( festival nights ! )
word count: 1,349
wrote this cause my handsome baby deserves so much more than what’s given to him :’) — i’m more accustomed to writing in third person and haven’t written a reader insert in ages, so sorry if it’s not perfect!
𐂯
"There will be too many people."
Emil's voice cuts through the evening air as you adjust the shawl around your shoulders, his tall frame blocking the doorway like he might physically prevent you from leaving. The setting sun casts long shadows across his face, making the concern in his eyes more pronounced, that perpetual furrow between his brows deepening.
You turn from the small mirror, catching his reflection behind yours. "I know, but the autumn festival only comes once a year, and I thought—" You pause, reconsidering your words. "I thought perhaps you might like to see it. The lanterns are beautiful this time of evening."
Something shifts in his expression, a war being waged behind those dull green eyes. The metal collar catches the fading light as he tilts his head slightly, processing. His bandaged hands flex at his sides, that familiar nervous gesture you've learned to read like words on a page.
"If you wish to go," he finally manages, "then I will go with you."
𐂯
The walk to the festival grounds takes longer than it should. Emil keeps close—closer than propriety would typically allow—his presence a solid warmth at your elbow. Every few steps he glances around, cataloging exits and watching the growing crowd with barely concealed unease. When a group of children rushes past, laughing and chasing each other with paper windmills, he tenses so sharply you feel it through the minimal space between you.
Your hand finds his wrist without thinking, fingers pressing against the bandages there. "We can leave whenever you like. Just tell me."
The tension doesn't fully leave his shoulders, but he nods once. His free hand comes up to rest briefly over yours before falling away again, as though he'd surprised even himself with the gesture.
The festival sprawls across the town square and into the surrounding streets, stalls selling roasted chestnuts and hot cider, musicians playing somewhere in the distance. Paper lanterns hang from every available surface, swaying gently in the autumn breeze and casting everything in warm, honeyed light. The crowd thickens as you move deeper into the celebration, bodies pressing close in that way of festivals and markets, everyone focused on their own enjoyment.
Emil stays so close now that you can feel the brush of his jacket against your sleeve. When you glance up, his attention is fixed straight ahead, jaw tight, but he hasn't asked to leave yet. That has to count for something.
"Would you like something warm to drink?" You gesture toward a nearby stall where an elderly woman ladles cider from a steaming pot. "It's quite cold this evening."
He considers this with that slow thought process of his, like he's translating the question from some foreign language before answering. "If you're having some."
The woman behind the stall eyes Emil's appearance with poorly concealed wariness, but takes your coin readily enough and hands over two wooden cups of cider. You pass one to Emil, who accepts it carefully, holding the cup between both bandaged hands and staring down into the amber liquid.
"You're meant to drink it," you point out gently, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.
An uneasy smile flickers across his face in response, gone almost before it appears. He takes a tentative sip, then another, some of the rigidity easing from his posture as the warmth spreads through him. You lead him away from the main thoroughfare to a slightly quieter area near the edge of the square, where the crowd thins enough to breathe properly.
A small stage has been erected in the center of the square, and couples have begun gathering there, forming the lines for a country dance. The musicians strike up a lively tune, fiddles and pipes creating a melody that makes your feet want to move despite yourself. You watch for a moment, the patterns of the dance, the way the dancers laugh and stumble and correct themselves with good-natured ease.
"Do you remember if you ever danced?" You ask softly, aware you're treading on uncertain ground. "Before the asylum, I mean."
Emil's gaze follows yours to the dancers, and something complicated crosses his features. "No. I don't remember much of anything before," he admits flatly. "Sometimes there are pieces. Sounds, mostly. Shouting. But nothing clear."
You turn to face him more fully, studying the way the lantern light plays across his pale skin, highlighting the streaks of grime he never quite manages to wash away completely and the small cuts that mark his arms and face. He's looking at you now instead of the dancers, that weighted attention that always makes your heart beat a fraction faster.
"Then we'll make new memories instead." Your words come before you've fully thought them through. "Would that be acceptable?"
Something in his expression cracks open. His fingers tighten around the cup of cider, and when he speaks his voice has gone rough. "I don't know how to dance."
"Neither do I, properly," You set your own cup down on a nearby barrel and extend your hand, palm up. "No one's watching us over here. We could simply try."
For a long moment, Emil just stares at your outstretched hand like it might be a trap, some trick that will end with restraints and confinement. The crowd noise swells around you both, laughter and music and the general chaos of celebration, but in this small pocket of space, it feels distant and muffled. Then, slowly—so slowly you almost think he'll pull back—he sets down his cup and places his bandaged hand in yours.
His palm is warm from the cider, and his fingers curl around yours with surprising gentleness despite the strength you know he possesses. You step closer, placing your other hand carefully on his shoulder, feeling the way he goes absolutely still at the contact like he's forgotten how to breathe.
"Your other hand goes here," you guide his free hand to rest at your waist, trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of the position or how close you're standing now. "And then we just.. move. However feels right."
The music continues its lively pace, but you keep your movements small and simple, just swaying slightly to the rhythm. Emil follows your lead, his eyes never leaving your face as though you might disappear if he looks away. He's taller than you realized, or perhaps you've simply never stood this close before.
"This isn't so terrible, is it?" You ask quietly, almost lost beneath the surrounding noise.
His hand tightens fractionally at your waist, and when he speaks his voice carries a tremor. "No."
The dance—if it can even be called that—continues in small, halting steps. A few people pass by, some glancing with curiosity at the strange pair you must make, but Emil doesn't seem to notice them anymore. His focus has narrowed down to this single point of contact between you.
When the song ends and another begins, slower this time, you don't pull away. Neither does he. Instead, you shift slightly, adjusting your positions, and continue moving in small circles that bear no real resemblance to any proper dance but feel perfect nonetheless.
"Thank you," Emil murmurs suddenly, the words so soft you almost miss them. "For bringing me here. For—" he stops, struggling with something, then tries again. "For wanting me to come with you."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and you find yourself stepping even closer without conscious decision, until you can feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, until there's barely any space left between you at all. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," you tell him honestly, and watch something shift in those deep green eyes—something almost like wonder.
The festival continues around you both, but you barely notice anymore, too focused on the feeling of his hand in yours and the careful way he holds you like you might break.
The fact that despite everything he's endured he's chosen to be here, in this moment, with you.