highly recommend reading with "i exist i exist i exist" by flatsound playing in the bg (or just in general it's such a beautiful song) since this whole drabble was inspired by that song but it's only 600 smth words so who cares ig
“Talk to me,”
A muffled plea from the other side of the door. Your lover calls out your name gently, softly. Tender like he’s afraid even speaking it too loud might break you. He isn’t too sure it wouldn’t, you aren’t either.
“What difference does it make?” The words come out bitter in between your quiet sobs. You don’t mean them to, but they do.
They burn your tongue, and burn the air between you two. They always do when you haven’t been yourself. They burn when you’re hurt and slap when you’re angry. It stings more than the nails biting at your palms or the ache in your temple. That’s why you always, almost immediately regret them.
Phainon doesn’t say anything for a while. Maybe he doesn’t know if it’s worth it? If it even matters? But you’re quick to remind yourself, that can’t be it. He simply must not know what to say. Maybe too scared to say anything at all.
“You always speak as if you’re willing to push people away,” he taps the wood with his fingers, holding a slow rhythm, “But you always let me in,”
It’s always a push and pull with Phainon. You, running away from everything almost all the time. Him, chasing after you always.
“So, let me in.”
And you do.
The door opens with a loud creak, and golden light finally spills in the dark room you’ve been sitting in. It’s not blinding, not even bright, but it is more than what it was. Your eyes take a few seconds to get used to the light. Then you see him. Phainon smiles brightly, warmly, lovingly at your face; swollen, burning, sticky from dried tears.
He doesn’t close the door behind him, doesn’t try to pull you up. Simply scoots over to where you’ve been sitting on the cold marble floor, settles down next to you and lets his broad body spill it’s warmth onto yours. You feel your fingertips twitch.
“Do you get tired?” Your voice comes out hoarse, broken.
“I do,” he doesn’t look at you, “Because I exist.”
You furrow your brows, relax them, then furrow them back. There’s an itch at the back of your head that makes you want to face him, reach his eyes. That’s what you think you need, and it is. But you pull yourself back, run away from the thought—afraid of Phainon seeing your red eyes and wet lashes too clearly; now that he’s here, now that the room has light.
So he reaches out instead. Isn’t this how it is, all the time, like you’re used to? Phainon, chasing after you always.
“I exist,” his thumb wanders your face. It plays around the dip of your eyes first, wiping some tears, then makes it’s way lower, reaching your jaw, chin, lips. His touch makes a home for itself on your face. “You do too.”
“I exist,” you whisper, “I exist.”
Phainon’s fingers leave your face. Then you feel his touch on your neck, slowly making it’s way down, playing with the bump of your collarbone. He keeps mapping out your skin, like he hasn’t done it a thousand times before. And the thought of Phainon—knowing you like the back of his hand, walking down your paths every morning and every night, whispering out your name with every breath he takes—yet still not letting you go, still chasing, still reaching, puts a smile to your face.
“There we go,” he sounds content with you, almost laughing, his fingers now pressing down to the bare skin of your shoulders.
You close your eyes, and the room—only barely visible with the amount of light spilling in from the door—becomes dark once again , “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” a firm squeeze to your hand, “I’m afraid too.”
a quiet, intimate painting session with mydei where he becomes your canvas.
i'm honestly considering these as writing practice, and also to get the delusion out of me. and this is all over the place, but will probably turn into something bigger later on. so consider it a sneak-peek.
(the first part of this fic is now out btw!!! here ya go <3)
“Hold still.”
Your eyes followed as the paint moved across Mydei’s face, slowly transferring from the brush to the dip below his eyes, all the way to his jawline. All shades of blue and gold and white painting this beautiful man.
He didn’t dare open his eyes, or move his head — just being there, letting himself be the subject of something yet to form. The two of you in your living room, no conversation, nothing else in your mind other than getting this perfect. Just the sound of your fan blowing softly, sitting across the room, accompanying your silence.
You took your time while moving your brush across his skin, watching him in the dim light shining from your windows. The setting sun outside casting a golden spell on Mydei’s figure. The shine on his bright locks, the little bump across his nose bridge, the curve of his cupid’s bow.
How mesmerizing.
Even with his eyes closed, you could still feel the warmth of his amber gaze. Even without any paint on, the man already seemed like something out of a museum.
“Does it tickle?” He takes a moment before answering that, not out of surprise, just to honor the silence a second more. Something both of you have been scared to break for a while now. “…Kind of, yeah.”
You take the brush away from his face, “Should I use my fingers?”
Mydeimos opens his eyes upon your question, glancing at the brush near his cheek before looking at you. It doesn’t tell you anything, you can’t pick a meaning out of his staring, as usual. If it’s rejection, you think, he should be more vulgar than that.
Then you see only the slightest curve of his lips. His bangs falling down to his face with the movement. “Won’t that make both of us the art piece?” His words sound smug under his thick voice.
“You think me simply getting paint on my fingers will make me a piece of art?”
“I think you simply being is enough to count as art.”
You don’t say anything back after that.
When there is a lump at the back of your throat, and when you catch your heart aching as if it will kill you itself, you’re certain you wouldn’t be able to speak anyways.
He has an interesting way of viewing things. That’s a thought that has been circling your mind ever since he first agreed to this — whatever this is.
“You and I must have very different perceptions of art then,” You mutter quietly, like you aren’t sure the words will come out right.
You see his eyes follow you as you make your way to the stool you set your paint on. Dipping your fingers in the cold paint one by one, ignoring the thoughts that crawl up to your mind about how this is sure to cause a mess.
You get back to your previous position and raise your hands up to his cheekbones, locking your eyes with him as if to ask permission.
Then you slowly start dragging your hand across his face, leaving stripes of color behind as your fingers make their way to his neck. Taking your time with your hands on his skin. It’s shameful, you’re sure of it, but still choose to hide behind excuses like how this is professional or just for your art assignment that is due next week.
This is anything but professional.
“You’re getting bolder,” that earns him a look from you, but you shoot back, “Surely not as bold as you.”
“I was talking about art.”
“So was I.”
That’s a lie.
And you both know it, but you continue.
When you reach his collarbones, he doesn’t stop you, so you keep going. “This shirt is pretty much going to be ruined at the end of this.” You say with a hint of embarrassment that doesn’t match your actions.
“I don’t mind. It’s an old one anyway.” You think about suggesting to take it off for a second. That thought, however, leaves as quickly as it comes.
Being that outright would surely turn this into something else.
And being honest to yourself, you don’t think you would mind it. However, consequences of our actions is a thing, and your biggest concern is getting this done without having to worry about that.
So you keep dragging your fingers, one by one, back and forth on his skin. Until this beautiful man, who is delighted to be your canvas, turns into your very own art piece.
okay, here, here's a little sneak peek from the planned phai fic to come—i couldn't wait...okay?
maybe not so little.. wc: around 1k
IT'S HERE NOW !!!
It all happens so fast. You only meant to steal a quick glance at the gold stained windows, just for a second, just like you did all those years ago. But it seems you’re punished for doing so. Because the next thing you know, you collide with someone head-on, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.
As well as knocking your assignment papers from your hands, to the ground—which is soaked from the melting snow.
You hear the man in front of you stumble over his apologies while you struggle to steady yourself, “I am so—so sorry. That was completely my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was—”
The words blur together as you lift your head.
“…Phainon?”
The name slips out before you can stop it.
For a moment, the world seems to tilt again. Though this time it has nothing to do with losing your balance.
His face shifts into one of disbelief first, it’s raw and momentary, before it disappears and an uncertain smile forms on his lips,
“Hi?” Is the only thing that leaves his mouth, soft and tentative. Despite his smile, he sounds in much disbelief himself.
A sharp sting of pain on your temple is the first thing that greets you, sudden and rooted. Then it slowly moves to the back of your eyes, making you blink a few times.
He looks a lot older than you remember. His voice is deeper now, his shoulders broader, his jaw sharper. He definitely didn't tower over you either. If you’d only gotten a glance while passing by, you think, you might’ve not even recognized him. Maybe six years just does that to people—stretches them into versions you don’t recognize at first glance.
“How are you even-” you swallow the heat bubbling in your mouth, “What are you doing here?”
The hostility in your voice doesn’t escape him and yet he tries—poorly—to ease the tension. “Well,” he blinks, “that doesn’t sound like a warm welcome.”
“You’re back?” you ask, memories already sneaking their way into your bones. Biting and clawing at every corner.
The sound of children's laughter echoes in your ears first, sweet and ripe, bubbling in the air like something untouched by worry. Like they haven’t seen a day of unease. You would laugh at the absurdity of it.
Then you get hit with a strong, sugary smell. Something fresh out of the oven, waiting for those tiny, careful steps sneaking into the kitchen in the dead of night. A kid dragging a chair across the floor with all his might, making a sour face at the loud scratch. Another scrambling up after it as she tries to steady herself. You can’t quite recall the flavour, only the small, charming victory of finally stealing a bite of that glazed pie.
But it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
“Yes, it’s only been, what, a week now?” he tilts his head in confusion, his voice bright and clear, “But I think I’m already getting used to things here–”
“You can’t.”
“What?” his face drops, and you hear the genuine hurt coming from him, but you continue, “You can’t just come back, and–and–” you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath.
You are shaking now. You want to believe it is from the low temperatures, or out of fear for failing your class—since the papers are beyond salvaging. But the truth lingers clear in the air. The snow, it seems, isn’t capable of covering that.
“I know how this seems, but give me a chance to–” he trails off for a short second, raises a hand, maybe to you, maybe to hold onto anything else. But it doesn’t quite reach anywhere. Then he takes in a sharp breath, and continues, “To explain, at the very least.”
To explain. To explain?
The absurdity of it is enough in itself to make you laugh.
You believe you are slow to anger. Patient and measured. However, Phainon, it seems, is very capable of pushing you to the limit. He’s been back in your life for all of fifteen minutes—after six years of silence, not so much as a phone call, and somehow he’s already worn through the last of your patience.
You bend down to gather your mush of an assignment, a tsk slipping past your teeth involuntarily. The smudged ink slides downwards in thin rivers as you lift up the sheets, the now soft and fragile corners of the paper dissolving against your fingers.
“Did you think at all before coming here, Phainon?” The name doesn’t slip out as easily this time, now that you’ve come to your senses. Instead, it is accompanied with a shaky breath. You internally wince at the foreignness of it.
“Trust me-”
“Trust you.”
“I have thought about it. I have thought about everything.” He's speaking quickly now. You’re not sure if it’s because his pulse is hammering just as strongly as yours, or because he is scared you’ll cut him off again.
“If we could just sit down and talk—that's all I’m asking for.”
A long beat of silence passes after that. You stare into his eyes for a good ten seconds. He stares back with raw hope and the kind of intensity that only a certain shade of blue can carry. The steady rhythm of water dripping from your hands pulls a weary sigh out of you, “I’m going to fail this class, you know.”
He blinks at that. Guilt settling in his features, sharp and immediate.
“You’re not,” he says quickly. His gaze drops to the ruined papers in your hands, jaw tightening as water continues to drip between your fingers.
Another beat. Then, more carefully—
“I don’t… actually have a submission myself, yet.” He lets out a breath, almost sheepish. “I transferred in late. I was supposed to ask someone about partnering up.”
the starry sky is blinking above you, the clock is showing 04:47, you are curled up under blankets in your balcony, watching the flickering leds reflect on his face.
“the sun will rise soon” he whispered tenderly, not sure you’re awake or not.
you turned on your side, caressing his cheek with your knuckles. partly to let him know you’re awake, partly to feel his warmth, as if your bodies being pressed together wasn’t enough.
“it’s a sunday tomorrow, just enjoy this while it lasts” you whispered back.
and when it gets tough, you think being wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled together, your presence filling in his space… can fix everything.
in these moments, in this silence between you, it doesn’t seem so bad.
because xiao is easy. it may sound cheap but that’s the truth. to live with xiao is easy, to talk with xiao is easy, to joke with xiao, to celebrate with xiao…
to love xiao is easy.
he will give you reasons to love him, many in fact. they’re quiet but they’re plenty.
you’ll find a reason with the way he brings your coffee to bed every morning, the way he folds your clothes for you after a warm bath, the way he’ll massage your shoulders to ease the tension the day built on you…
he will do all of these, and so, it is easy to love xiao.
“you’ll be tired during the day, then i will have to drag you around” he turned his head towards you, your hands now playing with a strand of hair at the top of his head.
“even so, i still think i would trade the energy i’d have tomorrow for this moment.” soft words spoken so much with care, with so much thought behind them. that’s how you intended it, and that’s how he receives them.
your love isn’t loud with xiao, it is much, but it isn’t overwhelming. it is just enough to fill in every hole, to make its way around your life. and being aware of this, you both know how to show affection in the simplicity of it.
so when he says “just go to sleep” with that careful look in his eyes, like even looking at you in a wrong way will break you, like you are made of light itself…
you know it means “I love you.”
because it is just that simple, that easy with xiao.
a series of your letters to your husband, diluc ragnvindr, during his absence.
tags: heavy (?) angst towards the end, major character death, that's all i can think of but be sure to correct me if i missed anything.
wc: 2.2k words
a/n: i'm sorry, i was bored... and ty for reading as always!
My Dear Diluc,
It has yet been another morning without your presence. The sun shone the same, the birds chirped at their usual spot outside our house, yet you are not with me. It has been long since I’ve grown accustomed to our bed without your warmth, but the sting still lingers, and my eyes burn the same when I—
“Okay—just, what is this, my dear?”
“It’s my letter to you! I have been very lonely today you see, so I decided to write a letter to you in the hours of your absence.” You answered back with a playful grin.
The redhaired man, Diluc Ragnvindr, your lover; put the paper down on his desk—where you had left for him to find it earlier this afternoon—and flashed a knowing smile your way.
“Is that so?” he said while grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you to his lap.
You went down with a giggle and a soft bite at your lower lip, holding his neck to support yourself on his legs.
“Mhm, it was cold and silent in our house. Madeleine was out to run some errands so I didn’t have anyone to chat with either,” you murmured, tangling your finger in his hair at the back of his neck, “And I even baked some cake. Can you believe that?”
Your lover huffed softly, caressing your thighs gently, “You were that bored?”
You smiled back with a shrug, “It appears so.”
“Another one?” Diluc looked at you in disbelief as you helped take his coat out and hang it on the back of his chair.
“Just read it! I spent effort in writing it you know.”
You huffed, and a small pout appeared on your lips, which Diluc gladly erased with a small peck to the corner of it.
“If my dearest wishes so,” a small sigh but with no real annoyance behind it, “I shall read it.”
He cleared his throat as he picked up the letter to read it—
My Dear Diluc,
You left before I woke up again, which is becoming a suspicious habit. How dare you leave your beautiful, smart, kind, funny, radiating, sweet—
“Wow, you really took your time with that one.”
“No interrupting please. Every word was written with intent and meaning.”
He takes a moment to take a deep breath, lets a small laugh escape him, and continues.
How dare you leave your beautiful, smart, kind, funny, radiating, sweet wife behind and attend to your gruesomely duties. She has been very sad you know.
“It’s true, I have been.”
That gets another laugh out of him.
I passed by the balcony where we once argued about whether dawn was worth waking up for. You said it was peaceful. I said sleep was better. I still stand by that—but I’d wake early if you stayed.
Also, I walked past the study and resisted the urge to sit in your chair and dramatically sigh like you do. I call that growth.
Be home at your usual time. I refuse to eat dinner alone, it doesn’t taste the same.
Your dearest wife
Every day—as Diluc woke up and left the mansion to attend to his duties—you, as the beloved spouse, attended to your own duty, writing your husband letters.
It was time killing, and you didn’t want to ramble Madeleine’s ears off, so writing to your lover seemed like the best idea.
And the most fun part—you would get to see him read it and react to them every night.
You’d wake up, do anything else you needed to do, and when you had some free time you’d sit down and get to writing. Then leave it neatly on Diluc’s desk for him to come and find it.
After the fourth one he stopped being surprised and started expecting them. It became your routine.
My Dear, overly serious husband,
Good news: I didn’t rearrange the wine cellar today.
Bad news: I thought about it.
I spent the afternoon in the garden and attempted to prune something. I remembered your instructions, “gentle, precise, thoughtful.” Naturally, I ignored all of that and went with instinct. If the plants survive, it will be out of spite.
Diluc turned to you with, let’s say, a sour expression on his face.
“I promise they’re fine!” you patted his shoulders from where you stood behind him.
“Sweetheart—” he gave up that sentence and turned back to the paper with a sigh.
Do you remember the time you tried to explain tannins to me for twenty minutes? I nodded the entire time and understood absolutely nothing. I miss that. Not the tannins—the way you looked so convinced I was following along.
Come back soon tonight. I still need you to finish telling me about that one story with Kaeya.
Always,
Your dearest wife
Diluc,
You came home late yesterday. I noticed, but I won’t make a dramatic point of it. Not like the time I waited up for you and fell asleep in your chair, only for you to carry me to bed and pretend it “wasn’t an inconvenience.” I remember you muttering the entire way.
“You know it isn’t,” he squeezed your hand while holding the paper with his other one, “I was muttering, because it is not good to wait until late hours to the point where you fall asleep on my chair.”
“What can I do?” you sighed theatrically, “I’m just hopelessly in love with you.”
“Hopelessly dramatic,” he corrected, though his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction.
You tilted your head, watching him from the corner of your eye. “Yet you still come to me every night.”
Diluc didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped back to the paper, though it was clear he wasn’t reading anymore.
“About that,” he exhaled quietly, “…Work has been getting more demanding lately,” he said at last, “There may be nights where I won’t return at all.”
You felt a sharp sting in your left side, “Not at all?”
“For two, perhaps three days at a time,” he clarified, then lifted your hand up, gently brushing his lips to your fingers. “It is temporary. But necessary.”
You leaned slightly closer. “And here I thought you just enjoyed my company too much to stay away.”
“I do,” he replied, far too quickly to pass as indifference.
That earned him a faint smile.
Then, softly he added, “I will return as soon as I am able.”
Days passed, and Diluc stayed true to his word.
He was gone like he said. But he returned after three days at most, again, like he said.
You kept writing your letters. Some you sent to him; others you left in his workroom, where they gathered dust on his desk, waiting patiently to be opened when he came back to the warmth of your shared home.
Diluc never wrote back. He was busy, that you knew. Still, he made sure to read every letter aloud when he was home. Even on nights when his eyes threatened to close between sentences, and you had to interrupt him, gently insisting he go to bed.
“I’m not tired,” he murmured, even as his eyelids dipped.
You only hummed in response, unimpressed.
“You said that last time too,” you reminded him, already taking the letter from his hands before it slipped. “And the time before that.”
You had already given up trying to convince him.
“If you’re going to read them, you’re going to sit down,” you said, nudging him toward the armchair instead of the desk.
He would sit down, get comfortable, and wait for you to hand him the letters. Then you would give them to him unwillingly and take your spot between his legs and snuggle up to his body.
It became you routine, replacing your old routine. It wasn’t ideal, him being exhausted almost every night and you being left alone most days, but it was all you had for now and you’d learn to embrace it.
My Dearest Diluc,
It is the sixth evening since you left on your business trip, and the mansion feels unusually still without your presence. The halls are as grand as ever, the candles as warm, and yet everything seems to echo a little more than usual, as if even the walls have noticed you are gone.
Diluc left, as usual. Not for two or three days this time, but for an indefinite amount of time.
You didn’t want him to feel bad, you knew there wasn’t anything he can do about it. Work is work, and some sacrifices are necessary when you are Diluc Ragnvindr.
So you smiled warmly at your husband as he waved at you from on top of his horse. His silhouette slowly getting smaller with each passing second.
And when he was completely out of sight, you turned back, got into the house, rushed to your bedroom and started writing.
The staff continues their work diligently, of course. Madeleine keeps everything in perfect order, as she always does. Though I could tell she, too, noticed the change in the household’s rhythm. The servants move through the corridors with their usual grace, yet even they seem a little more subdued, as though your absence has softened the mansion’s usual energy.
As for me, I have been trying to keep myself occupied.
Dinner has been quiet. I have been eating in the smaller dining room instead of the grand hall. Madeleine suggested it might feel less empty, and she was right. Still, I catch myself glancing toward the door out of habit, as if you might walk in at any moment, removing your gloves and asking how the day went.
I wonder if your journey is going well. I hope you are not overworking yourself. I know how easily you fall into that habit, convincing yourself that everything can be handled alone. It cannot, you know, not everything should be.
I miss you more than I expected to admit, even to myself.
With all my love,
Your wife
Two weeks had passed.
The house had settled into a quieter routine, one you had never quite grown used to. Even the smallest sounds felt louder than they should: the soft closing of doors, the rushed footsteps of staff, the wind brushing against the tall windows.
That morning, a maid arrived at your door with a sealed letter.
You recognized it immediately.
You found yourself reading it twice. Then a third time, as if repetition might stretch the message into something longer, something more real.
A return.
Diluc has sent word that he is coming back.
So you did what you do best, what has become a habit for you for the last month. You sat down, and started writing.
My Dear Diluc,
I received your message today. I must admit, I read it more than once.
You are coming home.
The winery feels different even knowing this. The silence no longer feels endless, it feels temporary, as if it has already started making room for your footsteps again.
I find myself thinking about the simplest things—your coat by the entrance, your voice calling for the staff, the way you loosen your gloves after long days. I didn’t realize how many small parts of you I had grown used to until they were suddenly missing.
I am… looking forward to your return more than I can properly express. The house will be warm again when you step inside.
Please come home safely. Not quickly, safely.
I will be waiting.
Your wife
My Dear Diluc,
It has yet been another morning without your presence. The sun shone the same, the birds chirped at their usual spot outside our house, yet you are not with me. It has been long since I’ve grown accustomed to our bed without your warmth, but the sting still lingers, and my eyes burn the same when I reach for your side out of habit, only to find nothing there.
They told me you would not be coming home, that the road took you on your return from that work trip, far too suddenly, far too cruelly.
Five months have passed since that night. An accident, they said. As if such a simple word could ever hold what it truly means to lose you.
I spend the afternoons at out garden now, attending to the plants; gentle, precise, thoughtful. I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job, I think I regret not listening to your instructions now.
Do you remember how I would fall asleep hunched over your desk? Waiting for you to come home like I used to. Now I just let myself sit at the edge of your chair every time I pass by the door. It doesn’t happen very often.
Now I sit silently by your grave, still waiting for your arrival. It is not as comfortable, yet it seems it’s taken the place of your office chair I once clung so tightly to.
They told me time would soften this. That grief, like all things, would eventually lose its sharp edges and become something softer, easier to carry.
There is nothing soft about the absence you left behind.
It is not a quiet thing. It lives in every doorway you once stood in, in every unfinished sentence I still speak aloud before remembering there is no one here to finish it for me.
I went to visit your grave today, again, as always.
The stone is still shining brightly, too clean for time to have healed anything at all.
I sat there longer than I meant to, again, as always.
Rest well, my dear Diluc,
Your dearest wife
my knees are KILLING me. so i came up with a solution... here you go.
Tender fingers squeeze your calves gently, slow and deliberate, sliding back and forth in an unhurried rhythm.
Above you, the lights of The Astral Express shine brightly. Normally, you’d retreat to the Data Bank for something like this, but everyone is already asleep and you told Dan Heng you needed some air tonight. So you settle here instead, in the parlor car, where the ceilings feel higher and the air moves more freely than in that cramped old room your lover so contentedly claims as his own.
You stretch under his touch when your legs start getting sore, his hands still for a short moment, but they don’t leave. Once you’ve found a comfortable position again, he continues his caressing.
“Does it hurt here too?” he asks, thumbs pressing into a different spot.
The relief, along with the pain, draws a quick mewl out of you. “Gods, I think it hurts just about everywhere.” that earns you a look from him, not with any real bite behind it, but certainly firm.
“You should stop pushing yourself so hard. It’s catching up to you.”
It is true that today was… let’s say, busier than usual. You’ll manage though, because that’s what you always do, right?
“And you should stop worrying so much.” you plant a soft peck to his cheek, “It won’t be long before your hair starts getting all white.” A quiet snicker leaves your lips before you can stop it.
“Maybe I will once you stop overexhausting yourself.” He shoots a look at you again.
“It’s fine,” you murmur, “Let me enjoy this.”
Dan Heng brings one of his hands to your face, and even though the loss of warmth on your leg earns him a glare, the immediate affection he shows by caressing your cheek makes up for it.
He draws little circles on your face with his thumb while the rest of his fingers are tangled in your hair.
“You don’t have to tire yourself out to get my attention,” his eyes meet yours, “You know that, right?”
You smile at him, because how can you not when he’s being so gentle with you?
“I know, Dan.” you hum, “I’ll try to take better care of myself.”
Then you scoot towards him from where you’re resting and lay your head on his shoulders carefully, your legs still draped over his.
“You better.” Dan Heng grumbles, but still lightly presses his lips to your temple.
The first time Arthur takes his little brother to the carnival is a little on the stressful side, at least for a few minutes. Stiles is not big on clowns, and he really hates the house of mirrors. He's fearful of the large crowds and screaming kids. And it makes him feel bad. His mother is in the hospital, fighting for her life, and here Stiles was scared of other kids.
Arthur is getting them food and doesn't realize Stiles is gone. He turns around and the food is on the ground because his little brother isn't in front of him. He takes off, letting one of the people at the carnival know his brother is missing. An alert is put out and soon Arthur is notified that is brother is at the front gate with security, waiting for him.
Arthur knows the look on his brother's face when he gets to the gate, Stiles thinks he's going to get yelled at. But instead he's wrapped up in his brother's arms and starts to cry against Arthur's chest. The older boy picks him up and takes him to a less populated part of the carnival. They sit and talk, Stiles telling his big brother that he's scared. Arthur just hugs him tighter before telling him it's okay to be scared, scared is not a bad feeling.
Once Stiles stops crying he's lifted onto his brother's shoulders and that seems to make him a lot less scared. He's bigger than everyone, including those clowns. Now that the fear was gone the rest of the day was spent having so much fun. Arthur won his little brother so many stuffed animals and they had eaten more candy than they should have. The day ended with them on the Ferris wheel, watching Beacon Hills on the horizon. It was amazing and Stiles made his brother take him back everyday until the carnival left.
