Unable to prevent your death, Cael has returned to the past time and time again. And he will do so until he finds one that ends happily.
1.9k, alternate universe - lads [no prior knowledge needed] + time loops, angst [character death + references to suicide], hopeful/unhappy-ish ending, reader is mc, series: none
IT HAS OFT BEEN REPEATED by those around him that Cael looks stunning in red.
The beginning is marked by lipstick, a bold red that immortalizes your kiss on his cheek. Your words are half a jest; your attempts at wiping away the stain are entirely half-hearted. You give up on hiding your pleased smile before he can call you out on it, and there it stays for the entirety of your goodbye.
In the years that follow, it becomes a tradition that bleeds into their office life—one so commonplace that the teasing glances and thumbs up offered to them by their coworkers become rolled eyes and a fond shake of the head.
But when you kissed him outside your apartment on that snowy December night, had you ever considered that the red you would bestow on him would one day be your blood?
It stains his hands, his face, his uniform.
When he closes his eyes, the faint lavender of his shampoo is overtaken by the stench of blood. He sees you leaning against a tree, your sword held close to your chest the way someone might hold a stuffed animal. When he opens his eyes, he sees red, red, more red—a river of blood bathing the pristine walls of their shared apartment in that infernal color.
A Hunter's job is inherently dangerous. After all, Wanderers are near infinite, in both numbers and form. They're monsters, spreading chaos and destruction wherever they go. Basking in it, even. And Cael has sat through enough funerals to know all of that.
For friends.
For colleagues and strangers.
For you.
A few years ago, when he came across you again, he swore once again your only funeral in this lifetime would be in your old age. A quiet affair, where people would say reassuringly, She lived a long, happy life. And he would know it was the truth from smile lines you wore with pride in all your photos.
But fate does not bow to the whims of mortals so easily.
Another happy life slips through his fingers.
THOUGH THE MEMORY OF FINDING you remains vivid in his mind, the events that follow this discovery are a blur. He knows, with some certainty, that it was Ambrum who found him—and that it was also Ambrum who forced him into the shower and promised him a warm meal.
All roads lead to a fixed destination, and Cael has wandered enough of them to know how this goes. Tonight, he wanders his way into his seat at the dining table, where a bowl of warm soup waits for him. Tomorrow, he will wander his way into your funeral.
The day after that, he will wander into the past. You will smile at him warmly, unaware of what he future holds for you, and he will spend the next few years waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And it always does.
He stares blankly ahead, past even the mural you insisted on drawing above the cabinets that sit behind the table. Its shapes and colors blur into a mess under his unfocused gaze. A flash of teal erupts at his side, Ambrum's chair dragging against the hardwood floor.
His friend sits down quietly.
As he usually does, Ambrum says, "You should drink it while it's hot."
Cael picks up his spoon. Counts the hours until he can see you again. Looks down, ignoring Ambrum's red-rimmed eyes and weak smile. And finally, eats his first meal since he found you on the forest floor.
Ambrum lets out a relieved sigh.
No matter how many times he does this, the guilt of leaving his friends behind never lessens its chokehold on him. Two days after tomorrow will come Cael's funeral and they will bury him beside you, the same way the two of you have always insisted on.
He will leave behind a letter that amounts to Sorry—but he will never know if Ambrum and the others will read it. Does his meddling erase all that unfolds in the future? Does it simply open a different path for everyone in the past, leaving those he's left behind to live their lives out in full?
Are you watching him from afar as he confidently walks to his death?
There are many things Cael does not know.
But one day, you will live to be a hundred years old, and he can worry about it all then.
THE FIRST TIME AROUND, IT is merely a coincidence.
When he walks into that Wanderer-filled zone, his destination is not the past. Cael merely requires a place to rest before he can see you again. The Wanderers have numbers in the double-digits; that, in itself, is ordinary business, as long as no one looks at the ranking they've been given by the Hunter's Association.
He dies holding the cat-shaped tassel you gifted him on their first anniversary.
Cael awakens in the school courtyard, Ambrum by his side. Across the courtyard, you huddle together with your friend, giggling about what he will later learn is Naledi's crush on her future husband. His friend nudges him with a grin on his face and says what he once said a lifetime ago:
"She's cute, isn't she? The one with dark hair."
Up until he falls ungracefully down the stairs in trying to keep up with you during lunch hour, he's convinced he's in a dream. For his troubles, he receives a sprained ankle, and your endless sympathy.
When Ambrum tells you his version of why Cael fell, on the day they all graduate, your sympathy is replaced with relentless teasing. This time, for his troubles, he gets to put a ring on your finger.
You die a few days shy of your twenty-sixth birthday, and that is the first time he tests the limits of his abilities. It does not matter who kills him. It only matters that he dies.
And so, he develops a craving for death.
IN TIME, HE LOSES COUNT of all the ways you die. The various gruesome scenes he's watched over and over again superimpose over one another, leaving behind a hideous amalgamation to haunt him.
But there are some memories that peak through the curtain of death and destruction.
Once, he leaves behind the Hunters' lifestyle—and with that, you as well. He damns himself to a near lifetime of vigilante business, hoping that this time, all will be well. You will have no rival to compete with, and it might spur you into retirement.
He underestimates you once. It takes him a while before he learns his lesson.
Seven years later, the headlines talk of a mother who sacrificed herself for her child. A brave Hunter, off-duty, who fought off a hoard of Wanderers all alone.
In this lifetime, he lives to be ninety-five. Cael raises a daughter who looks like him but has her mother's smile. He does not have to bury her before her time. She lives an ordinary life and marries an ordinary man and they both teach at an ordinary elementary school.
When he closes his eyes for the last time, he is given the farewell that you have always deserved, but never received. When he opens his eyes again, he is once more in the school courtyard.
Another time, his daughter grows up with both her parents from the start. She's a curious little thing, always with cheerful smile on her face—a far cry from the solemn girl he raised before. But he is still a Hunter, and so are you.
It does not matter how many times he hopes to dissuade you from your path. You are destined to be a Hunter, and it is a destiny you're better off following. The skills learned from the Hunters' Academy at least afford you a chance at survival.
In this lifetime, they leave behind a daughter on the cusp of turning eleven.
As a rule, they avoid taking the more risky and time-intensive missions. Where once their priority was giving it their all, it is now to be able to come home to their little girl. But there is an ambush. They are surrounded.
For once, he goes before you do.
And there is one other memory that stands the test of time. A single thread ties all three of them together—the existence of another girl he would turn back time for. This time as well, he goes first, to an ambush of Wanderers.
This time as well, he fights not to.
This time as well, Cael wants to live. He wants to go home to you and their daughter, and continue the dream-like days that might escape him at any time. Three days shy of their tenth anniversary, time rewinds, bringing him back to his high school's courtyard.
The friendly smile you offer him, once you notice him staring, is once more devoid of the affection he's grown to expect.
FAMILIAL TIES ARE FEW AND far between for the both of you.
The summer before their last year in high school, your mother falls ill. By the time graduation rolls around, it's been a few months since she's passed on. Three years later, his own adoptive mother dies in an unfortunate case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time—an explosion occurs at the shopping street she's at, just as she's about to leave.
A few days before the eighth anniversary of your mother's death, your cat passes away from old age. You commission a pair of cat-shaped tassels in Beanie's honor and so he stays with you both even in death.
Even so, neither of you have ever been lonely.
In the years since high school, those in their friend group have scattered across the country. But the distance has never affected their close bonds. Every year, they reunite in the big city that they grew up in and chat about big things and little things and nothing at all.
This year, they reunite for your funeral.
They take their places beside him, staring blankly at the dressed-up corpse resting peacefully in the coffin. Their red-rimmed eyes speak of their sorrow; the hesitation in their eyes before they greeted him speak of their concern.
They offer none of the platitudes that everyone else does—neighbors, acquaintances, friends of friends.
"She was gone too soon."
"She lived a good life."
"She's in a better place now."
Cael only nods, his mind somewhere far away.
Whenever a Hunter falls, whether in the line of action or outside of it, the Hunters' Association handles the funeral proceedings. They add the fallen hunter's image to a long list on their website, dedicated to mourning the fallen, and offer a substantial package for the family they left behind.
Beyond that, there's not much of a buzz generated for such an event. A Hunter dies every other day—the reminder of their mortality, say the ones in their giant offices, will only dampen the people's spirits.
The state of things has always bothered Cael, even before Death began to hunt those close to him. Most people will never know of the sacrifices that have made their day-to-day life possible.
These days, he no longer cares. He no longer has the energy to.
Instead, he looks at his watch and counts down the hours until he can do this song and dance all over again.
— happy (very belated) birthday to the talented @paintersknife!!
au - hogwarts+same age!cael | what if she's written mine on my upper thigh
A sixth year at Hogwarts, Cael and his classmates have just recently been exposed to the qualities of Amortentia, the potion of deep obsession. Somehow, it helps him win a kiss from his crush.
1.9k, alternate universe - hogwarts (ft. young cael), fluff + getting together, slight jealousy, reader is mc, series: none
THOSE WALKING INTO THE SLYTHERIN'S common room have long since grown accustomed to the sight of you sprawled across the carpet, with a hefty textbook protecting your pretty face from the light that shoddily illuminates the area. They spare you no more than a glance before they disperse, readily seeking refuge in the comforts of their dorm room.
Certainly, despite wearing a Gryffindor's robe, most would consider you an honorary Slytherin. And no one in the history of Hogwarts has ever transferred houses, but that has not stopped some from their cohort from attempting to make you the first to do so.
Cael has, on occasion, been one of them.
Neatly, he folds the corner of the page, his gaze lingering briefly on the ingredients for Amortentia—the potion that had spurred most of his classmates into a frenzy. Every year, when the sixth years soon approached this particular subject, the result was the same.
Though ingesting the potion is quite dangerous, what most have a tendency to seek out is, instead, one of its unique characteristics. The scent reflects that which the person smelling it finds most attractive, and for a class consisting of mostly seventeen year olds, the prospect of being the lucky few who could find themselves a partner in this way is exciting.
That, or watching a relationship crash and burn, when the scents inevitably do not match.
Cael, for one, has no interest in the drama. Yet, for all his aloofness, even he isn't above such curiosity. The day the Potions Professor quizzed the class on the characteristics of potions they'd need to know for their NEWTs, you simply said:
"It smells nice."
Try as he might, he can't shake the image of your flushed cheeks and the pleased smile tugging at your lips. He was certain his own cheeks did not fare much better in that moment. It was a matter confirmed by your teasing, another unsubtle push to force him to confess first.
In yet another moment of pettiness, he responded in kind, leaving the both of them at a stalemate once again.
When did their habit begin? When had they come to notice the ways in which they could not live without the other person? When had they decided, quietly, that they would not be the first to take the fall?
There are times when Cael wonders if it would be worth it to lose. Then, you make his heart race faster than it has any right to on a Tuesday afternoon with only a smug grin—and he realizes, no, it would not be worth the lifetime of teasing.
Putting his Potions textbook atop the coffee table, he glances at his study partner for this evening—and for every evening after.
From the moment the two of you were introduced—by your mother, no less—you seemed to have decided he was the greatest setback you would ever face. So, he too had returned the favor. But had either of those second years ever considered a different nuance to the word "adversary"?
Cael nudges your shoulder gently with his foot. "I think that's enough of a break."
You roll over with a groan. The textbook in your hands slams shut, narrowly missing the chance to trap the tip of your nose in. Already, he's bribed you with food. With a trip into the nearby town, a denial of something more couched into his words. With a bet designed to stoke your competitive spirit, and more.
Nothing has stuck.
As his lips purse and a sigh threatens to escape from his lips, a thought strikes the young prefect. He bends over, one hand pushing up his bangs before the back of his hand gauges his temperature. The other repeats the same gesture on you.
"You're not sick," he says, the blandness of his tone masking his relief.
You hum. "No, just lazy."
In the absence of something to hold, your fingers take to doodling patterns on the stiff carpet. Each stroke disappears into the dark green surface and leaves nothing behind. Dimly lit as the carpet beneath is, Cael can still make out your words—written in cursive, the looping letters reconstructing your previous response.
With his hands clasped in front of him, he watches more of your doodles disappear into the green. NEWTs. Amortentia. The shape of a heart. The beginning of a phrase, starting with a cursive I. Its seamless stroke twists into an ever running spiral, up until you slice it cleanly through the middle.
"Move over," he soon finds himself saying.
Your hand stills. Then, as soon as you process his words, you erase your already blank canvas before pulling your hands closer to yourself. Cael settles down beside you, drawing his knees to his chest.
The edge of the coffee table sits dangerously close to his forehead. He pushes it away, back to its original position, before he moved it closer for his convenience. His other hand comes to rest on the ground.
Your fingers find a new canvas in it. As he curls his hand into a fist, the space afforded to you by the back of his hand shrinks. But it does not deter you from resuming your doodles.
A star. A flower. A bundle of leaves.
"Not going to study?" you ask absent-mindedly.
Cael snorts, combing through his hair with his free hand. "Hard to study when my partner is slacking off."
You ignore his words entirely. Years of hearing his snark has granted you a layer of immunity to it—on what amounts to a good day for him, he can tear it down with ease, leaving you to huff and puff your way through conversations. Today is not one of those days.
"Guess what I'm writing," you say instead.
An L follows an E, which follows an A, which follows a C. He's written the name enough times over the years to recognize the strokes blindfolded.
"My name."
The next is one that's haunted him over the years.
It's on the corners of his notebooks' pages. It sits interchangeably with his own, between the first and second places, whenever their grades are posted. In the forest when he visits their pet dragon, it's the name that slips out of his mouth with a sigh—whether Beanie is well-behaved or not.
"…Yours." He leans back comfortably, eyes closed as he waits for his next trial. The next one is a drawing, in two parts. You've only finished your haphazardly-drawn strawberry when he asks, "Hungry?"
Humming, you sit up. "Not yet."
Sitting shoulder to shoulder like this, he can discern the faint, sweet scent of your shampoo from the smell of fresh paint that has a tendency to follow you wherever you go. Those were two of the scents that the Amortentia potion had adopted for his sake.
The third took the form of a freshly-baked vanilla cake, overlapping with a lavender-scented candle. A memory from two years prior, the first year neither of them returned home—to your home—for the holidays.
Cael could've gone away on his own. Your mother would've been happy to have at least one of them at home. But it was his own choice to stay.
For Beanie, he said out loud.
For you, he said, in the quiet of his mind, where his childish secrets resided.
He opens his eyes, craning his neck ever so slightly to watch you. You're gazing into the distance with a blank look in your pretty eyes. At some point in the silence, you had copied most parts of his sitting position—the difference lays in where your hands rest. They clasp tightly in front of your drawn-up legs, as if to keep them in place.
"I give up," you whisper, turning your head to look at him.
"That's been the state of affairs for a while," the young prefect says wryly.
In your eyes, he counts a multitude of shades of purple. Hidden among them, he realizes too late, is a vulnerable sort of honesty he's only seen once before. Annoyance replaces it briefly. You sigh and tuck the loose strands of your hair behind your ear.
"I'm not talking about studying."
Cael stares blankly in response. He's no better off when you close the distance between them and pull back just as quickly. What lingers on his lips is the taste of your lip balm—and when he wipes the sticky residue away, a pinky nude stains his thumb.
By now, a few of the Slytherins who had escaped to their dorm rooms earlier have started taking space up in the common room. Most hover at the edges, finding their seats on the sofas that line the walls. It is usually only Ambrum, from his fellow housemates, who sits in as their third wheel, but he has errands to run today.
Your lips twitch into a faint smile, oddly smug for having become the loser in their little war.
"You win," you say, but he thinks the flush creeping up his cheeks might tell a different story.
extra: a few hours ago - the reason why you confessed
FRESHLY-MADE STRAWBERRY TOAST, THE scent of broomstick handles, and lavender—those were the three aromas that the Amortentia potion presented you with in class. As it turns out, Natalie, one of the many admirers that Cael somehow has garnered over the years, happened to land two of the three herself.
You learn this while hiding in the bathroom stall, waiting for her and her friends to leave so you can too.
On an ordinary day, you wouldn't be so cowardly. But when her conversation with her friends begins with what is essentially a declaration of war, you think it might be just a little awkward to walk past her on your way out.
This is the story of why you decide to give in, a secret that stays with you until a random late night years later, when it slips out in the middle of a play argument.
"I can't believe you're going to confess," one of her friends repeats for the nth time. Frankly, you can't blame her. You'd be doing the same thing in her position. "Doesn't he have a thing with that Gryffindor girl?"
Your ears perk up at the mention of yourself. For the past few years, most of Cael's admirers have left him alone for that very reason. You have a claim, however implicit—one that rivals the kind a girlfriend might have.
For the reason that you will, one day, be his girlfriend, just as soon as he gives in and asks you out.
"It isn't official, though." Natalie digs through her pockets for something. From the crack in the stall, you realize it's lipgloss. "I've never seen them kiss or go on a date."
"Still…" Her other friend says, in a hushed tone. "What if he turns you down?"
"What if he doesn't?"
It isn't until Natalie speaks up again that you realize how fervently you hoped the question would deter her. Realistically, you have nothing to fear. Even so, the messy emotion known as jealousy burns away at your rationality, leaving you to gnaw at your lip in silence.
"Well, good luck then." This time, it's the first friend who comments. She seems to adjust her hair before clasping her hands together. "We should get going. Lunch should be almost over."
They leave just as loudly as they came, the conversation easily shifting to the hows of Natalie's plan. You sit there in the bathroom stall, for longer than you should. Your knuckles turn pale; your long nails dig into the palms of your hand.
You wonder—if the only thing spurring her to confess is that the two of you haven't officially defined your relationship, then would doing so lead her to change her mind?
— happy birthday to my very awesome birthday twin, @xcerizex!
modern* cael | a guide to handling your girlfriend's amnesia
Whilst attempting to recover your memories of your father, you end up losing your memories of the past few years instead—including the part about how you're on your way to be the future Mrs. Anselm.
8.1k, mostly fluff + slight angst + some suggestive stuff, flashbacks + amnesia, takes place sometime after hot springs event, reader is mc, series: none
"WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I lost my memories?"
A question, innocently asked. Cael thinks nothing of it at the time—thinks nothing at all, actually. The sky is blue, the grass is green, you love him, and he loves you. Therefore, there's only room for one answer, the same one as yours.
"I'd help you get them back," he says. Gently. Patiently. Though you seem to have come to terms with the fact that the amnesiac Cael you saw was your own doing, the experience seems to have to left you clingier than normal. "I'd tell you about all that we've seen and done together. The good, the bad, and—"
Even in the darkened room, he thinks he can see you grin.
"And the weird?"
He chuckles softly. "It sounds like you have ideas."
You start exactly where he expects you to, with the man who was once Darya's lover. An orb-shaped third wheel that gave relationship advice—and pestered Cael every chance he got. When it came time to part ways with him, you were rather sad.
As if, to you, Darya's lover was no different from a friend you made on one of your own journeys.
Next on the list is the time they both spent in White City, as beautiful as it was when it stood tall and proud. But rather than the cleansing ritual that demanded all travelers leave their negative emotions behind, or Darya coming to destroy the city, having lost her mind after the loss of her lover, what sticks out to you is—
"And you were so young! And this tall." you exclaim, gesturing in the dark. A dreamy sign gives way to a fit of giggles. "You were so cute."
Trying to fight back a smile in your presence is a fool's endeavor. It spread across his face anyways, warm and fond—and though you likely can't see it either, he feels as if you simply know. You snuggle closer and hum in satisfaction.
"I see," he says, amusement dripping from every syllable. "So, in your eyes, I'm no longer cute."
A muffled protest escapes your lips, though undoubtedly half-hearted. From your voice alone, he can tell you're pouting, happily unhappy—an oxymoron, if he's ever heard one—that he's derailed the conversation.
"You're always cute," you murmur, and he takes his victory with a faint laugh.
MEMORIES ARE A FICKLE THING, fragile yet everlasting—it takes great skill to painstakingly manipulate every element of someone's past to offer them a coherent illusion. To this day, Cael isn't sure how his senior managed to wipe your memory so thoroughly that no traces of your father remain. Even he, arguably an equally skilled prefect, cannot manage such a feat.
And yet, here he is, against his better judgement, fiddling around with your memories in hopes that he can undo Prefect Crimson's finest work.
Fitting for such an endeavor, a pile of notebooks containing information he compiled on the subject sits nearby, on the floor beside your bed. The pillow cushioning his knees, though unnecessary, deflates as he stands up, wiping the sweat of his forehead awkwardly. You insisted upon it, though he's half-certain you were teasing him for his age, and he found he couldn't deny you in that moment.
The thing is, one hand rests on top of your forehead, though the ritual has long since concluded. The other hand holds onto yours, having never given up your warmth for even a moment. Even when he felt his ponytail loosen, he merely gritted his teeth and soldiered on.
As he watches your peaceful form, he can't help but sigh.
When you brought up the possibility of re-tampering with your memories, he'd been hesitant. You did not remember the times your heart could not forget Godheim, but he did. And from then on, he simply had no reason to mess around like that.
All this to say, he, Prefect Silver of the Thousand Empires, is afraid of messing up—not for the first time, in these past few months.
"Cael…?" A groan—and the faint squeeze of your hand—draws him out of his thoughts. You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead as well. "What…"
"That's right," he says, squeezing your hand back, "How are you feeling?"
"My head…" You complain. "Where exactly did I fall from?"
Almost immediately, you attempt to sit up. Cael presses down on your forehead gently, quietly reminding you to rest for a bit longer. You comply, without complaint, though a frown tugs faintly at your lips. In his heart, he harbors no doubt on whether you consider him fussy; still, he accepts your silence gratefully.
"Cael—" After a few minutes have passed, you call his name again. "—where are we? This doesn't look like my room. It doesn't seem like a hotel either."
And with that, his heart drops.
If you aren't pulling his leg, it means something definitely went wrong. The fact that you remember him at all is a good sign. That narrows the amount of explaining he'd need to do by a lot. There's also the simple fact that he's not sure he'd be able to keep a straight face if you forgot him.
"What's the last thing you remember doing?" he asks.
You frown, watching him as though he's the one who's lost his mind. "We were about to go to France for the summer. For Van Gogh, remember?"
"What year do you think it is?"
"2022…?" This time, you actually do sit up, your hand removing his own before he can make a move. It goes back to where it sat on your forehead, your grimace saying much about the state of you. "Did something happen? You look…pale."
Cael bites back a grimace.
"I'm fine," he says reassuringly. "I simply…wasn't expecting that answer."
Raising one eyebrow at him, you joke, "How hard did I hit my head? What is it, 2035?"
Somehow, it manages to pull a weak smile out of him.
YOU'RE STILL A GIGGLY MESS, by the time you let him go.
And if someone is to assume that phrase implies that his limbs are no longer bound, they would be incorrect. Though his hands are now free, you waste no time in throwing your legs over and in between his own. He thinks he should snap a photo of this moment, for the next time you complain that Beanie feels more like his cat than yours.
Like owner, like pet seems to ring true in this situation.
"You know—" The words come out with a gasp, a brief prelude of silence before you devolve into another fit of giggles. You're laying on your back, and the start of your next sentence is marked by the sound of your hand hitting the mattress. "—I think the first thing you should do is tell me that we're dating."
He quirks an eyebrow, well aware of your motives. And though you can't see his expression, he knows you've read him correctly when you shift your head onto his shoulder. Your hair is soft, and tonight, it smells the same as his own.
These days, he can understand your shy mood during hotel stays when the two of them would use the amenities offered, instead of bringing their own.
"After all, I used to write Mrs. Anselm on the margins of my notebooks."
Cael snorts, shifting his arm to accommodate the way your hands insist on wrapping around it. "And now you scribble it every else."
And he does mean that.
He's seen his last name traced on napkins at a restaurant and on the base panel of your laptop. On the fabric of your tights underneath a table—and on the smooth pages of your textbook during class. Your phone case is not immune to the treatment either, and by now, half the student body must be convinced you're in a tragic love that will never be reciprocated.
"Well, it's not like we can let anyone know!"
The vision of you, with your lips pulled into an angry pout and your cheeks puffed, comes to him easily. It becomes the catalyst for his laughter, soft and gentle—enough to disarm you completely. Yet, by then, you've already pinched the inside of his arm.
You rub at the spot gently, as though a pinch from you has ever left him wounded.
"In a few years," Cael promises.
CONTRARY TO YOUR WISHES, CAEL does not start with the part about their relationship.
Understandably, you have questions, and many of them center around your college of choice. From the day you learned of his workplace, St. Shelter Academia became the school of your dreams—you were hardly subtle about it, and perhaps you never intended to be.
For the you facing him now, the thought of them going their separate ways may as well have be a nightmare. One carefully concocted to attack your worst fears, head on. So, Cael softens his tongue the best he can, hovering somewhere between the man he is now and the man he once used to be, and you look at him as if he hung the stars and the moon.
And in the middle of his detailed explanations, which he suspects you've half-tuned out, you notice something tucked away in your desk drawer.
You've been fluttering around the room in a daze for a while now, thoroughly enraptured by the design sense of your future self. It was only going to be a matter of time before the topic began shifting towards Godheim—and all that entails.
"What is this?" you ask, flipping through the pages of volume three of your manga. The curiosity in your eyes dims the more you make sense of its pages, until you look upon your creation with dread. "Is this…my manga? Why is the heroine with the emperor?"
Cael is sitting on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed neatly at the ankles. He lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Some of them are borderline conspiracy theories, and others make his smile falter, though not enough for you to be able to see his grimace.
His favorite one, in a dark humor sort of way, is mind control.
You—the one from 2025—would find it quite funny.
"No to all of those," he cuts you off.
You've been pacing around the room, with your hands in your dark hair. They form little pigtails, the kind you always complain you can never get right. He worries for your hair. For you, and the headache you'll have later.
"Quite a bit has happened in between," Cael says calmly, as the memories of that time flood his mind. What he remembers most is that meteor shower, the moment when the cracks seemed to begin repairing themselves. "There was a period of time when you and I did not speak to each other."
You bite your lip.
"But we're fine now." There is no question in your words. Only a statement, spoken in a distressed tone. And the answer you seek is a resounding yes. "Or you wouldn't be here."
As if sensing his owner's emotions from downstairs—or perhaps Beanie is simply tired of being excluding—a meow sounds from outside the door. A question, and the sound of his paws scratching at the door.
Let me in, a voice that sounds remarkably like your rendition of the cat's human voice yowls in his ear.
"Is that…a cat?" you ask. Your earlier worries seem to have disappeared, replaced with pure, unadulterated excitement at having a furball of your own. "Do I get a cat?"
With an exasperated sigh, he opens the door for Beanie.
The spoiled cat walks in, rubbing his chubby cheeks against Cael's leg. To him, the scene feels not unlike the first time you met Beanie. You crouch down beside the cat, eyes sparkling in delight. This time, Beanie does not spurn you.
Instead, he merely looks at you curiously, as if he can sense that you aren't quite the same human who feeds him every day.
"Hi kitty," you whisper, your hand hovering in the air, above his fur.
"This is Beanie." As he introduces to you the second love of your life, Cael mimics your sitting position and smooths over Beanie's fur. "He's yours."
FOR A FEW MINUTES, THERE is silence.
Then, the discussion begins once more. The subject, this time, is Beanie. A long-running joke in their relationship is that Cael happens to be the favorite parent—and you are simply someone who feeds Beanie every so often, with startling regularity.
Every time you bring it up, he becomes more and more convinced that it's perhaps rooted in an actual insecurity. Like now.
"Do you think Beanie will still like me?" you ask, a yawn interrupting you halfway.
Cael suppresses his instinct to mother you in favor of answering your question. Telling you to go to sleep has never actually worked—he's not so much of an idiot that he can't figure out why you're always tired in the morning, even when he's not staying over.
"I don't see why not," he says sincerely, remembering how despondent the little guy was when you were in the infirmary for three days—all thanks to Cael's most obnoxious colleague. "He adores you."
"Mhm, I know." Your voice is soft. He thinks you might be thinking of the same thing, or the other times you returned from your long journeys. "I won't make him worry."
The silence that follows tricks Cael into thinking this is the end, once again.
But you still have more to say, and he wonders how much of your own worries have yet to be revealed. You must've worried about how to break the news to Beanie—that perhaps Cael wouldn't be in his life in the same way as before.
"I won't make you worry either," you promise.
His gaze softens. "I know."
WHEN YOU REPEAT HIS WORDS back at him, it becomes easy to see why you're skeptical of the truths he's revealed to you. The first time around, when he informed you of your mother, you had already witnessed the depths of his cruelty and learned of his mission. Your travels through Godheim—through its past and its future—also lent him much credibility.
Right now, Godheim is simply the nameless otherworld of your manga. And its trio of protagonists—the maiden, the emperor, and the knight—exist only in its pages, as a mimicry of the love triangle that actually existed.
Or, from the perspective of someone stuck in 2022, the love triangle that will one day exist.
"So, you're actually an alien," you repeat slowly, as though it may make him reconsider his words. It's the same tone he used on you when you mixed up the laundry detergent with dish soap. "I'm also an alien, but only half. And I tried to stop you from destroying the world?"
Unfortunately, as he happens to be very correct, it does nothing to hinder him. Rather, he feels a childish part of him that once went dormant with the fall of White City quietly urge him to be, in your words, a smartass.
"A world," he corrects.
You shoot him a withering glare before proceeding to match—and perhaps exceed—his energy. "Right. A world. The world of my manga, which I wrote."
Cael nods thoughtfully, ignoring the way your glare transforms into the most incredulous of expressions. "That sounds right."
"I'm starting to wonder if you're the one who hit your head."
"LET'S SAY THIS DOES HAPPEN, and you do lose your memories," Cael says, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Would you believe me if I told you about what transpired in Godheim?"
You've wrapped yourself around half of him like an octopus, in such a way that the only comfortable place to put his other arm is over you. The digital alarm clock to his right reads 1:00 AM, but the only symptom that can be attributed to your sleepiness alone is your vaguely nonsensical declarations.
Like the one you shoot off in response to his question, one paired with a snort and, he imagines, a roll of your eyes.
"If I can land you as my boyfriend—" Taking a moment to nuzzle into his shoulder, you pause. "—aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they?"
Raising an eyebrow, he parrots your words back at you, in a tone that makes it plainly obvious what he thinks. "Aliens. More realistic?"
To the average human living on Earth, aliens are fantastical creatures of all shapes and sizes—some with, and some without, the intelligence they themselves possess. The most common are colored green, with a penchant for shapeshifting. And if not, then it means they usually do not possess a humanoid body.
Cael, as someone who might be considered an alien himself, would argue that you getting a boyfriend is a far more realistic option for a girl who knows nothing of travelers and prefects—and the empire they belong to.
"Trust me on this one," you say, your voice half-muffled. "It might come in handy one day."
He thinks of his own devastation in Godheim, when the timeline would renew, leaving only the memories of a past that no longer existed in his mind alone. That must be the closest to what you felt when the Cael of your own creation could not recognize you. If he never witnesses such a thing again, it might still be soon.
"I hope not," he mutters.
You laugh. "Me too."
There's a joke at his expense waiting to be made. And you're hardly one to disappoint. Your voice pitches higher, taking on a distinct quality that can only be described as baby talk. You let go of his arm and lay your head down on your hand, propped up by your elbow.
"Can you imagine forgetting about the cutest—"
The positions flip.
As he pins you in place, you giggle, unaffected by the implied threat. It takes kissing you—on the lips, on the cheeks, on your eyelids, and anywhere else he can find—to get you to abandon your train of thought, but even so, his hard-won peace is only temporary.
The moment you pause to catch your breath, undoubtedly smiling up at him with a mischievous grin, is the moment it goes away.
"Sometimes, he even gets jealous of himself."
AFTER FORCEFULLY CHECKING FOR ANY bumps on his head and finding nothing at all, you observe him suspiciously. Beanie has already left by now, having realized that there's nothing of importance for him in the room. It's just the two of them, and whatever dialogue that must be going on in your mind right about now.
At some point, the two of them had swapped positions. You sit on the edge of the bed now, and Cael stands nearby, one hand in his pocket. Every so often, you remember to kick your legs in the air aimlessly.
In this way. an eternity seems to pass.
Cael waits for your verdict with all the eagerness of a man heading out to the battlefield, one wrong move away from losing a limb. He's taken back to the months when the two of them were only cordial, hardly as close as they once were—and definitely not as close as they are now.
Finally, you seem to reach a consensus with yourself.
"What else?" you ask, with a sigh. "I've never known you to pull my leg. Any other riveting stories you have for me?"
By his calculations, the next time that he can fix his mistakes will be a week from now. The cooldown has nothing to do with any energy exerted on his part, but rather, what your body is able to handle. In theory, the procedure itself should be a quick fix.
And, well, he did promise you he would tell you about your relationship status, if you ever happened to forget.
"You have a boyfriend," he says carefully, keeping a close eye on your expression.
"Oh," you say, sounding disappointed. He wonders about your reaction to his next words—if you'll perk up like a dying flower exposed to magic. "That's nice. I'm sure he's nice."
"It's me," he adds.
The current expression on your face speaks much about the state of your mind. You blink rather forcefully, and your tense smile seems to be permanently frozen onto your lips.
"…It's not nice to pull someone's leg like that, Cael," you chide him. "Aliens, I can believe—"
He quirks an eyebrow. "You can believe aliens?"
"But this is—" Sputtering, you begin to gesture wildly in the air. "Is this April Fools' day?"
Your words from before echo in his head. Aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they? To think you would be right about that—Cael watches the current you comb through your hair and wonders, not for the first time, about your priorities.
By now, you've started searching for your phone. It occurs to him that perhaps you weren't joking when you asked him that. But, by the time he opens his mouth, you've already learned that it's actually March right now.
"It is not," you mutter, sounding shocked. You don't even seem to have the strength to point any more. "You—we—we're dating."
"That's right," he says gently. "If you're curious, I—"
"Prove it." You cut him off, all of a sudden, your words carrying an intensity he doesn't often see. "If we're dating…then you've probably kissed me before, right?"
"HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU that you're a good kisser?"
"A few times," Cael says, sounding faintly amused. "What brought this on?"
You have your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. From where his hand rests just below your shoulder, he can feel your chest rise and fall. Every so often, a small exhale escapes your lips, when you remember that holding most of your breath in is bad for you.
You shrug. "I was just thinking, if lost my memories, I wouldn't know you were a good kisser."
He waits for you to continue your train of thought. But you offer him nothing more in regards to your stray thought—instead, you're oddly silent. Still, he knows better than to assume the discussion's end.
Burying his face in the nape of your neck, he waits.
"I think—" Your hands assume a more comfortable position on his back. "—that might be the first thing I check."
Cael raises an eyebrow. "And nothing else?"
It's said that a person's personality is often tied to their memories. So, upon losing their memories, it's entirely possible for them to act like a different person. Assuming the premise of the situation you've put forth involves you entirely forgetting him, he can't help but doubt the validity of your claim.
If you retain your memories of him, however—that may be a different story.
"You can be the responsible one." As you giggle, your hands curl into fists. And as you begin to count, you put down a finger for each number. "One kiss. Maybe two."
"I can't imagine that an amnesiac faced with a man claiming to be her boyfriend would be so quick to jump into my arms," he says dryly.
You hum one of the love songs that have been playing everywhere recently. It's your politest way of telling him that he may be correct, but he is also very wrong. On his back, your thumbs and index fingers form the shape of a heart, after a few clumsy attempts at drawing one instead.
"Why not?" you say finally. "As I recall, someone else we know seemed to really like me."
Cael can point out that it was his adult self, with his adult self's feelings, all he wants. The truth is, he isn't really sure if that's the case. It's evident that there's much he doesn't know about his life before the Empire—and then there's the complicated matter of you traveling back in time to meet him.
If the day comes where it turns out his younger self was somehow involved with you, Cael doesn't think he'd be surprised.
"I think I'd really like you too," you murmur. "If there's such a thing as soulmates, I'd like to think that's us."
LUNCHTIME SEES HIM IN THE kitchen, his hair still tied up and an apron tied at his waist.
Yesterday, you said you would want something unhealthy and easy to cook. Something greasy and fried, so thoroughly awful for your body that it would help you cope with what you'd lost. So, he bought a frozen pack of fried chicken and french fries—and he decided against getting buns, just to keep things simple.
He's in the middle of frying the first batch of chicken—having gotten himself out of the previous situation by half-jokingly instituting a one kiss per day limit—when you poke your head into the kitchen.
"So…boyfriend." You step out from behind the wall. "Can I help in the kitchen?"
The gleam in your eyes only promises disaster upon him. It's almost as if you never lost your memory at all. Muscle memory prompts you to tie your hands behind your back and lean forward, the very picture of innocence—in a few minutes, he suspects your arms will be wrapped around his waist.
Your definition of helping tends to be loose at times, but you've spent enough time in the kitchen that he feels comfortable assigning you to the chopping station.
It is then he remembers once more that this simple moment of domesticity is all too new to you.
There's a smile on your face, giddy and uncontrollable. Ordinarily, you'd feign a pout. Insist there are other ways you can help—ones that involve holding his hand, leaving you to grab whatever is he can't at the moment.
His lips thin into a straight line, a compromise to the frown that wants to come out instead.
You don't notice. You're already reaching for your designated apron. Once you've tied it around yourself, you flash him a bright grin, and he can hear your thoughts—the very same words you said the first time you wore it.
We match.
A week, he reminds himself.
Soon, lunch is fried. The unhealthy aroma of frozen fast food wafts through the first floor of your house, and he suspects the same is true for half of the second floor. He did make sure to close all the doors in the house so the rooms, he figures, should be fine.
And as he's setting up the table, you seat yourself in your chair and stare. More of that muscle memory, Cael thinks. He's used to being stared at—you've never hidden your thoughts on his beauty.
And yet, somehow, a simple compliment leaves him at a loss.
"Have I ever told you," you whisper, as he walks away to grab something, "that you look beautiful with your hair tied up?"
There's a lump in his throat. It stops him from offering you a snarky Often. So, he smiles faintly at you and hopes you don't notice what it's meant to hide.
EVEN WITH GREASY FAST FOOD in front of you, you can't seem to take your eyes off of him.
There's something almost reverent about the way you watch him. It takes him back to a time when you knew nothing—and believed wholeheartedly that Cael would always be there, no matter what.
Enough time has passed that the knowledge of how the next week will play out has begun to settle in. Part of it still feels like a dream, as though he might wake up and you'll chase the faint ache in his heart away with a steady stream of kisses.
When he vowed to be his most authentic self in front of you, you had already seen the worst he had to offer. The only place to climb, at that point, was to climb up.
In the present, Cael isn't sure how much of the world-destroying alien part of his explanation has stuck.
"Cael," you speak up suddenly, setting down a half-eaten piece of chicken down on your plate. "Are you really my boyfriend?"
Upon finishing up the piece in his own hand, he asks faintly, "Is it that hard to believe?"
You snort. "You've seen yourself in the mirror, right?"
At the end of the day, you are his girlfriend. It isn't so much of a surprise that the you in front of him and the you locked away in your memories are so painfully alike. Even down to the way your gaze changes, a hint of incredulousness swimming in your purple eyes.
He regrets not asking what he should do if you remember him—just not as your boyfriend. It should be fine to treat you normally, right? You've only lost your memories, and nothing else.
And in the event that he can't get your memories back, it might be a good idea to start getting used to this.
"You're beautiful," Cael offers, his longing evident in every syllable of his confession.
Scarlet blooms across your cheeks. Suddenly, you're a bit shy, tucking a strand of dark hair behind your ear. For a moment, normalcy seems to return to the household.
Coughing politely, you mumble, "I wasn't fishing for a compliment."
The thanks that follows your words comes out as a whisper, almost imperceptible, if not for the fact that he knows you so well. He feels himself relax a bit as he bite into a singular fry.
He's not giving you enough credit—you've already proven you're willing to love his flawed self. More than that, you seem to take an immense amount of glee in finding out that he is, in fact, not perfect. Even now.
And then, you open your mouth, and it's enough to startle him into forgetting what it is he was worried about.
"Does that mean I get an extra kiss?" you ask eagerly, your earlier shyness having vanished in only a moment.
Almost automatically, in a bland tone, he answers, "Ask me tomorrow."
"Okay!" you reply cheerfully, as if you didn't believe, for a moment, he'd say yes.
WHEN NIGHT FALLS UPON HARP island, and you begin to yawn, it becomes increasingly obvious that they must discuss living arrangements. And the opportunity comes when you rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes.
For most of the day, he helps you familiarize yourself with your current friends and acquaintances—and lets you mourn the loss of your old ones. And then, there's the matter of your tstudies. You deliberately chose a weekend after your midterms, when your load would be the lightest.
But you need to know where your classes and what they're for, with only a day in between today and Monday.
Needless to say, you're incredibly spent.
If the expression on your face is not enough to sell it, the way you cling to him does.
Affection has always come easy to you. And when your walls are at their lowest, it comes pouring out of you, aimed at the nearest you hold any ounce of affection for. When Cael first properly entered your life, he deduced that allowing such a thing would increase your trust for him.
So, for you, his only boundary was meant to ward off any romantic pursuit.
It worked spectacularly—that is to say, not at all.
"Cael…" you mumble. "I'm sleepy. Can we stop?"
The clock reads 11 PM. Though you act differently, he's aware that this is perhaps the earliest you'll be sleeping in a while. Holding back a sigh, he turns off his laptop, then turns to you.
"You've had a long day," he says, finally, his tone gentle.
"Mhm, can you carry me up? And…" You yawn, cutting off his exasperated response. "Can you stay?"
Cael wonders what might be going through your mind right now. Without his deduction abilities, he feels oddly vulnerable—a notion he hasn't related to in months.
"Alright. It might be good for you to have someone familiar with you tonight," he says, painfully aware of how much he misses his own version of you. "I'll sleep on the couch. So, come get me if you need anything."
"No…" The noise you make vaguely resembles a whine. You wrap your arms around his neck, hands grasping at the fabric of his collar. "Stay. A little longer…"
He can only smile weakly. "Just for a little bit."
"Mhm…I'm not gonna—" A yawn cuts off your words. "Don't wanna wake up."
In the end, Cael must concede to you and your vice grip.
When he sets you on the bed, you cling to his shirt and refuse to let go. You've done this before a few times, mostly after you began dating him—and he, a Prefect of the Thousand Empires who could easily remove himself from your grasp, has never had the heart to escape.
In the week that follows, all his nights happen to follow a similar pattern.
HERE ARE THE FACTS: CAEL goes to sleep with one girlfriend and one cat. He wakes up with one of them laying on top of him. Given their distinctly human-shaped form, it is definitely not the cat. In addition, he locked Beanie out, in case it could be overwhelming to wake up to that.
Therefore, Cael's girlfriend is, for some reason, laying on top of him, their legs tangled together and her intense gaze boring holes into him.
"Good morning." You've stacked your hands on top of each other—and on top of him—which is the base upon which you rest your chin. "…boyfriend."
Bleary violet eyes blink up at the woman trapping their owner in place. Cael's arms, however, are the only part of him that can freely move. And move they do, of their own volition, gingerly wrapping around your waist as they do every morning.
"Good morning," he croaks out, vaguely aware of the troubles awaiting him for the next week. Liore will almost certainly know that something is wrong with you, as will the paragons. That, however, is for future him to worry about. "Go back to sleep."
You ignore him, and the very clear message his closed eyes send. Poking his cheek, you tell him, "Let's go on a date."
Cael cracks one eye open. "Right now?"
"I have to get used to things at St. Shelter, don't I?" Your eyes are sparkling. They're beautiful, like amethysts in the sun. You're beautiful. He wants to sleep. "You're the only one who can help."
He has to be responsible.
With a sigh, he opens his eyes. "I'll make breakfast. Give me a minute."
The world immediately goes dark. Cael is, of course, aware of the dangers of leaving you unattended when you're brimming with energy. Tiredly, he drops a kiss on your forehead and tightens his grasp on you.
Not another word escapes you for the next hour.
THE CUP OF COFFEE IN HIS hand is still warm, by the time the two of them find a bench to settle down on. To call the whole experience a date, in Cael's opinion, is pushing it—interrogation is, perhaps, the better word for it.
For example, on the way to the park, you asked him about how he slept in today.
In your memories, he wakes up as the sun rises, and he's at your house before you even wake up. You once told him that you sometimes pretended he stayed the night. That if you came down at 3 AM, you would find him snoozing on the couch.
You never did, because he never stayed.
In some ways, at that time, you were a nine-to-five and he wasn't keen on working overtime. And when it did become appealing, he justified his distance with the impending goodbye. Wendy would soon no longer need Peter Pan.
Another thing you seemed to be curious about was his suddenly snarky personality. He was still the same gentle Cael you remembered, but different. Even now, as Cael analyzes your words, it seems clear you didn't mean different in a bad way.
Just different.
"So, what else do we usually do on a date?" Although your coffee is already on the cooler side, you still blow air into the cup. "Lunch?"
"Sometimes," he says. "Maybe a movie that's playing right now."
You hum. He wonders if you're remembering the time you tried to scare him by taking him—or, more accurately, begging him to take you—to a horror movie. What happened instead was that Cael had to check the backyard for any serial killers and groggily comfort you at 4 AM via the phone after you woke up from a nightmare.
"That movie would never have scared you, huh?" you ask.
He grimaces, thinking of all the inaccuracies he could've pointed out back then. "I've seen much worse."
At this point, the only horror story he can't tolerate is the thought of losing you. Not through a break up, or even in this way, with you having lost your memories, but through death—something so permanent he would have to take over the Empire to bring you back.
He thinks you—the 2025 you—have caught on, especially after the fiasco that was Spirit World.
You bob your head up and down rather seriously.
Birds are beginning to gather near their bench, likely recognizing you from all the times you've fed them before. Before leaving the house, Cael made sure to grab some breadcrumbs for your bird friends, knowing how you tend to be. Even before coming to Harp Island, this was a habit of yours.
Having taken a sip of his coffee, he's about to start digging through his bag when you ask a different question. Predictably, one that he chokes at, already anticipating how you might tease him.
"Am I the only girlfriend you've ever had?"
BARRING A FEW INCIDENTS, MOST of the week goes by quietly.
The threat of being possibly exposed leaves you hesitant to leave the house more than strictly necessary. So, although Cael went through the specifics of an average week in your life, you make use of approximately a quarter of that information.
You pass half the time by going through your stuff. The other half is devoted to pestering him for dates, usually in remote places, where the chances of running into someone are nil.
You seem to really like Greece.
You tell him it'd be nice to have the time to hunt down a flight and sit tight for hours—and there's a wistful tone to your words when he allows himself to scrunch his nose. It makes you laugh too.
And, three days before the deadline, Cael is in his office, preparing a few things for his next lecture, when a familiar ring tone cuts through the silence. Right now, you should be on your way back from your last class of the day.
The contents of your call could be anything from being "kidnapped" by Lars to actually being in trouble to having no explicit purpose at all.
"Hello?" he answers, glancing distractedly at the email from his TA about a question from one of the students. "Is something—"
"You're Emerald?" a familiar voice half-shrieks in his ear. "The award-winning artist Emerald? My favorite artist ever, Emerald?"
As usual, he lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Your chatter serves as the backdrop to his prep work. He catches the words idol, boyfriend, and dream crop up a few times. It's only when you drop Liore's name that he pieces together what might've transpired.
The local art gallery is hosting an event where they'll be showing off some of his newer works, post-hiatus. It isn't for another month, but the tickets for it were given to him in advance—a fact that you mentioned to the older woman when she offered to buy you the tickets.
You did, of course, exclude the part about it being a date.
"It slipped my mind," he responds apologetically. "I'm sorry."
And it was, in fact, a genuine mistake on his part. Given that his identity as an artist rarely cropped up in his day to day life—unlike, say, the fact that he was a Traveler—he hadn't seen the need to bring it up.
You're silent for a few minutes.
"I'll forgive you," you finally respond. "But only if you give me another kiss."
"You know I made that up, right?" he asks, unable to contain his amusement. Cael pulls his phone away from his ear. "You don't have to barter for a kiss."
Your silence soon turns into sputtering.
That's the only response he gets out of you for the next five minutes.
SOON, THE PROMISED DAY COMES, bringing with it a light drizzle.
You settle down on the bed, eyes closed, with all the bravery of a soldier going to war. Your only request is a kiss—and whatever thoughts are swirling in your head, you don't say. And as for holding his hand, you don't ask; your fingers simply grasp his hand tightly, like they had week ago.
The next time you open your eyes, Cael gets a sense of deja vu.
"Cael…?" You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead—where, once again, his own hand sits. "What…"
Squeezing your other hand tightly, he asks, "How are you feeling?"
"My head…" You complain, attempting to sit up. Once more, he gently forces you back down. "Where exactly did I fall from?"
As you grumble about being able to sit up and that you're absolutely fine, Cael breathes a sigh of relief. At the very least, you still remember him. And given how freely you can complain about him, he suspects that you might've recovered all of your memories back.
"What year do you think it is?" he inquires carefully.
You look at him like he's an idiot. Cael doesn't budge on requiring an answer. Instead, he squeezes your hand encouragingly, the expression on his face quietly asking you to humor him. A long-suffering sigh escapes your lips—and that's when any doubts about your memories wither and die.
"It's 2025. We were—" As a realization dawns on you, the blandness in your tone transforms into disappointment. "It didn't work."
"What do you remember about the last week?"
The expression on your face implies much about your thoughts at the moment. You open your mouth, undoubtedly prepared to give him the wrong answer, and then you seem to realize something.
Eyeing him warily, you ask, "What happened last week?"
It's as good a confirmation as any that you don't remember losing a few years worth of your memories. Cael settles down on the edge of the bed and recalls how clingy you were in that time.
As it so happens, you often tend to be all bark and not bite—until you're so used to the action in question that it becomes instinct.
"Well…" he starts, a faintly amused smile on his face. "For starters, you really liked calling me your boyfriend—"
THE NIGHT BEFORE IT ALL ends, you ask him a question—one he suspects you've been holding onto for a while.
The two of you are lying in bed, separated by the eternal third wheel that is Beanie. And if ever there's a reason to stop sneaking him treats, it would be for this. But, for a destroyer of worlds, as you like to point out often, Cael is surprisingly soft-hearted.
One distraught mewl, and it's game over for him.
On the bright side, you no longer have the twin bed he prepared for you, back when you first moved into this house. After the first couple of sleepovers, it became evident you needed a bigger bed, especially if Beanie would keep crawling into bed halfway through the night.
So, you went out and bought yourself a bed—and when Cael came over the next time, the layout of your room had changed drastically.
Never let it be said that feeling shy about something has ever prevented you from doing said thing.
"Cael…" you whisper, and rustling sounds ensue. In your attempt to shift onto your side, he hears your elbow hit the backboard. "What if—what if my memories don't come back?"
His gaze is fixed onto a point in the never-ending darkness, where the ceiling should be. In the silence, he can clearly hear your soft exhales—small reminders that you seem to have forgotten how to breathe. He shifts onto his side, and sure enough, his hand finds yours, curled loosely into a face on top of your pillow.
"Then you'll still be my girlfriend," he says carefully, then pauses. "Just—with a few holes in her memory."
Cael has pondered that same question as well. Many times, in fact; whether over a cup of coffee or in the middle of a lecture, the reminder that you've lost your memories has a tendency to creep up on him.
How will they explain it to everyone, knowing that you haven't left Harp Island in quite a while?
What would be the easiest way to help you relearn the basics of your life, knowing that you nearly fell asleep the first time?
Going forward, will living together—as addicting as it is—be the new normal? Should he start looking for an apartment the two of you can share? How would they explain it if anyone asked?
And sometimes, a little voice creeps into his mind, and it asks, What if you change your mind?
But you haven't yet. In fact, Cael suspects those same thoughts have been running through your head as well, down to the little insecurities that he can't seem to shake.
"More than a few," you murmur softly, squeezing his hand.
He closes his eyes and squeezes your hand back. "Hopefully, not more than right now."
"I think you'll be fine," you say, your words succeeding a nervous giggle. "You have a very pretty face."
A sense of deja vu washes over him and, along with it, a familiar kind of sadness. He's reminded of your previous predictions—and of the way he has to remind you of them. For as long as their relationship grows, the number of inside jokes they accumulate will grow as well.
But the ones they already had might be lost.
He can't imagine his mocking impressions of his past self will land quite as well. This, in a nutshell, perhaps describes perfectly the answer to your next question.
"What's it like to have someone forget about you?"
"Strange," he says, condensing his rapid fire thoughts into only a single word.
It is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Except it is a bad thing, because this whole fiasco occurred due to his mistake. But that's not your fault. If anything, the blame lies with him. But if he said that, you would deny until your face turned blue.
When you ask him to qualify his single-word statement, Cael naturally struggles to describe his feelings—in a way that won't make you feel bad.
Eventually, he settles on:
"You still remember who I am, don't you?"
In your voice, he can hear the slight downward curve to your lips and the way they flatten every so slightly into a straight line. And with a sigh, you flop onto your back loudly, sending a shockwave through the mattress. Your hand slips out of his grasp and makes room for its twin instead.
"I'll put that down as 'undecided'," you say, and sigh #2 soon follows.
But silence does not.
You call his name once more, still in that fretful and plaintive tone. "What if I get my memories back, but I don't remember this past week at all?"
"Then I'll tell you all about it," Cael answers easily.
For a moment, you ponder his words. If he could look into your eyes, as though the room was illuminated by the lamp in the corner of your room, what sort of emotions would he see?
"Okay. Don't let me forget about it, okay?" you tell him sternly. He's about to ask what that entails, in a teasing tone that's sure to have you reaching for a pillow, when you add, jokingly, "I can live without the embarrassing stuff."
He smiles and lets his silence do the talking.
You acquiesce to your fate rather easily, with a sigh. "Then, let this be the last time we have to deal with any memory shenanigans…"
"Indeed," Cael says, and hopes for it with all his heart.
— happy (very belated) birthday to the local caelmc art dealer, @nekonyaniii!
After Cael picks up a new hobby relating to your latest work, the two of you discuss weddings and wedding dresses. It ends with a proposal, from you to him.
1.8k, set after qixi [+ some spoilers for his whisper], romantic fluff + super self-indulgent, reader is mc, sequel to this cael fic [but you don't have to read it in order], series: none
IN THE TIME SINCE THE night of the QIxi festival, Cael has discovered an amusing new hobby with which to occupy himself with, when he's with you.
The words that the painter and the spirit speak—particularly towards end of your oneshot—are, evidently, not unrelated to your relationship with him. That much is obvious. And it'd be rather difficult to claim otherwise, given the faces they wear.
You haven't tried to, either.
Between the two of you, there is an acknowledgment, implicit, that they are a reflection of your innermost thoughts and desires. That they are the kind of daydreams that even someone eloquent as him would find difficult to describe, domestic and loving—just tumultuous enough to describe their standing, with the sort of fairytale ending most would wish for. That they are memories, transformed only in setting and time—only this time, they are not newly acquainted or on a time limit.
He thinks of the quaint little moment where the painter promises to make sure that no one will bother his lover. Had he not done the same for you, once, long ago?
He remembers the casual affection the spirit showers upon her love too, the way she finds herself with her head on his lap underneath the wisterias, and if that ever stops feeling familiar, it must be because he's lost his mind.
After all, you've always been an affectionate person. How can he miss it when the evidence remains in the lingering heat left by your touch? Through the way you so easily take his hand, or throw your arms around him—
When your lovesick gaze isn't boring holes into his body, that is.
He's no better in that regard. In some ways, he thinks he might be worse, with the way his loving gaze seems incapable of following anyone but you. But you might turn it into a competition if he brings it up, so Cael—well aware it won't end well for him—keeps his mouth shut.
Still, it's clear that you never expected him to start quoting your dialogue back at you.
It reminds him of one of the first times he'd properly let his mask down. The way the gears turned in your head, your deer-in-headlights expression betraying your panic before he'd clarified his joke. You'd stared at him—half-relieved, half-surprised, sitting in the silence a bit longer before you laughed.
Today, when you stare at him, there is a hint of defiance peeking through from underneath your flustered mien.
You're dressed casually, in a yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt with one of your favorite cartoon characters. Jagged lines run across the drawing, signaling its age. Some parts of the design have entirely vanished, but it remains one of your most faithful companions still.
With your head on his lap and legs thrown over the armrest, you're sprawled across the couch. In your hand is your phone, and before he dropped his line of the day on you, you'd been showing him a red dress that you really liked—one you intended to buy with your next paycheck.
"Thank you." The effect of your haughty tone is greatly lessened by the scarlet hue painting your cheeks. You clear your throat. "Does that mean you'd like to see me in a red dress?"
Cael chuckles, brushing your hair gently. "To me, it seems like you're the one who wants to be seen in a red dress."
"Of course, I do," you reply, your hand reaching out to play with his hair. "But red or white, it's not the dress that matters. As long as there's a certain someone waiting for me at the end."
For a moment, his quick-thinking mind betrays him, offering him nothing but static. He puts down the book in his hand down and carefully adjust the bookmark until it looks neat. His attention had left its crisp pages when you'd sat down beside him, but it remained in his hand still.
Occasionally, he would flip to the next page, then remember that he had absorbed none of the words on the previous page. So, he would go back, a fact that had not escaped your keen gaze—you'd teased him plenty for it, and who was he to stop you?
"I wonder who that certain someone is," he murmurs.
"I think he knows who he is," you answer, holding onto the end of his now braided strands. After a moment of digging around in your pockets, and the sofa as well, you managed to find a hair tie. "Or, he should, by this point."
"Indeed," Cael says, earning himself a wry smile from you. "It would be difficult to miss."
Enamored by your smile, he sifts through his memories, searching for the line that had left every single reader in desperate search of their own painter.
You'd been rather pleased when you went scrolling through the comments, with a smile so big it bordered on evil. So pleased, in fact, that you made sure to show him every such comment. The underlying meaning to your words was clear—you'd already found your painter, after all.
You'd have a big ego if you were dating someone so pretty too, you'd said, when he'd commented offhandedly on it.
He remembers responding with:
Then I'm certain I have the biggest ego out of anyone.
Though, his words ended up only disarming you for a brief second. It wasn't long before you were throwing your arms around him and calling him a liar ". But for the time being, the comment section was forgotten, and it was just you and him—and Beanie, watching you both from his favorite spot underneath the round table in the corner, seemingly miffed at being excluded.
He had snuck in a few extra treats for him.
Then, all was well in their relationship once more.
"'If that day ever comes, no matter what you want—'" Cael smiles helplessly, remembering the way you'd so easily captured his expression on the painter's face. "'I'll do everything in my power to bring you the most elegant wedding in the entire world.' Though you said the dress itself doesn't matter..."
You inhale sharply, seemingly forgetting—for a moment—that you're in the middle of braiding another section of his hair. When you look back at him, having looked away, your eyes are shining with poorly-disguised affection and your voice is painfully soft.
"When," you correct. "When that day comes. That's what I should've written down."
Letting go of his hair, you pull yourself off his lap and draw your knees closer to your chest. You rest your head on his shoulder. And as loose dark hair begins to tickle his cheek, his hand seeks out yours, pinky finger brushing against the back of your hand.
"When that day comes, we'll get married."
His gaze softens when he looks at you, in the midst of murmuring his agreement. Your wedding is something he's thought about often—his own is not. But now, the groom at the altar is no longer a blurry figure, devoid of any recognizable qualities and having only an aura of happiness that befits a day so celebrated.
It is something he'll ponder over until the day comes, all so that you're the happiest bride to ever live, whether on Earth or any other world.
"Good." You squeeze his hand gently. "Consider it a proposal then."
"It's the first time I've ever been proposed to," he comments offhandedly.
"Really?" For some reason, you sound surprised. And though your words sound like they could pass for a joke, the thoughtful note to them makes it clear that they are not. "Alright, I'm taking it back. I'll make sure to come back with a ring next time."
Cael smiles helplessly at you. "I'm not sure if you can take something like that back so easily."
His breath catches in his throat when you lift your head slightly to meet his gaze. Because in that moment, you're smiling at him brightly, It is blinding. While he's distracted, you lean in close and steal a quick kiss from his lips.
"Temporary measure," you respond, squinting at him in faux annoyance. "You're not getting rid of me so easily."
In a voice so soft that he's half certain you'll miss it, he says, sincerely, "I would never dream of it."
Judging by the way your smile widens into a grin, you don't miss it at all.
+extra
"YOU KNOW, YOU MISSED IT BEFORE," you point out unexpectedly, long after they've moved on from the topic of weddings and wedding dresses.
Cael catches onto the context immediately.
It's past dinner time now. The dirty dishes in the sink wait for you and your yellow rubber gloves patiently for their turn. He'd been the one to make dinner, something quick and easy, per your request. Your wish for the day had been "a lazy day together", so your initial intention was to order to takeout.
But halfway through the day, you began to crave his cooking.
Once he'd made sure the ingredients were there, getting them both out of a trip to the supermarket, you had no reason to refuse his offer. So you'd scrapped your plans and followed him into the kitchen to help.
"I'm not sure it would've been very appropriate to point out," he says, from where he sits at the dining table.
He'd expected nothing to come out of it, so he simply never brought it up. There were more important things to worry about at the time—your presence in Godheim, and all that came after that. His heart aches at the memory of your tears, particularly because he'd been the one to cause them.
They'd never properly spoken of it—of the day Peter Pan understood, but could not bring himself to make peace with, the fact that Wendy would have to leave him one day.
"After all, you were a teenager," Cael adds, remembering what he'd told your friend Natalie. "It would be no different than taking advantage of you."
His words, however, go in one ear and go out the other. You're rather specific about what you choose to pick out from his words, your next words discarding all but the subtext.
"So, you did know about my crush on you."
Though your words are undeniably a conclusion, a statement and not a question, they carry with them an expectation of a response. You crane your neck to fix him with an equally expectant stare, as if the weight behind your words isn't enough.
"Yes, I knew about your crush on me," Cael admits wryly. A helpless sigh accompanies his words. "What brought this on?"
You hum strainedly, returning to your dishes. "Nothing."
For the time being, he leaves it at that.
It is only when the two of you happen to encounter Lars while on a date that he discovers the truth, after some coaxing on his part. That you'd been under the impression that your crush on him was a secret kept carefully under wraps. That it'd been Lars who'd guessed otherwise—after some advice on how to handle Cael's new hobby—and subsequently been proven correct, leaving you to sulk on your own.
Unsurprisingly, Cael does not manage to stifle his laughter before you notice.
After reading Cael's response to your comment, you eventually give into your impulsive thoughts and call him. It turns out to be a misunderstanding
2k, takes place during qixi event [minor spoilers for the card], misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none
DINNER TIME SEES YOU SCROLLING aimlessly through Lofter, in search of something to do.
You're sprawled across the couch on your back, knees bent, with a plate—stacked with airfryer dino nuggets and french fries—balanced precariously in front of you. The hand not occupied with your phone holds onto a half-empty soda can. When you remember to eat, you stick it in the gap between you and the sofa's backrest and pray it doesn't spill over again.
In the background, a movie you'd seen multiple trailers for in your spare time runs on the TV. For the first thirty minutes, it was rather entertaining, actually—for reasons beyond the absolutely stellar writing. It was, and is, filled with so many cliches, all dragged out and played entirely straight, that it makes you wonder if the writers had a checklist.
Then, your editor texted you around the time the couple had their first date and—well.
Though it turned out that the phone call she was asking for had nothing to do anything that would make a perpetually tardy artist quiver in fear, Beanie can attest to what a disaster the fifteen minutes before said phone call were.
Your shirt is still sticky from the spilt soda, and worse, the water you splashed on the stain has left you soaked. And on top of that, your shirt wasn't the only victim in this mess. Now, some of your nuggets carry with them a hint of sweetness—one that can't be attributed to the ketchup.
They're still good, you think stubbornly, glaring at someone imaginary sitting opposite to you.
You pull your legs closer, clearly disgruntled, and sit up straight. The artifacts of your makeshift party for one change positions with you, making you look less like a slob after work hours—even if that is what you were going for.
Because that someone imaginary looks suspiciously like Cael, with that close-mouthed smile that reeks of barely-disguised amusment. A menace with good publicity, though you'd take this Cael over the "old" one any day.
After all, this one is yours—to have, and to hold, for as long as you live.
You think of the characters in your latest manga, and of those last few pages; of the red dress the painter had picked out, and of where the spirit's—and yours—thoughts had gone. The ones you'd added as a bonus after dicussing a much happier ending with Cael. Frankly, it's the most self-indulgent thing you'd written since In Passing, except this time, you didn't bother holding back on your fantasies.
"Wait," you mutter, squinting down at an artwork from one of your mutuals on your phone. The poor dinosaur that gets offered up to your hungry belly this time is thankfully not one of the soggy ones. "Has he seen it yet?"
The answer to your question, once you regretfully pull your gaze away from the beautiful man you drew, and pull up your latest post on Lofter is yes.
hubby: This drawing is great.
A simple compliment, yet your spirits soar to never-before-seen heights. With your free hand, you cup your cheek; your pinkie finger can only partially hide the curved end of your lips. Then, like a thick veil, your hair falls over half of your face, prompting a small laugh from you.
As you tuck your hair behind your ear, you can't help but think it adds to the scene. The lovesick smile. His comment. The affection swelling in your fluttering heart.
You imagine the soft smile on his face when he saw your post and wonder why he isn't here to tuck your hair back for you.
Truth is, you'd never learned how to stop missing Cael, even after he'd returned to being a permanent fixture in your life. The only time you don't miss him is when he's in front of you—when you can wrap your arms around him, in a carefully struck balance of spoiled and loving, and hear his exasperated chuckle as he pulls you in closer.
Maybe that is why the words you write in response lack any double meanings.
you: @hubby But I feel that the person in the drawing is better than the drawing itself.
Tracing the silhouette of his hair, you think this is the Cael that comes closest to showcasing his ethereal beauty. All that practice through drawing the Silver Knight has left you as the most qualified person to make that judgement. It is with this thought in mind, and a puffed chest, that you wait for his response.
And Cael could be busy, for all you know. It could take a while for him to respond, for all you know.
Still, if you play your cards right, when you tell him how long you waited, he'll pat your head. And on your forehead, the heat from his loving kiss will linger for long after he pulls away.
You grin at the thought and scroll down.
hubby: Me too.
At first, you can only blink.
Me too, you repeat dumbly, tilting your head to the side. You must look like quite the catch, with three nuggets and countless fries stuffed into you face. ME TOO?
The vision of his faint smirk transforms your previously lovesick demeanor in an instant. Swallowing your food down, you glare at the snarky comment, thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard without a reply in mind.
It would've been better if he'd said it to your face. You could tackle him—maybe kiss the smirk off his face. Countless letters are typed out and erased within seconds of each other, simply because you can't settle on anything to say. The scowl on your face deepens as you swipe out of the app.
And you're not sure what happens after that, but when you come to, you find yourself staring at half of an objectively terrible selfie you'd taken with Cael—
And Ringing... written underneath.
When he picks up, the first thing Cael says is your name.
"What a coincidence." Your boyfriend chuckles softly. "I was thinking I wanted to hear your voice."
You fear the psychological damage is irreversible. Why did you call him again?
Oh, rig—wait a minute.
"Did you miss me?" you ask, not so much curious as you are delighted. "Wait."
Never let it be said that you don't have your priorities straight. You're sure anyone in your position would do the same thing. So, with a giggle—both at your snarky comment and at the prospect of being missed by Cael—you pull your phone away from your ear and make your earlier wish of seeing his face come true.
"Let me—" You adjust your bangs, knowing well the futility of doing so. "—Let me turn my camera on."
When you finally catch sight of his beautiful face, as the camera turns on, Cael is smiling gently.
Upon catching a glimpse of your current, haphazard appearance—the pile of hair tied up in some kind of half-bun, half-ponytail, the ratty old t-shirt that's simply too comfortable to part with, and, you realize embarassedly, the ketchup stains and nugget crumbs plastered all over your mouth—he shakes his head. Out of habit, his free hand hovers in the air for a moment before he puts it down. Even before he shoots you a helpless look, you can tell he's wishing for the same thing.
"You should—" Gesturing at his own mouth, free of crumbs, he tries to help you out. "Mhm, you got most of them."
For a party of one, you didn't find napkins to be a necessity—so, instead, you have to make do with your oily hands. It's hardly the most elegant side you've shown him, but you also know he's seen worse. And if he can still watch you fondly, frankly, you don't think you have a need to be concerned.
With a grimace, you brush the fallen crumbs off of your lap and onto the couch. You're going to have to vacuum it, unless you want it to be teeming with ants. The thought makes you shudder.
Cael's lovely voice cuts through the horrific visions of an ant takeover and replaces them with much more pleasant imagery. "What are you thinking about?"
"Ants," you say, without skipping a beat, then laugh. "Well, that and I have a bone to pick with you."
He blinks, looking as though he's desperately trying to surpass a laugh. "Alright. What is it?"
Upon studying his expression, you find that it's rather reminiscent of the one that'd pushed you over the edge. This time—perhaps because of the way the amusement glittering in his violet eyes makes them pop—you smile softly. Laying back down on the sofa, with your head comfortably resting against the armrest, you grin and start describing your dilemma.
"The truth is, I was fishing for another compliment," you tell him, as if offering him a carefully-guarded confession.
Your voice is suitably dramatic, with a sliver of faux mournfulness coming through. Unfortunately, you're not particularly good at faking tears—so it is all you have in your arsenal.
Cael looks down at you from the phone's screen, clearly exasperated. You bring your arms down to a more comfortable position and adjust some of your bangs. With the plate of nuggets still on your lap, you can't bend your knees as you'd like. As a compromise, you cross your legs over one another.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
"I'll make up for it, but—" Your boyfriend hesitates. "Nevermind."
Even though the hamsters in your brain have started sounding the alarms, even though you're certain he's messing with you, you still fall for it—hook, line, and sinker. It leaves you incapable of saying anything beyond but.
With an elegance you might've admired at any other time, he ignores your minor break in coherency. But the smile on his face is, for all intents and purposes, a grin, genuine but unfortunately tinged with amusement, and you can't find it in yourself to be too upset. You still remember his lighthouse comment.
You wonder if he'd notice if you took a screenshot. He did say he didn't like to use his deduction abilities on you.
Humming a song you'd texted him without explanation, he begins to ask, "How would you like me to make up for—"
"But."
"I was talking about the girl in the painting," he relents finally, softly smiling at you. You like to think your glare broke him down.
But the person in the drawing...
True, you'd never specified who you were talking about. Neither had he. It really is true what they say about assumptions, you think, aware that you can't quite think of an accusation that won't backfire on you.
So, like a gaping fish—maybe one swimming in warmer weather, if your warm cheeks are any indication—you gawk at him.
"Is that surprising?" he asks.
Deliberately, you turn your head away. To make yourself feel like a productive person, you pretend you're searching for your beloved cat, who must've slinked away at some point. Then again, you're pretty sure bribery goes a long way with Beanie—and no one's better at it than Cael.
Maybe Beanie would side against you instead.
"Maybe I haven't said it enough. That you're the most beautiful person I know."
As your mind slowly registers the words, you blink. Clearly, Cael hasn't spent enough time staring at a mirror. If he'd said woman, you might've debated for a bit before folding. You might've even seized the opportunity he's presented you with immediately.
Instead, you squint at him.
Surely, he hasn't forgotten how the students of St. Shelter Academia hold his beauty in high esteem. Or the many, perhaps unnecessary, compliments to his beauty in In Passing, even after you'd returned to Godheim. Sure, he might not have registered your unsubtle crush on him back then, but surely, now—
Surely.
Maybe I'm the one who hasn't said it enough.
"That's right." You nod your head solemnly—as if you're unbothered by the thoughts running through your head—and hold up your pinky finger with a smug grin. "You should say it more. Pinky swear."
Despite the distance, he still holds up his pinky finger for you.
