Chapter Text
The Grandcypher lands in Auguste at midday, when the sun is a high beacon directly above the mast, and the sails flutter with a wind that isn’t of the high sky, but smells of salt and sand. You’ve been awake for a while; the kitchen was bustling early this morning, and it was the sound of cheering and then the shattering of something porcelain that had you stumbling out of bed, eyebags and all, to check if someone had broken one of your coffee cups. Fortunately, this was not the case. Unfortunately, Rackam had noticed you and had coerced you into helping clean it up before you could escape.
The entire ship is running on a lively, nervous energy, the likes of which you’ve only seen before in preparations for the monthly Guild Wars. The Singularity is somewhere between names and genders, their hair the scraggly brown mess that usually means Gran, he, his but with the casual pink and white blouse dress and hairband that means Djeeta, she, her. Upon greeting them you default to Singularity, the term you’ve mostly used to keep your distance despite their insistence, before interrupting yourself and then outright stammering when you can’t figure out which name to use. They don’t seem to know either. You shrug and call them Captain instead. They seem satisfied with this.
When you emerge from the lower floors and meet Lyria on the deck, you notice you’re on course to Auguste, its huge pools of clear blue water and spires of white chalky rock glimmering below you. “We’re going to the beach!” she cheers, then does a barefoot sort of twirling dance around the deck with Vyrn, who seems a little less excited about being flung around in midair like some sort of stuffed animal. “Captain told me the water team and the earth team have something really important to do, but the rest of us are on vacation!”
“Vacation?” You raise an eyebrow. “That doesn’t really sound like them at all.”
“Well, I don’t really get it either, but they said that there’s a strong primal beast that has changed form, and that only the water teams should fight it. So the rest of us can relax! Of course, I have to go too, so I’ll tell you all about it when we come back.”
“Hm.” You don’t really know what to think. The prospect of vacation is a little unfamiliar— maybe a little intimidating. It feels childish and unnecessary; there’s so much else you could be doing, so many people you need to protect. But taking a well-earned break could be nice. And you know someone who deserves a vacation more than anyone else right now.
“You should go to the beach! Auguste’s really well known for its beaches. It’s the only place in Phantagrande that has an ocean, so it’s a really special experience.” Lyria grabs your arm and tugs on it. You give her a look, but you’ve learned by now not to shake her off. “Ohhh, I’m so jealous already... Maybe once we’re done with all the battles, everyone can meet up and have a beach day together!”
You shudder to imagine it. “No thanks. I’d much rather go alone. A crowded beach wouldn’t be much of a vacation for me at all.”
“Well, then... maybe you can take someone else with you? Just one person? Vacations are more fun with more people!”
And this is how you and Zooey end up stranded on Auguste with reservations at an oceanside resort for an indeterminate amount of time. You have one room, two single beds, one suitcase worth of clothes, and two very mischievous dragons. You’re not sure this is going to go well.
The first night is the worst. Adjusting to sleeping in a new place still brings you anxiety, and you know it’s definitely something left over from your time in the labs or in Pandemonium, you’re not sure which. But when you’re under an unfamiliar ceiling, you’re always skittish, sleepless and prone to nightmares when you do sleep. You don’t think Zooey knows this about you, unfortunately, and you don’t get the opportunity to tell her; the moment she settles into her bed and turns out the light, she’s out before you can even tell her a proper good night.
You toss and turn. You wonder what you’re going to do tomorrow. You wonder about all the things that could go wrong tomorrow, or even tonight. You feel the shivering fear creeping into the corners of your vision, faster than you can stop it, and you curl into yourself, and every time you close your eyes you have to open them again, lest images of blood and stone and Lucifer’s head in your hands flood your lack of vision. There’s a small nightlight in the corner of your room. You focus on that.
Dyrn and Lyrn are curled up at the foot of Zooey’s bed, one draped onto the other, both snuffling in some sort of tiny dragon-snore. The noise keeps you awake, but it’s less annoying than it is constant, soothing almost, like the purr of a cat, or a lover’s breathing beside you. Zooey doesn’t move. You close your eyes, trying to focus on the sound, but your skin prickles with restlessness, and you turn over again. You bury your face into the pillow, frustrated, and groan quietly to interrupt your own thoughts.
A soft trill from Zooey’s bed snaps you back into reality, and you raise your head, freeing up one ear. The sound of little nails scraping against sheets, and then one of the dragons sniffs a gentle breath of flame, lighting the room for a moment. It hops around the bed for a few seconds; Zooey doesn’t seem to wake, so the dragon, evidently a bit more courageous, flaps its wings and leaps across to your bed, landing in a pile against your leg under the covers.
“What do you think you’re doing,” you say, under your breath. The dragon— Lyrn, from the ribbon tied in a neat bow onto its tail— makes a gentle trill, and ventures like a wary cat further up until it reaches your pillow. Then it curls up next to your head, snuffling a soft whistle of a breath. You extract your hand from under the covers and search for its head in hopes of petting; it nips at you playfully when you prod its little mouth instead, and you bop it gently on the nose, scolding, before you search out its forehead and stroke between the horns with one finger. Its scales are cool and smooth to the touch; it huffs happily and butts its head further into your hand.
“Cute,” you say, warmly. Lyrn chirrups, then rolls over onto its back like a particularly trusting cat. It stays there, pressing its head against your hand, and you keep petting it, running your thumb over its stubby little horns and scritching under its chin every so often. You know Zooey’s dragons are technically a part of her, a manifestation of her power, and it makes sense that they’d be able to sense your distress and want to comfort you when Zooey is unable to do so. Lyrn’s dragon-purring soothes you. Having it curled up next to you is a comfort not unlike having Zooey herself there. The same energy, the same shade of blue.
You manage sleep eventually, Lyrn still purring in your ear.
But it does not treat you well.
In dreams you are in the garden. The hidden sanctuary behind the white walls, the only place you can ever be safe. You dream of this place often. Sometimes they are kind; sometimes this is a miniature world, shrunk to the size of a jewelry box, a place where reality disappears and you can be with him once again. But other times (most times) this is a nightmare, lock and key, and you open the box to find jaws that could tear you apart, and you lose all hope of being swallowed whole.
In the garden today is hell. Whatever you fell towards, then: that is what this is. You sit in a chair that feels like hot iron. The foliage twists and snarls into eyes and teeth and masses of snakes, making horrific rattling sounds, rustling and skittering and moving in patterns and motions that make you wince, shiver, close your eyes. Across the table from you is a headless body. The coffee in your cup has an oily rainbow sheen, and its surface is trembling. You can’t speak. Your body is frozen. There is a shaking coming up from the deepest parts of the ground. It is ripping through the island, it is splitting the stone and shearing the once-perfect garden in two. An apple falls from a tree overhead, and lands on the severed neck, twists itself into place as a head, but it isn’t Lucifer. The Astral—
Sandalphon is useless.
— stares at you with vague amusement. He reaches across the table, lifting your chin with his index finger, examining your features, your failures. You can’t move; you want to shove him away, you want to recoil, but the tremors have you paralyzed. Then both hands lunge for you, his mouth opens to form a red halo, burning its way into your eyes— then there are more hands, reaching out for you, black with shadow and all gripping fingers, crawling with malice ready to imprint itself upon your body, enough hands to choke out the sun—
you close your eyes—
gentle blue light falls from a break in the writhing trees above, then illuminates the bleak darkness behind your eyelids. You blink yourself open to see it flooding the table, casting your shadow over the coffee cup, an azure outline traced onto the marble. You feel warm, soft hands on your shoulders; Lucilius’ cold touch recedes, repulsed and withdrawing from the kindness, the cascade of blue. Arms around you from behind, draping over you, pulling you close.
Do not touch him. You have no right to touch him.
The voice is Zooey’s, but not quite. It is grave and powerful the way that Zooey herself can only approximate now. This is Grand Order, shielding you from harm, its power overflowing as a fountain across these skies; but the touch belongs to Zooey. Its light— their light, combined— floods the nightmarish landscape, blotting out even Lucilius’ form across from you. You can see him recoil, holding his hands up to his face, directly scalded by it. But with it behind you, it is nothing but warmth and stability.
Fear not. We are with you.
The Peacemaker’s Wings enfold you, all blue feathers like the twilight. You are vaguely reminded of another cocoon. Grand Order whispers in your ear, but you can’t tell what it’s saying. Whatever the words are, they sound like comfort; they are made in the shape of protection. The garden melts away, with all its hissing snakes and gnarled thorns, and you are drifting up, now, enveloped in such kind wings, towards the stratosphere, towards the surface.
You wake. The warmth does not fade. Lyrn is curled up by your face, as it had been when you fell asleep, but that isn’t what woke you. Zooey is wrapped around you from behind, her arm draped over you, her breath gentle and nearly inaudible, warming a singular spot between your shoulder blades. You let out a waking sigh. She pushes her head into your back.
“When did you get into my bed?”
“The moment I realized you were having a nightmare.” Zooey’s voice is muffled, but insistent. “Did I manage to bring you out?”
“Yes. You were there, in the end... you took me away from that place.”
“Mm. I’m glad,” she says, then sighs out a breath into your back. You expect her to leave, with her job done, but instead she tucks herself closer to you, shuffling around under the covers a little before stilling. You feel her yawn.
“Aren’t you going to go back to your own bed?”
“I don’t feel like it. You’re warm.”
You’re not awake enough to refuse.
When you wake up for real, you will share a look with her, and speak of it to no one; it will be a glance that details everything, like the moment you finish writing the page and, satisfied, close the book for another day. An acknowledgment of what was between you, without further processing, without words left to search for.
You hadn’t had much time to walk around the place yesterday; you were too exhausted from your early wake-up time and interacting with resort staff and unpacking your bags and all the other trappings of travel that you spent the rest of the evening in the room. Zooey had gone out that afternoon, presumably to find snacks and toiletries and other necessities for the room, and had come back with one bag of groceries and two large shopping bags from what might have been a department store. The villa has a kitchenette, but you have a feeling no one is going to be cooking; there’s a coffeemaker, though, and you didn’t have the foresight to bring a kettle and filters and all your coffee paraphernalia, so this will do for now.
Today you have time (and energy, after your cup of morning coffee) to spend out of the room, so you and Zooey resolve to leave the resort and explore Mizarea City itself. The place is, for lack of a better word, expensive. Zooey enters an ice cream parlor with 2000 rupies and leaves with what looks like a kiddie scoop and pocket change. Just looking into the windows of the boutiques on the lower layers of the city makes your wallet hurt. You don’t know the price per night of the resort you’re staying at, because the Singularity is paying for it, and you’re not sure you want to know.
But it is breathtaking. The city, with all its delicate arches, intricate marble work, and cascades of green over its balconies, is quite a destination, and the novelty of it is only further amplified by the ubiquitous boats that navigate the canals, the water on which the city was built. You would much prefer to walk around, since you’re a little paranoid about these tiny, rickety vessels and their seaworthiness, but Zooey is already sitting expectantly in a boat by the time you’re setting out, every single time.
“We need to see the sights while we’re here,” she says. She’s at the helm of the boat, looking out onto the riverfront like she’s the captain of her very own airship. You wonder how she manages to look so fascinated at absolutely everything. “This isn’t something you get to do every day. Oh, look at the bridge! Look up,” she insists, turning back towards you and nearly unbalancing the small boat with the force of her movement. Lyrn makes a squawking noise, shaken off from her shoulder. You yelp, nearly losing track of the oars in the scramble to right the vessel once again.
“I can’t look, I’m the one doing all the rowing!”
“Haha, sorry...” Zooey settles back down, a little bashful, and her dragons regain their places on each of her shoulders. “Hey, let’s get off here, just for a moment. I heard the bridge was special, so we should see it close up.”
“What’s so special about it?” you ask, but you’re already pushing one oar against the current to turn the boat towards the nearest pier. It’s easier to look up when you’re finally on semi-dry land again, and once you and Zooey climb out, you finally get a glimpse of the bridge. It’s larger and a little more decorative than the other more utilitarian bridges around the city, with panels of white frosted glass in curved triangle patterns, but otherwise it doesn’t seem particularly marvelous.
“I heard,” Zooey says, like she’s sharing a secret with you, “that it’s called the Bridge of Wishes, and that if you cross it while the sun is setting, your wish will come true.” She smiles, soft and radiant, at that. “It would be nice to hear and grant all those wishes. But it’s not sunset yet. We should come back then.”
Your eyes linger on the shape of it above you. Birds have made their nests in the eaves under the bridge, and you can hear the echoes of their songs, against the water and between the buildings. You wonder how many wishes have been granted here. What they could be.
“What, did you want to make a wish as well?”
“Mm, no. I am a wish. Or, we were. But I thought maybe you would want to.” Zooey smiles knowingly at you. You sigh, looking away, then down at your feet.
“I’ve done enough wishing.”
All I can do now is wait, you think. But you don’t say it. You don’t think Zooey is particularly listening; she doesn’t respond, only pulls at your sleeve and leads you back to the boat. You realize you’ve been staring, as if the bridge itself could grant your wish if you looked hard enough. You imagine yourself crossing it, in the tender-fleshed orange light of the sunset over the water, and meeting him there, arms open, speaking your name like his last words had become his first, on the other side.
After all of Lyria’s insistence, you still haven’t gone to the beach yet. Baruha Beach is just downstream, just before the canals empty out into the ocean, and it’s easy enough to get there. The problem lies in the fact that Zooey insists you need a swimsuit, and every single store in Mizarea has the potential to drive you into debt.
“Come on, I’m sure we can find something,” she pleads, tugging at your wrist. You sigh, weakly shaking her off, but her grip is tight. “You can’t wear your armor to the beach! Aren’t you going to come swimming?”
“I’ve never swam before. I’m not sure if I can,” you admit, grudgingly.
“Well, you don’t have to swim, the water is nice and shallow. You can just… splash around?” Then she giggles. “Okay, maybe the image of you splashing around is a bit… silly. But you can’t go to the beach looking like that.”
“Like what? Like a reasonable person?”
“You’ll get sand in your breastplate! And even if you just wear your hoodie, you’ll get hot too easily. All you need is a pair of swim trunks and—”
“I am not wearing just that.”
“...And you could wear a linen shirt as well? If you don’t like showing skin?” Zooey strokes her chin, before her eyes light up with realization. “Oh! Korwa’s on vacation too, since she’s not with the water and earth teams. I could get her to design you something.”
You can’t believe you’re agreeing to this. “Only if I don’t have to pay for it.”
After a grueling ordeal involving measuring tape and removal of almost all of your clothes, and given the span of a day and a half, which you spend dragging Zooey around while you wander the city for a good enough coffeehouse, Korwa drops by your room while you’re out to deliver the promised outfit. You unlock the door to find it lying folded neatly on the bed, Dyrn curled up like a cat on top of it, and Lyrn hopping in circles around it like it’s some sort of ritual fire.
You’re not quite sure how Korwa got into the room in the first place, but these dragons need to go.
Once Zooey has removed all draconic obstacles, you finally unfold the clothes and hold them up in front of you for examination. It’s a simple pair of black swim trunks and an orange-yellow short sleeved hoodie, and you’re surprised at how comfortable it looks, and even more surprised when you put it on and it’s even more comfortable than you imagined. You don’t think to put the hood up; it’s familiar enough just resting at the back of your neck that you don’t feel too out of place. When you emerge from the bathroom, Zooey has already changed into her own swimsuit, and upon seeing you her face breaks into a wide, joyful smile. You suddenly regret wearing this just a little bit less.
“You look so good!” she exclaims, her hands behind her back as she leans in, and examines the fabric between her fingers. “Oh, it’s so soft… Korwa is so talented, isn’t she? Speaking of which, how do I look?”
You take a step back. The halter top has a wing design, which you admittedly favor, and the lightweight coverup, halfway shrugged off her shoulder, has a certain nautical charm, as does the blue and white striped skirt. It’s certainly a nice outfit, and your lack of attraction to women makes it easier to evaluate objectively, but… all things considered…
You raise one eyebrow.
“It looks nice,” you say, “but how does it even stay on?”
“Girls’ secret!” She winks. “You’d be surprised.”
“I really don’t know how you do it. It looks like even moving the slightest bit could cause a... mishap.”
“It is a little ridiculous, isn’t it? I was surprised, too. But it stays on no matter what I do. I wonder if it’s magic?” She scoots over to the mirror and combs her fingers through her hair, which has gotten fluffy and frizzy from the salt sea air. “Ohh, there’s something missing, though... And I can’t find my flip-flops.”
You take a quick look around the room; something out of place catches your eye in the corner next to the door, where Lyrn is chewing on something that looks suspiciously like said flip-flop. “Found them.”
“Where? Oh. You little… stop messing around.” She flicks the offending dragon on the nose. It sneezes a flame at her. “Hey!”
“It’s like we need to dragon-proof everything around here,” you chuckle. “Hold on. You said something was missing?”
“Mmhm. And I don’t know what. Some sort of final touch?” Zooey finally extracts the battered flip-flop from Lyrn’s mouth. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Wouldn’t anything else just get in the way,” you sigh. But you do have an idea. “Just wait here. Make sure the door doesn’t lock behind me.”
You slip through the door as quietly as possible, making sure neither of the dragons notice and take the opportunity to escape. Zooey says something as the door closes behind you, but you don’t hear it. You stay on the porch; just outside the villa, there is a hibiscus tree in a terracotta pot, and you pluck the reddest bloom from its branches. You hope no one will mind. Flowers always grow back, after all.
When you return to the room, Zooey is sitting on the bed, brushing through her long hair and yanking a bit frustratedly at the tangles. “Here,” you say, showing her the flower, and her face lights up.
“It’s perfect! Sandalphon, thank you so much,” she breathes, dropping the paddle brush and reaching out to take the bloom from your hands. You don’t really notice you’re already leaning down and pushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear to tuck the flower behind it until she freezes, then leans ever so slightly into the touch and looks up at you with the kindest, most gentle gaze you’ve ever had directed at you.
You bite your lip, unable to face her. “Sorry.”
“Hehe. You know, you’re a very gentle person. I think more people should know that.” She smiles, and you barely have time to ask where this came from or what she means before she stands up and grabs your wrist, opens the door with her other hand. The bright glare of sunlight floods into the room. “Come on, we’re heading out!”
“Wha— fine!” You reach back desperately for the beach bag sitting on the dresser next to the door before she whisks you out of the room and into the relentless gaze of the sun.