Chapter Text
“Are you sure I needn’t cover up my curse mark?” Fern asks, grazing their cheek with careful fingers as he looks away, tracing the pavement with their gaze.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Arcade tells him, “unless you’re uncomfortable, of course. Sorry that I couldn’t get Sonya to come over on such a short notice, but I think she’s really busy, and really, it’s not all that bad to have a Mark on your face, not in modern society, anyway, and—“
“Alright, Arcade, I get it.” In a huff, Fern blew away his bangs, glancing back at Arcade with dark eyes. “It’s fine if you say it’s fine.”
“Really? You don’t—I don’t know, mind—”
“Arcade.” Fern holds his gaze. “It’s fine.”
“...alright.” Arcade looks away, worrying his lip. They walk in silence together for a moment longer, before—slow, hesitant—he speaks once more. “Is everything comfortable? The beanie, the jacket? I just… want to make sure you’re okay with this.”
Fern, at this, shifts—softens. “You ought not to worry yourself so. It’s fine. This is nice.” He lets their hand fall from where it had been worrying at his mark, and they look up at Arcade under long lashes, no longer obstructing themself. “I’m glad we can do things together, now.”
“That’s good. I’m glad. I—me, too.” He runs his hand through his hair, tilts his head back, thinks of the feathery clouds above. “In that case… let’s go out and try a bit of everything, yeah? Want to go grab some boba?”
Fern blinks at him. “I haven’t a clue what that is.”
“Oh, you’re going to like this.”
—
“What flavor do you want?” Arcade asks. “There’s all sorts. Any sort of fruit or tea—any human sort, anyway—and they’ll probably have it here.”
Fern squints up at the menu above their heads, furrowing his brow. He mouths the words, slow, as they trace their gaze across the colorful pictures. Then he stills. “This shop doesn’t offer anything like the teas I used to have, back in Frenatae.”
“Well,” Arcade says, “I guess we’ll both be trying new things today. Usually I order the same drink every time, but—I don’t know. Something about you being here makes me feel brave.” He smiles, then, a soft and fluttery thing, and it’s enough to make Fern turn away, blushing a furious green.
“I see,” Fern mutters, tugging and twisting at a strand of hair with pale fingers (and Arcade’s breath hitches at the sight of warm chestnut, stark against green). “Right, then. I’d be glad to try whatever you recommend.”
“‘Course,” Arcade tells him, already ordering for the two of them. He nods politely at the cashier, before taking Fern by the hand and pulling them aside to wait.
Fern’s gone quiet again, so Arcade fills the silence with words enough for two, following their gaze all the while. “It’s a pretty good drink, really! I hope you like it, but—”
That’s when he realizes.
Fern’s been looking at their fingers, interlocked together (and it feels so natural, as if they’d simply grown that way. As if that was how it was always meant to be).
His palm’s sweating, he knows it.
(Not to mention that he has no business getting close to anyone like this. Sure, Marks can develop late from time to time, but Arcade’s already 17. It’s already too late. He can’t—they can’t—)
Fern’s the first to pull away. “That sounds nice,” he says, soft (like moss, like silk, like sunsets at home so far away).
“Yeah,” Arcade whispers, quiet. Too quiet. He coughs, tries again—
“Oi, lover boy,” the cashier deadpans up front, and he spins around in a hurry to face her. “Drinks for two?”
He takes them from her with clammy hands, murmuring his thanks as he pulls away. “Hey,” she says, and he glances back. “Have fun on your date, yeah? You really lucked out with that one, over there.”
Some vague part of him registers that she’s nodding at Fern, who’s waiting for him by the door, blinking at promotional posters, nose wrinkled and eyes wide, and he stammers, “Oh! They’re not—we’re not—“
“That’s a shame,” she shrugs. “If I were you? I’d go for it.”
He fumbles with the drinks (icy and slippery as they are, he thinks). “Right,” he says. “Well. Thank you.”
He turns away once more, cheeks burning, but this time, Fern’s looking straight back at him. Arcade feels a bit like a newborn fawn at the moment, awkwardly holding boba in both hands and letting the condensation drip down, down—
Little beads of water have tracked almost to his wrists before he notes that Fern’s laughing at him.
Well, not really laughing, not the cackle Arcade’s mom lets out, warm in its brightness and volume, but it’s something light all the same. He’s trying to hide it, biting back their smile as though they think Arcade hasn’t noticed, but that only makes it all the more obvious.
He sounds like a melody.
(Fine, Arcade thinks, maybe the cashier was onto something.)
“Hey,” he says, passing over the milk tea, “who do you think you’re making fun of?”
“Oh,” Fern says, taking it while looking all too pleased with themself, “no one who didn’t deserve it.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, holding the door open for them to pass through, giving them the biggest stink eye he can muster (which isn’t all that impressive, given that he’s currently a human doorstop clutching to his drink for dear life).
“You simply looked a fool juggling the drinks up there.” Fern grins at him then, sharp-toothed and proud. “It’s funny, watching you struggle for me.”
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty,” Arcade says, but he laughs all the same.
“You’d best believe it, bug boy.”