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The soft pitter-patter of rain dribbles down the rooftop, small droplets cascading down the sides of the hideout in a mini waterfall guided by a rudimentary rusted pipeline. Globules of water gather on the window, the same as dew does on grass in the morning, a few gliding down to join its brethren in the depths. Wide turquoise eyes spectate the race, silently cheering on the drop to the right as it runs across the glass pane and down, down, down. Golden locks frame a solemn face, cheek dusted with a light pink resting on crossed arms.
It’s not often Luck is granted a room with a window view this high up. Normally, his room stays somewhere downward, planted firmly on the ground. From recollection, the last time he recalls having his room stashed anywhere above the second floor seemed like forever ago. He remembers the window having shattered with the prominent shape of a grown man, Magna yelling at him from below after he’d been launched during one of their regular kerfuffles. Defenestration, while morbidly funny and quite entertaining, caused property damage and just further piled on top of what Henry already had to clean in the aftermath of their roughhousing. That, and letting Luck even have the opportunity to toss more people out of windows seemed like a safety hazard for anyone involved.
The mage stretches, bobbing his head back and arms reaching upward. It’s been a quiet day, lacking any enthusiasm or energy, a rather bleak afternoon compared to most others. The boredom was draining, but nearly everyone else in the hideout had gone off on missions or were out fulfilling citizen requests. Their resident ghost was, of course, the honorable exception, but the blond had no doubt he’d be needing rest with the halls being so dreadfully empty and stiff. Still, the rain was a welcome comfort, a pleasant ambience that poorly filled the void of the place’s usual bickering that he’d grown far too accustomed to. His irises were transfixed on the sight of droplets skittering across glass, opting to watch their own battles in place of going headfirst into one of his own.
The air was damp with a soggy, moldy smell wafting through the cottage. An echoed dripping rang out in the suffocating silence, droplets squeezing out through a moist crack in the wooden ceiling and falling, one by one, into a dingy bucket below. If the little boy focused enough, he could count the approximate seconds before it drips again in steady rhythm. He sat by a boarded window, strings of desaturated light beaming through the clouds, struggling to peer through the looking glass and illuminate the floorboards. They’re stretched thin, like a thread that’s bound to break, but still attempt to fight against the murky darkness within the house, even if in vain. He reached out, soft hands untainted with scars trying to grasp at the streams, but coming back empty-handed. It was a futile effort, for each and every time, the light would simply sift through his hands, and yet he believed, with some childlike hope, that maybe he’d be able to grab on and bask in the gentle warmth of the sun.
That warmth did not come. Rather, there was a metallic crash from somewhere within the house, and his head whipped around. The voice of a woman cursing quieted the sound of the leak in the roof. His hands lowered, falling back to his sides, and the clouds swiftly drew in, promptly swallowing the remainders of what little sunlight he’d been given. He stood slowly and idly walked to check on the noise, leaving behind the windowsill with the crooked edges.
The world flashes. A blinding light covers the room, tendrils leaking outward and forward, drowning the air and the space around him in brightness. Within a moment’s notice, it vanishes, the thin streak it came from lingering for a second longer outside. The boy’s lips curve into a complacent smile, shoulders tensing ever-so-slightly in the anticipation of the shake of the building and the large eruption of a rumble that soon came. It was one of many small consistencies he had to rely on, knowing that the strike would always come before the full velocity of sound. It was a rule Luck had become familiar with through-out his life, not only from conducting lightning at the tips of his fingers, but through the multitude of storms he’s sat through, not unlike this one.
He heaves himself up, using the strength of his forearms to balance himself against the windowsill, settling himself onto the bed with its covers spilled halfway onto the floor. Once he has at least half of his body situated, he sits up to use a free hand to carefully swing his right foot up and over. His ankle is wrapped in bandages along with a shoddily-crafted splint. Underneath them, Luck guesses it’s likely still a little swollen, the sprain a recent event from a mission gone south. The others had put him on bedrest.
True to his nature, the mage had originally tried evasively dodging the situation and putting himself in the field anyway, but some sort of tragedy would befall and he’d end up right back in this boring old room. He’d stumbled over himself the first time, Vanessa managing to catch him and keep him upright with her threads a split second before he hit the floor; the second escape led to him dramatically crashing down the stairs and almost hurting his foot even further, if not for Henry’s narrow save by maneuvering the last few steps out of the way.
Luck actually managed to get outside on his third endeavor, but Magna had been chasing after him. One wrong step and the spiking pain erupted in his foot, and the second’s hesitance resulted in him being tackled and pinned down by an irritated fire mage. A little fighting later - with a hint of negotiation over a certain someone’s pudding - and he was carried back with arms caked under his knees and backside.
His fourth and final attempt was short-lived, having been caught red-handed by both Magna and the captain, one leg out the open window with a rope made of tied bed sheets. It took a lot more convincing from the two of them before the blond finally agreed to at least try to sit still. He felt miserable having to hole himself up, and the uncontrollable itch for a fight was nigh irresistible, but the promise of being able to go on a few battle missions after he got better was motivation enough. And the flan he was offered, too, though he probably would’ve taken it by force either way.
The boy sits there, head against the wall, sucking in a few empty breaths. His head tilts to the glass panes, still observing the weather from a distance.
Boooring. I’m bored. This is boring, he thinks. His hands fiddle together with useless movements. He doesn’t want to be sitting here doing nothing all day, despite it sounding like paradise to most people. What he really wants right now is to be out there on a mission, fighting alongside his friends, but this stupid injury was denying him that. He’d have to make extra sure he didn’t get it again. No more losing; he’d just have to keep winning.
Keep on winning…
The first time Luck felt warmth was in his mother’s embrace. The first time Luck felt comforting warmth was several years later. When his mother hugged him, it felt as if a door had opened, and a twisted kind of clarity filled his mind. He understood what to do right. It was like he’d just uncovered the remedy for all her sad days and the frowny faces and frigid tears. In that moment, her acceptance of him became the light of his world, what he lived and breathed for, his sole purpose for fighting in the monotone life he lived. Her affection was a sweetness that left a tangy aftertaste; something bittersweet to indulge on a cold winter afternoon.
He buried his face into her shoulder, tucked himself neatly into her arms. Her clothes had a musty stench, the same that permeated the house, but it was mixed with the gentle reminiscence of dandelions. Her hair was a tad unkempt, much like his own, yet it always reminded him of such.
Luck wondered if he and Mom could visit a field together someday. They could stride hand-in-hand through the golden flowers that dance in the sunlight, but he didn’t know if the sky would be clear that day either. The rain liked to linger, like the burning pain of a cut run under cold water or the aching of a bruise lightly graced over.
“And you’ll win again, won’t you?”
Her voice was gravelly and shaky. Joyful and proud, but with edges that seemed to flake at the end. It was like a fleeting feeling he could only shortly revel in before her usual profound sadness came to settle in the air.
“Use that power of yours to win and win and keep on winning.”
And from that point onward, he decided he would, for the sake of her smile, and for her love.
Luck lifts his head and throws it back, smacking it dead against the wall. A dull pain erupts at the back of his skull from the force of it. He kicks his left leg and waves his arms around with a loud groan. Boredom weighs heavy on his body and he wrestles to break free from it, but to no avail does he find relief, and restlessness threatens to consume him whole instead.
Faces come to mind, just out of reach from his grubby little hands with the tiny, intricate scars from battle, and the hardened calluses from training with lightning and fire. There’s a hazy lens put atop them, as if he’s looking through a fog, but they’re clear enough.
He can make out the worried creases in Magna’s brow, blue-gray eyes a little sunken in beneath the cool shades. He looks down at Luck, who’s entangled in his arms on their trek back to the hideout. It feels unfamiliar and uniquely strange, but he finds he wants to reach out and smooth out the wrinkles from his face to mellow out the saddened expression. The lightning mage opts to squirm in his hold, causing the other to reaffirm his grasp on him. They bicker back and forth, and the blond can’t help but widen his smile when he watches Magna settle back to his usual half-annoyed, half-overjoyed look.
Another memory settles itself like a warm blanket over his shoulders. Vanessa wraps him in a cozy quilt she’s hand-made with her thread magic, Finral stood not far from her with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. The witch pats his shoulders and ruffles his hair, warning him not to go back outside in the freezing air or he’d catch a cold, and the spatial mage nods along in agreement. She stands and laces her fingers with his, kissing him on the cheek. Luck sticks his tongue out and comments on how disgusting they are, and a bubbly laughter soaks the air, and, suddenly, the teen finds he doesn’t feel cold at all anymore.
There’s a variety of fond memories just like those, small moments spent with each of his teammates that he cherishes in the background of his head. Training with Asta, small quips and laughs exchanged in peaceful spars; Noelle’s lighthearted complaining about his antics, punctuated with silly flips of her hair over her shoulder; the captain’s continued shutdowns of his proposals to fight, though with Luck having no plans to stop; it goes on, and on, and on. The warmth he feels in the base is practically never-ending.
He realizes, as the rain pours down the side of the building and collects itself in puddles on the ground, that he doesn’t need to fight for the hand that feeds him any longer. The fighter can pass his days feeling warm and loved by those that surround him - and, what’s more, they require nothing of him. Their care is unconditional, and they find no problem nor fault in his person. They’ve accepted him, in spite of everything he’s learned and experienced.
The blond’s lungs take in another hefty breath and his eyelids flutter closed. Sitting is boring, and time is going by so painstakingly still, but his squadmates would worry if he kept kicking. He can count on them, he reassures himself for what feels like the umpteenth time.
The rain continues its steady rhythm, a soothing cadence that blends seamlessly with Luck's thoughts. His fingers toy absently with the frayed edge of his oversized tunic, and a faint, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He lets his mind wander to other places, to distant times of the past.
He’s not sure how long it is before his eyes jump open at the familiar mana signatures he can feel nearing the room. Luck must’ve dozed off to some degree, not having noticed them approaching the base itself.
Vanessa peeks through the door, Rouge nestled on her shoulder. Her eyes soften at the state of him. “How are we doing?” she asks, her voice carrying a warmth that feels almost tangible.
The blue-eyed magic knight tilts his head to the side, crossing his arms together in a dramatic pose, “Oh, awful. This suuucks..”
She giggles, using her foot to edge open the door and enter the room. The open doorway reveals a slightly disheveled Magna, who adjusts his sunglasses and blows up his chest in a sore attempt to look cool. Luck can’t help but snort at the display.
And, just like that, they fall into their usual banter, the fiery delinquent shouting at him for laughing. Vanessa teases and says Magna was worried the entire time they were out, followed by him firmly denying the fact with ashes of fire flickering in the air from his palms.
Luck glances out the window. The sun beams through the shabby curtains above, and the clouds from the rain have fully dissipated. Light fills the room, not just from the sky, but from the bellowing laughter and wide smiles of his friends.
This, he finds, is his home. His people. He finds comfort in knowing that, in the grand scheme of things, he has already won something far more precious than any victory on the battlefield: he has found a place where he belongs.
Maybe, in another universe, his mom would’ve wanted him just the same as they did, rather than desperately needing him to reassure and circumvent her qualms.