Chapter Text
It was one of those slow-turning autumn days, where the air hung with gold and quiet tension, and even the dust motes drifting through the hallway light seemed to move with deliberate grace. The outside the laboratory stayed in a muted rhythm, as though the world itself was holding it's breath for something unnamed.
Delilah had been humming to herself all morning, soft, absent-minded notes that wove through the lab like threads of anticipation. Her desk was cluttered with graphite-smudged diagrams, coils of wiring, glass slides, and half-erased formulas.
Every few minutes she adjusted a dial, twisted a knob, or scribbled something onto a clipboard with restless precision. At last, she tucked the board beneath her arm and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“I’m nearly finished with the new project,” she announced, trying and failing to keep the pride from her voice. “A brand-new Toon.”
Dandy was the first to react, he always was.
His whole face lit up like someone had struck a match behind his eyes, joy sparking out of him in every direction.
“Seriously!?” He exploded, practically vibrating. “That’s amazing! I can’t wait to see them!”
He grabbed Astro’s sleeve, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid standing in line for fireworks.
“Who do you think they’ll be? What kind of personality? I love meeting the new ones! They’re always so interesting!”
Astro only gave a quiet nod, his expression unreadable. He didn’t share Dandy’s enthusiasm, but he didn’t dampen it either. He simply fell into step beside him, following down the white corridor. Their boots echoed sharply against the polished floor, each step a crisp reminder of where they were, a place of creation, evaluation, and unspoken rules.
Newly-formed Toons were always hidden away during their “incubation period,” sealed behind reinforced doors, isolated like fragile secrets. No one was allowed to see them, not even other Toons, until their minds were considered stable enough to face the world.
During that hidden time, they were taught to read, to speak, to recognize themselves in mirrors, to assemble the beginnings of a personality.
Those who failed to form properly… simply vanished.
No announcements.
No mourning.
No records.
Astro never asked where they went. Dandy pretended not to wonder. It was easier that way.
This time, rumours of a prototype different from the others. A Toon designed not for obedience, but for empathy. One who could feel deeper, attach faster, bond with an intensity that bordered on dangerous. A Toon built to love.
On the morning of Sprout’s reveal, just when excitement was at its peak, Arthur appeared in the doorway with a clipboard of his own and called Dandy’s name. A routine health check, he said. Standard procedure. Nothing to worry about.
Still smiling, Dandy scooped up Pebble, his beloved pet rock, dressed today in a tiny crocheted scarf and followed Arthur down the opposite hall.
“Tell me everything when I’m back!” He called over his shoulder, waving energetically. “Don’t skip any details!”
And then he was gone, his laughter fading behind the turning corridor. Which meant Astro was the only one left to witness the unveiling.
...
Delilah met him at the reinforced door, waiting with a composure that didn’t quite hide the tremor of anticipation running through her hands.
The control panel beside her blinked in soft, rhythmic pulses, reds, greens, ambers, like a mechanical heartbeat syncing with her own. She brushed her thumb over the final switch, then reached for the heavy crank, its metal worn smooth by decades of use.
“Alright,” she said, voice low but steady, as the mechanism began to unlock with a clank that echoed through the chamber walls. “Let’s welcome the new one, Sprout.”
The steel door groaned open, slow and reluctant, releasing a deep hiss of pressure and cold sterilized air. Mist curled outward in lazy coils, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold still.
And there he was. A slim, red-hued Toon stood in the center of the chamber, illuminated by the pale overhead lights. His features were delicate, almost fragile, with a softness that suggested he had been drawn rather than built, like a character sketched in the margin of a forgotten fairytale and pulled suddenly into existence.
His coloring was warm and vivid, a muted rose-red that made him look like he had been painted with care rather than engineered. Long leaf tail swaying sideways, his hair, which was the same color of green, tilted slightly as he moved his head.
He stood tall, taller than Dandy, though not quite reaching Astro’s height, yet he carried the unmistakable aura of something unfinished. Someone untouched by experience. Someone new to breath, to sensation, to being seen.
Sprout.
His eyes lifted, and they were green. Not merely bright, but startlingly alive, like gemstones catching sunlight beneath riverwater. They shone with a depth and clarity that didn’t belong to someone only seconds into existence.
The moment they landed on Astro, they widened, not with fear, not with confusion, but with a kind of awe that felt too intense, too formed, too knowing.
Like recognition.
Like devotion.
Like worship.
Then, without hesitation, without instruction, without even a flicker of uncertainty, the boy dropped to his knees. His body folded forward, bowing low, hands pressed together in reverence as though performing a ritual encoded into his bones long before he ever opened his eyes.
His voice came first as a trembling breath, barely audible.
"A god,” He whispered.
Then he looked up, eyes shining, pupils dilated, wonder spilling from him like light through stained glass.
“You’re a god!” He declared, louder now, breathless, fervent, certain, his gaze fixed upon Astro as though nothing else in the world existed, or had ever existed, before this moment.
Astro blinked, startled, once, twice, as though his eyes needed help believing what he had just heard.
What…?
He turned his head slightly, casting a glance behind him, half expecting, half hoping that someone else might be standing there. Someone taller, someone radiant, someone who could reasonably earn the word Sprout had spoken so easily.
But there was no one. Only the faint hiss of the chamber door settling into its tracks and Sprout’s gaze, locked, unwavering, and fixed solely on him.
“I-no,” Astro said quickly, his hand rising in a stiff, uncertain gesture, the movement too sharp to be natural. “Stand up. Please. I’m not a god.”
Sprout lifted his head, confusion shimmering in those impossibly green eyes, like ripples disturbed on the surface of a still pond. His voice when it came, was soft, earnest, untouched by doubt or irony.
“You’re not?”
His head tilted in that instinctive, childlike angle of someone trying to adjust the world to match a belief.
“But… you look just like the divine ones I read about in the books.”
He leaned forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough to study.
“You really don’t feel like one?”
Astro cleared his throat, though nothing was stuck there. He wasn’t sure why there was warmth spreading beneath his sternum, why the air felt heavier, why he was suddenly aware of his own breathing.
“…I’m just a Toon. Like you.”
Sprout rose slowly, almost ceremonially, brushing invisible specks from his knees with measured movements, delicate, cautious, rehearsed from instruction rather than instinct.
But even as he straightened, his eyes never drifted from Astro’s face. They stayed wide. Reverent. Filled with the kind of awe that made the moment feel too large for the room.
“I don’t think you are,” He murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “You look like someone important.”
Astro didn’t know where to place those words, whether to carry them, ignore them, deny them, or simply let them fall. The uncertainty sat in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shift. So he said nothing.
Sprout stood there, still dazed, still blinking as though the world was too bright, too new, too enormous. His steps were feather-light as he followed Astro out of the chamber, almost hesitant, as though he feared the floor itself might give way under him.
His eyes traced everything, the colorful walls, the soft glow of the ceiling panels, the distant thrum of machinery that filled the air like a heartbeat he had yet to recognize.
“…Is there anyone else here besides us?” Sprout asked finally, his voice quiet, cautious, shaped by uncertainty. It sounded like a secret spoken into a cathedral.
Astro glanced over his shoulder, his gaze steady, unreadable.
“There is,” He said.
“There’s Dandy, he was created before both of us. And his pet rock, Pebble.”
He paused, not long, but his eyes stayed on Sprout, longer than necessary.
Sprout felt it, not like pressure, not like threat, but like a warmth hovering near him, a presence that acknowledged him, measured him, saw him. The sensation settled over his skin like a faint static hum.
“You’ll meet him soon,” Astro continued, turning forward again.
“He’s loud, but you’ll get used to it.”
They rounded a corner where the hallway narrowed, the lights dimming slightly, the air warming by a degree. Somewhere far down the passage, something clicked and reset, a mechanical pulse marking time.
“If you need anything,” Astro said, his tone softening, not much, but enough to be felt rather than heard,
“ask me. I’m here.”
The words lingered in the quiet, hanging between them like a thread, thin, delicate, yet undeniably real. Sprout felt something move inside him, something he couldn’t define, something that made the world feel less frightening and more filled with possibility.
Sprout nodded slowly, glancing up at him again, still unsure of everything, but maybe, just maybe… not afraid.
Not yet.
He stood at the doorway to his room, hand still resting lightly on the handle and looked back.
Astro stood a few steps behind, unmoving. Their eyes met for a moment.
He gave a simple nod. Calm. Steady. As if nothing inside him was burning.
That was all Sprout needed. With a faint nod of his own, he turned and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Astro remained still in the hallway for only a heartbeat longer. Then he turned and walked a little too quick, toward his own room. His boots struck the floor louder than they needed to. His breath, shallow. His jaw tense.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, the sound was sharp, final. He didn’t even reach the bed. Didn’t take off his blanket. Didn’t turn on the light.
He just collapsed down onto the floor, back hitting the wall, knees drawn in. A low sound escaped him. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a breath, his emotions messed up, tangled together.
He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to wipe something away, but it wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was need.
That voice.
That face.
The image of Sprout’s wide, emerald eyes played over and over in his mind. The way his voice wavered when he asked about others.
The way he bowed, to him. Like he belonged to Astro before even knowing his name.
Trusted him.
As if Astro were someone worthy of that gaze.
“Why…”
He whispered it into the dark, staring at the shadows stretching across the ceiling.
“Why does it feel like this…?”
His heart, or whatever that thing humans called, was pounding far too fast for something so small. But it hadn’t felt small.
It had felt monumental. Like something had shifted in the air between them.
Not love. Not yet. But a feeling too close to it to be safe.
...
Just like Dandy and Astro before him, Sprout hadn’t emerged from his containment chamber complete. He was a blank slate, bright-eyed and hesitant, shaped more by wonder than by will, with an innocence that had not yet been tempered by disappointment or compromise.
Every motion, every glance, carried a quiet curiosity, as if he were testing the world one careful step at a time, learning the shape of things beyond the cold steel walls that had held him.
But the moment he stepped into the real world, the moment the door closed behind him and he inhaled air that wasn’t filtered or controlled, he began to change.
It started subtly, the faint crease of a brow when something struck him as unfair, a clipped tone when someone brushed off his concerns. Small things, gestures almost invisible, yet unmistakable to those who watched closely.
Gradually, the change became more pronounced. Sharper. Direct. Less measured. His voice, once soft, almost reverent, grew edged. Not cruel, never cruel, but firm and unyielding. Sprout had yet to learn the art of padding words; bluntness had become his instinct.
And bluntness, Dandy quickly discovered, was intolerable. It only took two days for him to realize just how intolerable.
One bright afternoon, Dandy burst into the common room with a dramatic flourish, brandishing a new rainbow-patterned handkerchief he had stitched by hand.
His excitement was palpable, each movement exaggerated, as if the joy of creation demanded an audience.
“Look at this! Isn’t it gorgeous? I think Pebble will love it!” He announced, spinning in a small circle to display the piece from every angle.
Sprout, perched quietly at the table with a cooking book open before him, didn’t look up. His newfound interest in the art of food seemed to anchor him to the moment, and his voice, flat and unwavering, cut across Dandy’s exuberance like a knife. “Too much color.”
The silence that followed was immediate, profound. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to falter, holding its breath in offense at the audacity of such honesty.
Dandy froze, hand still raised, mouth slack, jaw dropping in disbelief. “Excuse me?” he sputtered, incredulous.
Sprout’s green eyes lifted slowly to meet his. They were steady, unblinking, serious, almost unnervingly calm. “I’m just being honest,” he said. “You said to tell you what I thought.”
“I meant a normal opinion, not a slap to the face!” Dandy shot back, his voice rising, a mixture of indignation and theatrical betrayal.
“I didn’t slap you,” Sprout replied evenly. “You’re being dramatic.”
That was it. The verdict delivered. Dandy’s mouth opened, then closed, a storm of disbelief raging behind his eyes.
Without another word, he stomped out of the room, muttering something about “losing brain cells” under his breath, the rainbow handkerchief crumpled in his fist.
But Astro, Astro had been sitting quietly in the corner, hands still curled around a book, his gaze drifting over the scene like a slow, measured tide.
He had watched the entire exchange in silence, the words bouncing between Sprout and Dandy like sparks across dry timber. He should have stepped in.
Should have told Sprout to temper his bluntness, to soften the edge, or at the very least, comforted Dandy before his temper flared any further.
He didn’t. Instead, he smiled. Not a wide, easy smile, not the kind that announced amusement. It was smaller, contained, subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention.
But it lingered in his eyes, a quiet glimmer that betrayed something deeper, something untamed. The sharpness in Sprout didn’t repel him. On the contrary, it fascinated him.
There was something magnetic in the way the young Toon carried himself, a raw insistence that the world either conform to his sense of truth or step aside. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. Just the purity of conviction, vivid and immediate.
Astro had seen that fire before, fleeting glimpses in those who had refused to bend, but never so bright, so unpolished, and never in someone so young, so delicate, so… entirely compelling.
The more Sprout revealed, the more that first soft, reverent impression cracked to reveal flame and edge underneath, and the more Astro felt drawn into it, as if he could feel the heat across the space between them, a flicker that made him ache with a strange, dangerous desire to match it, to burn alongside it.
Sprout remained still, hands resting lightly on the book in his lap, eyes following Dandy as he stormed out, boots pounding the floor like tiny hammers of indignation.
Only after the door slammed, the sound echoing down the corridor and fading into stillness, did he finally allow himself to look down at the pages.
He held the book loosely, fingertips pressing into the paper almost absentmindedly. His voice was barely audible, soft, uncertain, tinged with the slightest tremor. “…Was I too harsh?”
Astro didn’t deny it. He only gave a small nod, honest yet calm, measured, as if acknowledging a truth he had long known but never voiced.
Sprout’s gaze fell, tracing the edge of the book in his lap, and slowly, deliberately, he closed it and set it beside him. The quiet sound of the cover shutting seemed louder than it should have been, heavy with the weight of unspoken thought.
“I’ll apologize later,” Sprout murmured, voice soft, almost hesitant. “Sam said I should try to be more sociable. That I need to get along with others better.”
At the mention of the name, Astro’s eye twitched, so fast, so subtle, most would have missed it entirely, but he heard it. He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, a slight shift of weight that seemed both casual and deliberate.
“I don’t think you need to be close to too many,” He said, his tone was calm, almost indifferent, but beneath the surface there was something colder, sharper, something that cut quietly, invisibly. Sprout lifted his head, green eyes curious and alert. “Huh?”
Astro didn’t elaborate, he simply let his gaze rest on Sprout a moment longer than necessary, watching him carefully, unreadable, assessing.
After a pause, his voice softened, but retained a subtle edge of warning, a careful insistence: “You already let too much of yourself out. Some won’t understand it. And some will try to change it.”
Sprout’s brow furrowed slightly, faint lines of thought etched across his delicate features. “But if I don’t try to fit in, they’ll just keep hating me,” He said, soft but firm, as if reasoning aloud, trying to anchor himself in the logic of a world he had only just entered.
Astro’s lips curved into a quiet, thoughtful smile, slow and deliberate, almost imperceptible. His voice lowered, gentle, carrying an undercurrent that was almost… possessive, though not openly so. “But not everyone hates you. Not everyone wants you to change.”
Sprout said nothing, he tilted his head slightly, processing the words, chewing on the nuance, but not yet ready to speak.
And so it continued.
Astro’s attention never wavered. In every moment, in every shared space, his eyes seemed drawn to Sprout as if by some unspoken gravity.
A glance in the hallway, a pause in the dining room, a silence stretched just a heartbeat too long whenever Sprout entered the room, he noticed it all, cataloged it, let it sink in.
Yet he never stepped too close, never reached beyond the invisible line that kept him contained. Not yet. It wasn’t the right time. Not his time.
...
Sprout had started showing more and more interest in cooking and baking, and it was easy to see why. There was something in the rhythm of it, the methodical sequence of steps, the small, tangible victories that softened him, coaxed him into a calm that seemed almost foreign to someone so blunt and sharp-edged.
He often worked alone, quietly, lost in the motions and the quiet satisfaction of creation, but today, Astro lingered by the kitchen doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
“Austin asked me to complete a survey on Toons' hobbies around Gardenview,” He said, voice light and easy, almost offhand. “Thought I’d… observe.”
Of course, it was a convenient lie. He didn’t care about flour or milk, sugar or the ratio of eggs. What captured him, and held him, was Sprout.
Astro watched the subtle movements, the tiny crease in Sprout’s brow when reading measurements, the soft, unconscious hum that escaped him as he poured batter, the quiet, intense focus that drew every fiber of his attention to the task at hand.
Even the tilt of his head, the way his fingers pressed gently on the edge of the counter, conveyed more than words ever could.
“Making pancakes isn’t that hard,” Sprout said without looking up, voice steady but carrying a trace of exasperation. “Come stir this for me. I need to go get the pan.”
Astro stepped forward, shedding the oversized blanket he had draped around his shoulders, a habit he rarely broke outside these rare moments. But with Sprout, there was no need to hide.
Him and Dandy had been seen in his entirety before, countless times, and Sprout’s presence had never elicited a reaction beyond casual acknowledgment. There was trust there, a quiet acceptance that allowed him to drop the usual barriers, to simply be.
He reached for the bowl and began to stir, slow at first, as though feeling out the rhythm rather than following the recipe. The batter folded over itself in pale ribbons, thick and glossy, catching the light each time the spoon turned through it.
His movements weren’t particularly skilled, not the practiced ease of someone who cooked often, but deliberate, careful, almost reverent.
But Astro wasn’t watching the batter. He was watching him. He watched the way Sprout leaned slightly forward as he read from the page propped open beside him, lips moving silently as he traced each line.
He watched the way a lock of crimson hair fell across his forehead and the way Sprout blew it aside without using his hands, too focused to stop stirring. He watched the set of his shoulders, tense with effort, but not frustrated. Determined. Earnest.
Sprout took the bowl back from Astro with a small, polite “thank you,” his voice soft but steady, and turned toward the stove. He reached for the dial and switched the pan on, waiting for the warmth to spread across the metal surface.
Soon, the kitchen filled with the quiet, satisfying sizzle of batter hitting heat, a sound that felt strangely intimate in the otherwise still air.
One pancake, then another, round and warm, but not perfect. Some edges browned too quickly, crisping unevenly. Some shapes spread a little too wide, almost oval rather than circular. Sprout’s shoulders tensed just a little each time an imperfection appeared.
Astro liked the faint furrow that formed between Sprout’s eyebrows when he concentrated too hard.
He liked the way he bit his bottom lip ever so slightly before flipping the pancake.
He liked the tiny downward turn of his mouth when one came out a shade too dark.
It was unpolished.
Unfiltered.
Real.
And to Astro, it was utterly captivating.
Sprout set the newest pancake onto a plate and let it cool for a second before cutting into it. He sliced a small triangular piece from the softest part, golden at the center, edges tender, steam rising in a thin curl that faded into the air.
He balanced it delicately on the tines of a fork, turning it once to make sure it didn’t slip, then held it out toward Astro.
“Do you wanna try-?"
He hadn’t even finished asking when Astro nodded, too quickly, too eagerly, the motion so immediate it almost startled the both of them.
Sprout blinked, caught off guard. His hand paused mid-air, the fork hovering between them. Then a soft laugh escaped him, quiet, warm, disbelieving, and he shook his head at the sudden spark of enthusiasm.
"You didn’t even let me finish,” He muttered, the words barely above a breath, half complaint and half something softer that he didn’t quite know how to name.
Astro didn’t answer, he couldn’t. His voice felt trapped somewhere in his chest, held tight beneath the flutter of something warm and unfamiliar.
So instead, he simply leaned in, slowly, instinctively, drawn forward as though Sprout were gravity itself and he was helpless against the pull.
Sprout, still standing close beside the stove, lifted the fork again. His hand moved with a gentleness that didn’t match his earlier nervousness, his fingers steady and his touch careful.
It looked almost ceremonial, the way he guided the bite toward Astro, like he feared brushing against his lips, like the smallest misstep might shatter the moment. The instant the warm piece of pancake touched his tongue, Astro felt the world narrow to a single point.
Sweetness bloomed first, soft, airy, faintly vanilla. Then the delicate crispness at the edges gave way to the tender melt of the center. It tasted simple yet impossibly good, familiar yet new. It tasted exactly like Sprout, warm, surprising, quietly radiant.
But the flavor wasn’t what made his pulse stumble. It was Sprout’s gaze, fixed on him while he chewed, eyes bright with expectation, curiosity, and a hint of pride that he couldn’t hide.
It was the lingering warmth on the fork, still holding the ghost of Sprout’s touch. It was the smell that filled the kitchen, sugar, butter, and something that felt like safety, like belonging, like home.
Something that could ruin him completely. Astro swallowed, slow and deliberate, as though the act itself mattered.
“…It’s perfect,” He said at last, the words hushed but certain, carrying a sincerity he didn’t bother disguising.
Sprout smiled. The kind of smile that softened every line of his face and made the kitchen seem brighter, warmer, almost glowing with the simple joy of being seen and appreciated. Then he turned back toward the stove, pretending to focus on the next pancake. “Good. I was worried I’d overmixed it.”
He wiped his hands on the apron, casual and unaware, completely oblivious to the way Astro’s eye followed the motion with unwavering attention.
Not in hunger.
Not in desire.
But in longing.
As though anything Sprout touched, no matter how ordinary, became something precious.
The bowl, still smeared with batter, the spatula resting against the counter and the apron tied loosely at his waist. Even the small streak of batter on his wrist, pale against his skin, glowing against the light.
Astro did not move nor blink, he remained frozen in place. It felt as if the air itself had thickened, holding him still, holding him captive, holding him in the presence of the one thing he had never allowed himself to reach for.
He had restrained himself for so long, longer than anyone would ever suspect, longer than he dared to measure.
But now, with Sprout standing so close, with warmth brushing against him like a living breath, he found himself wondering how much longer that restraint could realistically hold.
How much longer before it splintered.
How much longer before it broke entirely.
Sprout set the fork down with a soft metallic tap against the counter, a sound that echoed far louder in the quiet kitchen than it should have.
His eyes lowered for a moment, his lashes dipping like the flutter of a bird settling its wings, and his shoulders lifted and fell in a slow, steady breath. Then, without speaking, without seeking permission, without the slightest tremor of doubt, he reached forward.
His fingers brushed Astro’s first, light and warm, like a tentative beginning.
Then they folded around his hand with deliberate care.
Their palms met, pressing together with gentle certainty, skin warming against skin.
And finally, their fingers intertwined, fitting together so instinctively that it felt preordained.
Astro’s breath caught, his eyes widening not from surprise but from the sheer weight of the moment. This was not the shock of contact, it was the depth of it.
The softness. The trust. The ease with which Sprout reached for him, as though it was something natural, something familiar, something that had always been allowed.
“Thank you… again,” Sprout whispered, his voice held a softness that was unguarded, and a smile slowly formed at the corner of his lips, warm, sincere, and impossibly gentle.
It was a simple expression, but to Astro, it struck with devastating force. His heart began to race, not merely beating but pounding, wild and uneven.
He felt it in his throat, in his fingertips, in the point where their hands remained joined. It surged through him like something alive, something uncontrollable, something dangerously close to revelation.
Sprout noticed, his gaze drifted downward to the pale white heart-shaped emblem on Astro’s chest, the one that usually glowed in a slow, steady rhythm.
Now it flickered rapidly, bright and frantic, pulsing as if it might burst through the surface.
Sprout blinked with innocent curiosity, his voice barely above a murmur.
“Your heart is beating very fast.”
He leaned in slightly, studying the glowing mark with honest fascination.
“It is always loud, but today it is…”
He never finished the thought.
Astro interrupted, his voice cutting through the air too quickly, too sharply, like a blade drawn out of instinct rather than intent.
“I am fine. Truly.”
He then offered a faint smile, gentle and controlled, before slowly slipping his hand from Sprout’s grasp, the warmth of the touch still suspended between them like a ghost that refused to fade.
“You should rest,” He said quietly, voice steady despite the tremor running beneath it. “I will return to my room now.”
Sprout barely had the chance to respond before Astro was already turning away, the blanket draped around his shoulders trailing softly behind him. He walked out of the kitchen without a single glance back, but the absence he left behind felt louder than footsteps, heavier than words.
Only when Astro was alone in his room, the door closed and the dimness wrapping around him, did he finally release the breath he had been holding inside his chest.
His hands trembled as he pressed his palms against the wall, leaning forward until his forehead rested against the cool surface, eyes shut tight as if darkness could steady the racing pulse beneath his skin.
He told himself he had maintained control, that restraint was enough, that Sprout would remain close yet untouched, near yet unaware, a perfect orbit at a safe distance.
But that smile, that innocent intertwining of fingers, that tenderness offered without understanding, those things shattered the illusion he had clung to.
Astro curled his hands into fists, jaw set, forcing his breath to steady. Sprout did not need to know how deeply he lingered in Astro’s thoughts, how easily he disrupted composure, how quietly he claimed space in places Astro had never allowed another to enter.
Not yet. He would wait, because Sprout already belonged to him in subtle, unspoken ways, in the way he softened around Astro, in the way he looked to him first, in the way trust came naturally without instruction.
And as Astro stood in the stillness of his room, heart pounding too loudly for silence to hide, he understood one thing clearly: when the moment finally arrived, Sprout would not turn away.