Archive of Our Own ^beta

You’ve only ever seen her in passing, but when you do, you notice something new every time. Things like the tone of her voice improving in inflection as she talks with Lyria in the kitchen late at night when both of their… retainers, you could say, are looking all over the ship for them. Or when she walks by with Apollo trailing vigilantly behind her, her gait is less stiff, more light on her feet like a normal girl of her stature and age. Sometimes she laughs, and it’s a quiet little giggle, breathy and maybe a little unsure, but it’s laughter nonetheless. You’ve talked with Lyria about her, never really getting into the depth of her story, but from what you know so far about Orchid, Lyria thinks you’d make good friends.

Which is exactly why you’ve been avoiding her.

Lyria always, always knows how to push you out of your comfort zone, keep you from shutting everyone else out. She knows exactly the kind of people you have to meet, the stories you need to hear, to make you think twice about your self-imposed isolation. You’ve been getting better, you know you have, ever since speaking to Yggdrasil and becoming close friends with Zooey, but you don’t quite understand why she keeps pushing. Maybe on another day you’d be more ready to listen to her, but today has just been bad, the kind of day where you can feel the acute thorn of his absence in every lingering ray of light, and you really don’t have the patience for much more. Isn’t this enough? Haven’t you gotten far enough?

Apparently not. Because Lyria drags Orchid to the next coffee hour with the promise of coffee cake and maybe a brew that her inexperienced taste buds can tolerate, and when she sits Orchid down in front of you, you have to avert your eyes. There’s still something about her demeanor that stares into your soul like a particularly creepy doll. And her cat plushie is somehow very unsettling.

“Why,” Lyria pouts, looking between you and Orchid, gesturing frantically, “have you been avoiding her?”

Oh no, you think. Of course she would notice. Orchid blinks, her vacant stare becoming a little more alert. “Avoiding,” she asks, without a question mark, and Lyria clenches her little fists.

“He’s been darting out of the way every time you and Apollo come through! I don’t know what’s going on, but I think you two have to talk,” she insists. You press your index fingers to your temples, exasperated.

“Nonsense. I’m not avoiding her if we barely even know each other.”

“Lyria tells me about you,” Orchid says matter-of-factly, and you sigh.

“Of course she does. She tells everyone who might have something to say about it. And I’d quite like her to stop,” you say, shooting a glare at Lyria, who doesn’t falter or waver at all. She’s gotten used to it, apparently.

“I’m not going to stop! There are very important things you have to learn! You still shut yourself in your room for half the day, and there’s so much you’re missing out on, Sandalphon! Do you know just how many people want to get to know you better?”

“I don’t. And I don’t see why they would.”

“I do,” says Orchid, simply. You look at her, raising your eyebrow. Her face hasn’t really changed.

“And what do you know about me?”

Orchid’s gaze drifts up to the ceiling, then settles back onto you. “That you have a lot of friends, but you’re always making yourself feel alone.”

Oh, you’re done with this. It’s too early for this. You’ve had enough. You stand up, leaving your coffee cooling on the table, pushing in your chair a little more violently than you meant to. “I’m going back to my room. Don’t follow me, you two.”

You turn on your heel and march off, ready to cocoon yourself back in your blankets and either overthink or sleep for a while. You don’t look back, but you can hear that Lyria and Orchid haven’t followed you; they’re still sitting at the table, talking in low voices.

“See,” Orchid says to Lyria as you walk away. “I told you. I don’t think he likes me.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t like you, he’s just like that,” you hear Lyria say, sort of sadly, before you close the door. You’re tempted to turn back around and question her on it— like what? But what would Lyria even say if you did? How would she— how would anyone describe you when you’re shutting yourself off, fully aware that you might be self-sabotaging but not really caring either way?

You collapse face-down into your bed, kicking off your shoes and tugging the covers over your head. The lights in your room are still on, but you don’t have the energy to get up and turn them off; rather, you wrap yourself in your blankets, pulling them tight around you, and wonder how long you can stay under before you need to come up for breath. It’s a sort of self-soothing, as well as probably being a form of self-harm, but it’s comforting in the strangest of ways. Testing your limits; trying to figure out when it is that you will drown in your own lack of air.

You hear the clattering of plates in the kitchen, and sigh. Of course you’ve left everyone else to clean up your mess. You begin to think you’re much more like Lucifer than you originally thought. And not in the good ways.

You close your eyes. You try to ignore the struggling, hateful sound of your own breath. That’s all it’s ever been— hateful. Filled with hate for things that don’t even deserve it.

It’s only later, just before sunset, that you manage to drag yourself out of your room, emerging from your cocoon for fresh air and then immediately feeling lightheaded in the staleness of your own bed. You shrug on your casual clothes and slip your heels on and try to shrink your presence as small as possible as you leave. Thankfully, there’s no one in the kitchen, and you turn the corner sharply and ascend the stairs, putting extra effort into keeping your steps light and quiet, because it’s hard to walk across wooden decks in heels without getting attention.

There’s a place you go, when you can’t stand the darkness of your own room anymore but still need to be alone; a somewhat isolated area of the deck on the starboard side, hidden behind the captain’s cabin and surrounded by wooden banisters. It’s in the shade, and towards the back of the ship, so it’s usually one of the quieter places on the Grandcypher. When you come out into the light, the sun is dipping lower, and the sky has gained a gentle yellow glow. You can hear Lyria and Katalina further up the deck towards the bow, but there doesn’t seem to be any movement the further back you go. You let out a relieved sigh, slip around the raised cabin walls, and are prepared to sit down at the edge where the banisters open up when you see a small form where the open sky should be.

You freeze, but the sound of your heels have already given you away. You take a step back. Orchid turns around, gazing blankly at you. In her arms is her strange cat doll. Her mouth falls open in a very small O, and you’re about to turn on your heel and leave when you hear her voice, soft above the whistle of the wind.

“You can sit down with me.”

You’re tempted to refuse, but something in you pauses, tells you to come softly. You raise an eyebrow, then join her near the banister. “Why are you sitting here of all places?”

“It’s nice here,” she says, vaguely. You purse your lips.

“It’s out of the way. How did you find it?”

“Exploring the ship, like you. It’s a good place, when you want quiet.”

You’re almost expecting her to get up and leave, but she doesn’t. Neither of you show any signs of yielding, so you sigh and give in.

“Fine. You want quiet, and I want quiet, so we’ll just sit here quietly, three feet apart, and not speak at all,” you huff, sarcastically, crossing your arms.

“Okay.”

The sky, from here, is wide and beautiful as always. The lowering sun casts a succulent yellow light on everything, illuminating the dark wood, making it gleam almost red. It’s quiet, the way it always is when you sit here alone, looking out onto the voiceless islands drifting in the distance, lands that are changing and growing from so far away, whose bustle and noise you cannot hear. From here there is nothing but the whistle of the wind, a tune you can never get tired of; the sound of travel, of separation, of moving forward. The winds seem to be pushing back today, stubbornly, capriciously. You can hear the effort of the Grandcypher cutting through them, the resistance. It wouldn’t be an ideal day to go flying, really, but where would you go?

You squint into the light. The Grandcypher is flying high over Auguste; you can see the harsh reflections shimmering off the pools of water, so blinding it could burn. It’s been a while since the crew has been back there. The ship has admittedly been spending most of its time around Mephorash, where the sand gives off the same painful light that the water does; where it gets in your armor and your hair and your clothes, and especially your food. You hate it there. It’s much too hot, and it’s frozen in time in an uncanny sort of way, the way that makes you outright uncomfortable. But you know it’s Orchis’ home, and there’s been a lot going on lately with the Erste kingdom. You find yourself wondering how Orchid feels about that place. If it means the same to her as it does to Orchis. Or if it is just another vague world she has had to pass through.

She’s been silent for a while. Her presence is so small, so unobtrusive, but you still can’t forget she’s there; she’s occupying the silence in a way that feels wrong and painful. Is she really fine with this? With just this? What does she have to say, if anything, that she has to hold back for the sake of your own isolation? You feel your expression narrow, your face tensing up more by the second, until finally you can’t take it anymore, and you speak.

“Isn’t there anything you wanted to say?”

Orchid looks up at you, opens her mouth, and then closes it again, like she’s trying to form the words. Like she’s on eggshells with what she’s allowed to say. “You… wanted it to be quiet. So I let it be quiet.”

You nearly sigh in exasperation. “Even if you invited me over here to talk to me?”

“It’s okay. I was alone, anyway.” She blinks up at you. You notice she’s clutching tighter at her cat, as if comforting herself. “It’s better to be alone, together.”

The honesty in her words, in her voice, shocks you. Something in your core softens, loses its sharp edges. You’ve been entirely too harsh, and she’s so small, so accommodating, so lonely. Somehow, you feel like she knows more than you think she does, about being alone.

“I, ah. Shouldn’t have been so dismissive, back there.”

Orchid blinks. Then tilts her head slightly, like a confused puppy, as if she’s wondering why you’re apologizing. Well, apologizing is the wrong word; you can’t get your mouth to form the words I’m sorry. But it should do, for now. “Um,” she says. “It’s okay.”

You have a feeling that it’s not really okay, but you don’t pry.

“You seem sad,” she says. You raise an eyebrow.

“Why are you asking about me? You seem sad.”

“I’m not sad… I think,” she mumbles, then looks down at her cat plushie, squeezes its paw. “Maybe I am. I’m not sure.”

“Did you come here just to be alone?”

You catch her eye. She looks at you with a sort of vulnerability. Mostly lightless, still, but like an open door. “I like it here. So I came here. It’s lonely, though. I was just thinking I should go back, but then you came.”

“I’m not sure if my presence will make it any better,” you tell her. “If you didn’t want to be alone, you should go back with the others.” You’re not much of a comfort, you know. Some people would say you’re the one in need of comfort. And you can’t really be anything for anyone like this, not when you just want to be by yourself.

“It’s not as lonely if you’re here,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Even if we’re not talking?”

Orchid nods.

You don’t really get it, but you shrug. “All right.”

“What about you. Did you come here to be alone,” she asks. Her questions drop off into blank sentences, you’ve noticed. But you can still see the question, not only in the words, but in the eyes, or the movements.

“I did.”

“Why.”

You pause, not really sure how to answer that. Shouldn’t it be obvious? Everyone who knows you knows this about you. Even those who don’t have picked up on it. No one bothers you, save for those you’ve gotten close with, and you don’t bother anyone else. That’s the way it has always been, with you on this ship; a redeemed villain, still sharp-edged and possibly dangerous, worth steering clear of. And everyone around you, kind words, kind faces, but residual fear and resentment in their hearts— you’re sure of it. If Orchid doesn’t get it, she’s either oblivious, or too naive to be skeptical.

Or she doesn’t resent you in particular, something in you supplies unhelpfully, but you push that thought down. You can’t afford to get your hopes up.

“Because I like to be alone. And it’s better for everyone else if I am.”

Orchid stares at you, her face blank and expressionless, but her eyes sharp and staring, unsettling. Then she says, “I don’t think that’s true.”

Your brain stutters, and you feel mildly cold in the tips of your fingers, that strange dropping of the core. “What part of that isn’t true?”

“Both,” she answers. Her gaze is penetrating. She doesn’t blink. “I think you’re lying.”

The cold gets into your arms, then moves further in, and you know this feeling; it’s the chill of denial, of being faced with your own dishonesty. “What are you trying to say.”

“Lyria says she can tell you like having friends and I think so too.” Orchid says this like it’s the explanation to everything. “And I think everyone wants to know you better.”

“Nonsense,” you dismiss. “You wouldn’t understand. Everyone knows it’s in their best interest not to pursue me. I’ve done unforgivable things. No one wants to be close to someone who nearly destroyed everything they loved.”

“Lyria smiles at you all the time and you never smile back,” is all Orchid has to say to that.

“Lyria smiles at everyone, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, she doesn’t… She smiles at good people.”

You think about the times you’ve seen Lyria angry. Her little determined face, the clench of her fists, the kindness in her eyes shifting to righteous rebellion. Whenever that smile disappears, it’s always and only ever because something is threatening her friends. But you’ve seen that directed at you, when you were on the verge of ruining everything— and also when you refused to leave that cocoon, that idyllic prison Lucifer had made for you. You saw that, then, too. Was it because she still thought you were a bad person? Was it because Lucifer was in danger?

Or was it because you were only hurting yourself by staying?

The sun is falling faster now, casting a strange purple glow over the rest of the sky, illuminating the tufts of cirrus clouds from underneath. You think about this sky, this realm Lucifer loved so much, and you imagine it gone. Every island fallen to ruin. Everything sinking beneath the horizon. How far you had been pushed, to want that. The dark flame in you that consumed every remaining scrap of kindness, of innocence. Just thinking of that has you denying any possibility of forgiveness.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand, you’re a child. What am I saying,” you mutter.

“You’re wrong. I’m not a child... I’m not even human.” She’s looking down, clinging to her doll, and you feel a pang. “I was never meant to be alive at all… but I was given a chance anyway. I’m grateful for that.”

(Somewhere behind her words, you can hear your own voice crying out from two thousand years away.

(I just want to be useful to you.)
(...Then just what is the meaning of my existence?!)

It’s a voice wrenched with so much pain, that you can barely recognize as your own.

(Why… why was I even born?)
(...Why won’t you let me die?)

But it’s still yours.

(No one is coming to retrieve the sacrificial pawn lying discarded by the board!)
(That’s all I am! It’s all I was made to be!)

Oh, it’s still yours. And it still aches.)

“It’s not just Lyria. Everyone thinks you’re a good person.” Orchid rests her chin on the doll’s top hat. You fall back into body, into hearing again. “You don’t have to listen to me though… but you should ask the captain. Or Zooey.”

You bristle at the mention of Zooey’s name, but only because you know she’s right. “The opinions of two people don’t reflect the majority. The rest of them… avoid me for good reason. As they should.”

“No they don’t. You avoid them,” Orchid says, deadpan. “You think too much. You have lots of friends… but you still act like you’re alone. Why?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“What if it is.”

Again, the question ends like a statement— but this one feels much less like a question. More of a point, of an observation. Or something much more solid than even that. What if it is that simple? What if she can see something you can’t?

You know you have a few friends. The captain, Lyria, Zooey. Yggdrasil, though you don’t get to see her often. But everyone? You’ve never felt like a part of the crew. Only a temporary ally, a temporary arrangement. But Orchid brings up a question you’ve never considered. What if they’ve always considered you one of them, and you just never knew? That they come to coffee hour not just because they need the pick-me-up, but because they like being in your company, no matter how standoffish you can get, no matter your lack of conversation skills?

Two thousand years, and you still can’t see what’s so obvious to everyone else. You want to fight it, to offer a rebuttal like you always do, to push away the growth because you’re so used to this pain, this feeling of loneliness, but Orchid looks up at you with a question in her eyes, like she’s waiting for you to accept a gift she’s given you from the bottom of her heart.

“Maybe.”

Your voice cracks on the word. The admission. Orchid’s face visibly softens, in what looks like relief, that some part of you has accepted it.

“It isn’t good to keep running away from everyone. You shouldn’t make it worse for yourself by being alone.” There’s a sternness, a determination to her voice, like she’s entirely aware this is unsolicited advice but wants you to know this anyway. “When you’re lost, you should let the people that love you guide you. That’s what I think.”

You look away from her, out onto the horizon again, trying to escape whatever doubts are starting to encroach upon you. Who are the people that love me? Do I really have anyone like that? You know that if you asked anyone else, you would get a few answers, but the word love feels… too strong for you, too great for you to deserve.

If there was anyone that loved me, they’re gone by now.

Orchid’s hand is small when it grips your sleeve, tugging on it. You turn to her, puzzled. “What are you doing.”

“You seemed like… you wanted to be comforted,” she says, softly. “That’s what friends do when you’re sad. It’s what Lyria and Apollo do for me.”

You want to say, we’re not friends, but even that is doubtful, suddenly.

“I think that… I’m not very good… at comforting people.” Her words come in short phrases, carefully chosen, simple and clear. “But you must be friends with the captain, and Lyria, so. I want to help you, when you’re sad.”

“I’m—” You stop yourself. Of course you’re friends with them. Saying otherwise would be putting down their own feelings. “But why?”

She looks at you with eyes that could be all the answers you’ll ever need.

How long has she been alone, until now? Like Lyria, a tool of war— unlike Lyria, never quite rescued, always stared past by her own guardian, the only person that ever cared about her still looking for traces of a girl she could never become, searching for a way to bring back a girl that wasn’t her.

Wanting to be recognized. Wanting to be loved, as her own person. Longing for the gaze of someone who is always looking past you, through you. The arrow that crushed your ribcage and pierced your heart is the same.

You suddenly want to cry.

And then a bang echoes from somewhere in the lower floors, and the Grandcypher shakes, sways in midair, and both you and Orchid are thrown violently to the edge.

She doesn’t even cry out, or vocalize her surprise; all you hear is a small, interrupted “ah” before she goes hurtling towards the gap in the banister and you’re not thinking, you can’t think, you can see her little hand scrabbling at the edge of the deck and her terrified, desperate eyes just above the lip of the wood and you lunge forward faster than your brain can follow and it’s impossible to pull her up from this distance so you—

are both falling, losing contact with the side of the ship, losing altitude fast. And she’s in your arms and you can feel her shaking and you strain upwards and you were only going to use your own wings but then it’s all a flood of light. Orchid makes a startled noise, maybe awe, against your chest as Lucifer’s wings catch the wind.

There’s so much more there to spread and slow the fall, so much more surface area to keep you and Orchid from losing any more height. They’re better for drifting, too, and now that you’ve gotten the hang of using them in the air, it’s much easier to push yourself upwards even with Orchid’s added weight in your arms. All things considered, the Grandcypher doesn’t move that fast, especially since there’s a headwind, and you didn’t fall too far; you make it back up to the deck, needing to tuck your wings in once you’re on stable ground, because they’re too big to get through the gap in the banisters. They vanish when you fold them close to your body, and you take a good ten steps away from the edge before finally setting Orchid down. Her legs shake and give out— you immediately move her to somewhere she can sit. She blinks, stunned, and then looks down at her hands— empty. It takes you a moment to realize what’s missing.

She looks up at you, the residual fear leaving her eyes, but there’s a sadness in her expression you don’t miss. “Thank you,” she says, her voice trembling still, and you see her clutch the lap of her dress.

“I have to. Go to the restroom,” is all you can think to say before you take off running towards port, darting behind the walls of the cabin to make sure Orchid doesn’t see you before you vault the banister, six wings bursting from your back and unfolding behind you as you throw yourself off the edge.

You have to wonder why you’re doing this, as you tuck in each pair and propel yourself downwards, slicing through air currents and trade winds, your body straight and true as an arrow. You spread your wings wide to catch yourself, scour the airspace below you for any sign of the doll, and catch sight of something roundish a few hundred meters below you. It might just be a bird. But you’re suddenly glad that the ship was just passing over Auguste, and that the scenery straight below you is dry land and not an ocean puddle, because if it isn’t a bird and you can’t get there in time, it’ll probably land somewhere you can find it.

You focus on the wish, on the goal and the feeling behind it— she looked so sad, that cat probably means so much to her, she held it close to her throughout her journey and it must have been the only thing grounding her sometimes. You wonder what it would have been like for you if you had a comfort object, back then. It might have been childish, it might still be childish. The only thing you can think of is the two feathers in your inner hoodie pocket, one a pure, unsullied white, the other as blue as the sky you’ve come to love in its twilight hours. You think of losing those. A shudder of energy flutters through your wings, and you can see those closest to you on either side of your head gain a sheen of prismatic light, the gleam of scattered photons and manifest power passing through each pair. The shape of the shadow falling becomes closer. It’s definitely not a bird. You feel yourself pulled through a thread of space, faster than you can process, and you nearly crash directly into it, throwing your arms and your wings out just in time to catch it.

The cat looks untouched, mostly, though its fuzz is ruffled by wind and you think it’s missing something. You try to recall what it looked like when Orchid was holding it, and you remember Orchid tucking it closer to her chest and pressing her chin against… not its head. Oh. Its hat is gone. Well, you don’t think Orchid would mind, as long as it’s safe and sound.

The Grandcypher is high above you. But you’re getting used to these wings, the power they can hold, the way you barely need a wind to push yourself anywhere. You think you might have somehow… teleported the last stretch, which you didn’t know was possible. You’re not sure if you can figure out how to do it again on command so soon, so you just make the climb diagonally up, letting the aura of power that ripples through the feathers propel you forward, create winds that don’t exist upon which to glide upwards.

There’s someone waiting for you up there, after all.

And she probably thinks you’re taking too long in the bathroom.

You land quietly on the deck, drifting down until your toes touch the floor and silencing the sound of your heels hitting the wood. You’re safe for now; no one is on port to see what you’ve done, and you have an image to uphold. You go around the cabin, down the steps, and find Orchid sitting where you left her. She hasn’t moved an inch, still staring down at her empty lap. It’s only the sound of your footsteps right in front of her that alert her to your presence, and she raises her head to see you standing there, holding the cat out to her.

She freezes. Her gaze goes wide, and you see her mouth open, exhaling a little breath. She takes the doll from your hands, then hugs it close, still looking at you like she can’t believe what’s happening. Her bottom eyelids twitch upwards, and a strange light catches in her eyes, and you watch as they fill with tears.

You’ve never seen her cry before. Her little mouth spreads into a quiet, bashful smile, and when she blinks, the tears spill over; for a moment, she looks confused, then brings her hand to her face and rubs at her eye with the side of her wrist. You watch the realization cross her face. She doesn’t say anything, though, just pulls the plushie closer up so that half her face is hidden beneath it. She’s still looking at you, wide-eyed and tearful, the curve of her eyelids showing the smile that she’s hiding, and you recognize the expression— gratitude.

“...You got him back for me? You don’t hate me…?”

Orchid’s voice is so small you barely hear it over the wind. Your immediate impulse is to fire back sharply, to tell her don’t be stupid why would you think that— but you realize exactly why she would think that, and you suppress the first urge in favor of a second urge to lean over and pat her head.

This surprises you.

This, apparently, surprises her even further, and she blinks confusedly before her eyes float up to where your hand is on her head. “Did I do something…?”

You think about Lucifer. How you never saw him cry. The only variation of expression he ever had was the softest of smiles, and only with you, over coffee. Like a doll in his own right, he never truly felt, never experienced this the way you did and still do. Seeing Orchid cry, seeing her smile— it fulfills a part of you that only ever wanted to see Lucifer feel something, and show it. A piece from a separate puzzle, out of place, but still fitting perfectly into the shape of what is left behind.

“I was just thinking… it’s good that you’re able to cry like this. That you can experience emotions that strongly. That… you can love something so much that you cry for it, when it returns to you.”

Orchid lowers the cat to her lap, revealing the bottom half of her face. Her mouth is tilted in a question. “I was thinking that, too. I’ve never cried before.”

“It’s a good thing. It means you can feel.” You let your hand drift down the side of her hair, then pat her shoulder, a little awkwardly. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit in that spot anymore. Who knows what would have happened if you were alone.”

She nods, nuzzling her chin into the cat’s head; then she finally notices the obvious difference in its attire. “Oh. His hat is gone.”

“It must have fallen off. You can get a new one.”

“No. I like him this way. I can pet his head now.” She holds the doll out to you. “You should pet his head, too.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“Because he wants you to.” Orchid’s voice is stubborn. You can almost see a pout, in the furrow of her brows, in the soft protrusion of her bottom lip.

“All right, fine,” you acquiesce, and ruffle the cat’s forehead, fluffing up the fabric. It stares at you with its blank, beady eyes. “Don’t you ever think its eyes are a little weird looking?”

“His name is Mr. Marmalade and he’s not weird,” Orchid states matter-of-factly, her blank stare looking too close to a glare for comfort. You sigh, a soft smile on your lips.

“Well, if you say so.” The sun is starting to disappear entirely now, and a chill has settled into the air; that melting yellow light is gone, and so is the purple hue, and now dusk has come, wrapping up what is left of the day in dark arms. “Let’s go inside. I’m sure Apollo has been worried about you.”

“Oh… I made Apollo worry,” Orchid says, a little sadly. You lead her around to the staircase and descend down into the lower quarters, the warm light of the kitchen some sort of welcome. Lyria is already there, sitting at the kitchen table with Katalina, Io, Eugen, and Gran whose head is currently being occupied by Vyrn. Said Apollo is bustling around the kitchen, pointedly ignoring Eugen’s attempts to start conversation and help her with the cleaning. When Lyria sees you and Orchid, she immediately comes to greet you both, her chair scraping against the wooden floor when she pushes it back.

“Orchid! Sandalphon! We’ve been looking for you two, where have you been?” Lyria looks between you and Orchid, and then notices the lack of a hat on Orchid’s doll. “Mr. Marmalade! He lost his hat… what happened?”

Don’t you dare tell her don’t tell her don’t tell her please—

“He fell off the ship and Sandalphon flew down to get him.”

Augh.

Lyria and Gran both turn to you, eyes sparkling with that tearful, you’re the purest thing alive sort of look that means they’re making preparations to ambush-hug you in the span of the next five minutes. Eugen lets out a loud, hearty laugh and claps you on the back. Katalina smiles knowingly at Apollo, who rolls her eyes to hide the traces of a smile on her face. Io bangs her fists on the table frustratedly, for reasons you can’t really deduce.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that, what was I supposed to do? It’s obviously important to her. I couldn’t just let her be sad about it.”

This just makes it worse, apparently. Lyria makes a wobbly little “hawawa” sound, and Gran looks even more endeared.

“We’re friends now,” Orchid announces definitively to the rest of the group. You let your arms fall to your sides, resigned, and shrug.

“Yes, yes. Who wants coffee.”

Every hand at the table goes up. Orchid tugs on your sleeve. “Can I try some.”

“It’s late. All of you are getting decaf,” you tell the group, to a dissonant chorus of various reactions ranging from cheers (Lyria, Eugen, Io) to disappointed sighs at the lack of caffeine (Gran and Katalina) to absolutely nothing at all (Apollo, who looks exhausted and seems entirely unenthusiastic at the prospect of having to clean up the dishes produced.) You turn to Orchid, and tell her, “You can have a sip, but you won’t like it.”

“Okay. Apollo makes me hot cocoa sometimes.”

“Well, we can try that.” You say this, and then realize you’ve never actually made hot cocoa before. “Though I think I’ll need the recipe from her, if I’m—”

You don’t finish your sentence before Orchid’s already wandering away to Apollo’s side and pulling at her shirt. You watch them talk, how Apollo’s usually stern expression softens, how Orchid is smiling, just a little, her small hand still hanging onto a fistful of fabric, like she’s not quite ready to let go yet. You see Apollo move over to a cabinet and grab the box of cocoa powder and the sugar bowl, pulling out another saucepan barely even dried from the dish rack without a second complaint. It seems you’ve narrowly avoided a crash course in hot cocoa preparation, which is not your forte. For now.

You shrug and begin to head back over to the counter to prepare everyone else’s coffee, when something small and warm launches into you from behind, thin arms locking around your ribs. They’re Lyria’s, from the look of the strange golden gauntlets encircling her wrists. She hums happily into your back where she’s got her head pressed.

“Hmhm~ Got you!”

“Ugh. Won’t you at least let me put the coffee on before you ambush me?” You try to take a step forward. All this accomplishes is dragging Lyria, who has apparently decided to forget that she has legs, a few steps across the floor behind you. “Please. If you want coffee, you need to use your legs.”

“Don’t want to,” she singsongs. You shuffle, strained and awkward, around the table with Lyria dragging behind. Desperate, you attempt to give Katalina a Look, but your hopes of rescue are dashed when she just smiles and winks at you.

“If there’s anything you want to tell me, tell me now,” you sigh at Lyria.

“You did something really kind today, Sandalphon,” Lyria says against your back, without missing a beat. You begin to think her ambush was just an excuse to tell you this without making it a big deal in front of everyone. “I really wish I could make you believe how much we all care about you.”

You look down, at where Lyria’s hands are clasped in front of you, and pull one of your arms out from her hold to gently pat them. “I… I did what was right,” you say. “And I’m trying. I really am.”

Lyria hums in response, then rocks back and forth from one foot to the other, singing some sort of ditty. “Hehe. I’m glad,” she chirrups, then detaches from you and runs back to her chair, only to find it occupied by a certain peacemaker. “Zooey!”

You admittedly can’t help how your head snaps up when Zooey’s name is called, and it does make you want to hide, but you hadn’t noticed her come in. When you catch her eye across the room, Zooey waves cheerfully at you, and you raise a hand in greeting. She’s stolen Lyria’s chair, and now her dragons occupy half the table. This isn’t going to be pretty.

“When did you get here?” you ask Zooey, rounding the corner and scooting between the table and the kitchen counter. She shrugs.

“I heard a commotion, so I came here.” She grabs your wrist as you turn back towards the counter, looking up at you curiously. “Are you going to make coffee for me too?”

“Why wouldn’t I,” you say, rolling your eyes, as if it’s not even a question. Orchid and Apollo are working together at the stove; Apollo is letting Orchid stand on her feet to reach the saucepan so she can stir together the milk and chocolate chips. It looks precarious, to say the least. “Don’t let Dyrn and Lyrn into the kitchen. It could be a disaster.”

Zooey gives you a thumbs up, as if to say “roger that,” and you stand next to the pair to put the kettle on. Orchid looks up at you, her eyes soft, blinking, before she smiles.

“Now all your friends are here,” she says. “I think there will be more, soon.”

“Mm. That’s a lot of friends for one person,” you reply, getting the coffee filters out from the drawer next to you.

“You can never have too many friends,” Orchid muses, “not after you’ve been alone for a long time.”

The chocolate in the saucepan begins to bubble. The kitchen is warm with the smells of coffee and cocoa, the steam rising off boiling water; the gentle yellow light of the lamps against the dark wood paneled walls; the sound of clattering saucers, and conversation, and company. You mark this moment, engrave it in your core as an example; you know you will forget, in the depths of your grief and hate, how much you have needed this. How much solace it brings you after a lifetime of cold and silent walls, both alone and surrounded by those that would only use you.

Maybe you don’t deserve this, yet. But this feels good, and right, and kind. This is what being a person is about, you think. Finding things and places and people that bring light and warmth to your heart. And if that makes you selfish, if that is defying the gods, or justice, or the will of the world, then so be it. Let them come with their spears, and their fire, and their attempts at judgment. You won’t let them take this away; this will be what you fight for. This will be what you remember.