”
Figaro’s eyes flicker over accidentally to make contact with Oz’s emboldened gaze. A mistake on the professor’s end. Their eyes held a foreign warmth in the deep red hues, gently, gently setting her heart to flames and spiking rapidly to the point where she couldn't breathe.
Oz wordlessly moves away and towards the exit with Arthur in his arms. Their steps are clean without a sound until he’s gone like city ash and smoke. If Snow later comes to finds Figaro on the ground, clutching at her chest to make the remnant haze of the heat go away, then it’s beyond her to say what had happened.
She tastes like the sea, briny and slightly bitter. But not cold. Heat at the tips of their fingers and tongue and constrict around like riptides burying him deep. Oz’s mouth is heavy from licking and sucking, the feeling of Figaro deeply imprinted upon his lips yet continuously laps to eat her more.
Long tresses of blue hair, dusted at the tips with powder snow melting along the grey waves of the ocean, fall over Oz’s head. Figaro leans over to push herself closer to them even with the space between them nonexistent, melting into each other as one.
Her thighs around Oz spasm and squeeze their head under, yet it is Figaro who is gasping for air drowning in the waves of ecstasy washing over her repeatedly. She is given a small moment’s rest buoying along the sea of stained sheets, before being dragged once more by hands gripped to her ankle and hips.
Again and again Oz sinks into her, pressure ringing in their ears surrounded by silk skin and the scent of sweat. A haze creeps into the corner of their eyes looking from the bottom up at the sea who cries and folds yet never truly yields to them. Pearls of tears bead at the edges of Figaro’s grey eyes, glistening in the light yet incomparable to the shining beauty held within — a distant green star visible even at the bottom of the ocean trenches and wholly unattainable.
Love is born from the depths of the sea and rises to live on land, Venus asunder from men alike yet walking among their footsteps all the same.
Love fills her lungs yet deprived all the same, as easy as breathing water she chokes on the sensation until only emptiness can remain.
Love fills their hands in pools, seeping through the cracks of their fingers and bygone by the time they let go. Left standing on the mirror surface of water, what reflects back is a voidal space of themself alone.
And the sky. The sky who remains present in her reflection from behind and looks at her in front of her eyes and reaches out to hold her wet tear stained face.
In his hands Figaro is shaking ever so slightly. Their foreheads touch, nose bristling against each other, a world existing in the small space between their mouths.
And maybe this is the closest that the sky — that Oz — can ever be allowed to grace the distant sea and even further distant star before it slips out of their hands. But like before (like always) he will scoop her up again to hold in the gentle palms of his hands.
Breaching their distance, Oz kisses her lips. Figaro tastes warm and sweet and salty like the sea. Swallowing her small breaths and moans they deprive themselves of air. They forgo the need to rise for oxygen, too dizzy drinking up love given sliding down their throat and flowing into chest, lungs and heart.
Full of themselves, full of each other, they fall down into the deep end.
There were many reasons why Figaro loved her wife dearly.
One was Oz’s indomitable strength. Their magic powers were enough to shake the heavens, loved by the world who could bend nature to his will at the drop of a single word.
Another was his timeless beauty. Oz was as pretty as one of the twins’ porcelain dolls. Their hair was the color of midnight, long silk strands framing their sharp face and accentuating their even sharper red eyes, desirable as rubies and as heated as blood.
The one thing that Figaro had undeniably adored about her wife though was the subtle changes in their expression whenever Oz desired something. In the eyes of others it would be unnoticeable, but Figaro alone was privy to these details.
Such as the slight narrowing of red eyes as Oz drew his eyebrows together. His thin lips pursing while a rich voice called out her name “Figaro” in a slightly breathless manner. And if he was getting desperate, Oz’s hand would latch on to tug on her, be it Figaro’s coat, her hand, or currently her wavy blue hair tangled in his fingers.
“Haha, it’s kinda cute seeing you be so impatient like this Oz.” Figaro laughs as she plants another kiss on his collarbone. She licks and gives butterfly kisses over the black lily marking her skin until she reaches right below. Then Figaro sucks and bites down on the smooth skin until another mark is made in compliment.
Figaro pulls back to admire how the redness of the hickey manages to stand out against the growing blush on Oz’s chest. They’re trembling just slightly, arms wrapped around Figaro pulling on her to close the distance again. She complies, moving in kissing her wife again. Figaro inwardly smiles at the way Oz opens his mouth so eagerly to be eaten.
Her tongue tastes about every inch of Oz’s mouth it could move in. From his rows of teeth to the roof of his mouth to the back of the other’s throat, Figaro kept changing the angle of their kiss so she could go deeper and deeper.
Being wanted by the Demon King so much so that he’s sucking the saliva right off Figaro’s tongue is such a thrilling feeling it sends heat throughout her body.
‘They’re so cute.’ Figaro thinks once again. And she really means it. Rarely does Oz ask things of her, yet whenever he wants something Oz is so open and earnest about it. Figaro wants her wife to be more greedy. To take everything that she gives him until Oz’s hands and body and mind are filled with only her.
Figaro moves her hand from where it was pinning Oz’s shoulder down to their breast. Her thumb circles the areola before rubbing against the hardened nipple. Oz is so shocked from the movement that they break off the kiss to let out a breathy moan. A thread of saliva hangs between the spaces of their parted mouths, a trail of spit running down the edge of Oz’s pink lips. It sends a shiver along Figaro’s spine seeing her lover shaking in debauched pleasure that she continues to give them.
Red eyes stare back at her with a smolten heat in its gaze. She keeps the stimulation light, only gently stroking the area around Oz’s nipple with the pad of her thumb.
“F-figaro….” Oz breathes out in between gasps.
“Yes? What is it?”
Figaro knows what he wants. Not just from the looks they’re sending her, nor with how wet Oz feels below against her knee pinned between their legs. It’s something that Figaro can always tell with just the call of her name.
And yet still, she likes hearing the socially clumsy Oz tell her directly about their desires from their very own lips.
“I want….” Figaro stops his movements so Oz can speak. He pouted at that. Figaro giggles at how childish her wife could still act at a time like this. She pecks the furrows of his brow as a small apology to smooth it out.
Leaning up slightly so their foreheads could touch, Figaro’s long hair spills from her bare back surrounding the two of them in a curtain of blue. She looks down at Oz with half lidded eyes filled with lust only for them.
“Tell me what you want Oz. Put a name to it and it will all be yours.”
A quiet pause is held between them, the sound of their slow yet rough breathing synchronizing together.
After an eternity counted in tens of seconds, he finally speaks, “I want you.”
“Is that all?” Figaro half jokes, but she also would have liked to hear Oz be more direct.
“I want you to touch me more….”
Figaro starts rubbing him again, encouraging Oz to keep on going just a little further. “And? Anything else?”
“...I want to melt into your skin deep into the night, until the traces of us are no longer distinguishable.”
There it is. Oz’s frankness in their words. Figaro loves that about him because it makes it so much easier fulfilling their wishes.
She kisses the edge of Oz’s mouth one more time as a reward. “Good girl.” She tells them as much.
Figaro moves down to his chest. She takes their nipple between her thumb and forefinger, pinching and rubbing to stimulate it more. With his other breast, Figaro covers the neglected nipple with her mouth and begins to suck on it. Her tongue plays with the hardening tit, flicking it about and scraping it against her teeth.
Beneath her Oz is trembling as their hands wrap around Figaro’s head, fingers tangled in the locks of her hair pulling her close against their breasts. His slight huffs and muffled gasps heat Figaro up only more. She sets about sucking their tit even harder. Her dexterous hand is full kneading and groping the other side, giving it just as much love and attention as she can.
Figaro thinks lightheartedly in her head, as her spit pools and covers Oz’s puffed up nipple, if her wife could possibly start lactating at any point. She becomes dizzy at the thought of the creaminess of their milk squirting into her mouth and running down her throat.
An idea she puts off to the side for another night. Figaro doesn’t want to do anything to Oz’s body that they haven’t agreed to before. But still the thought lingers in Figaro’s head pervading her thoughts. Of how sensitive she can make her wife be that he would start milking and creaming from his nipples alone.
The rise in volume of Oz’s voice startles Figaro. A key indication to how they're reaching their limit soon. She stops and draws back from Oz’s chest, ingraining in her memory how hot and breathless her wife looks now. Oz looks up at Figaro with hooded eyes, still a clear bright red for how dazed they appear.
Figaro smiles at them. She takes one of Oz’s hands still hanging off her to give a gentle, loving, long kiss to his palm in reassurance, before sinking down and tracing along their body until she’s nestled between his legs.
A slightly more peckish, teasing kiss is placed at each inner thigh. She relishes in the slight spasms felt under her lover’s skin as Figaro moves their legs to hang over her shoulders.
Figaro can’t help but smile at the meal so close to her mouth. She nuzzles against their hole, greeting it with a kiss and huff of her hot breath.
“Figaro.” Oz hisses her name in hurry, in desperation, shaking his hips in wanton to provoke her to continue. His voice is laced with so much lust it’s practically tangible, along with the other fluids dripping down Figaro’s face.
“Don’t worry Oz. I’ll take good care of you. Just leave it to my hands.” Or mouth. A rather funny statement Figaro thinks to herself, with the way Oz is left bare bones melting in her arms.
She stops beating around the bush and finally gets down to the grit of it. Figaro gives a lick around the rim of Oz’s ass before inserting her tongue. Oz forgoes holding back their voice behind bitten lips and shaking hands as a loud deep moan spills from his mouth, quivering in pleasure from Figaro finally feeding into their wish to be touched.
Spurred on by his moaning, Figaro continues to eat Oz out. Her mouth is full of the sweet taste of her wife, her tongue similarly filling the space in their hole leaving no space untouched. Oz’s thighs tighten and squeeze around Figaro’s head, urging her to go ever deeper as Oz rubs against her face.
Through the gap between their legs, Figaro looks up to see Oz gripping the sheets until his knuckles are white in one hand, while the other touches himself fondling his breasts, flicking and rubbing against his still hard tits.
‘Oz really is too cute,’ the thought echoes around Figaro’s heat-filled head.
The sight of how shameless Oz currently looks feeding into his pleasure pushes Figaro to touch herself as well with the hand not holding onto waving hips. It’s a messy rhythm in time with how her mouth moves about around Oz’s hole, yet still it heats up and shakes Figaro at her core.
It’s Oz who finally tips over and spills first. Their body seizes for a second, before shaking and spasming as the euphoria of a climax overstimulates their body. Oz’s cum manages to splash in Figaro’s face, and it’s not long before she reaches as well from the perversion of it all.
As a thank you, she gives one final kiss to her meal in gratitude before gently setting Oz’s trembling legs back down to the bed with a light pat.
Figaro’s hand wipes off anything sticky still clinging to her face. She licks it clean from her fingers down to the bone of her knuckles until there’s nothing left. She doesn’t miss the way Oz stares down at her in her act as if he still wants more, lips biting down and heavy pants leaking from his breaths.
Her eyes narrow as she smiles lopsidedly, finishing with an audible pop of her lips off her fingers before moving back up to meet her wife’s awaiting kisses once more. Oz eagerly licks and bites at her mouth, tasting himself off while Figaro hums in happiness.
It’s with slight sorrow that they finally bring themselves to part and breathe. Though their faces are still close enough that their noses brush against each other and their hair is tangled in two.
Oz all but wraps Figaro in their arms, body still hot and sweaty but all parts soft and affirming. They doze off silently rubbing against their wife’s fluffy hair. Figaro can’t help but smile at how he never fails to be cute even as they fall asleep. She tiredly settles into Oz’s embrace, hands holding onto warm skin as if she’s melting into the night.
Oz wanders through the moonlit halls in the dead of night, the lack of sleep clinging to the ends of his skin. For as imposing a figure as he is, Oz’s steps are silent as they make their way down to the first floor of the manor.
As he walks by the sitting room, the faintest noise alerts him to a presence inside. Oz manifests his staff. Even though he can’t use any strong magic at this time of night, it’s sufficient enough to work as a blunt force attack.
He treads carefully through the doorway, being mindful of the chance it was one of the Northern wizards. Who he didn't expect to see was Figaro, leaning up against the glass panes as he rested on the window sill.
The silver light of the moon bathes Figaro in a soft glow. His already pale skin is nearly translucent under the light, the veins underneath appearing faintly if one were to squint. Oz realizes the noises he was hearing was the sound of Figaro’s rough breathing, uneven as he panted as if he was in pain. If not for his labored breaths, Oz would have mistaken Figaro for the thousands of other living corpses he’s seen in his lifetime. Gone was the image of the once strong and noble wizard of the North, a shadow of the man he used to be now in his place.
It wasn’t in his plans to approach the other, intending to act as if he hadn’t seen a thing and carry on his own night walk. Yet Oz’s own feet betray him as he mindlessly wanders over to the man.
When he was a foot's step away from the man, Oz could tell that the other was resting. Though it looked to be a fitful sleep at that. Only half of the southern wizard’s face was lit by the light of the moon, but his expression seemed to be troubled, as if he was being haunted by his own dreams.
Oz puts away his staff and reaches out to him. His right hand cups Figaro’s porcelain cold cheek. It was concerning how chilled his skin felt. The central wizard gently strokes the other’s face with his thumb as an act to soothe him.
Only like this, with the moon as his sole witness could Oz allow himself to be so gentle with the man that looked like he would crack and break at a moment’s notice.
Figaro’s eyes flutter awake by his touch. The brilliant green of his eyes are a bit faded, melting into the storm as they stare back at Oz unfocused.
“Oz?” Figaro’s usual steady voice is trembling with sleep.
“You should head back to your room. It’s too late to spend it drinking out here.” Oz tries to remove his hand, but Figaro cups it in place with his own. He leans into the rough palm as if seeking its warmth, a crooked smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“Are you leaving me again?”
Oz freezes at his words catching him off guard. His face pulls into a frown. The strongest wizard wants to go and leave this helpless man to his own ramblings. Yet it seemed like if he were to go now and ignore all this, he would miss what may be Figaro expressing what his true feelings are.
He bends down to look Figaro straight in the face. The other doesn’t seem to be completely awake. The jaded green of his eyes are shaking ever so slightly and his lashes flutter close in an uneven timing, only to rise again trying to stay open.
Oz speaks to him in a low voice, “I have never left you. Since the beginning, I have always been in the same place, never once coming or going.” He bites his tongue, refraining from adding an unlike you to his words.
The pensive look Figaro wore curls into something more cynical. His hand holding Oz’s own in place moves to wrap around his wrist, bringing it down to his lap and tugging him closer.
“You’re a liar, you know that? The sight of your fading back would have been a familiar sight for me, if we even looked in the same direction in the first place.”
Oz doesn’t remove where his hand now lays. Instead he shifts closer to the man to the point of almost hovering over him. His freed left hand braces the wall as his long hair drapes over his shoulder, effectively trapping Figaro in the space between his arms and the wall. The distance between them is close enough that Oz’s crimson eyes could see how Figaro’s eyes are still not fully focused, doused in the lunacy of the moon and the remnants of his dreams.
“Then face me, as you are and as I am in this very moment. You can see for yourself that our paths have always crossed.”
Figaro huffs. Slowly it breaks into a small, heavy laughter. It doesn’t grow in volume but each breath sounds more wet and pitiful than the last. His expression aches of a pain deeper than the skin, for the old wizard never wore his heart on his sleeve yet all the years of mishaps and melancholy have built up and begun to leak out.
“Be that as it may, they’re twisted, long winded and narrow roads. They’ll intersect and meet at certain times, but never have they gone in the same direction. We have both walked our lives alone, and we will continue to because that is all we have done. You know as well as I do that it would be pointless trying to hold onto each other when clinging to make others stay has never been our forte.”
“As much as we both want to” remains unsaid by the both of them. There are things they want to say to each other, but know the boundaries of speaking it into existence that cannot be crossed. And things they try to tell the other that hold a meaning even they themselves aren’t aware of. This talk is at the crossroads of both ends, but cannot ever cross the limits they set themselves. And yet,
“Is it so wrong to want to hold onto each other now?” Oz whispers in the unrecognizable distance standing between them.
Resignation falls flat onto Figaro’s face. He looks downcast, averting his eyes to the side avoiding Oz’s deep gaze.
“Would either of us even know how to?”
The two of them are silent. Oz wants to deny the bitter truth that rings in the elder wizard’s words. Yet there is nothing more Oz could do to reach out to Figaro when he himself lacks a means to.
Was this how it will always be from now on? Or has their relationship been like this since the beginning? Only now does Oz recognize this uncrossed space created between him and Figaro. It brings about a dull ache that he cannot put a name to.
“...You are not mine, and I am not yours. And yet I wish we were each other’s if only to keep you in my arms for a moment longer.”
Figaro’s smile loosens at the other’s words. His head is still turned facing out to the window. The light of the moon shining on his entire face highlights how tired he truly looks. How both of them feel.
“Dreams can only remain as “if’s” because they’re the possibilities that don’t happen. But that’s why they’re so nice, aren’t they?”
He doesn’t speak any more after that. Figaro’s breathing becomes quiet, even and steady as he drifts back to the sea of dreams.
Oz rests his head on the other man’s shoulder, exhaustion settling into his bones yet sleep still escapes him. He remains as the only lucid one between them, left in the reality that has no space for the two of them as one.
Oz stares at the cold stone laying in his hands. Though it may have looked like the countless thousands of other mana stones he had seen in his lifetime, to Oz it felt rather heavy. It carried the weight of 2000 years, an immeasurable amount of history and knowledge and experience unique to this one life. Yet for all of its worth, the soul that existed in it was long gone, leaving behind only one-sided sentiments that could no longer be received.
He holds the stone up against the sun. Its surface reflects a brilliant green hue in the light. However, tilting it just slightly revealed a shift to purple. A mana stone was unique to each individual existence, and this one was no different. The dual colors were attributed to the wizard’s nature itself. A beautiful prism with sides and faces that even he did not know all about, yet altogether composed the heart of the man.
He holds the stone against his lips, a silent set of words slipping through as if he were praying to it.
Then without any hesitation, Oz places the mana stone in his mouth and swallows in one swift motion.
Mana stones were usually tasteless. However this one leaves a bitter taste in his mouth much like the liquors the man oh so loved to drink.
Oz traces the stone as it passes through his body, eventually settling at his core. The remains of magic fills him to the brim. It was eons ago that he had last eaten a stone as strong as this one, yet once again the sensation of power was humming beneath the skin of his fingertips.
But for as much magic that flows through him, settling and becoming one with his own, there was an emptiness deep inside that could not be filled. A chilling void was in the place of his chest. This heavy feeling weighing on his heart was almost akin to being in the north, the pressure of it making it difficult to breathe like the frigid winds of the harsh snowscape.
He recalls encountering an emptiness similar to this once in the past. When his child of hope and starlight had disappeared from his life, and there seemed no point to a world where the heat from the fireplace could no longer provide the warmth he had found.
However Oz could not claim it to be the same. For this newfound feeling of loss was something that he understood in the back of his mind. It resembled a lost emotion in a long ago era of deprivation. Where the burden of people and wizards alike had become too much to bear, and the peace of stillness he longed for was something that he had to force by his own hands.
Silence and solitude had once been Oz’s only companions, but now he is faced with the fact that they are the only things he has left. There was an empty presence by side that he was forced to become aware of. Because the wavering outline of a hand that held out to Oz in a fleeting sign of affection was no longer in his sights.
The urge to burn it all once more rose in him, like the towns and toys and the troubling things in his life that never stopped piling in his life. But Oz knew it would do nothing to warm the cold emptiness left behind. Nothing was even left for him to set ablaze. The man’s presence had come and gone like a wave in the ocean. His actions, words, and wisdom imparting and pushing for movement in a greater whole of the world, yet it had disappeared just as easily without even a name to attach itself to.
Oz settles down in his chair across from the fireplace, staring blankly as the flames dance and sway. The sensation of the heat from the fire, from the blood and magic running through the veins coursing throughout his body, is a weighing reminder that he is still alive.
It was the way of the North, to fight blood tooth and nail against each other to survive to the next day. Just as customary, to eat another wizard’s stone was the norm, a rule for the powerful who continued to prove their strength against all others.
But even so,
“What a terrible curse you have left for me, Figaro.”
It was as if his final message to Oz was telling him to live. The one person who could connect and translate his words and emotions to the outside was nowhere to be found. Left to exist with only his loneliness shadowing him, he would be stuck in the past in a world that continues to move forward.
“I do not know when I will join you. But you have left for me a lifetime's worth of sentiment that I can do nothing with. If it was possible… I wish to share with you again another 2000 years, and properly exchange with you the words I did not know to say.”
Much like his long gone companion, Oz whispers these words hopelessly aloud in the empty space of his castle. But nary a sound reaches anyones ears but his own. All of it was trapped and lost in the raging blizzard raining against the world outside.
Cherry blossom petals are carried around in the light spring breeze. They dance and twirl and sway in rhythm with the wind bell chimes, until eventually the wind peters out and their waltz comes to an end. Slowly the petals drift back to the ground, some finding themselves nestled on top of a pair of black wings and a head of snow-colored hair.
Arthur fidgets around, shaking the petals off of him. Settled right behind the young tengu is Oz, silently huffing as his attempt to groom him becomes undone once more. Though the dragon says nothing more and sets the wooden brush against silken black feathers. beginning to combing through again.
Before, Oz had thought that grooming was a skill beyond him and always left it to the care of another. The dragon’s actions always carried a certain amount of power behind its weight, fierce and swift in any of his motions. Yet now, Oz takes care to be gentle with the child sitting before him.
He meticulously preens through each section of feathers, making sure not a single one was out of place. Being cautious not to scratch Arthur’s wings with the talons of his nails, Oz picks out any stray feathers sticking out as well as the stubborn cherry blossoms still clinging onto them.
“Lord Oz, can I please go and play now?” Arthur asks. The tengu’s tone is polite to mask the whine in his voice, but his childish words are unable to hide how young he still is.
“In a moment Arthur. I will be finished quickly if you can sit still for just a bit longer.” Oz answers back firmly yet still gently.
Arthur takes in a deep gulp of air, thinking that holding his breath will make himself even more still and cause the process to finish even faster. The ends of Oz’s mouth quirk up slightly at this, though it is visible to no one else in the courtyard.
Oz moves to quickly brush down the bits of unruly hair sticking up from Arthur’s small head. He’s just about done by the time the child was shaking from lack of air when the sound of the paper doors sliding could be heard. Oz turns his head to look up, but it seems that Arthur had already sprung from his seat to greet the visitor.
“Lord Figaro!”
Arthur jumps at Figaro, and the older dragon catches him just as easily in his arms, giving the excited little tengu a quick spin before setting him back down on the ground.
Even though Figaro had put him down, Arthur still wraps his arms around his legs from where he can reach him to hug the elder in greeting. Arthur looks up at him, his round face rosy red and a bit starry eyed.
“I’m so happy to see you again! Can I ask what you’re doing here though?”
A gentle hand runs through and ruffles the snow colored hair that Oz had just finished brushing.
“Lords Snow and White had called me for business this morning so I thought to come check up on Oz here while I’m back at the ‘ole Dragon’s Manor.”
Figaro finally looks in Oz’s direction to acknowledge the other. Oz only gives a curt nod in greeting from where he was standing, doing nothing more to welcome the guest. Figaro was already well accustomed to his brusque nature though and takes it that wasn’t uninvited here. He begins walking towards where Oz stood in the courtyard, Arthur wobbling right beside the dragon as he refuses to remove his arms wrapped around Figaro’s torso.
“You look well since I last saw you, Oz. Or maybe not? Your eyes seem to have aged a hundred years fold. Did childrearing finally take its toll on you and make you appear the same as your olden age?”
A hypocritical notion, considering Figaro was the older one between the two of them and had not looked a day past his prime for the past 2000 years.
“I think Lord Oz looks plenty youthful!” Arthur pipes right in.
“Is that so?” Figaro hums out. From where he stopped an arm’s length away from Oz, he reaches out towards Oz’s face. Figaro’s fingers curl under his jaw and the side of his face, while the pad of his thumb brushes Oz’s cheekbone, his long and sharpened nail grazing right below the eye.
Figaro tilts his head to look up at Oz, where jaded green makes direct contact with slitted red. The lids of his eyes squint ever so slightly, changing the pleasant expression on his face to something more familiar. Oz does not miss this subtle shift, Figaro’s eyes speaking to him in another conversation contrary to his jovial words. Did you miss me? he reads, and Oz only barely lowers the lids of his eyes in reply back. He wonders what Figaro had read in them, but the other seems pleased enough to finally drop his hand back down to his side.
“I guess you’re right. Still the same stone faced Oz I’ve known since before.” Figaro smiles down at the boy, giving him a pat or two atop his head.
“Oh that does remind me. I have a gift for you Arthur. Just something I got from a traveling merchant back in town that I thought you would like.”
Arthur pulls back from Figaro and waits in anticipation. Figaro’s hand in his sleeves shuffles around for a bit before pulling something out and presenting it to the boy.
The gift was a small carved wooden rabbit with a handle of sorts sticking out from a hole in its back. Arthur gently takes the toy into the palm of both his hands and gingerly inspects every surface inch of the object.
“If you want to give it a try, just wind up the key on its back.”
Arthur twists the wooden mechanic as he’s instructed. Nothing happens for a moment, then suddenly the wooden rabbit springs to life and jumps right out of Arthur’s hands and onto the ground. It moves by itself for a couple more hops before stilling completely. The young tengu lets out a yelp of excitement, and twists the key once more to watch the little toy leap around in fascination.
“Thank you so much for the gift Lord Figaro!” Arthur jumps to hug the elder once more in a quick tight embrace, and Figaro laughs lightly returning the gesture. The child then turns to look up at Oz with wide eyes.
“Lord Oz, would it be alright for me to go outside the manor to play with this?”
Oz nods slowly, before adding an additional comment, “Be careful to not stray beyond the gates and into the mountain’s forest.”
“Of course Lord Oz!” Arthur cheers in excitement. He picks up the toy off the ground clutching it in his grasp. The tengu takes a moment to hug Oz’s legs as well, but soon enough he’s running off in excitement, practically flying as his wings give a couple flaps to let the wind help carry his steps.
Oz softly smiles as he watches the small back disappear around the corner. Once gone, he hears Figaro let out a light chuckle at the cute scene.
“Spring surely has come this time around.” Figaro comments beside him.
Oz thinks of all the life growing around him. Of the little things that managed to survive the harsh winter cold and now live boldly. The small sprigs of color popping up from the once barren ground and the whorl of pink and white petals continuously falling around him.
“The season is upon Sakuragumo so it seems…” Oz concludes, nodding in agreement.
The dragon beside him hums. “That’s not quite what I mean, you silly little boy.”
Figaro suddenly steps to close the gap of space between them. He’s a hair's breadth away from Oz, his soft springy ashen blue hair close enough to bristle against his face. Oz catches the familiar scent of bitter herbs and sake off from the other, though it’s a touch unfamiliar from Figaro living and traveling outside of the manor they had once resided in together.
Oz unconsciously leans closer to Figaro. He wants to be reacquainted with what has become foreign. To overwrite it with his own sense, to bite him, to take him in-
Oz’s thoughts are jolted to a stop as he feels the sensation of something, or rather someone touching his horns. The dragon lord is so surprised that his tail bats across the ground, and he immediately glares at the offender.
Figaro’s arms are reaching above his head to gently caress Oz’s horns. He’s smiling lightly, as if he’s purposefully ignoring how Oz is seconds away from jumping him.
“Rather, in all the 2000 years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen these flowers bloom so brilliantly.”
His touch lingers for a second longer, before sliding down Oz’s head to take a strand of midnight black hair and kiss the ends of it.
“Figaro.” Oz growls at him.
“I’ll be out of your hair now. I just wanted to give my regards to the Dragon Lord Oz before heading back.” Maybe he sees something of a smug smirk on Figaro’s face, but it’s gone before he can confirm it.
As a final gesture, Figaro takes Oz’s hand into his grasp. He bows, lowering his head to press his forehead to the back of the hand and holds the position for a moment. Figaro gives a quick kiss to the same spot as well, before dropping his hold and stepping back to turn to leave.
“Until the next time the winds bring us together.” Figaro calls out. He waves off to Oz without a glance back.
Oz remains standing still under the flowering trees, watching the loose figure disappear out of sight. A breeze of petals chases after the other in his place.
Being able to read Oz was an art form. It took a discerning eye to be able to notice the small twitch of their lips and the smallest furrow of their brow when they frown. A clear hearing to take note of the change of Oz’s tone when their words express annoyance (or in the rare occasion satisfaction). And you had to be watching carefully at just the right moment to catch the sliver of a gentle smile gracing Oz’s face.
And Figaro’s had a whole lifetime and then some to consider herself a master in this medium. How could she not, when Oz’s whole presence exuded regality and command and struck the hearts of spirits, humans, and wizards all alike. Oz’s existence breathed the power of nature they were blessed with but did not ask for, leading to their grievances with the world that history could not help but be swept along with.
And Figaro, the ever dutiful senior (and now friend, companion, lover-) stood steadfastly beside Oz, watching to see if the tiredness in their stance and the solitude trapped in their gaze ever faded.
(It did not, they know now how fruitless a venture it was. As fun and messy and bloodridden as their domination was, it only resulted in the title of “Demon King” etched in history and the weight on Oz’s shoulders growing evermore burdensome.)
Still, habits are hard to break, and Figaro finds her eyes drifting back to Oz. Watching him, reading him, communicating in their own nonverbal sense with each other in the tiny gestures and movements she’s been attuned to seeing.
If Figaro so wanted to, she could probably write a whole book about his expressions. She could see it selling well too, but getting to monopolize all of Oz’s reactions was priceless compared to all the other books in her growing collection of tales on the infamous Demon King.
Call it her greed, but it’s why she wants to see more expressions from Oz. Figaro thinks he should be allowed this much privilege at least, being a master in her craft spent after 2000 years of observations, and more importantly thanks to her recently upgraded status as their partner.
Which leads to Figaro’s current predicament in seeing what makes Oz react today.
“Babygirl.”
Oz flips a page in the book in their hand, not moving one bit to look at him.
“Honeybun. Moonshine. Hot stuff. Sugarcakes. Wifey.”
The hand moving to flip another page stills, before Oz finally glances to the side in Figaro’s direction in the shared space of the lounge chair.
“Oh, did you like that one? I’m not against calling you my wife, but it’s a bit embarrassing considering we’re not-“
“Figaro. What are you doing?”
Oz sighs, exasperation carried in the light exhale of their breath. Figaro in return smirks, curling up on the seat and using Oz’s shoulder as a head rest.
“Just trying out different pet names. Rutile told me it would help bring excitement to our relationship.”
Not that they’d ever need it. They were both content in the ever present comfort found in their shared companionship. But with the change of trends in new generations, Figaro wasn’t adverse to trying things out either. And if Oz showed even an inkling of liking to any of the terms, it would be worth going through the trial and error of embarrassing nicknames to get even a glimpse of their smile again.
Oz tilts their head at his answer. “But why would you need to do that?”
Their hand reaches over, brushing soft blue hair behind a reddening ear.
“I like it best when you say my name.”
Figaro was guffawed. No, absolutely dumbfounded at Oz’s words. She never minded their lack of speech. It was because Figaro knew they always spoke each word into existence with wholehearted sincerity. But times like this, it felt a bit too blinding to bear Oz’s complete heartfelt emotion, their face in complete seriousness and not matching Figaro’s own joking tone.
“I.. ah…. um……” He’s fumbling in his own words, unable to give an answer back. Oz is silent once more, before their eyes light up in realization.
“Did you perhaps want a “pet name” too?”
Figaro is speechless. Before she can deny it though, Oz rests their hand on their chin, deep in thought considering what to say. Figaro gulps in anticipation, wondering what they’ll say this time.
“…My beloved. Or perhaps, my sea and stars. Or…”
Oz leans down towards her, their hot breath hitting against her exposed ear.
“My Figaro?”
“Figaro is fine! Just Figaro is fine as it is!”
She pulls back suddenly, holding her hands against her rapidly beating chest. In the brief moment she tries to collect herself, Figaro misses the small smirk of satisfaction on Oz’s face seeing her rare flustered state, before reverting back to his neutral expression.
Figaro groans, thumping against Oz’s chest lightly with her fist. She wonders when they started playing around with her too.
Oz could still hear that reprimanding tone perfectly in his memories. See in his vision the scolding expression he would use. The tilt of his head trying to look down at Oz even if he’s long surpassed him in height ages ago.
He would give anything to have Figaro chide him lightly, before forgiving him for his foolishness like he always does.
But the cold stone in his hands is a heavy reminder for the reality he refuses to face. The winds of the blizzard outside grow ever stronger, trapping Oz in eternal white.
—
Belonging
“My hands are filled with the things that have fallen out of your lap. Even if you consider it all junk, I cannot bring myself to throw it away. Because if I did, the remnants of you would disappear.”
—
Consummate
“So you’re telling me that the ever-feared demon king, who’s said to have over 100 wives and favors virgin blood, hasn’t actually had sex in over 2000 years?”
“Shut up.”
—
Devour
Again, Oz is biting at lips that welcome him with a soft sigh. He feels the smug smile from Figaro form against his mouth, though that too is swallowed along with his blood, breath, and spit. A taste that only he is privy to know, the greedy beast eats away at the feast offered before him.
—
Enraptured
“There was no beauty to be seen in the desolation of the land. And yet, watching you stand by my side at the apex of nothingness, I felt for a moment that I could understand how eternity could be captured in a second.”
—
Freefall
(pararoid) (suicide warning)
Figaro laughs lightly at the hand desperately holding onto his wrist, the only thing keeping his dangling body afloat from the sea of neon and dark pavement 50 feet below.
Everything has left the professor’s hands now. His research. His assistroids. Humanity’s future. Figaro has faith they will all continue on peacefully without the need for his intervention.
So then why still does this hand cling to him? The warmth of the skin touching and the palpitations Figaro feels in his wrist is a painful reminder that he is still a living breathing person.
He looks up to see a frantic expression painting Oz’s face as he leans dangerously over the edge. Even with the bright lights surrounding them, the deep red of his eyes clearly stand out as they shake.
Ah, so he can make an expression like that too? The cold-hearted man Figaro’s known for a long, long time is human too, he belatedly realizes.
“Bye-bye Oz. Don’t miss me too much. It’s better this way, for all of us.”
Figaro lets go.
—
Grownup
In the haze of alcohol and lingering elation, Figaro treads the world of dreams. He rocks back and forth between its border, much like how he sways being carried on Oz’s back.
Since when did his not-so-cute junior grow up to have such a reliable back? Though his figure is rather solid, Figaro feels like he can melt into its warmth.
—
Hesitance
(hanahaki au)
“Could you do it? Could you promise to love me for all of eternity?”
It was a ridiculous question to ask of the man hunched over before his very feet, bleeding his heart and throat out just for him.
But just like the flora falling from Oz’s mouth, seeds of doubt had rooted themselves so deeply inside of Figaro that it was hard to nurture anything else.
—
Intimidate
(Gekka oz X pararoid fi)
“Um. Is this some sort of cosplay thing you’re trying out with Arthur…?”
“What is this ‘cosplay’ thing you’re referring to?”
Figaro wishes he could let out even a stressed laugh in this kind of situation. But the slit red eyes staring down at him and the clawed arms trapping him against the wall make his throat seize up and his stomach churn about.
The poor professor wants to cry.
—
Judgement
“I can’t help but feel for the cute and pitiful face you make. Come take my hand, and all the rights and wrongs of the hands clinging onto your robe’s threads will be no more. If the world is already at your mercy echoing your will, then it’s okay to take what was already yours.”
—
Kairosclerosis
The kids are all already tucked into bed, and the clock rings long past midnight. Yet still, sitting right beside Oz with the hands tangled together and heads atop each other, Figaro wants to bask in this quiet little happiness a bit longer.
The golden ring he wears is a glimmering reminder that the joy he’s feeling now goes deeper than the fuzzy warmth his wine gives him.
—
Lullaby
(ex-idol au)
“It’s been years since I’ve last heard that song of ours.”
“…has it now?”
“Mm, yeah. Ever since we last retired. I didn’t think you’d still remember the melody.”
“Arthur insisted that I sing it before he goes to bed every night. It’s his favorite.”
“Oh? Then can I ask the infamous Oz to sing me to sleep as well?
“…any requests?”
“Anything is fine. Because your singing is my favorite too.”
—
Muse
(painting fifi au)
The unfinished canvas is ripped apart and thrown to the floor to join its fallen brethren of broken art. Piles of discarded paint supplies litter the ground to the point where the marble underneath cannot be seen. At the center of the room is a writhing artist on his knees, hands threading through the long mass of tangled dark hair.
“Again, why can’t I…?”
Hanging on the wall framed by gilded engravings is a painting of a figure in blue. It is unsullied by the mess of paint splatters and scraps surrounding it, perfect to the point of being untouchable.
Though the figure is painted with a calm, almost aloof expression, today it feels mocking as it looms over Oz.
“If this is something which cannot be expressed in neither words nor art, then what must I do to reach your world?”
—
Negligence
Oz spots the Southern wizards gathered in the courtyard for their lesson. They’re all leisurely smiling, sitting in a bed of flowers as weaves of flower crowns are crafted by their hands.
He can’t help but notice Figaro in particular, wearing a peaceful expression as joy tints the green of his eyes and yellow daffodils hang slightly lopsided off his head. A sight never seen in the thousands of years spent in the North.
Oz turns away from the window, walking onward. He buries any feelings that may have nestled in his chest. None of it is his business.
—
Obsydian
A gentle hand brushes through dark strands of hair that resemble the night.
“Your hair truly is beautiful, Oz. It would be fitting if you grew it out someday.”
The younger wizard, still adjusting to the customs of man, remains quiet at his comments, as he always does.
“If you put love and care into taking care of it, that same love will surely hold power for you in the future.”
“…Is that what you’re doing right now?”
The sudden inquiry from the one who rarely speaks catches Figaro slightly off guard. He hides any surprise that may have slipped to his face with a quirk of a smile and a soft hum.
“Possibly, you could see it that way.”
His hands finish by tying the hair back with a white ribbon. Oz’s reflection in the mirror matches Figaro’s own long blue tresses held together in a black bow.
—
Petrichor
(gakuparo)
The smell of rain is their shared signal for the end of the night. As the cigarette smoke and ashes are washed away by the weather, Figaro too slips out of the sheets to leave under the gentle veil of the moon’s shadow.
Swept away by the stream of people under the city lights, he quietly muses to himself that the raindrops hitting his skin are more chilling than the arms of the cold-blooded assassin.
—
Quantity
There is no questioning what one life weighs against millions of others. A majority ruled so masses could continue to survive. Yet Figaro held slightly more affection for the one similar to him, that he would slay a countless number of lives if only so that Oz could find fulfillment in the void composed of zero.
—
Routine
The moon had risen well into the night sky when Oz heard a knock from outside his door. Already having an inkling of a feeling who the culprit was, he rises from his seat and shuffles to the door to creak it open.
“Care to let me in, Oz?”
True to his prediction, it was Figaro, standing about with a loose smile on his face. Oz eyes him warily.
“I don’t have any alcohol on my shelves right now.”
It was all drunken by this very same man a while ago, and Oz hadn’t found the time to go out and buy more. Figaro laughs, waving it off.
“Not my intention for coming here tonight, though I wouldn’t have refused if you served me a glass either.”
He pushes himself through the door as if planned to do so in the beginning. Oz just sighs, falling into a familiar step behind him as he shuts the door closed.
—
Sucrose
“I appreciate the thought but… why do you keep giving me the chestnuts from your cake?”
“Didn’t you say that you liked them before?”
“Well I guess I did. But I know you like them too.”
“…”
“C’mon. Give me your plate and we can split them half-and-half.”
—
Temperature
(pararoid)
Machines are just tools to be used. There is no need for sentimentality in cold metal that cannot return any warmth. That’s why Oz fails to understand how the only slightly older child sitting in the junkyard could stare at scraps with such adoration, one would think he was in love.
—
Unresponsive
Figaro holds Oz’s hand as the other sits in the tub of hot water. He scrubs at the skin until it’s raw and lathers his hair with oils. All the while Oz sits motionless as he is fussed over.
In the midst of his actions, Figaro sighs thinking of what else he needs to take care of. Helping Oz dress in clothes after he’s done. Cooking him a real meal after sustaining on magic energy for spirits know how long. Putting him to bed for the night to let his grieving mind rest for once.
Even more than a helpless child, Oz is like that of a porcelain doll, unmoving as his mind is frozen in the grief of memories just like the weather outside. But unfortunately, there is still no warmth to be found in this castle to thaw his heart, gone just as with Arthur’s absence.
—
Visual
Waking up to the sight of Figaro still in his bed is something Oz is trying to adjust to. His nighttime guest sleeps soundlessly, stealing half the blanket covers for himself in an attempt to bury his cold body underneath white sheets. Oz loses track of time staring at his resting face, until pallid eyes open and a shining green greets him under the morning sun.
—
Waltz
A lone hand offered to dance, taking another to be whisked away.
An entanglement of two, a lead and follow, in perfect beat with one another.
An enchanting nighttime tryst. Ripples created by their steps in the sky mirror the deep ocean blue below as their rhythm matches in time with the waves.
Together in a world hidden above the clouds, the star-filled sea was a stage just the two of them.
—
Xenolalia
It is the faintest feeling of disturbance inside of Oz as he listens to Figaro prattle on again.
Figaro recounts to the recluse tales of his new disciple and the redevelopment of the Central lands after the wreckage left behind by their half-hearted attempt at domination.
Oz himself couldn’t care less of the world outside his domain, yet he listens all the same to the excited words of the man who talks even more than he drinks today.
However…
“Figaro.” Oz interrupts him in mid-speech.
“Hm?”
“Today…… it’s different.”
Figaro gently smiles at his friend who's always short on words. Used to the sudden change of pace in conversation whenever Oz interjects, Figaro scoops up his unspoken words and waits for his thoughts to finish verbalizing.
“What is?”
“Your tone. It’s changed since last time.”
“Hmm I guess it has. Though it’s all under a common tongue, the way Central folk speak today is completely different from the North. I may have picked up some of their speech patterns while traveling around.”
Oz’s brown furrow in thought. Figaro, taking that as dissatisfaction, tries to remedy it with a quick comment.
“But you don’t need to worry about any of that Oz. You’ve always been able to keep up with however I speak, so it’s no different than before.”
Oz wonders at thought, thinking of the strange words and subtle tones that rang unfamiliar in his ears. It was much simpler in the days when they spoke the same.
—
Yearning
“Y’know, Oz is totallyyyyy my type of guy. You should let me hit it off with him, Figgykins.”
“Huh?! Did you have too much to drink Tiletta? Why are you suddenly asking me this?”
“Well because! You act like such an overprotective senior to Oz, I thought you’d be more possessive of him or something.”
“What? There’s no way.”
“But you totally are!”
“No, I’m really not. Mithra keeps complaining about it but I think you finally lost your mind tonight.”
“Ughh you’re so rude Figgy, like the worst ever. I don’t get what Oz sees in you.”
“We’re not like that at all, whatever you’re thinking. He’s just my… well he’s someone who’s convenient to keep in touch with even after all these years. In the first place, I don’t even know what Oz thinks of me.”
“Explain your little world conquest then.”
“It was a whim. Something that ended up being more fun than I initially thought. But it wasn’t completely for his sake like you’re trying to delude yourself into thinking.”
“Hmm, I trust your words about as much as Mithra trying not to kill his cute little puppy friends. But if you say so then I won’t press it any further. Well, since it’s like that then, is it ok if I go make love to Oz?”
“You can try, but I can’t guarantee he won’t try to turn you to stone.”
“Well has he attempted to kill you before?”
“…”
“Figaro?”
“I can’t say he‘s done so yet…?”
“FIGARO?!”
—
Zenith
Oz rises in the early hours of the morning, just as dawn is about to break the horizon, to climb the tallest tower of his castle and watch as the diamond dust begins to form in the blistering cold air. His mana area brings to him peace of mind, alone at the summit with only the spirits of the North and his own echoing thoughts in the space.
Yet recently, Oz finds himself in that very same tower in the dead of night. During the few times of the year when sky is not overcast in clouds and the stars show off their brilliance, there directly above him is a green star that shines much brighter and much lonelier than the rest. Though its verdant light illuminates the dark night sky, it is out of Oz’s reach even at the height of his castle stands.
He gazes at the star in its lonesome spot beyond him, and is vaguely reminded of another wizard whose eyes gleam just the same.
