Chapter Text
His heartbeat is deafening, and every nerve in Will's body seems to have been set on fire. He watches as Grius runs towards the man who had just dared to call himself the rightful ruler of Euchronia, a man bold enough to say he, and he alone, deserved to do so.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How dare he...?
He can do nothing but watch as Grius is but a hair's breadth away from killing the madman, only to be thwarted as chains wrap around his limbs, rendering his body immobilized. A cruel, yet comforting (...?) smile painting Louis' lips.
"See now, how your loyalty has been rewarded."
Gallica screams as Strohl starts running without any regard for his own life. It doesn’t take long for Will's own feet to take him towards the stage, following his friends blindly.
However, as they approach Grius, something seems to stop him dead on his tracks. A steely aquamarine gaze meets the chaotic mix of his own irises—eyes widening as if in recognition. Like a wretched, twisted mirror of what must surely be his own expression.
He can feel himself breaking into pieces, for reasons that he can't even begin to fathom. Every little nerve in his body flares, even as he is frozen still and unable to move, afraid to betray how he might just fall apart then and there.
Why?
The expression of bewilderment that the madman wears twists and shifts into one of a wretched sort of amusement, the image sending a sharp feeling of dread into Will's heart.
It seems as if Louis has finally had enough with his gawking, however— turning his back on him and all the rest as if they were but vermin that he could easily crush under his heel. It might not be too far from the truth.
His head spins, and none of it makes any sense. He’s sure that Gallica is calling out to him, but he suddenly feels as if he was underwater, drowning, sinking into the depths. The whole world feels as if it has slowed to a crawl.
It doesn't make any sense at all.
The rays of sunlight peek through the leaves of the trees, its shadows cast on their skin as if they were part of a mosaic. His fingers intertwine with the other boy’s own hands, feeling comfort in how his hands seem to envelop his own smaller ones— his cheeks growing warm even as he stares at him with a blank expression.
“...I want to tell you something. Promise you won’t get mad, okay?”
A nod. The boy liked to humor him with his requests, even though he shouldn’t be doing so.
“I feel weird whenever I see you. like when I see you smile, or when you hold my hands like this… so I was thinking, I…”
He takes a deep breath, his face red as a tomato. He’s nervous, in honest. But he wants him to know, more than anything—
“I think I’m in love with you, _____.”
Aquamarine Silvery grey eyes widen in response. The other boy just stares at him for a few moments, as if in utter disbelief. W
as it too much? Oh, no. He ruined it, didn’t he?
“I— it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, though!! or— or if you need time to think, or… I…”
“No. it’s not that— I just…”
He sighs. Was he blushing…? So maybe—?
“Give me a while. I promise I will give you an answer, but I just need more time.”
“Ah— okay…! I’ll wait for you! As long as it takes!”
Will wakes up in a cold sweat, as seems routine for him nowadays. Gallica is fast asleep on their shared pillow, and he can hear Strohl snoring from the other bed.
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s been crying.
He wonders if fate was playing with the two of them. They never really had a chance to talk about it again as thorned vines began to constrict his beloved's entire body, taking him from Will's arms not long after. The only person he’s ever loved, yet—he was never really able to hear an answer back. It wasn't fair. It still isn't.
(But… that doesn’t feel quite right. It feels as if he’s missing something. It bothers him more than anything else.
…Not that he should spend too much time mulling over it.)
He wipes away his tears, sniffling to himself— though taking care not to make too much noise. Gallica worries about him too much already, really. And with losing Grius— with everything that had happened, he knew that she needed to rest, despite her insisting otherwise. She doesn’t need to carry any more of his burdens.
His thoughts have been too much of a mess, lately. He reaches for the book he keeps beside him, something he treasures more than anything else in the world— wanting nothing more than a distraction.
A crumpled up, folded piece of paper falls off of the margins as he opens the book—a flyer from a zealous protestor that was doing a demonstration outside of the cathedral, gleefully handed over to him with a cheeky remark about how he ‘would be welcomed with open arms’ in spite of his identity. Gallica had scoffed, taking offense at the very notion that Will had needed anyone else's approval– and then crushed the flyer with all her might. Though she hadn’t been able to do any lasting damage.
In honesty, he isn’t sure why he kept it at all. He stares at the image printed on the paper, the imposing figure of an elegant clemar man taking up the entirety of the poster. That same feeling of longing dread that he had felt during the funeral flares up once more—his fingers tracing the lines that make up the image’s face, as if trying to make sense of whatever it is that he seems to be feeling.
As if he was trying to remember.
It’s almost nighttime, now. Neither of them are supposed to be outside, and he’s sure that he’ll get a scolding once the two of them are found out.
The setting sun’s rays paint the blond grey hues of his hair a pretty amber color. He smiles at the other boy as he dares to come even closer, just to brush a stray lock away from his face.
(And he could swear that he was blushing, too.)
There’s an uncertainty that he feels. As if time was running out— not that he can really explain why he feels this way. Even as he tries to convince himself to shake it off, the feeling persists.
“Hey, _____. Can you promise me something?”
The boy nods silently, as he always does. If he’s certain about one thing, it’s that he’d always follow along for his foolishness.
(And that’s just one of the many, many reasons why he fell for him.)
“Can you promise not to forget me? If something happens to—”
“Nothing will happen to you.”
Oh. He’s made him upset. He can tell by how his brows furrow, creasing— an unusual display of emotion, from him. Still, he needs to get this off of his chest, before…
“No, I just… just promise me, okay? Promise that you won’t forget.”
He can sense the hesitation in his eyes. Was it fear, or an outright refusal to consider the possibility of everything falling apart? He lets out a sigh, his head leaning onto his chest—counting the beats of his erratic heart as the last of the sun’s light is snuffed out, the dark swallowing the two of them until they were both out of sight. As if no one can find them here, if they just stay like this.
(How dearly he wishes it were the case.)
“...I won’t forget.”