Chapter Text
The evergreens in the woodland reached towards the night and tickled its mighty delft cloak with their one thousand weaving branches, revealing the once lonely moon now glowing in delight from the old friends and acquaintances that were the stars. The spirit of spring gently awoke from her three-month slumber, casting winter away in search of foreign lands to paint his picture. The trees lazily tossed their jackets of snow onto the ground, where the powder melted and quenched their parched roots, while the slush on mountains hurried into streams where sunbeams floated along the bubbling currents like vagabonding leaves. The silver fur of foxes and hares turned brown, and insects of all sorts peeped their heads toward a brand-new world.
Gonta Gokuhara and his lovely newlywed wife, (Y/n) Gokuhara, traversed for three days through the heart of the woodlands, where squirrels gossiped in the trees and birds rustled about for a taste of sweet boysenberries. They trekked the land, hiking up the steep faces of mountains, trudging through marshes (Gonta carried (Y/n) bridle-style through the muck, claiming that gentlemen should never let a lady touch such grime), and rounding river bends in search of a plot of land to build their cottage. The woods were a perfect home for the ultimate entomologist and the ultimate botanist, after all, and they wouldn’t be happier anywhere else.
Even with the dangers hidden within.
On the third night, the lovers decided to rest under an oak tree for a fish stew dinner, cooking the rainbow trout Gonta had caught in a creek earlier that day and the spare vegetables (Y/n) had foraged along the way. She only had two bowls of the hearty stew, and the rest of the pot went to Gonta (he was fairly big, mind you: a pot of soup was an average meal for him). The shadows of the forest observed them, polite enough to move no closer than the orange edge of the campfire to give them space, though just as equally dishonest, for behind their blackened cloaks was a pair of clandestine eyes...
Gonta traced his finger along the rim of his kupilka bowl made by Angie and licked off the broth. He smiled warmly at the tiki pattern engraved in the clay, reminded of his high-school friends who he and (Y/n) wished godspeed to at their wedding three months ago. “(Y/n),” he began, placing the bowl down so any nearby ants could replenish after a hard day of work, “Once cottage is built, we throw a big get-together with best friends!"
But (Y/n) did not reply.
Oh, (Y/n) must be asleep, is what Gonta initially thought until he noticed her bowl abandoned by his side. The arm she was nestled against was abruptly cooler, now that he thought about it. “(Y/n)?”
There was a rustle, then the cry of a crow, but not the reply Gonta was looking for. He jumped to his feet and swiveled his head up and down and all around in search of his lover. She was nowhere in sight, including on the opposite side of the great barricade of flame. “(Y/n), where did you go?!” he shouted, his own words feeling nauseous from worry.
He called out her name again, and this time he heard a scream that thickened his blood.
“Gonta!” (Y/n) shrieked. Her voice sounded much too far for either of their comforts. “Gonta, please help!”
“(Y/n)! Gonta coming!”
And then he flew towards her voice: his passage made willows weep with the rumor of a loss and brooks babble like bashful babies. His heaving breaths were crystallized by the chilling spring air, and his thundering bare feet kicked up dead leaves from past autumn, solemn and blinded by the belief that they would one day reunite with the trees above. The wind howled in his ears.
Saplings awkwardly lurched their necks, pretending to take interest in a single blade of grass like bystanders when Gonta stopped and pricked his ears up. This time he heard two caterwauls, and it was near impossible to distinguish which one belonged to his (Y/n). There was silence after.
He hot-footed further, bushes having to duck their emerald heads when he leaped over them. Over the fourth bush was a scene that made his heart jump into his mouth: (Y/n) was terribly cornered against a cliffside, clutching a sharp branch of oak and prodding at a shadow like a furious child to a dead animal; the creature’s silhouette flickered in the moonlight, as though it was a fallen ember from the sky and the wind was blowing on it. Gonta didn't need a second to know what it was.
It was a mountain lion.
It was an ugly one too, with fangs so yellow that they would make an elderly treasure map feel young again. An ear was missing as well as a toe on its back paws; each claw was the size of a sickle, never filed on trees or boulders or even bones. Tattoos of rusting blood from previous victims littered its fur, and Gonta’s eyes---a kindred red with the glimmer of ladybug backs in the summer---fell dull in absolute rage.
“Gonta…” (Y/n) believed it would be the last word to ever look past her lips. If so, she wanted it to be her lover’s name. “G-Gonta…”
And then the mountain lion pounced.
...
But nothing happened.
Perhaps I am already dead, (Y/n) thought with tightly shut eyes. Maybe it attacked my neck and killed me kindly. But a thunderous growl brought her down to earth. Not without some hesitation, as she feared that the noise was teasing her and that she was truly dead, she cracked open her eyes and saw Gonta pinning the dreadful beast against the dirt by its neck.
He bore his teeth and his nostrils flared in fury. The growl marched louder in his throat, warning the animal that it should put up a good fight so it could at least die with pride if need be. Instead, the lion flailed its hind legs stupidly, like a sensitive fish. It hissed pathetically and curled its tail into a frown. Nothing in the world frightened it until it received a taste of its own medicine.
Now, Gonta was a pacifist: he made sure that violence was the last resort to dire situations, as the benevolence and gentleness of his heart were what won him that of (Y/n)’s in the first place. That’s why he ambled at least thirty feet away and gave the mountain lion quarter. He retreated slowly, his teeth still ramming heads; they glistened in the moonlight, beautiful as healthy dove feathers. He snarled a final warning to the animal with a stamp of his foot.
And pathetically fled the mountain lion into the dark of the forest, leaving behind a quaking (Y/n) and an even shakier Gonta. Silence settled on the scene to allow the lovers to realign their emotions, which was broken when the ground chomped up the foliage (Y/n)’s feet stirred as she approached Gonta.
“Gonta?” She asked, touching his shoulder lovingly. “Dear, are you alright?”
Then she gasped, horrified. Three gashes grinned and glistened along his forearm, holding all of the malignancy of the mountain lion, like a curse. “Gonta, let’s hurry back to the campfire! I have comfrey ointment in my bag to treat your wound--”
A warm liquid splashed onto the back of her hand, though it was not the blood from the injury. Tears teetered on Gonta’s lashes, and before (Y/n) could question or comfort him, she was engulfed in his massive arms.
“No wander off without Gonta again,” he sobbed into her shoulder, shaking his head. His voice shook with all the gathered relief in the world. “Gonta no can protect you if you far away! Gonta no can lose you…”
He placed his palm over (Y/n)’s faintly bulged tummy and stroked it with his thumb.
“Gonta no can lose the both of you…”
His hands, gelid from the night, were thawed by (Y/n)’s: they were always warm, no matter the weather. She burrowed her head into his neck, joyed that she would live another day to feel his glow and to catch a whiff of his pine-needle scent. “I’m so sorry, Gonta,” she whimpered, also teary-eyed. “I promise I won’t do that again; I promise. Thank you for saving us.”
They exchanged a kiss on the lips, shutting their eyes. A kiss between the two had never been with open eyes. “Gonta love you two…”
“We love you too, dear,” she whispered as she nuzzled her nose against his. “Let’s head back, now. I’ll treat your wound and make pancakes with honeysuckle syrup for dessert.”
Gonta insisted that he carry her back to the campfire, much against (Y/n)'s wishes; and after a little argument between the two, the botanist found herself resting on the entomologist’s back, who claimed that his injury was nothing to worry about. Back at the fire (Y/n) tended to his wounds and whipped up her famous dessert, explaining why she had wandered so far in the process.
“Angel's Trumpets,” she pulled out the bouquet from the pocket within her hooded cloak. Much like buttercups in the sun, the moonlight stotted off of their drooping petals and onto their chins. “They caught my eye as we were eating, and I drifted too far off into the woods to find more. I wanted to surprise you but---” she rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed "---You know what happened.”
“Well.” He hid his glasses behind his hands when he finished dessert. “Gonta cover his eyes so (Y/n) can finish making her surprise!” They shared a hearty laugh, then she got straight to work: (Y/n)’s fingers twirled around each other like clouds wearing ballet slippers, tying knots the size of pill bugs to connect the stems. The ants that had sniffed out the leftover soup diverted their attention away from the food and watched the woman weave in wonder, along with every other bug present in the plants or dirt or sky.
“Ep ep ep! No peeking, Gonta!” she teased when he playfully separated his fingers to peek at the surprise. Another laugh was shared, and a breeze ferried it along the tops of trees. (Y/n) completed her craft then exclaimed, “You can open your eyes now!”
She made matching bracelets out of the flowers and tied one around Gonta’s wrist with the hand that carried his wedding ring. “Wow, it beautiful,” he awed at the collection of bluebird petals stained with tears the sun had shed the previous day over their glory, trickling towards the stigmas like hiking trails. “Does (Y/n) know that honeybees love yellow flowers?”
“Of course I do!” (Y/n) giggled. “Yellow, blue, and violet flowers produce more nectar than any other flower: some species have even developed blue halos to attract bees…”
(Y/n) and Gonta talked and talked until the moon pulled a nearby cloud over its chest, cold from its own night: the lovers could talk forever, but knew that they needed all the rest in the world to take up the journey again in the morning. Gonta poured water on the fire, where moths shimmied in the light of embers losing their grip on life, and (Y/n) washed the bowls and pot in a nearby stream (not without her husband by her side, obviously). By the warmth he cradled a half-asleep (Y/n) in his arms, and she mumbled a question.
“Gon...ta…”
“Hm?” He gently lay down with her. She twirled a tuft of his cirrus-soft locks in between her fingers.
“What do you think our friends are doing?”
Gonta tapped his chin, thinking long about the question; not that it was hard for him to answer, but rather he wanted to take his time to think about his old friends before he had to deal with the stresses of traveling again. “Gonta think...Gonta think friends are very happy. Shuichi solving mysteries, Kaito sailing up there,” he traced the constellation Ursa Minor with his finger, “and Kokichi...Kokichi up to no good.”
As much as Gonta and (Y/n) loved their friends, so much so as to call them family, they were not very fond of Kokichi and his lies.
“Korekiyo exploring big temples…and Kaede playing piano in front of big audience…”
“Gon…” --Yawn-- “ta…I’d like to see our friends again one day. We should throw a big reunion party!”
“That what Gonta said before!”
“When should...we invite...them over…?”
But (Y/n) fell asleep without hearing the answer, her mouth cracking open ever so slightly; her breath stirred the grass and Gonta’s hair. She slung her arm around her abdomen protectively, prompting Gonta to think, (Y/n) always rest her arm there lately. He brought her closer to his chest with his injured arm, his smile triumphing over the stinging sensation.
“Gonta know when party should be had,” he cupped her stomach and kissed her forehead; “and it will be the best one ever, Gonta promise. Sweet dreams, ladybug: Gonta love you.”
And to the caroling of crickets and a showcase of stars above, Gonta peacefully fell asleep, the both of them dreaming of their Cockaigne, the seasons ahead of them, and the miracle to be bestowed at the end of the year.