HIHIHI (◕ᴗ◕✿) i heard youre a good writer and wondering can you do s/o headconons of cross, dream, dust and that bardy boy Piper? (Ngl im starting to love that silly yes ive read some of your works of him they're just *chef kiss* and im totally not a fangirl or anything tho— *coughs hysterically and runs away)
Sorry it's taken me so long. Headcanons are not my strongest, but I suppose that's never stopped me from learning something new.
You've never seen a boyfriend be more paranoid for your safety.
He's side-eyeing every relatively intimidating man that walks by you on the street, hand holding at all times in public in case you get lost, and he wants you to text him when you get home safe.
He doesn't mean to come across as overbearing, and he is truly doing better about it as time moves on, it's just... He's genuinely so worried.
He knows what it's like to lose loved ones. It's something that's really affected his love life.
This all does mean that he's superb at taking care of you, though. You'd likely be his first, but he's so good at this 'boyfriend' thing that you would think he's a serial dater or something.
He insists on buckling you into cars, changes out his signature short-sleeved coat for a long one to cover you better, walks behind you up stairs in case you trip, walks ahead down stairs in case you trip, locks in when he's crossing the street with you, pulls out chairs and then helps push you in, is zipping up all of your jackets for you, makes sure you get into elevators before him, and he's probably insisting on cutting up your food for you.
He is a doter and a yearner. Hardcore style. A man of casual intimacy and subtleties.
The biggest sucker for lazy mornings despite preferring to be disciplined in his routine. He'll stay in bed with you an extra hour longer to feel your heart beat and your chest expand with your lungs, to feel your warmth against him, to breathe in your shampoo if you had showered just the night before.
He knows the way you prefer your towels to be folded, how you load your dishes, the little ways you glide your hands on the steering wheel when turning your car, how you use gestures when speaking, the side of your mouth you most commonly smile with, how you slightly tuck into yourself when sneezing. He's down bad.
He gets you flowers every so often, bending at the knee and looking up at you with the prettiest smile when doing so. Loves going out in search of local pastry shops to try new, chocolatey things with you. Took you to a couples' painting class once and fondly keeps the finished products displayed.
Has a professionally printed photo of you in his wallet where a drivers license would be.
The curve of your smile's been memorized, too.
He's going to everyone he knows to ask for tips and advice and what to do to be the perfect boyfriend. Someone teaches him how to use Google just for this research, and he spends ten hours a week looking up how to treat you right before even asking you out.
Sure, good emotions come as naturally to him as winds that carry dandelions, but the idea of you makes him fawn like an adolescent rabbit. He's freaked out and overthinking everything that's meant to be what he is.
He's going overboard in his paranoia to make you happy.
Dream hears 'flowers' and seeks out someone to teach him how to make his own arrangements. He's going to the most bizarre and inspiring places every Thursday to handpick flowers, only deeming the bouquet adequate once it's too big for the both of his hands to fit around. Topped off with a handwritten note attached with delicate twine, the note's content something poetic like "And to my most radiant, lovely, who brings me joy," and he sprinkles a bit of glitter over the misted petals.
He hears 'dinner' and tries learning how to cook, but to his sadness he ain't built like that. Most he can do is make some mean instant muffins. To make up for this, he's taking you literally any and everywhere to eat.
You already know he's rich. Not that he's outright accepting payment for all the saving and heroism he does, but it's that he can't say 'no' if someone's insisting enough. He, shamefully and awkwardly, has a lot of money.
He also doesn't know dip about finances or how much things cost, so please don't take advantage of him. He doesn't know any of these price differences.
This does mean that you're regularly getting things that cost more than a prosthetic leg. He doesn't know any better. He just sees stuff he thinks you'll like and gets it.
He getting y'all matching clothes and stuff, too. All the time. He has the money.
Hears 'romantic getaways' and next thing you know you've already seen thirty different OuterTales four months into your relationship.
Hears 'kissing' and his Soul beats out of his chest every time he's reminded about that particular act. Like, he's sweating about the idea of being so 'vulgar' with you. You make him NERVOUS. Takes months of hand holding before he deems it safe and appropriate and gentlemanly to hug you. He's SO scared of doing something wrong.
You'll need to be the one to initiate the leap. That 'leap' being a kiss on his cheek once he's done freaking out after being asked for his consent.
Holding doors open for you, guiding you with a very modest hand to the middle of your back, keeping you on the sidewalk farthest from the road, tying your shoes, offering you his coats… Does your dishes for some reason when he visits? He tried folding your laundry one time, but he had a panic attack seeing your undergarments.
He probably blushes like a pale sunset.
The way your Soul beats is borderline a drug to him. A relaxant. It's a lullaby against the torment in his head.
His need to be close and the constant lazy afternoons are a bide to get even nearer your Soul's song. He's always falling asleep on you because of this calm, too. His head tucked into your neck either laying down or standing up, atop you with the side of his face pressed to your chest where your heart and Soul both hum strongest, side-hugging you as you're busy at the stove, grabbing at you in the haze of his sleep, hooking his legs with yours on the couch—He is cuddly.
Sure, it takes some insane time to get to this point, but this point's getting got to.
He'll trace his fingers over where you sew and patch his torn scarf, the holes he's picked into his favored jacket, oddly paranoid about accidentally poking his blunt fingertips through the new gloves you get him, prefers to eat whatever it is you're eating, likes to walk a step behind you when going somewhere together, uses your shampoo when washing his hands, YEARNS.
Not that he'll ever admit he's yearning this hard—to anyone, even himself. He doesn't deserve this, deserve you, but also he thinks that he does. But also that he doesn't. It's… Complicated.
He's in such a war with 'Do I deserve a happy ending?' and 'I DO deserve a happy ending!' that he just doesn't approach any of it and clings silently.
The 'What ifs?' ring through his head on occasion, though. Those softer thoughts are what convinces him to let you in just enough to keep you close. Keep you as his. To keep listening to your Soul's humming.
Maybe he'll let you hear his Soul sometime soon. In the meanwhile, please hold him slightly tighter. And not that he'll be humoring you enough to believe a word, but tell him he's okay. Kiss his brow and dote on him. Invite him under the covers of your bed, the comfort of you and your pillows. He wants so much of you, but he doesn't know how to ask. Doesn't want to ask.
His mind's in a delicate place. Don't psychoanalyze, just be there. He'll come to you.
He can't deny that the thought of you is wonderful.
The idea of waking up together in a bed you share, in clothes you share, under a blanket you share, a nightstand matching yours—a happy ending he's starting to think he does deserve. I hope you're ready to never be let go of.
Your Soul sounds just like the echo flowers he used to pray to.
He's found the tune of your laughter to be a very wonderful thing, memorizing its pitch and matching it to a note from his flute.
Your smile and happiness now follow him on his more solo travels, his performances, the practices he plays in private—everywhere.
With your laugh pitch matched, it's become a staple in his music. Old songs rewritten to carry you, new ones made to subtly show you off.
Everyone he's played for has heard his adoration for you without realizing.
Your laugh spreading on the winds you're not breathing, decorating the halls he sings in, his audience having the highest pleasure to hear you. He may not stress over leaving his own mark on the multiverse, but he loves to leave your's.
When asked what inspires his song, he speaks your name with the fondest smile, a crinkle to his eye, his brow relaxed at the recollection of you. He's grateful to have found that the feeling of love hasn't left him. That he has someone else to cherish.
And alike showing you off to the multiverse through notes and performance, he's showing you the multiverse.
There's not a trembling aurora or exploding nebula or sea of flowers or golden valley or a ruby more brilliant than his eyes that you haven't seen. He wants you to witness it all, to experience such poetic wonders almost as lovely as you, to hold his hand and be guided through poppy fields.
And he'll never confess this, but he actively seeks out rain when taking you somewhere because he loves holding you flush to his side and under the protective cover of his held-high cape, shielding the both of you together. Bonus points if there's a coffee shop or something nice nearby to take shelter inside of with you. A warm drink, sat at a booth by the window, listening to the pellets of rain and your voice? That's a pretty good day for him.
He's beginning to run low on universes to sing for you in, but he'd never go short on songs about you and your likeness. You're his muse.
His Harmony most commonly takes your shape.
