something about nolan!ponyboy jumping on the chance to ask his brother if he dreams about their parents too and getting so disappointed when he makes it into a joke because hes seeking out that validation and. agh
I need forty seasons of just Edwin and Niko maybe a little of EdwinxCharles in there somewhere but mostly just Edwin and Niko doing everything Edwin missed out on
i always read your posts and answers to asks multiple times because i like them so much lmao
this means so much to me!!!!!!!!! i try not to answer asks unless i think i can do them some sort of justice, and to hear that people read over my posts more than once—thank you so freakin' much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
to dwell on | mlqc | lucien/mc | bittersweet fluff
happy birthday to one (1) angsty man~
spoiler warning for lucien’s new CN birthday date and a few random details from lucien’s past!
on homes lost and found.
MC, Lucien, and coming home.
He’d shown her the house of his childhood once, brought her to the empty lot where it used to stand and built its walls back up around them out of the wood and brick of his quiet, thoughtful descriptions, and they’d lived there for a day in the bittersweet warmth of his memories.
His words had been quiet, wistful, spoken as if he’d recited them to himself many times before— an incantation, a memento, an old photo folded and refolded and folded again, each wrinkle, carefully smoothed, a mark of care, of love. Of longing for a time past made present only by the photo in his mind, not yet faded, not yet aged grey.
He’d shared his wish with her, with his parents, their love, though faded, still warm and ever-present, technicolor bright.
In return, she’d given him his present, her wish, her promise.
You don’t always have to be happy, but I wish that you’d think of me first every time you feel unhappy. Let me be with you.
(There had been only sixty slots on the box she gave him, each one for him to open on days he felt sad, to remind him of her, to cheer him up, but she meant to spend every moment with him, happy or sad, three-hundred-sixty-five or more.)
He’d called her the moment they’d both stepped through their adjacent doorways, the hint of a chuckle in his tone.
“I’ve opened the first slot.”
“Lucien!” She’d chided with an answering laugh. “You’re supposed to be saving them for when you’re actually sad!”
Quiet. Then,
“But I do feel sad. Or, rather, I feel as if… I need you to complete this moment, too.”
“Come to the balcony with me?”
She’d followed his voice outside, where he’d been leaning against their shared railing, phone in hand, backlit by the fading gold of the sky.
“In the darkness of the night, we often pass by others’ lives,” he’d quoted, eyes never leaving hers. “Not what typically comes to mind when one thinks of cheering another up, is it?”
She’d laughed again, lowering the phone from her ear and joining him at the edge of the balcony on her side.
“Since when were you ever typical?”
As the last rays of sun had slipped below the horizon she’d finished the quote for him.
“But, thankfully, I didn’t pass by yours.”
He’d reached across the space between them, taken her hand in his, held it tight.
“Are you happier now?” She’d asked. Are you happy now?
His smile had been answer enough.
One autumn night they’d spent dreaming awake: she’d asked him to describe his ideal life, and he’d told her any life shared with her.
“That’s not specific,” she’d complained. “That could be anything. Tell me more.”
His smile had faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.
“I don’t know, not really,” he’d finally replied. “Maybe a life where I feel at home.”
She’d remembered his birthday. The empty lot. His childhood house, kept standing only by his words, his distant memories.
She’d thought of wishes made with open eyes, of facing the future head-on, of taking their shared story and writing their own ending.
“Maybe we can find it together,” she’d said.
“I’d like that,” he’d replied, and he’d pressed a kiss to the ring on her hand.
They’d bought the house together over a year ago. After a month of fruitless searching, one wrong turn on the walk back home had brought them to the entrance of a quiet neighborhood atop a gentle hill, an ‘Open House’ sign’s arrow beckoning them further in, urging them to explore, to stay a while.
She’d only needed to share a look with him, the question in her bright eyes answered by his responding smile, before they’d followed the sign, all thoughts of returning to the apartment fading in the neighborhood street lights’ warm, welcoming glow.
It’d been like a moment out of a movie, more than coincidence, something fated, something true: they’d ended up in front of a small, cozy house, just hidden beneath the shade of a nearby camphor tree, the smell of gardenias wafting through the air.
Home, her heart had whispered. His hand sought hers in the milky twilight, and she’d known his heart’s thoughts echoed hers.
On the day they move in, it’s raining.
The drive is a comfortable, quiet one, half her boxes and half of his packed neatly in the trunk of his car, the rest in boxes waiting at their apartment for a later trip. She traces the path of raindrops down the window, and at intersections, before the light moves from red to green, he points out shapes in the clouds— here, a bunny, there, an open book, above the LFG building, an angry frown.
She laughs at the last one, rests her hand atop his on the stick shift, where it’s trembling, just the slightest.
(He’d told her once, he’d liked car rides, as a child. Being strapped into the backseat, his parents in front, it’d felt like an adventure.
Then, the rainy night. The screech of brakes, ringing in his ears, then silence. Bright ambulance lights, flashing red and blue in time to his ragged breathing.
He did his best to only ever walk places, after.)
“Have you ever heard the story about the bunny who opened a magic book and a frown named CEO Li came out?”
He exhales, long and quiet, and musters a smile.
“No, I haven’t. But I’m curious, how does that one end?”
The light turns green. They drive on as she does her best to bring the ridiculous story alive. It feels like it could be an adventure. Maybe it is one.
By the time they drive down the now-familiar road winding around the hill, through the neighborhood, the rain’s letting up, and when they’re parked in the driveway of the house that’s now theirs, it’s completely stopped.
As she emerges from the car, sunlight breaks clear through the grey clouds, and she spots the edge of a rainbow, hovering just beyond the hill, arcing up and away, landing somewhere past houses, past office buildings, past bustling roads.
“Lucien,” she says, catching the edge of his sleeve. “Look.”
His breath hitches, making just the tiniest of noises in the back of his throat.
“I’d like to open the last slot,” he replies, without taking his eyes off the sky.
Ever since that birthday, and the first slot he’d opened that very evening, he’d used her gift sparingly, and the sixty slots she’d intended to last him one year had stretched into two, into three, until today.
She stretches on her tiptoes, brushing her lips across the corner of his. Before she can draw back completely, he pulls her in for a kiss of his own, tender, lingering, all warmth and salt and rain.
Their umbrella falls. They’re drenched when the rain returns as a gentle sunshower, but neither of them minds.
They move their belongings into the house, and day by day, it slowly starts to feel closer and closer to what she’d call home.
The projector from her birthday warms their living room with a sepia glow on movie nights. The microscope from his brings just the right amount of character to their nightstand. His books begin to clutter the shelves, accompanied by hers.
Their cameras. The Polaroids that begin to populate the walls. The pressed flower that reminded him of her. The antique chess set that she’d picked up in return.
A collection of their favorite things, mementos, old photographs of their own.
And less tangible, but no less beloved, no less dear:
Her home-cooked meals, and his attempts.
His perfectly-brewed pots of tea.
Her ‘I watered the gardenias this morning, and saw a butterfly. I wish you’d seen, too.’
His ‘Let’s watch the sunset together tonight, after work.’
Her laugh.
His smile.
On a warm autumn day, he keeps his promise. They climb to the top of the hill, one of her more clumsily-knit kites, a butterfly, under his arm, a neater fish-shaped one bundled in her backpack. He tests the wind, sets the butterfly free to dance in the golden sunshine, then offers the string to her to hold while he sends the fish to fly, too, weaving up and through waves of wispy clouds, and the slightest chill breeze, to the butterfly’s side.
“They make an odd couple,” she comments with a laugh, and he glances over at her, the wind ruffling the hair back from his eyes.
“Do they?”
“Not in a bad way, no. Maybe the butterfly saw the fish swimming all alone, and wanted to teach it to fly.”
“Maybe the fish realized he wanted to learn.”
“Did he learn?” She asks, softer. He smiles, soft, gentle, warmer than the golden autumn sun.
“Only because she taught him.”
“She taught him because maybe she was lonely, too.”
He takes her hand, and they don’t need any more words: she kisses him, and his lips taste familiar— all burnt cinnamon and the barest hint of their morning’s maple black tea, muted, mellow, bittersweet, just the way she likes it.
Somewhere in between kisses, she lets go of her kite string. After a stolen breath and a breathless chuckle, he releases his, too, then leans in again, eyes closed.
Their kites fly high together, higher than the clouds, higher than the setting sun. They fly free.
“Let’s go home,” he murmurs against her, a gentle eternity later.
From the balcony, they watch the sunset colors fade together in a comfortable silence.
Night settles in like a dark, star-lit blanket made warm by his head on her shoulder, arms nestled around her, her fingers tightly intertwined with his.
In the distance, fireworks burst to life over the city, bright and beautiful, there, then, gone in a shower of sparks and light.
They’d watched the fireworks together, worlds and lifetimes ago, and after a cold night (his eyes colder than anything else), a broken promise, a warning and lines drawn, him and her on two sides of what was bound to be war, she’d wondered if they had been like fireworks: bright, beautiful, there, then gone.
She’s realized, since. They were never meant to be anything as ephemeral as fireworks. She thinks instead of the lotus pushing its way up from watery roots and through strife and struggle to reach new heights above, something grounded and grown and cultivated, a beauty all their own, a shared understanding, a mutual balance, fought for every inch of the way.
She thinks of the gardenia, now replanted in the sunniest corner of their carefully tended garden, growing bright, beautiful blossoms that returned every year, that bloomed even bigger, even brighter.
She thinks of the camphor tree at the beginning of it all, spreading dark green branches and a boy, sketching not-quite-fantasy in the shadows, childish curiosity already half-faded from his dark eyes, wonders if he still dreamed in color back then, wonders if he’d ever imagined the life he has now.
“Lucien?” She asks now, as the fireworks fade to nothing, and it’s just them, on their shared balcony, under the moon and stars.
“What is it?”
“Is this your ideal life?” She asks, and what she means is, Are you happy? Are you home?
He chuckles softly, pulling her closer.
“You are home enough for me,” he replies, and what he means is, You always were.
.
.
.
When it’s morning, they’ll watch the neighborhood children play in the piles of fallen leaves, then chase each other in a game of football.
Come winter, he’ll wake her up early, and together, wrapped in one of his old jackets, they’ll watch the first flurries of snow, his hands wrapped warm around a steaming mug under hers.
They’ll see the children build snowmen together, and get into snowball fights. They’ll have some of their own, always ending the day watching the bigger flakes drift by the window, It’s a Wonderful Life playing soft on the projector, another kettle of tea ready on the stove.
He’ll joke about the children on Christmas, joke about having some of their own.
She’ll say yes. She’ll mean it. It’ll make him blush for the longest time.
A few months later, the gardenia will bloom, then the rest of their garden will follow. They’ll watch the hill come alive with nature once more, and on windy days, she convinces him to put up pinwheels on the railing and colorful flags on the roof. The children point and laugh and cheer, voices carrying, voices clear. They share a smile, and she waves back for them both, his hands busy resting low on her quietly growing belly.
At night, they take turns reading to each other, and tell each other stories, alternate endings, musings and prequels when the pages aren’t enough to fill their minds.
Summer comes, and at night they watch fireworks or go down to the garden to catch fireflies. On rainy evenings, they read together with the windows open, turning pages to the muted patter of rain on pavement.
When it’s autumn again, their child is born.
“Hold her,” she says with a tired, gentle smile, bright enough to light all the world, even if his world’s narrowed to this room, to him, to her and the bundle of softly sleeping life in her arms.
He blinks. Blinks again. Manages a shaky, tear-filled smile.
(To his eyes, their daughter, like her mother, is in vibrant color.)
